by Sam Baker
There’d been no text from Lyn, no Facebook response from Karen. Not that he really deserved or even expected one. He hadn’t given his daughters a moment’s thought since he sat down, any more than he had Liza. There’d been no room in his head for anyone but the woman at Wildfell. The more he thought about her, the more convinced he became he’d seen her somewhere before. In the papers, on television, maybe a news site. Since she wasn’t local and was far too young to have crossed his path back when he worked in London, those were his only other options. He thought about phoning the news desk, getting them to check the electoral register. Even picked up his mobile and started dialling the number. Then he imagined the laugh they’d have at his expense when he had to admit he couldn’t give them any information apart from her name. Oh, and she was probably French. It was worse than useless.
Unless she was the daughter of someone he did know? That thought stopped him in his tracks for five minutes. Until it bugged him back into action. It was an itch he had to scratch. This was the twenty-first century, as Lyn never tired of telling him. Everybody could be googled. Even the insanely rich couldn’t buy total anonymity. Off grid was for religious fanatics and Montana gun nuts, and that was it.
If Helen Graham was on Google, he’d find her.
13
By six thirty on Monday morning she was on her way to Leeds Bradford Airport. She didn’t glance in her rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the driveway. She never did. She didn’t know why. It was just a thing. Don’t look back. Never look back. She wasn’t sure what she thought she might see if she did, she just thought best not.
Her ankle shrieked whenever she leaned on the clutch, but she didn’t want to leave her car at Wildfell overnight. Now she’d started having visitors, Helen didn’t want it to look like she was in and not answering the door. Better to be obviously away. Perhaps it was unnecessarily elaborate to drive to the airport, leave the car in a long-stay along with thousands of others, and take a diversion through the arrivals hall to pick up a bus to Leeds station. She had no reason to think anyone was following her. Or even interested. But better safe than sorry.
Inevitably, the train was packed. Helen parted with £100 and wedged herself between a window too filthy to see through and a man whose hips devoured the armrest that supposedly divided their seats. Tray table balanced on his gut, cup of PG, debris of sugar sachets and milk cartons, scraps of pie crust, all clinging to its surface, 45 degrees north of comfortable.
Pulling out her phone, Helen aimed it randomly in his direction, pretending to be holding the screen up to the light, until she got an image she was happy with. Then there was nothing to do but stare through the dirt and hair-gel smeared glass and watch north become south, urban sprawl give way to suburban sprawl before, gradually, London started to make its presence felt.
Out on the Euston Road, she slung her holdall over her shoulder and limped in the direction of Harley Street. Still sore from the drive, her ankle was just about all right for walking. She was bored with limping, just as she was bored with silence and bored of being alone. When her ankle shrieked, she ignored it. When she couldn’t ignore it any longer she downed a handful of painkillers. All around her, London was yelling, pulling and poking for her attention. Taxi drivers leaning on their horns, brakes screaming, cyclists swearing, pedestrians hammering on closed bus doors, telling the driver what they thought of his mother. A balding man wearing a sandwich board and carrying a megaphone damned Helen, and anyone else who cared to listen, to hell as she passed. Little does he know, Helen thought, hell and I are already pretty well acquainted.
She stopped, turned. Almost spoke.
But if she started Helen had a feeling she’d never stop. She could tell him a thing or two about the Devil. Things like how the Devil had all the best tunes, and a smile as bright as a searchlight that went right through you until you worked out he turned it on and off like a switch; he had eyes that pinned you to the bed, the ground or the wall, for when you were both behind closed doors and his public smile was no longer required. He didn’t even look like the Devil to most people. And it was when you discovered that most people didn’t think he was the Devil, because he didn’t behave like the Devil to them, that you knew … You really were damned. And then you realised if you were damned it didn’t matter what you did, because you were damned already.
The man was staring at her now, megaphone poised. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she took his picture, twice, and saved it in a folder along with the train man before turning away, his damnations bouncing off her back like darts.
The day was warm, for autumn. Sun stripping coats and jackets from pedestrians.
Acrid petrol fumes and lunchtime food smells: kebabs, Chinese, pizza and burgers. The unavoidable stench of humanity – BO and piss, stale food, coffee-and-fag breath, last night’s booze doing battle with Chanel No.5 and whatever celebrity fragrance it was this month. A kaleidoscope of odour that would flay her alive in the onslaught of migraine. Now it smelled of familiarity, anonymity, safety …
The sprawl of Euston gave way to the sedate Georgian streets of Marylebone. Only the traffic fumes and human smells remained. The streets were politely busy; an orderly queue of taxis and town cars flowed past, the only noise but for the hush of caught conversation. You would be able to tell this was where doctors practised even if you didn’t know. It wasn’t until Helen turned on to Devonshire Place, rang the bell of a red-brick townhouse and was buzzed in that she realised she hadn’t once felt the urge to glance behind her since she got off the train.
‘Helen! How are you? You look …’ Caroline Harris, MD, plus a lot of other letters, shut her surgery door behind her and walked round to the professional side of her desk. ‘Different,’ she said finally, tilting her head.
‘Hair,’ they both said simultaneously.
‘Fancied a change,’ Helen shrugged.
‘Your natural colour?’
Helen nodded.
‘Suits you.’
Caroline flipped open a manila folder and made a note. Only friends to a point, Helen reminded herself. Caroline skimmed the page although, knowing her, she’d read and reread it half a dozen times already. She was expensive, unless you were on medical insurance, and then she was even more expensive. But Helen trusted her. She looked up to find Caroline staring at her.
Probably just as well she did.
‘What do you remember?’ Caroline said suddenly.
‘A-About the migraine?’ Helen swallowed. Already this was not going to plan. She tried to stop her eyes flickering in the direction of the door. Too late. Caroline had obviously noticed.
‘Helen …’ Fixing her gaze on Helen, Caroline reached down and produced a copy of the Evening Standard from her bag. It was folded open, into neat quarters, a column of also-ran news stories on top. Her expression neutral, she handed it to Helen and sat back.
The tiny, fifty-word filler was crammed into an inch at the bottom of the column. No picture, barely any headline. Easy to miss. Although Caroline hadn’t.
A body, believed to be that of British journalist Arthur Huntingdon, 46, has been found after fire destroyed the building in which he lived in an exclusive Paris square. Huntingdon, who was last seen …
Helen swallowed and closed her eyes. The room lurched.
So it was him.
He was dead.
But why had it taken so long to be reported? She had a pretty good idea. By now, their dental records must have proved beyond doubt that the body was his. Or at least that it wasn’t hers. And if it wasn’t hers, it could only be Art’s.
When she opened her eyes, Caroline was still staring at her. Her face expressionless. The sheet of paper in front of her blank but for the note about Helen’s hair colour.
‘Nothing,’ she said, slumping back in the chair. There was no point lying. ‘I remember nothing.’
The doctor stared at her. Not the way Art used to stare, silent and cold, with the intention of inducing dread, but tho
ughtfully.
‘Is that true?’
‘Entirely. I swear.’
Again Caroline made a note. ‘Let me put it another way,’ she said. ‘What was your first memory?’
‘Coming awake in the smoke. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew I was going to die.’
Caroline’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced at the couch behind her and Helen shook her head. She preferred to do this sitting up. That way she could pretend to be normal, that this was simply a doctor she was seeing about her migraines. Caroline had practised as a GP anyway, before specialising, and they’d dealt with illnesses and injuries along the way. She was allowed to do that too. ‘The memory,’ Caroline said.
Helen rubbed her forehead. Something was taking shape. It was there now. Shaken loose by the migraine, the shock of the article, or simply sitting opposite Caroline. The orange fog was starting to clear. ‘I rolled out of bed, I was naked, I don’t know why. I made it to the bedroom door on my hands and knees. There was smoke, flames …’
‘Your husband – Art – was he in bed with you?’
Helen shook her head. ‘No. I was alone. That’s the … there was a body …’
Caroline looked at her. Her face was impassive. ‘Where?’
‘On the floor in the sitting room. I think that’s where the fire had started. He was dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know what dead looks like,’ Helen snapped. ‘He was dead. At least … I think … no,’ she knotted and unknotted her fingers in her lap. ‘I’m sure he was.’
‘You saw his face?’
No, Helen thought. I didn’t get that close.
She shook her head.
‘And then …?’ Caroline prompted.
‘Nothing.’ Helen said. ‘Honestly, Caroline, nothing. The next thing I remember, I’m in London with my rucksack and a camera bag. I don’t even remember how. Until now, I’ve been happy to remember that much.
‘There is one other thing …’
‘Oh?’ Caroline’s pen hovered over the pad.
‘Only it’s not a memory, so it probably doesn’t count. My sister told me I called an ex-boyfriend. Tom? Tom Bretton? I think I’ve told you about him?’
Caroline nodded thoughtfully. She didn’t seem as surprised as Helen expected. ‘Why do you think you did that?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Helen tried for a smile. ‘Probably better. I guess my subconscious has a sensible streak.’
Caroline didn’t return the smile. ‘I’m serious.’
‘His was the only number I knew?’ Helplessness was turning to panic. ‘I don’t know Caroline, honestly. It came as a total shock.’
Caroline pursed her lips and made another note. ‘And how are you feeling now?’
Helen looked at her. Tried to work out what it was OK to say.
‘Numb, mainly. You know …’
Caroline waited for Helen to continue. When it became clear she’d said as much as she was going to, the doctor sat back. Helen did the same, mirroring her. Her armpits were sodden, her back slick with sweat. She knew she stank of fear. Her fingers were folded so tight that bone showed through the skin of her knuckles. She couldn’t bear to imagine what else she might remember.
Without being asked, Caroline fetched her a glass of water, passing it to her with a smile that said she was safe. Then, she looked serious, a little too serious, and put on her reading glasses before glancing down at Helen’s file. ‘Are you planning to kill anyone?’ she asked.
Helen choked, then shook her head, relieved she hadn’t said anyone else.
‘Quite sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Good. Are you planning to kill yourself?’
Helen looked at her in astonishment. ‘Caroline …’
‘I need you to answer the question.’ Her voice was surprisingly stern.
‘No,’ Helen said meekly. ‘I’m not planning to kill myself.’
‘Good.’ Caroline seemed satisfied. Taking off her reading glasses, she closed Helen’s file. ‘You’re my patient,’ she said. ‘That is, you’ve been my patient before, and are, for the purposes of this, my patient again. Since you do not plan to kill someone, and you do not plan to kill yourself, I am free to keep what you’ve said confidential. Should either of those things change, I will have no choice but to consider committing you or going to the police. Do you understand?’
Helen nodded.
‘Please say it.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Should you need me to go through what I’ve just said again, tell me and I will. Should you need to ask a question you think might lead to the authorities becoming involved, ask it in the abstract and I will answer it in the abstract.’
‘Thank you,’ Helen said. And she meant it.
‘I do have one more question,’ Caroline said after a moment’s silence.
Helen knew what was coming. The same question had haunted her day and night since the fire. Since she’d left him. What was she doing back at their old flat?
Helen shrugged.
She didn’t have an answer.
When Caroline dropped her at the receptionist’s desk, Helen’s bill and prescription for six months’ Clonidine were already waiting. ‘Take care,’ Caroline said, kissing her on both cheeks. She squeezed Helen’s shoulders slightly longer than usual before turning away. ‘And keep in touch.’
Helen took the small white paper bag and sheet of A4 neatly folded in three and zipped it safely into the pocket of her rucksack. The relief she felt at having it was tinged with a pang of conscience. How would she pay for it? And how long would Caroline give her before losing patience altogether? Maybe it didn’t matter.
When Helen looked up, she found the receptionist staring at her.
‘Sorry. I was miles away. Did you want me?’
‘I’m not sure if I should say …’ The woman glanced towards the closed consulting-room door, considering. ‘A man was looking for you.’
Helen’s stomach lurched. ‘What did he look like?’ Her voice was a croak. The receptionist glanced at her strangely, then remembered her job. If she looked strangely at all the strange people who came in here she’d never stop.
‘Blond,’ she said. ‘Medium build. Not tall, not short. Nice smile.’
Helen felt her body unclench.
‘Very professional. Ms Harris shook hands and walked him to the door.’
‘What did she say?’ Helen asked. Her mind was racing. The police, it had to be. But why hadn’t Caroline told her?
‘She didn’t,’ the receptionist said. Then she hesitated before adding: ‘Also, someone called asking if we had a contact number for you.’
Helen smiled tightly, hoping the tension in her jaw didn’t show. ‘Ms Harris spoke to him, too?’
‘Oh no,’ the receptionist said brightly. ‘I did. He said he was an old friend and needed to get hold of you urgently, but your mobile was out. Did I have an address? He knew you saw Ms Harris. And I knew the mobile bit was true because I’d tried to call it myself. So I figured he must know you well …’
Her heart was pounding again.
‘He was so insistent, I said I’d email you for him, pass on his details.’ She was talking fast now, tumbling over her words. ‘But then I thought, since you were coming in anyway … I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing?’
‘It’s fine …’ Helen’s pulse was racing. She tried to think straight. ‘When was this?’
Relief showed on the woman’s face. Helen was not going to yell. She had not broken any protocols. Well, she had, but she wasn’t going to get into trouble. ‘End of last week,’ she said. ‘That’s the weirdest thing. The same day you called. That’s how I knew your usual mobile wasn’t working, because I tried to call you back.’
Coincidence. It had to be.
‘Did you get his name?’ For the first time, Helen noticed a yellow Post-it note in the woman’s hand. She glanced down at it.
‘Ri
dley,’ she said. ‘Mark Ridley.’
14
Somehow London didn’t feel so safe any more. Sun reflected off the white stucco of the terrace opposite just as it had half an hour earlier. Taxis lingered, meters running, exhaust fumes creating a haze in the air. People strolled past, some heading for Regent’s Park to take advantage of the weather, some just getting from A to B. All with the gait of those basking in the unexpected gift of a city in the grip of an Indian summer. A hundred metres away on Marylebone Road, traffic roared. Everything had changed and nothing had. Or maybe she just hadn’t been looking properly before.
Helen knew better than to look like a person who didn’t feel safe.
She didn’t scan the street when she left Caroline’s surgery. She didn’t hug the wall. She didn’t obey the voice that wanted her to keep one eye in the back of her head at all times. She walked down the middle of the pavement, she smiled politely but disinterestedly at strangers coming towards her, and she prayed like hell for rain and an excuse to put her hood up and her head down.
How much did anybody know?
Now a British paper had run the story it was only a matter of time before someone else latched on to it. Mark Ridley was a journalist. She should have known someone who knew Art – who knew her – would try to hunt her down.
It hit her like a bus careering out of nowhere side-swiping her off the pavement. One moment she was walking down the street, the next she was curled in on herself by iron railings, hands cradling her head as if attempting to hold in the tears that began washing over her in great, painful gasps.
She had no idea how long she huddled there, fighting to silence the wails that threatened to burst from her. Finally she caught her breath and steeled herself to glance up. No one was looking. Or, if they were, they were pretending not to. Certainly her side of the pavement was suspiciously empty. The crying jag had come from nowhere. It wasn’t sadness, or despair, it was sheer bloody fury and impotence. Fumbling the pills from her rucksack pocket, she pushed one from its bubble through foil, looked at it, and then tried to put it back. When it dropped at her feet she had to resist the urge to pick the precious thing up, instead kicking it into a gutter and watching it tumble into a grate. Then she stood up, hooked her rucksack on to her back and made herself put one foot in front of the other. It didn’t occur to her to worry about the state of her face.