A Bed of Scorpions

by Judith Flanders

  But nothing came. Instead, the lights went on, and a voice said, ‘Who is there? What’s going on?’

  I shouted, ‘Stop that person by the stacks. Stop her!’ But even as I shouted, I heard footsteps running, and a door swing shut.

  The voice was from the other end. ‘What? Who is there?’

  I was resigned. ‘I think there’s only me now,’ I called. ‘I’m in the stacks, behind the bookshelf.’ With the light on I could see it, and it was exactly what I’d thought, a tipped-over bookshelf blocking my exit. ‘Someone attacked me.’

  ‘What?’ The voice was incredulous. So this wasn’t a result of my 999 call, but a museum employee who had heard the noise. Well, even if they hadn’t caught Celia – I had said ‘the watcher’ to myself the whole time, but I knew it was Celia – even if they hadn’t seen her, I’d been rescued.

  I started to say it again, when another voice cut in. ‘Police. All entrances are blocked. Stay where you are, and identify yourselves.’

  I was bitter. ‘It’s too late for blocking. She’s gone. It’s just me. She tried to kill me.’ I admit, in retrospect, that it might be possible to make a more comprehensive, and comprehensible, statement to the police, but that was the most I could manage.

  I leant, one hand against the emptied shelves, my head down. I was breathing shallowly, unable to get enough air, and only now did I realise that I was also crying. When I thought about it, my mind moving slowly and hazily, I knew I’d been crying ever since the bookcase fell. In fact, I was a mass of tears, and snot, and dirt. My hair was stuck to my forehead, and was liberally smeared with the mixture. The nails on both my hands were torn from pulling down the books, and my arms almost to my shoulders were black with archive dust untouched for decades. And I was barefoot. It took a real effort of concentration to work out why that might be, but that’s what I was trying to figure out when the bookcase was pulled back enough to let me out.

  Or let someone in. Two policemen slid through the gap on either side, both wearing protective vests and carrying guns. And the guns were pointed at me.

  We’ve become slightly more used to having armed police in London in the last few years, but it has never seemed normal to me when I see them at railway stations, or in front of embassies. It did not seem normal now, at close quarters, and in a museum. What had happened had happened so fast that I had had no time to think about the reality of it. Two men in bullet-proof vests aiming firearms at me removed all doubt.

  I looked at the man nearest me, and said, in a wondering tone, ‘She tried to kill me.’ And then, in case he hadn’t understood, I turned to his partner and added, ‘She tried to kill me.’ And then I sat down on the floor, put my head in my hands, and cried.

  I don’t think it went on for very long. Even as I wailed – and this was not the kind of movie glamour crying, where the heroine gives a few sniffles as her eyes well up photogenically, this was great, horrible, mouth-open sobbing – even as I did it, I was aware of the noise around me. Voices. The stamp of feet going back and forth, of doors opening and closing. And the crackle and static of radios as it was confirmed that the emergency had been contained and apparently comprised one hysterical middle-aged woman.

  Finally I looked up. The same two policemen, but their weapons were no longer pointing at me. An improvement. I said, wearily, ‘I’m sorry.’ I think that even if I were about to be executed, that reflex would kick in, that English middle-class female need to apologise for having inconvenienced other people, or even just made them uncomfortable. I’m so sorry, will the blood be troublesome? It does stain, terribly, of course. Shall I move so you can decapitate me over the lino? That would make it so much easier for you to clean up afterwards.

  One of the men shifted his weight, but neither said anything. It was up to me to make this social event go with a swing.

  I wiped my face with my sleeve. ‘I got lost. I went through the wrong door. Someone followed me in the dark and trapped me in here. Then she tried to roll the stacks along, to crush me.’ My voice began to quaver again as I got to the end. Saying it made me realise I’d nearly died.

  Their faces didn’t change, and they didn’t move. I wasn’t sure if it was because I sounded deranged, or they were just waiting for more information.

  Then one said, ‘She?’

  I nodded. ‘A woman’s footsteps. Heels. I didn’t see her.’

  He didn’t respond. I started to stand up, and he tensed. ‘I’m going to stand up,’ I said carefully.

  He nodded. His job was just to keep an eye on me.

  I stood, and wiped my face with my sleeve again. Stylish. ‘My bag is by the wall. Can I get it?’

  He looked undecided. He wasn’t senior enough to have undergone intensive handbag training.

  ‘There are tissues in it. I want to blow my nose.’

  No tissue training, either.

  I kept my eyes on him, attempting to convey my utter harmlessness. He didn’t appear to be convinced, so I spoke carefully. ‘If I get the bag and hand it to you, will you get the tissues out for me?’ No dice. I tried not to sound aggrieved, or as if I thought I was auditioning for a part in a police procedural, but I’m sure I sounded like both when I modified it further. ‘If I don’t pick it up, just kick it down towards you?’

  That was better. He agreed, and we did that. Tissue-transfer safely achieved without incident, I wiped my face. Not that it was going to do much good, but making a gesture towards normalcy made me feel better.

  By now there were more voices, and lots of movement. Then, as swiftly as it had fallen, the bookshelf was moved back entirely, and for the first time I could see the space I was standing in. As I’d thought, it was an archive: a narrow passageway down one side of a room, the rest filled with rolling stacks. The door I’d come through was at the far end, and almost entirely blocked by police. There was another door, nearer to me, with another cluster of police, and, peering over their shoulders, a few people not in uniform.

  A man in a dark suit with a tie that looked as if it had been knotted the day before yesterday stepped towards me. He was clearly in charge. Thirty-ish, short, wiry, and very, very peeved. Possibly with me. I rolled my eyes at myself. Definitely with me.

  I didn’t wait for him to speak. I’d had a few minutes as I’d mopped up to think what I was going to say. ‘My name is Samantha Clair. I was at the press view of a new exhibition upstairs, and I got lost and someone followed me. I panicked and stepped into this space. They blocked it with the bookcase, and then tried to roll the other cases down, to crush me.’ There was no doubt about it, ‘crush me’ were words to avoid, because my voice wavered again. Stop being a baby, I told myself. It didn’t happen. ‘There are people upstairs who will tell you I am who I say I am. And there’s ID in my bag.’ I gestured towards the policeman who still held it in the hand that wasn’t holding a gun. What the well-dressed copper is wearing this season.

  The man waited. He wasn’t accepting what I’d said, but he wasn’t rejecting it, either.

  I cleared my throat, the nice-girl preamble to a request. ‘May I come out?’ I looked at my hands. ‘I need to wash.’

  ‘Not yet. How did you get in here? And give me the names of the people who will vouch for you.’

  ‘That door over there.’ I pointed. ‘There are stairs. I came down from the floor above, a room in the exhibition space. I don’t know anyone who works here, but a woman named Esther something – Wolff, Esther Wolff – is the press officer, and she put my name on a list of visitors. A man named Jim Reynolds, who is a freelancer, but is working for the Tate, is also here. He knows me.’

  He nodded again, still an acknowledgement that I’d spoken, no more. ‘Why did Esther Wolff put you on a list if she doesn’t know you?’

  ‘She was asked to by the art dealer who represents the artist being shown. He’s upstairs too, or was. Aidan Merriam.’ I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Maybe they’d gone home? I was so tired it could have been midnight. I rubbed at
my face.

  ‘You said “she” attacked you, but you also said it was dark.’

  ‘The footsteps were a woman’s. Heels.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I’m certain in my own mind, yes. But I didn’t see anyone.’ I realised exactly how little I could prove – not even that I was followed from upstairs. My eyes and nose began to clog again. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry. It wasn’t going to work. ‘Please. I need to wash.’ I have no idea why it was so important, but it was. I was shaking, and it occurred to me that I might have been shaking all along.

  He made a beckoning gesture with his head to someone behind the trio of men boxing me in. A woman in uniform came forward with a water cooler plastic cup of water as my questioner turned aside and began to speak to three men in plain clothes. I took the water, but the shaking got worse, and most of it went down my front. That I couldn’t possibly look worse was not a comforting thought.

  Once I’d drunk what was left, she took me by the elbow in a gesture that was only partly supportive. She was also escorting me.

  ‘Where?’ I’d run out of manners.

  ‘You wanted to wash.’ She was as brief.

  We went. I wasn’t allowed my bag, but I washed my hands and face, and I combed back my hair with my wet hands. The cold water helped, and after a while I stopped crying. The woman put her head around the door and spoke to a colleague. Another cup of water was passed in, most of which I managed to drink this time without spilling. Progress.

  I straightened what was left of my shirt. One shoulder had torn at the seam, and was only half-attached. I considered ripping it off, but was too tired to complete the thought. The rest was just dirty, and some buttons were gone. I tucked it tightly into my skirt to deal with the missing button issue. I was still barefoot, but I was a little more together.

  That illusion shattered when the door slammed open so hard it crashed against the wall. It wasn’t just me. The policewoman jumped too, and the voices outside broke off. I looked up. Jake. And the angriest Jake I had ever seen. Rage vibrated off him.

  I didn’t move, and I didn’t speak. I said before, rather lightly, that I suspected that our relationship, which had begun while he was investigating a murder that involved one of my authors, was probably against police regulations. As he stood silently staring at me, it was brought home that there was no ‘probably’. I couldn’t think of anything that I might do that wouldn’t make things worse, so I did nothing. He looked me over, from filthy hair, slowly down past red eyes and a runny nose, to torn shirt and skirt, to bare feet. Without turning his head, he said to the policewoman, ‘Get her some tea. Four sugars.’

  I still didn’t move, or speak. Partly because he was so angry, and partly because the door was open and other people were within earshot. Mostly the former.

  His voice was thin with suppressed rage. ‘Our people are on their way now. These’ – he twitched a shoulder backwards – ‘are the armed-response unit; they’ll be handing over. I want you to go with the policewoman when she comes back. I want you to sit where she puts you. I want you to drink your fucking tea and I want you to not fucking move. Do you understand?’

  I nodded mutely. The policewoman had come back in time to hear the last sentence. Even that, her carefully blank expression said, was shocking.

  He turned and walked away.

  I was taken to someone’s office nearby, and we were left there. I drank my fucking tea. I didn’t fucking move. After a while, I asked if I could have my bag. No. My shoes? Those appeared at some point. I borrowed a comb from the policewoman, who I think by now felt sorry for me. Finally, I gave up. The adrenaline that had made me act when I had to had drained away in one swoop, like taking out a bath plug. I put my head down on the desk and went to sleep.

  When I woke up, I could tell from the metal taste in my mouth that I had been asleep for a while. In the basement there was no change in the light, and no change in the sounds outside – mostly men’s rumbling voices, with a few women, phones, and tramping back and forth. I sat up and looked at my watch. Just after seven, but I had no idea what time the police had arrived, or how long I’d been in the stacks.

  My escort was still with me. ‘Boring job,’ I said.

  She looked as blank as she had since she’d heard Jake talking to me. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  That was the sum total of our conversation, except when someone brought yet more tea, which I also drank. So much for sisterly bonding. We sat. I can’t remember ever just sitting, not reading, or looking at something, or even thinking. But I didn’t do any of those things. I didn’t pick up the newspaper that was lying on the desk. I didn’t try to work out what had happened, or why. I just sat.

  It was nine before anyone came back again. The door opened, and Jake walked in, with two uniformed men, and two more in street clothes. The policewoman left and they shuffled around the suddenly very small space. The two in uniform found chairs which they moved as far away as possible and sat. One of the other men leant on the door, the second stood next to him. Jake leant against a bookshelf, arms crossed. I stayed where I’d been sitting, behind the desk. It looked like I was interviewing them. Except that there were five of them and one of me. And I felt very small.

  ‘We’d like you to make an initial statement, which will be recorded,’ Jake said.

  I nodded. I felt hemmed in. Before he could say anything further, heels clicked along the hallway. I stiffened. They stopped at the door and there was a tap. The plain-clothes man moved aside slightly and looked out. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear.

  The door opened wider, and Helena appeared. She looked at me calmly. She had probably been warned I was not a pretty sight, although I imagine her expression would have been the same even without the warning. Nothing surprised her. She didn’t kiss me, although whether that was because she was in legal mode, or because she didn’t want my dirt near her was a toss-up. ‘I’ve brought you some clean clothes. You can change as soon as this is over,’ was all she said, as one of the uniforms gave her his chair.

  I stared fixedly at the wall. You are not going to cry again, I told myself. ‘Tell me where you want me to start.’ I spoke to the air beside Jake’s head.

  One of the men by the door replied, and I was relieved to turn to him. ‘We know that you were signed in at 5.15. Several people saw you in the first rooms, and have identified you. Go from there.’

  So I did. I told them everything that had happened. I saw no reason not to, and if Helena had wanted me not to say something, she would have told me so.

  After I finished there was a brief pause. Then one of the two men by the door, whom I assumed were Jake’s colleagues, said, ‘You keep saying “she”. What makes you think it was a woman?’

  ‘I said before. I have no evidence. The footsteps were short and sharp, like a not very tall person wearing heels. That, and if someone did try to run me over last week, that was a woman too.’

  ‘But you don’t know.’

  ‘No.’ I saw no point in reminding him that I’d just said I didn’t know.

  The questioning went on. Had I heard anyone follow me down the stairs? Had I heard an outer door close? How long between going through the door upstairs and the knob turning did I estimate it had been? Had I seen an outside light go on? And all the while, Jake never said a word. He hadn’t said anything since he asked me to make a statement. I looked only at the two men asking the questions.

  Finally, when I had said everything at least three times, Helena called a halt. ‘If there’s nothing further that can’t wait? She will be available when you need her.’

  The two men conferred briefly, then looked over at Jake before agreeing that no, there was probably nothing further for the day.

  ‘Come,’ said Helena. And I did. It was that easy.

  We drove back to her house without talking. I began to think I might never talk to anyone ever again. I wasn’t tired now, just in a state of suspended animation. When
we got inside Helena handed me a bag and said, ‘Clean clothes. Have a bath and change.’

  By the time I got downstairs, I was feeling better; it’s amazing what being clean can do. I was almost ready to say something when I stepped into the kitchen. Jake was leaning on the counter, waiting.

  He didn’t look any chattier than I felt. No hello, just, ‘Are you ready to go home?’

  I looked over to Helena. She was entirely neutral. As you like, said her face.

  Maybe I wasn’t ready to say something. I nodded halfway between them, to the air, and headed for the door. Jake fell in behind and we walked out to the car.

  I waited, head down, for him to unlock the door. Instead, his arms came around me and pulled me close. I leant against him, so his voice was more a vibration than a sound. ‘If you ever do that again, I think I’ll kill you myself.’

  ‘If it happens again, you’ll have to get in line. I’ll kill myself first, and I think Helena’s got dibs on second.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IFELL ASLEEP IN the five minutes it takes to drive from Helena’s to my flat. Jake woke me, and I walked indoors and got straight into bed without undressing. At some point in the night I woke, and realised that Jake was not there; at another, that he was, and I felt comforted by the knowledge. When he woke me again just before seven, I reconsidered the comfort level. If I’d slept alone, no one would have been able to wake me. I opened one eye and waited.

  ‘I know,’ he said, as if I’d voiced the thought. ‘But we need to talk, and I have to leave for work.’ He smiled sweetly.

  We hadn’t been doing a lot of sweetness lately. I nodded into the pillow. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  I waited until he left the room before I stripped off. I wanted to take stock of my injuries by myself first. I was bruised where the books had fallen on me – my back was particularly bad, with one or two places where the edges had broken the skin. But the benefit of having had a cycle accident was that my face was no more frightening than it had been the day before. Always a silver lining.