by Jo Verity
‘My memory’s not that good,’ she laughed and he noticed that she looked less strained now, had some colour in her cheeks. ‘Were you living there then?’
‘I was, actually. We probably passed each other in the street.’
‘I knew it,’ Irene chipped in. ‘We were meant to meet. I was in a pickle and God answered my prayer. He sent me two guardian angels.’ She pointed triumphantly first at Vivian and then him.
Vivian shot him an eloquent glance, the same thoughts obviously running through her head. Did this weird woman really think that their meeting justified the murder of innocent strangers?
Irene went off to find ‘the little girls’ room, and he and Vivian had a few minutes alone.
‘How d’you see it going?’ he asked.
‘I can’t see her making her way back to Upton Park, can you? And she’s not going to sit here on her own all night.’
‘You’re right. I’d offer to take her to my place but I’ve only got a bedsit. I don’t particularly want her bunking up with me. I don’t think that’s part of the divine plan.’
She smiled and he noticed that her teeth were uneven, her right incisor overlapping her front tooth. Her generation tended to have the slightest dental imperfections corrected – it would have been a simple orthodontic procedure – but he found the asymmetry attractive.
‘Should I offer her a bed? It’s the only way I can see of getting home tonight.’ She yawned. ‘And it’s the sort of thing guardian angels do, after all.’
He was pretty sure that rescuing lame ducks wasn’t Vivian Carey’s normal practice. ‘Don’t let me push you any further into this. I’m already feeling bad.’
‘A policeman told me that horrific events bring out the best in people,’ she said. ‘He didn’t specify how long the effect lasts or when I can revert to being my normal mean-spirited self.’
‘I’d say tomorrow morning. Around ten.’
When Irene returned and Vivian put the suggestion to her, she said that she ‘couldn’t impose’, that she didn’t want ‘to put anyone out’. But she didn’t take much persuading.
‘Shall we make a move?’ Gil said.
Vivian took out her phone. ‘I should give my boyfriend an update.’
This started another outpouring from Irene. ‘He won’t want me getting in the way, dear.’
Vivian assured her she wouldn’t be in the way of anything as her boyfriend lived elsewhere and, in any case, she had a spare room.
At Irene’s insistence, before leaving the café they exchanged phone numbers. Gil had been through this ritual so many times after nights out, scrawling numbers and email addresses on old bus tickets or receipts. He’d hang on to them long after he’d forgotten who ‘Charlie’ or ‘Emma’ or ‘Phil T’ were, or until whatever he was wearing went in the wash and these scraps became wodges of papier maché in the corners of pockets.
They were close to three main line stations and, although it was late, they had no difficulty in finding a taxi. No sooner were they inside than the driver began grumbling, telling them how the explosion and subsequent traffic diversions had ruined his night, as if the whole thing had been staged to inconvenience cabbies. Once the topic was mentioned, there was no stopping Irene who, leaning towards the sliding window as if she were in the confessional, gave him a graphic account of their evening.
‘Thank you for taking care of me, Gil,’ Irene said when the driver stopped to let him out in Camden Town. ‘And for finding my bag. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I shall say a prayer for you. Both of you.’ She clasped him in an awkward hug, her bandaged hands on his shoulders and her head against his neck and he caught a whiff of floral scent and antiseptic.
He eased himself away from her determined embrace and stood on the pavement. ‘Now you take care of yourself.’
Vivian was watching from the corner of the back seat, looking vaguely amused. He wondered how the rest of the night would go for her and Irene up there in Belsize Park. Good luck, he mouthed and winked. Then feeling that it wasn’t quite enough of a farewell, he leaned into the cab, not entirely sure what he was going to do. She solved his dilemma by taking his hand and shaking it in a firm, cold grip. He slammed the door and as the taxi pulled away, she raised her fist to her ear, thumb and little finger extended in the universal I’ll ring you gesture.
8
Vivian crawled under the duvet and phoned Nick.
‘I’ll come,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like to think of you on your own.’
She told him that she wasn’t on her own and explained about her guest. ‘We couldn’t abandon her.’
‘We?’
‘I. I couldn’t leave her there all night. And a cab to Upton Park would have cost a fortune.’
‘Surely the police could have driven her home.’
‘It was mayhem, Nick. People were dying. The police had better things to do.’
‘Okay. But I don’t see why you had to take her on.’
‘She’s a woman who needed help. It’s no big deal.’
He seemed to get the message. ‘Sorry. I’m worried about you, that’s all.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘let’s have lunch. I’m taking tomorrow – I mean today – off. I’ll come in and meet you.’
‘Damn. I’ve got to go to Manchester first thing.’ He hesitated. ‘I could probably reschedule if…’
‘No. It was just a thought. I’ve got to get some sleep now.’
She closed her eyes, instantly becoming conscious of her body. Her feet were icy. Her head and her back ached. The fry-up, so delicious while she was eating it, now sat leaden in her stomach. Her lips felt numb and she could feel – hear – her blood pulsing somewhere behind her ears.
The events of the evening started playing through her head. The crossing. The car, veering towards the island. The explosion. The bodies. Once set in motion she couldn’t stop the images going round and around, a continuous loop driven by adrenaline and fatigue.
She rarely slept well and some nights, after a sleepless hour in bed, she hauled her duvet into the living room, nodding off in front of mindless night-time television. Tonight, not wanting to risk being joined by Irene, she took her iPod from her bag, eventually falling asleep to Chopin nocturnes.
After breakfast, Irene seemed reluctant to leave. ‘I’ll phone work and tell them that I won’t be in until Monday.’ She held up her bandaged hand. ‘I wouldn’t be much use with these, would I?’
Despite being hampered by bandages, Irene had taken charge in the kitchen, humming to herself as she stacked the dishwasher.
After her restless night, Vivian was on edge and this grated. Determined to make the point that she was host here and Irene guest, she said, ‘Was the bed okay? Were you warm enough?’
‘I couldn’t have been cosier. Better than the Ritz. Not that I’ve ever stayed at the Ritz.’
‘No bad dreams?’
‘I slept like a log.’
Vivian was surprised and the tiniest bit intrigued by this woman who had been reduced to hysterics by the loss of a handbag yet seemed to have erased last night’s shocking events from her memory.
‘You mentioned you work near London Bridge,’ Vivian said.
‘Yes. For Brooking and Laverty. Commercial accountants. D’you know them? I’m their “Jill of all trades”.’ She hooked quotation marks in the air.
‘You enjoy the job?’
‘I love it. Such a friendly crowd. It’s hard work, mind you, but we have great fun.’
‘What d’you do in your spare time?’
‘God’s work,’ Irene said, as if it were on a par with flower arranging.
Vivian struggled to keep a straight face and to summon up an appropriate response. But Irene seemed not to expect one. ‘When I was at school,’ she said, ‘I dreamed of becoming a nurse. And I did become a nurse. In a way. You see my mother suffered terribly with her nerves, and when my father passed on she couldn’t
manage. So I stayed at home and nursed her until she joined him. Eighteen years.’
‘You have a sister, don’t you?’ Vivian said.
‘Yes. Lillian’s older than me.’
‘Didn’t she take a turn?’
‘She’s married to a soldier – well he’s ex-army now – and they were living in Germany. She popped back whenever she could but she had her own family to take care of.’
‘It must have been hard,’ Vivian said.
‘Mum needed me. We needed each other.’
Vivian stood up, thinking to bring an end to the conversation, but Irene hadn’t finished.
‘By then I was too old to start nursing training. I took a little part-time job in Boots and signed up for a secretarial course. At night school. I met someone and we “started a relationship”.’ Again she hooked the air. ‘We got engaged. We’d even set the date. Booked the reception and everything. But…well, he changed his mind a few days before the wedding.’
‘That must have been…traumatic,’ Vivian said, disconcerted by Irene’s readiness to reveal details of what amounted to failure.
‘I admit I was shaky for a while.’ Irene smiled. ‘But it all turned out for the best. Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it? We just have to put our trust in Him.’ She pointed towards the ceiling. ‘He knows what’s best for us.’
‘How was it for the best?’ Vivian said, irritated by the presumption that she shared Irene’s beliefs.
‘Colin abandoned me but Jesus gathered me to Him. He healed my sickness. Made me whole again. Since then, He’s been my rock. Look how He sent you and Gil to help me last night.’
Vivian had had enough of this peculiar woman who never stopped talking. To be honest, she was rather creepy. Fearing that, were Irene to realise that she was staying home, she would never be rid of her, Vivian resorted to subterfuge. ‘Sorry to rush you, Irene, but I need to leave. I’ve got a ten-thirty meeting with clients.’
Irene tutted. ‘You poor thing. It’s not right after what you’ve been through.’
Vivian looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get a move on.’
They walked to the Tube, Vivian embroidering her story, pretending that her meeting was in Hampstead and that she was going to catch a bus.
When they reached the station, Irene became tearful, clutching Vivian and hugging her, thanking her for the umpteenth time for her support. ‘I’ll remember you in my prayers, dear.’
Having talked Irene through the simplest route back to Upton Park – ‘Change at Bank then Mile End…’ – Vivian waited at the barrier until she had disappeared down the escalator. Alone at last, she bought the Guardian and the Independent and returned home.
The newspapers devoted pages to the explosion, although few hard facts had emerged. She made a cup of coffee and switched on News 24. Six people had been killed outright; twenty-three injured, two of them critically. The utilities people were sure that it wasn’t a gas leak, the MOD that it wasn’t a World War II relic. It was very likely some kind of a terrorist action. But why target a traffic island?
A car horn, then another, sounded in the street below. Vivian went to the window. The refuse lorry was manoeuvring between rows of cars parked, bumper to bumper, on both sides of the road. Half-a-dozen vehicles had become corralled behind it and, without room to get past or turn around, the drivers had no option but to crawl along. No doubt this happened every Thursday morning but she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d been at home to see it.
Nick phoned from the train. He was clearly avoiding discussing the explosion presumably fearing it would lead them back into stormy waters. They arranged to get together on Saturday then, with little else to talk about, their conversation lapsed into a series of hesitant silences and Vivian was relieved when his train entered a tunnel and he lost signal.
Shortly after that, her phone rang again, the screen displaying a number that she didn’t recognise. It was Irene, letting her know that she was safely home and thanking her again for her kindness.
‘Anyone would have done the same,’ Vivian said.
‘No, dear. They wouldn’t.’ Her declaration was laced with conviction. ‘How did your meeting go? I’ve been thinking about you all morning.’
‘Very well, thanks. Actually I’m just on my way back to the office.’
Vivian was annoyed with herself for letting this woman intimidate her into first telling a lie then embellishing it with another. She’d assured Nick that Irene Tovey was a timid woman. She was. But she was also tenacious. A barnacle – inconspicuous yet immovable.
Irene rambled on. She’d made an appointment to have her dressings changed. Her sister was coming up from Maidenhead to help her shower and wash her hair. ‘It’ll be nice having company over the weekend. I suppose you’ll be seeing your young man. Nick, isn’t it?’
Vivian couldn’t recall mentioning Nick by name but they’d discussed many things last night. ‘Yes.’
‘I expect you’re busy,’ Irene said.
The woman was lonely and yet Vivian couldn’t wait to finish the call. ‘Yes. I am rather.’
‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m going to ring Gil now. He was so sweet last night.’
‘Say hi from me, won’t you?’
‘Of course. ’Bye for now.’
After lunch the police phoned asking whether it would be convenient to come and take her statement. Within the hour, two plain clothed police officers were ringing the bell.
She went through it again. It didn’t take long because there was little she could tell them. When she’d finished, one of them asked, ‘You didn’t see anyone getting out of the car when it slowed down.’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t see how many people were in the car?’
‘No. All I saw was a car failing to stop.’
They thanked her for her time and handed her a card with a number to ring if she needed to ‘talk to someone’ – a box that she assumed had to be ticked.
After they’d gone, she couldn’t help feeling that they had expected more of her and that she had failed them.
Gil was eating a sandwich and downloading yesterday’s work when Irene Tovey rang to thank him for finding her handbag.
‘All part of the service,’ he said. ‘So you finally made it home.’
‘Yes. I’m just having a bite to eat.’
‘How are the hands?’
Whilst she talked, he scrolled through Freddy’s pictures, adjusting and cropping them.
‘I’ve just come off the phone to Vivian,’ she said. ‘Such a sweet girl. So thoughtful. She sends her love by the way. D’you know, I feel as if I’ve made two new friends. I was thinking it might be nice if we could all meet sometime. A little reunion.’
‘Why not? But in the meantime, you take care now.’
When Gil had a few moments to spare, he went to find out what had happened to the biker. Policemen were a common sight in and around the hospital but today there were more of them than usual, pacing unhurriedly through the reception area and stationed in twos at the entrances and the ambulance bay. Reassuring yet, at the same time, alarming.
Up on the third floor in ICU, phony jollity, a feature of the other wards, was replaced by an air of purpose. The staff spoke softly and moved silently about the corridors. The lighting was subdued. Everyone was focussed.
The sister stood at the desk, checking notes on a screen and monitoring visitors.
‘Did the biker make it?’ Gil said.
‘Are you a relative?’ Her face gave nothing away.
He lifted his ID. ‘I came in with him last night.’
‘He’s stable,’ she said. He knew he would get no more out of her.
Black coffee kept him going but by four o’clock he was starting to make mistakes. When Kevin asked if he’d like to leave early, he jumped at the chance.
A diversion remained in operation around the scene of the explosion, blue and white t
ape strung around the crossing. The bus stop that Gil normally used fell within the cordon. Warren Street station had reopened during the morning and he could have taken the Tube to Kentish Town, but since childhood he’d disliked confined spaces and, as he grew older, his aversion had become stronger. He couldn’t put his finger on anything which might have caused this phobia – he’d never been locked under the stairs; he’d never fallen down a well or been trapped in a tunnel. It was inconvenient at times but he could generally work around it. Today he headed north, picking up the diverted 134 near Robert Street.
It was stuffy on the bus and, as it ground its way up through Camden Town, Gil had to make an effort to stay awake. He’d managed to get five hours sleep last night which, when he was a younger man, would have been plenty but now he was shattered. It had been near two o’clock when he got home. He’d been careful to make no noise as he crossed the hallway (directly above Feray’s basement bedroom) and crept up the stairs to his bedsit. He’d pictured her curled on her side, hair spread across the pillow, irrationally disappointed that she’d taken him at his word and gone to bed.
Gil had encountered Feray Kennedy soon after he moved in. He’d been on his way to work and she’d been taking the kids to school. They’d regularly bumped into each other after that but it was some time before they’d had a proper conversation. In the beginning she was reticent. Wary. He’d done most of the talking, clowning around, trying to earn a smile which, when it came, wiped years of strain off her handsome face. He discovered that although she’d split up with her husband some time ago things were not good between them. Kennedy was unreliable, regularly missing maintenance payments and failing to turn up for scheduled visits with the children. As a result, she lived in a constant state of unease, mistrusting everyone, and it had taken him some time to convince her that he was an okay guy. Later they joked that he’d had to learn ‘Feray-whispering’ in order to win her trust. After a while, they’d become friends. James and Melissa liked him, and he them, which was Feray’s priority for any new friendship. One night, after a family meal and when the children were safely asleep, they’d become lovers. There was no ‘moon and June’ about it, no promises or expectations. They were grown-ups, happy to be together for the time being and that was good enough.