‘It’s up the Edgware Road. Mostly full of Arabs, I think.’
‘Is it an Arab you’re meeting?’ he asked, but she seemed not to have heard. ‘Listen, Cordelia, about yesterday…’
‘What about it?’ She seemed to be preoccupied with the job of getting herself dressed. She ran a brush roughly through her hair and it sprang glossily back into place with all the ease of extreme youth.
‘Well,’ Joe cleared his throat, trying not to sound like a schoolteacher. ‘It was great to see you, but it might be better if you just gave me a ring before coming round in future. Just to check that I’m not about to walk in with my son, or my great aunt, or the Queen Mother and find you naked in bed.’
Cordelia giggled as she wriggled into her shoes. ‘Don’t be so stuffy, Joe-boy. It didn’t seem to bother Hugo.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But all the same.’
‘Whatever you say, mate.’ She kissed him on the mouth and he was shocked by just how soft her lips were. ‘Must dash now.’ And she was gone, leaving him sitting in the armchair like a deflated balloon.
He heard the front door slam shut and the flat suddenly fell silent apart from the distant sounds of Annie splashing around in the bathroom. For a few minutes Joe didn’t move, lost in thought as he tried to digest everything that had happened. The silence began to bear down on him and made him feel lonely. He wished Cordelia hadn’t gone. He wished he hadn’t sounded off like such an old fart. He needed something to distract his attention from the long empty day that stretched ahead. He couldn’t phone Adele again. There was no point. It would make him sound too desperate. So he might as well do a bit of follow-up work on the missing Doris mystery.
Pulling himself out of his sloth he went in search of the piece of paper which the nanny had given him, with the number on it. Finding it, he ambled down the long, dark corridor, past all the closed doors. He dialled the operator.
‘I have a telephone number,’ he said when she answered, ‘but I need to know which area the code is for.’
‘What is the code, sir?’ she enquired.
‘01273.’
‘That is the Brighton area, sir.’
‘If I give you the number, are you allowed to tell me the address?’
‘No sir. I’m afraid we can’t do that.’
‘Okay. Thank you.’ He put the receiver down and became lost in thought again. A few minutes later he had a plan and dialled the number. ‘Hi. This is parcel delivery service,’ he said when a girl’s voice answered. ‘I have a delivery for a Mr Max but there is a mistake on the address. Can you tell me the correct number.’
‘Number forty-two,’ the girl said. Her voice sounded slightly slurred, as if he had woken her up.
‘Number forty-two…?’ Joe held his breath and listened intently.
‘Ditchling Avenue,’ she finished his sentence for him.
‘Thank you Ma’am. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He hung up quickly, before she could ask him any questions. He was startled to find that his heart was beating faster than normal. The perpetration of even such a small deception left him almost breathless from the adrenaline rush. He wrote the address down and went in search of his book of maps. He was pretty sure that he had been to Brighton with Fliss early on in their marriage, but he was a little hazy as to where exactly it was in relation to London.
CHAPTER FOUR
The moment he walked out of Brighton station Joe remembered the last time he had been there. It had been soon after he had come to England with Fliss, probably before they got married. She had wanted him to meet one of her closest friends from school, whose father had set her up with a little clothes shop somewhere in the town. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name but he remembered how surprised she had been that Fliss should want to marry an American hippie she had found wandering around in northern Thailand; a man who appeared to have virtually no idea what he wanted to do with his life and absolutely no private income. The woman had called it ‘wonderfully romantic’, but obviously meant ‘ridiculously short-sighted’.
She hadn’t been the only one who had thought Fliss had made a big mistake. But in the following years Joe had been proud of how well the marriage had worked, and also of how well he had done as a writer. His income had grown to be easily enough to meet all their living expenses, although their home had been provided by Fliss’ family. Now, of course, he wished he had put a little of that income aside. But saving had never been a priority when he was married to a woman whose family had all the capital they could ever need. So, whenever a big cheque came in from a publisher or newspaper, he and Fliss would go off to the Caribbean with Hugo for a few weeks, or Fliss would refresh her wardrobe or change her car.
Ultimately, of course, Fliss’ friend had been proved right. Fliss had left him for someone even richer than her father and now Joe was having to readjust to a life without the backing of homes that had been in the family for centuries. What had seemed like a good living when they were together now seemed decidedly inadequate when he had to furnish himself both with somewhere to live and a lawyer to plead his case. And all this at the same time as supporting Hugo – a responsibility he had no desire to hand over to his Argentinian replacement.
The emotional upheaval had stopped him working effectively for six months and he was now feeling the effects in his income. The cheques simply weren’t arriving with the regularity he had grown used to.
Everyone told him that it would take him a year or two to get back onto his feet, both emotionally and financially. He was willing to accept that they were right, but that didn’t make his change in circumstances any more comfortable. He could hardly remember what Fliss’ friend in the Brighton dress shop had looked like now, but that didn’t stop him feeling a surge of resentment towards her.
He had bought a street map of the town at the station bookstall and managed to locate Ditchling Avenue. It was going to be at least half an hour’s walk, but it was a pleasant, sunny afternoon and he was in no hurry. He strolled through the crowded, narrow streets, where shoppers from the suburbs mixed with the locals, and was immediately intrigued by the way the locals’ bodies and faces seemed to have been pierced in every conceivable combination of places, their hair shaved to the scalp or plaited into dreadlocks as solid as old rope.
The previous year he would have felt himself to be one of the shoppers, a tourist in this alternative world, but that afternoon, with a bank account sliding into the red, he felt more part of the scruffy world of the local cafés. Their clientele lounged around with their mongrel dogs at their feet and their home-rolled cigarettes in their nicotine-stained fingers. A smell of beer and cheap vegetarian cooking filled the air.
After the several lanes of traffic converged at the bottom of the hill, the scenery gradually changed to shabby residential streets, all of which looked as if they had once been smart and some of which were starting to be so once more. The roads began to lead him steeply upwards again, something the map hadn’t prepared him for, and he became aware of the heat of the sun. He kept changing sides of the road to stay in the shade, unable to resist looking in through the ground floor windows of the houses he passed. He could see, past the endless fireplaces and varied furnishings, and through a variety of French windows, out to the small gardens beyond, some as neat as magazine illustrations, others stacked like junk yards.
Ditchling Avenue was one of the grander roads. The tall, red-brick houses must originally have been built for professional Victorian families who might have expected to have the help of one or two servants to keep their smartly tiled doorsteps freshly scrubbed. Some of them looked as if they were still occupied by people aware of the importance of investing in property. Others appeared to have been split carelessly into flats or filled with people renting individual rooms. Many of the windows were open to the street and music drifted out on the warm, lazy air.
Joe knew he was on the right side of the road for number forty-two because the numbers were descending in even pairs as he
went. On the other side he could see a parade of local shops approaching. A small supermarket was flanked by a workman’s café and a launderette offered service washes in large red letters across the window.
As he passed number forty-eight he could see that there were a group of people standing around on the steps of the house which he calculated would be number forty-two. Two of them looked West Indian, with matted dreadlocks hanging halfway down their backs, their muscular arms appearing to be trying to escape through their torn T-shirts.
The man talking to them was white, although the density of tattoos covering his face, arms and neck made him appear somewhat darker. His head was shaved, perhaps to provide more space for the artwork. The effect was somewhere between the graffiti which Joe had often seen on New York telephone booths, and religious engravings on some Middle Eastern shrine. The man’s ears and nostrils were encircled with rings, like some revered African tribesman.
The voices of the other men sounded loud and angry, although their body language appeared friendly, possibly even affectionate. Joe knew better than to let them catch him staring and once he had confirmed to himself that it was the right house, he crossed the road and went into the café without breaking his stride, giving the impression that it had been his intended destination all along. The small, newly decorated room was empty. He ordered a sandwich and coffee from the ponytailed Italian man behind the counter, deliberately not looking outside. He made his way to a seat in the window once the man had taken his money and served him the food.
When Joe did finally glance casually across the road the front steps of number forty-two were deserted. He looked quickly up and down the street but could see no one. There were windows open in the house, but all of them had net curtains inside, and security bars outside. The bars somehow didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the house. They looked newly installed and expensive, while the rest of the house looked uncared for and dirty.
A previous customer had left a newspaper on the table and Joe started to read it, glancing up every few minutes. He sat there for an hour before he had to order another coffee. No one else came into the café, but several people went to the house. Sometimes the tattooed man would come outside to talk to them, sometimes they would be allowed to pass through the door. Some reappeared, while others remained inside.
Nearly two hours after Joe first sat down, a gate at the side of the house opened and an oriental girl came out. She was slight and seemed almost dwarfed by the two bulging bin liners she was carrying. They were light enough for her to be able to hold one in each hand without dragging them on the ground, but obviously heavy enough to be a burden. She hurried across the road with strange little shuffling steps, as if anxious to get rid of them, and disappeared from his line of vision. Joe rose and went outside. The café owner appeared not to notice his departure.
The girl was nowhere to be seen on the pavement. Joe felt his heart beating faster than was comfortable. Could this be the elusive Doris? He forced himself to stroll casually along the pavement. He glanced across the road towards the house and saw that the tattooed man had come out and was sitting on the steps, lighting a cigarette. Joe didn’t break his pace. He turned smartly into the little supermarket.
Just as he went in through the doors the girl came out of the launderette next door without the bags she had been carrying. She turned into the store, picking up a wire basket as she went.
Joe walked behind one of the displays to give himself a moment to compose his thoughts, but she came round faster than he had expected, staring hard at the shelves. She wore a puzzled look, as if unable to find the product she was after. She was very beautiful which surprised him. The nanny had told him Doris was plain. There was no time to hesitate.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, making her jump back nervously. ‘Are you Doris?’
‘Yes,’ she said, obviously doubtful about telling a strange man her name. ‘Who are you?’
He put his hand out and smiled in a way which he hoped looked reassuring. ‘Joe Tye. The ghost-writer. You wrote to me after hearing me on the radio. Do you remember?’
She didn’t take his hand, just stared at him hard. ‘I think you have made a mistake,’ she said. ‘You must be thinking of someone else.’
‘You are from the Philippines?’ Joe persisted.
‘Yes. But I live here now.’
‘And something happened to your breasts?’ He only realised how personal the remark sounded after it had come out. His horror was compounded by the realisation that the slight little girl he was talking to actually had a surprisingly large bust. He now understood why she had looked so comical as she bustled across the street with the black sacks; her top half had been jiggling uncontrollably in her T-shirt as she took her tiny steps. Although she was thrusting them forward proudly, the breasts did not seem to be part of her. Her expression darkened with embarrassment at his remark, but he couldn’t think of any way to make his words sound better.
For a second she looked as if she was going to hit him, then she laughed, showing a perfect row of bright, white teeth. Her laughter was interrupted by the sound of a man’s voice asking for cigarettes at the till on the other side of the display. She suddenly looked frightened and pushed Joe away.
‘Is that Max?’ Joe asked in a whisper.
She nodded and hurried to the till with a loaf of bread and a packet of cornflakes in her basket. Joe picked up a pack of biscuits and sauntered after her. The man with the tattoos was paying for the cigarettes. An air of menace hung around him like body odour. He looked like someone who had very little to lose in life and everything to fight for.
Max ignored the girl as she joined the queue behind him and she, in turn, ignored Joe. All Joe could see was the man’s back. He studied the tattoos which the skimpy black vest showed off. He noticed, to his surprise, that the name ‘Doris’ was twined across one of the hairy shoulders in a complicated design of vine leaves and hearts. The way it was integrated into the other pictures suggested that it was not a new addition to the artwork, but the girl didn’t look old enough to have predated the elaborate carvings on Max’s skin.
Both Max and Doris paid for their purchases and left. As Max turned, Joe caught a glimpse of his face. His lips were parted in a sneer and Joe could see that his front teeth had been filed to sharp points. Joe watched over the shoulder of the boy on the till as the odd couple crossed the road back towards the house. Max walked up the steps to the front door and Doris went through the side gate. Just as she was about to close the gate she shot an anxious look back towards the supermarket, and then disappeared.
Joe had to decide what to do. He bought a local evening paper to give himself a little time before strolling out into the street, pretending to be looking for something in the small ads. He wandered back into the café and asked for a cup of tea. The Italian made no sign of recognising him. An old couple were sitting at the table he had occupied before. He sat opposite them, still able to see the house. He thought, once or twice, that he had seen one of the grubby net curtains twitch, as if someone was peeking out. The old couple left and he began to feel conspicuous.
He walked out into the street, passed the supermarket and went into the launderette. A couple of women in overalls and bedroom slippers were busily folding sheets.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m from number forty-two. Did an oriental girl drop some laundry in earlier?’
‘Doris?’ one of them replied.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘It won’t be ready for another twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘I told her when to come back.’
‘Oh, no problem,’ Joe dismissed her worries with a wave of his hand. ‘It was just on the off chance. I wasn’t sure what time she brought it over.’
He walked purposefully out of the shop and along the street until he was obscured from the house by the mighty trunks of several of the avenue’s trees. He stopped and leant against one of them, looking back along the pavement towards the fronts of the shops. Half an hour
later his patience was rewarded and Doris appeared briefly in his line of vision before disappearing into the launderette. He walked briskly back, pausing as soon as he could see the door, and then taking a last spurt when he saw her fighting to get it open with her hands full of plastic sacks. He met her in the middle of the pavement. She looked startled to see him again and her eyes immediately darted to the front door opposite.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid. Can I give you my address and number? If you decide you want to go ahead with it just call me, or drop me another letter. I’d like to hear your story.’
‘No,’ she said, her voice fierce with fear. ‘Go away. They watch me.’
He walked off immediately, not wanting to increase her distress. He hoped that anyone looking out from the house would just have seen a near collision on the pavement and a man apologising for his clumsiness before moving disinterestedly on. He willed himself not to look up at the house. Had he done so he would have seen Max watching the street from the doorstep where he was sitting with another girl, smoking a cigarette.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Hi, Hugo, it’s Dad.’
‘Hi, Fartface,’ Hugo crowed gleefully.
‘I’m ringing to wish you luck at the new school.’
‘Oh.’ Hugo’s voice gave away nothing of what he might be feeling. ‘Cool.’
‘Are you all packed and ready?’
‘Mummy’s in a real strop,’ Hugo announced. ‘She says it’s ridiculous that she has to put loops and name tags on every single sock.’
‘Your mother’s doing that?’ Joe found the image of Fliss sewing socks hard to conjure up.
‘No,’ Hugo admitted, ‘Nanny Harris is doing it. But Mum’s still in a strop.’
Now Joe had a clearer picture of the scene that must be going on around his son’s school trunk. ‘I’ve got a new phone number,’ he said. ‘Have you got a pen?’
‘I’ll remember it,’ Hugo promised.
‘Get a pen, just in case,’ Joe advised.
Pretty Little Packages Page 4