As he watched, Dorian began to fantasise about how he might get her back. She would take some persuading; he knew that. He also knew that they were meant to be together and surely she would know that too. He was lost in that thought when he realised another person had entered the equation. A man. Another man was watching her! Except he was doing it openly from behind the tall hedge opposite. And now, what was this? Alex invited him into the circle as an audience. Dorian felt sickness taking him over. His head began to spin. Another man was moving in on his territory. Taking over his position as watcher, observer and, finally, sexual predator.
Then it got worse.
As Alex began to put his camera away the young man (he was young, a good deal younger than Dorian) walked over to Hanna then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. Dorian lost all breath. The shock was terrible. She did not push him away but seemed to respond. Dorian thought he was going to throw up, but at the same time he could not take his eyes off her. She was responding. It was clear what she wanted. Doubly clear because she had never wanted it from him in that way. Part of Dorian wanted to turn away and run but he knew that would be the coward’s way out. He had to face this.
So he watched them.
He followed Alex to the gate, knowing they would not be long behind him. He dismissed Bert and followed behind the young lovers on foot for the rest of that day and late into the night. He stood with his head down in bus shelters while they sat on street benches, talking. He dipped into doorways when they stopped walking to kiss. When they went into a cafe in Soho for breakfast in the early hours, he sat on the pavement opposite, pretending to be a poor beggar so that he would not lose sight of them.
As the night wore on the hurt hardened.
At 3 a.m., he sat in the back of a night bus to Chelsea. At this point, even he was wondering how they could not have seen him. How they had not noticed that for most of ten hours a crippled man had been following them. Love is blind. He had heard the expression but never understood what it meant before.
At this point Dorian thought he could go face-to-face with Hanna and the man and they would neither care nor notice. They were so heedlessly, carelessly in love that Dorian might as well not exist.
Well, he would show them that he did exist.
Dorian followed them as they walked up the Kings Road. When they stopped outside a door, Dorian dived into the yard of a derelict basement flat and watched as the skinny young man took Hanna to the door, where he assumed she lived. He was skinny and delicate looking. A pathetic physique. Dorian was broader and stronger. More of a man than that kid could ever be. What use was such a wimp to a girl like Hanna? After all, she had almost killed a man Dorian noted, almost admiringly now. She needed a man who could keep her in check. She’d walk all over a boy like that. Dorian burned with hate as the young man kissed Hanna on the doorstep. He did not follow her inside, which Dorian took as indication that she didn’t live alone.
He allowed himself one last look at her face as she entered the house. She was smiling, beaming like a fool. Dorian had never liked Hanna’s smile. He hadn’t seen her smile often. It was a cause of annoyance to him that even when he tried to amuse her, he rarely elicited a smile. When she smiled for other people he took it as a direct slight to him. In any case, even as a child, the subtle beauty of her face was more sublime when it was resting. Her face was certainly not resting now as she waved and blew kisses. Her eyes were dancing with joy. Dorian had never hated or wanted her more.
As the young man came down the steps Dorian clenched the iron bars of the basement to steady his anger. He felt one of them come loose in his hand. It was a sign – a gift. He pulled the bar off then, keeping a safe distance, stuck to the shadows and followed the boy. He waited until the boy walked in front of a side alleyway that Dorian picked out when following them earlier.
‘Hello,’ he shouted to him from a few feet behind.
Matthew nearly jumped out of his skin. Lost in a reverie of love, the voice of this stranger brought him back down to earth. Matthew stopped walking then turned and saw a man running towards him. It seemed like he was in trouble of some kind.
Matthew said, ‘Can I help you?’ The next thing he knew the man had strong-armed him into an alleyway and thrown him to the ground. He was strong and as Matthew tried to get up he put his foot on Matthew’s chest and raised what looked like an iron bar in his fist.
Shocked, Matthew said, ‘What do you want? Money? I can get you money.’
The man laughed.
‘You have something I want but it’s not yours to give – it’s mine to take.’
He was talking as if he knew him. Confused, Matthew asked again, ‘What do you want?’
As the blows began raining down on his body, searing pain slammed his head, his chest, his shoulder, over and over again until he knew he was going to die and gave in to the pain. Just before he lost consciousness, Matthew’s hands fell from where he had been trying to protect his head. It was then that he caught sight of his attacker’s face. It wasn’t a man at all, but a hideous demon. Perhaps, even the devil himself.
37
Noreen got lost on her way to the north London suburbs. She got confused between the Metropolitan and Circle lines, then, when she finally got off at Edgware Road she got on a bus heading in the wrong direction, and ended up back at Hyde Park Corner. Every time she stopped somebody to ask where she was, they just glared at her as if she was mad. Eventually, more by miracle than design, she managed to get herself to Connolly’s pub in Wembley, which was owned by John’s brother, Kieran. She walked in the door and she was back home. And not just because of the shamrock banner above the bar and the smell of warm beer and stale cigarette smoke in the mornings. Kieran was delighted to see her and gave her a warm hug. Then, without asking why she was there, he dragged her upstairs to his wife, Sinead. Sinead was so excited that she called the four kids in from the street to sit with her while she called her sister. Maureen arrived within five minutes of the call with her two children, kissed Noreen until she thought she would never stop then used Sinead’s phone to call her cousin, Finoula. Finoula wasn’t in, her husband said, because she was visiting the sister and their three children with her four children in Cricklewood. They didn’t have a phone. So, before Noreen had time to object, or explain that she was simply there to locate John, she found herself being bundled into the back of a Ford Cortina with two adults and half a dozen children then dragged into a small, brand new house in a tidy, suburban estate.
The children were sent to the corner shop to buy Mr Kipling cakes, ham, white sliced bread and Rothmans cigarettes and for the next three hours Noreen was effectively held hostage by the Connolly family.
She learned that they had a great life in London. That the work was easy, the kids were happy and even the Catholic priests were better, with a looser attitude to sex. Maureen confided that after five kids in four years, her parish priest had given her dispensation to go on the pill. A good, convent girl, she had been sceptical but he had reassured her that he would try to fix it for her not to burn in hell for all eternity. Then he said, ‘Maureen? By the time you get to hell, you’ll have had so much fun you won’t care!’
They all roared laughing. It was fun, Noreen had to admit, hanging out with her own but despite the craic, she did not learn where John was.
‘I thought he was with you,’ Sinead said. ‘Sure, we haven’t seen him since he got here.’
‘What the hell would he be doing up here with this mad clatter of kids when he can be down there living it up in Chelsea with your gang?’
Then, they looked worried.
Noreen lied her way out of it saying there had been a misunderstanding. That she thought he had gone back for a spell and had expected him back. She must have got her dates wrong.
Kieran broke the awkward moment by offering to drop her back to Chelsea in the Cortina.
When they got to Quex Road he said, ‘John told me you broke off the engagement.’
> Noreen stayed quiet. She was mortified. Upset too.
‘He told me it was all off and I told him he was a stupid fool to be putting pressure on you like that.’
Noreen still didn’t know what to say.
‘You’re a modern girl, Noreen, a worker. Not like Sinead. Don’t get me wrong, she works at home and that and helps me out, like, but I’ll tell you something for nothing – I sometimes wonder if we would have had all the kids if we had our time again. Times are changing, I told him.’
‘Where is he, Kieran? I need to see him. Did he go back to Carney?’
‘Not yet. He said he was going to hang around London for a bit. I asked him if he wanted to come and work in the pub for a while, stay with me and Sinead. But he said he had met a couple of guys on the buildings and that he was going to take some time for himself. You know John he likes to stay busy. Like yourself.’
‘I think I might have broken his heart, Kieran.’
‘Of course you did, girleen. But I know my brother and he’s a tough chaw. He’ll be back. Sure, if I had a pound for every time that wife of mine has broken my heart I’d be a rich man. They’re still picking bits of me up off the floor of the Cork ballroom from the time she took off with Mel Murphy.’
Yes, but she married you in the end though, Noreen thought.
Kieran dropped her to the door of the flat and after she thanked him she said, ‘Let me know if John gets in touch, won’t you? Tell him I’m looking for him.’
‘I will,’ Kieran said, ‘but you might hear from him before I do.’
Noreen smiled but she knew, in her heart, that it wouldn’t happen. She had broken her big man. He was gone.
❊
The night porter at Brown’s gave a curt, ‘Goodnight, sir,’ when he opened the front door to the guest and let him go up to his room unhindered. When people came in at 4 a.m. they didn’t usually want to chat. This chap was disfigured, so he wouldn’t like being looked at, so the porter didn’t notice the blood on the edge of the coat cuffs of his dark coat, or that his hands were plunged deep into his pockets. He didn’t wonder why the guest did not call the lift even though he was on the fourth floor, but instead shouldered the door to the stairs so that he would not have to take his hands out and risk them being seen.
Dorian had taken his room key with him, thank God. He could not have known earlier that day that he would be killing a man and coming back covered in blood. Had he killed the boy? As near as dammit anyway. He was smashed to bits in an alley, and if he survived, he would be no prettier than Dorian. Although, Dorian had run out of steam after he became unconscious. He had thrashed at his torso a few times but then been aware that, essentially, he was beating a stranger – the type of thing only gutty boys and guttersnipes did looking for money or kicks. He was a gentleman who had lost his temper. When his temper cooled, he stopped. He didn’t bother checking if the body was alive or dead. In truth, he didn’t care either way. In any case, he was not a murderer. Not like her. She had driven him to it. It had not been a cold-blooded act but a crime of passion. And there was more passion to come.
When he opened the door of his suite he found an envelope on the carpet in front of him. He opened it and inside was another envelope addressed to him in the handwriting he recognised as the insufferable Mrs Clark’s. It aggravated him that he even knew her handwriting so he put it to one side and left it until the morning.
Dorian showered and went to bed. The rigours of walking and beating that he had put his body through caused him to sleep soundly.
The next morning he opened Mrs Clark’s envelope over breakfast, which he always took in his room.
This came addressed to you and your wife. It was being kept at the post office with all of your letters but then my friend alerted me. I thought that it might be important so I decided it might not wait so forwarded it across to you.
Then a page of endless guff and gossip along with:
If there is anything I can do for you here.
A barely veiled invitation to tell her what the letter was about. If she hadn’t steamed it open already.
When he read the contents he sincerely hoped she hadn’t.
Dear Mr and Mrs Black,
My name is Noreen Lyons and I share a flat with your daughter, Hanna…
It wasn’t a long letter, but it was a clear one and the address given was the one he had been to the night before. It was dated a few weeks ago. It had probably been read by every old biddy in Killa by now, but he didn’t care.
This was a wonderful, wonderful turn of events.
He was, after all, the civilised person. The gentleman. He did not want to go sneaking around on his loved one. And he did love power. Otherwise why would he have done what he did last night? Why would he have put himself through that ordeal, physically, mentally and emotionally unless he truly wanted her back? He was not a savage. He could forgive her for what she had done. Dorian did not believe in God, but holding this Noreen’s letter he felt that perhaps this was the hand of the saviour in action. He went to the desk in his room, pulled out the notepad and wrote a short note.
He took it downstairs to the reception desk and asked if they might be able to get it into the morning post for it to arrive at the Kings Road that very afternoon.
❊
Noreen didn’t have to go back to work that afternoon and, feeling like company, she walked straight round to That Girl to see Lara. When she got there she was surprised to find Annie there too.
As soon as they saw her, Lara turned her head slightly towards Noreen then rested her hand on her cheek so that it shielded her face from Annie.
‘Annie has a new boyfriend, Noreen. Isn’t that great?’
Her expression clearly said – if you say anything, I’ll murder you.
‘Fantastic,’ Noreen said, her face a flat plate of sarcasm.
Annie did not notice.
‘I’m so in love,’ she said, ‘but the best news of all, Noreen?’
She looked as if she was going to explode with excitement and joy. Noreen had an urge to pick her up and throw her out the window. She resisted. For Lara’s sake. Although why she was protecting Annie when she should be punishing her for messing about with Matthew was beyond her.
‘You’ll never guess?’
Jesus, what was she? Ten?
‘Try me.’
Annie threw Lara a ‘can I tell her’ look that Noreen found insufferably offensive. There the two of them were, sharing secrets again.
‘Lara and Coleman finally got together. I think they’re in love too.’
Noreen did not know what to say. That was how this day was going. People said things to her and she was lost for words. Was this what unhappiness felt like? She thought her and Lara were back on track, but it seemed that weird Annie had pushed her way back in again. Using Matthew. And more fool Lara, getting back with a man like Coleman that had used and abused her already.
‘I’m going back to the flat,’ she said. ‘I have to get changed for the evening shift.’
Noreen had taken the day off but decided she had nothing better to do than work tonight, after all. Neither Annie nor Lara seemed to notice, or care, that she was upset.
In fact, when she was leaving, Lara tapped her on the shoulder and mouthed, ‘Thank you,’ as she walked out the door. Noreen raised her eyes to heaven but Lara, demented with love, or whatever, didn’t seem to notice that either.
When she got back to the flat Noreen found a letter waiting for her. Strange handwriting and a London postmark. She thought it was John, although it wasn’t his handwriting. Quickly tearing it open, she hoped something awful hadn’t happened to him.
It was a short letter written on headed notepaper from Brown’s Hotel. It looked very posh and was from Annie’s, or rather Hanna’s, father. He said that he was in London. He explained that his wife had been very sick and died and that, being a doctor and unable to save her, their beloved daughter had blamed him and run away. (Noreen was unsurprised
at this. Annie didn’t strike her as being very bright and this was typically selfish of these whimsical, overtly feminine types of girls.) Hanna was the only family he had left in the world and Noreen’s letter had been like receiving a lifeline. He knew that Hanna would be upset if he got in touch directly, so was there any possibility that she could find it in her heart to facilitate a meeting between them? She would need to keep it quiet from Hanna beforehand, of course, but he felt certain that once she saw him, all would be forgiven and forgotten. ‘In the end,’ he said, ‘we are father and daughter and should be there to comfort each other.’
Noreen thought of her own father, Frank, and of all the times he had annoyed her to distraction over the years – including just a few weeks ago when he had written to Matthew. She could never fall out with her own father to the point of estrangement but she could certainly imagine how that might happen.
Poor Annie, and the poor, poor man. Of course she would help them reunite.
Later that evening Noreen asked Coleman if she could use the office phone. Dorian sounded like a real gentleman. She made an arrangement for him to call at the flat. She reassured him that she would make certain that Annie would be there, alone, for at least a couple of hours.
38
Coleman felt his feet sink into the shagpile carpet as he looked around. Cheyne Walk was one of the most expensive streets off the Kings Road, and this basement bachelor pad was the first place he had seen. It had a kitchen, a bedroom, bathroom and a sunken area in the living room with plush cream leatherette seating built into the shagpile. It was fully furnished with all mod cons, a television and a trouser press.
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