by Huw Thomas
The result was a conscious decision to give his life more direction. Harper started to drink less, exercise more and consider the choices he made. He started to care about his job and to think about the longer-term future, not just what he was doing that weekend.
The other huge impact on his social life, however, had been Rebecca. Since they had got together, Harper completely lost any remaining urge to go out roaming the city’s pubs and clubs in the company of casual acquaintances. Why go searching for entertainment when his best friend shared his bed and home?
As he hobbled along Carson Street, Harper wondered how he passed the time in this life. The flat contained no bike and fewer books than he would have expected. He owned a good collection of whisky bottles though, including a few empties. But it seemed unlikely he spent all his time in the flat or at work. Maybe he still spent all his time at the pub.
It occurred to Harper he had not asked Brendan about girlfriends. Although obviously not with Rebecca, he clearly had not been single all the time. The picture of him with the girl from the flat next door seemed to show that — even if her reaction suggested the relationship was no longer current.
Lost in thought, Harper had not been consciously looking at the view. But reaching the end of the road, something made him stop.
Ahead lay the site of the former Kavanaugh Centre. An old shopping development, it had been a brutal monstrosity born in the aftermath of World War Two, when civic planners married a love of concrete with a philosophy of building fast and cheap with no regard to aesthetics. Never popular, the centre was semi-derelict by the 1980s, boarded up by the Millennium and demolished a year ago. The Kavanaugh Centre had occupied a prime riverside site on the edge of the city centre. Now, a new office complex was coming in its place, something to fit the city’s modern image of itself.
Only a few weeks earlier, though, the site made news headlines around the world. A vast pit had been dug for a car park going underneath the offices. The hole was lower than the adjacent river and a retaining wall protected the excavations from the water.
Early one morning, the wall failed, creating a major flood and a serious setback for the project.
But what made the collapse so sensational was the discovery of woman’s corpse entombed within the wall. One theory was the woman’s body had created a flaw in the concrete that weakened the wall and led to its collapse.
Now, as Harper stared through the fencing around the building site, cold fingers crept up his spine. On the other side, where he remembered the breach appearing, construction workers swarmed over the wall. But they were not repairing the collapse. They were putting up shuttering, the skin for concrete yet to be poured. And down below, other machinery was at work, still digging out the last few inches of the pit.
Harper was still trying to make sense of what he had seen at the Kavanaugh Centre when he made his way up Courtney Hill.
A few minutes later, he reached the top of the steps leading to Brendan’s flat. As the door opened, the photographer stood aside to let Harper in, giving the younger man the once over as he limped past. His eyes took in the ripening bruises, the eyes rimmed with exhaustion and pallid complexion. Brendan gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, boy. Just looking at you makes me feel fit and well.’
Harper gave a faint smile and lowered his aching frame down onto the sofa where he had slept the night after the accident. As he did so, it occurred to him it was still not even forty-eight hours since he discharged himself from hospital. He winced at the thought.
Brendan nodded. ‘That’s right, make yourself at home.’
His tone was sarcastic but Harper knew better than to take too much notice. ‘I will.’
‘So. The quack agreed you’re malingering?’
Harper shook his head slowly. ‘No. I paid him a fiver and he agreed to sign me off for the time being. I even got a few painkillers as a bonus.’
‘When are you due back?’
‘At work?’
Brendan shrugged. ‘Work or the doctor’s.’
‘I’ve made an appointment to go back to the doctor’s the same time next week,’ said Harper. ‘I’m signed off until then.’
‘That’ll please Tony Wright.’
Harper shook his head. ‘At the moment I couldn’t care less about Tony Wright or The Post. I need to sort things out with Rebecca first. That comes before anything.’
Brendan frowned. He turned and walked towards the kitchen. Harper heard the sound of a kettle being filled.
‘You want tea or something stronger?’ Brendan called.
‘Tea’s fine.’
Brendan leant against the doorway as he waited for the kettle to boil. ‘I’ve got some beers in the fridge if you prefer. Or a drop of malt.’
Harper shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want booze. Not at the moment. My head’s muddled enough as it is. Besides, I’ve got these painkillers to take. The way I’m feeling at the moment, if I have one of them and then a drink I’ll probably pass out.’
Brendan nodded. ‘You’re not right are you?’
Harper looked up. There was something cautious in his friend’s tone. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Brendan shrugged and went back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
Brendan put the mugs down on the floor and lowered himself into a chair as grizzled as its owner. He sighed. ‘Ah, am I glad to sit down. It’s been one of those days. I don’t think I’ve sat down properly since I was in first thing. I’ve been running round half this city trying to be in five places at the same time. Then when I do get back to the office there’s no time to draw breath.’
Brendan shook his head. ‘But I was glad to be out of the place today. Tony was in a fine mood. Cursing you for getting hit by a car, then cursing Louise for doing a disappearing act. Shouting at anyone who crossed his path today, he was.’
Harper shook his head. ‘Louise not turned up then?’
‘Nope. Not heard a peep out of her either.’
‘She’s not normally like that, is she?’
‘Not far as I know. She’s a feisty one but she’s not a shirker. I hope nothing serious is up with her.’
Harper took a sip of his tea. He looked thoughtful. He had too many questions and was unsure which ones were important. He gave Brendan a hopeful glance. ‘I take it you haven’t heard from her?’
‘Eh?’ Louise?’ His friend looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh. You mean Rebecca?’
Harper nodded.
Brendan gave a short laugh. ‘No, boy. Wouldn’t really expect to either. I mean; she hardly knows me any more than she seems to know you.’
‘I just wondered if she might have wanted to ask you something, check me out a bit or something.’
‘Sorry.’ Brendan shook his head sympathetically. ‘I can’t help there. Besides, even if she’d tried, she’d probably have had trouble getting hold of me today.’
Harper lowered his head back to his tea mug. ‘Never mind.’
He forgot about Brendan for a couple of minutes, troubled by something else. A cloudiness had appeared in the edge of his vision: a thin, dark fog that seemed to seep out of the corners of his eyes. It had happened to him a couple of times yesterday and three times this morning. So far, it never lasted long but it was still alarming. What was more worrying was that each time it happened the fog spread just a little further. Harper guessed it was something to do with the knock he took to his head when he came off the bike — or whatever it was that happened here. Rational thought said he should tell a doctor but that created other complications; for the time being he would take a chance on the problem fixing itself.
They sat in silence, each absorbed with their own thoughts. Outside, the daylight faded, replaced with the orange glow of streetlights. The drone of traffic got louder, more commuters heading away from the city as the nine-to-fivers followed the trail of those like Brendan who worked less conventional shifts.
‘Oh yeah.�
� Harper looked up. The fog had gone and now he could ask the question that was bothering him. ‘I was meaning to ask you. What’s the story with the girl who lives in the flat next to mine?’
Brendan looked wary. ‘You don’t know?’
‘No.’ Harper glowered: fear making him more irritable than usual. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I did, would I? Like I told you, I don’t even know the place. I’ve got no memories of living there. I was standing outside wondering which door to try when she came up the stairs. I didn’t say anything because I had no idea of her name, let alone how well I knew her. Then I went inside and saw her picture on my wall.’
‘Ah,’ said Brendan.
Harper’s eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t mention her on purpose, did you?’
‘I did wonder if you’d see her.’
‘Well, what did you expect me to do?’ Harper demanded. Frustration made his voice tight. ‘I told you. I don’t understand what’s going on. All I know is I’m in the wrong job, in the wrong flat, in the wrong fucking life. How am I supposed to know who lives next door to me in some lousy flat I turned down years ago.’
Brendan looked embarrassed. He gazed at Harper uncertainly then spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘Look, Danny, I’m sorry, boy but I wasn’t sure what to say. I don’t know what the hell to make of it either. I hear what you’re telling me but none of it makes any kind of sense.’ He hesitated. ‘The thing is, you say you don’t know what’s going on, well how in heaven’s name am I supposed to make head or tail of it.’
Harper clenched his fists. He stood up and limped towards the window. He stared out into the darkening sky. ‘This is all shit.’ The words spat from his mouth like sour pebbles. ‘I thought you at least trusted me, Brendan.’
‘I do, I do, it’s just…’
‘No. “It’s just” nothing. Either you trust me, or you don’t. If you don’t believe me, say so.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Don’t try and test me, for Christ’s sake.’
17. Machinations
Wednesday, 6.48pm:
Rebecca held up a hand and shook her head at the proffered bottle. It was tempting but she could see other complications on offer and was uncertain of her head’s ability to cope with more confusion.
‘I’d better not. I’ve still got to drive home and I can’t afford to lose my licence.’
She sat on one side of a massive bleached wooden table in what was once the stable block of Haworth Manor. Opposite her was Paul Cash. The huge room, lined with tall windows on both sides, was his main studio and workplace.
Cash waved her concerns away with a flick of the hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’
Rebecca frowned. ‘That’s easy for you to say but I like having my driving licence.’ She shrugged. ‘Besides, I don’t actually want to crash and if I drink any more on an empty stomach I’m really not sure I’ll be able to make all of those corners between here and home. I don’t want to wrap my car around a tree or around someone else.’
The painter laughed. ‘No, that would be a bit unfortunate. But I wasn’t suggesting you drink and drive. Besides which, I wouldn’t dream of sending you away on an empty stomach.’ He grinned. ‘What I meant was there’s no need to worry about driving if you’d like to stay for another drink. And dinner, of course.’
Rebecca raised her eyebrows.
‘If you’re worried about getting round the corners in your own car there’s always taxis,’ Cash said with an airy wave. ‘Or you can stay here.’ Although his smile softened the bluntness of the unspoken invitation, his grey eyes were unblinking and intense.
The corners of Rebecca’s mouth twitched. ‘No. Thank you but no.’
‘Why not? I’ve got spare beds if you don’t fancy mine.’
Rebecca felt her face going red and laughed. ‘It’s not a question of beds.’
‘What is it then?’
She shook her head. ‘Do you flirt like this with every woman?’
‘Only the beautiful ones.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Rebecca gave him a disappointed look. ‘I’m sorry but that’s just too corny.’
Cash looked wounded. ‘But it’s the truth.’
Rebecca made a disbelieving sound. She looked away from Cash and let her gaze wander around the room. The studio was around eighty feet long and nearly thirty wide. At first glance, it looked fairly austere: pale walls, a stone floor and exposed roof trusses high above their heads. On entering the room, Rebecca’s first impression had been one of almost monastic simplicity. But the appearance was deceptive: the tall windows were well insulated, under-floor heating kept the slate flagstones warm enough for bare feet and a button touched by Paul Cash had brought cool jazz oozing from a sound system hidden in the beams.
The studio was also divided into several sections. The first area, originally a tack room, had been left deliberately empty. Now the anteroom to the studio proper, this was where Cash stopped to clear his mind when he needed to make the mental transformation from Lord of the Manor to artist.
Next came the coach-house, with its huge opposing bays and double height doors. A dais, now empty, stood in the middle of the space. Sometimes occupied by a chair, sometimes by a bed, this was where the painter’s subjects sat or lay. Facing the dais in one of the entranceways stood Cash’s easel and workbench; the opposite bay held the great table where Rebecca sat, surrounded by a welter of papers and plans.
Beyond, in the third section of the studio, replacing the original mangers were racks of stretching canvases and shelves laden with brushes and oils. In place of the wooden stall dividers were bookcases, wardrobes and boxes full of props. The stables contained all the essentials of a working studio; tucked into the far end it even had a small bathroom and a kitchen area containing a fridge for the chilled white wine they were now drinking.
The call from Cash had caught Rebecca by surprise. Her mobile rang as she was on her way home after meeting Sarah and she answered it without thinking.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, Rebecca. It’s Paul… Paul Cash. Are you busy later this afternoon?’
‘Well… no…’
‘Good. Can you get to the manor around six?’
‘Well…’
‘One important thing, though.’
‘Er , what’s that?’
‘Probably best you don’t tell the lovely Miss Hamilton you’re coming to see me.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Come to see me and I’ll tell you.’
‘Er … okay.’
‘Good. Until six then. Bye.’
As she closed her phone, Rebecca stopped in the street and stared into space as her brain slowly caught up with Cash’s words. Part of her wished she had told him she was off work but another part realised his call was just what she needed.
Rebecca had spent all morning trying to make sense of Daniel Harper and his strange claims. Hours later, her mind was nowhere near a resolution and her thoughts were still going round in circles. Conflicting emotions tugged at her, feelings ebbed and flowed, but the wash of their currents only served to leave her more mixed up.
She could not deny there was something about the man. Under different circumstances he might well have attracted her interest. There was also a compelling tragedy to his story, a sense of loss that touched her heart. And it was a tragedy to which she apparently held the key.
But she was wary too. Whatever he hoped, there was no way Rebecca could just step out of one life and into some alternative world created by him. Whether deluded fantasy or inexplicable mystery, the facts as told by Daniel Harper refused to add up. She did not believe he was consciously trying to deceive her; there was something too genuine about his hurt for that to be believable. But, on the other hand, an innocent delusion could still prove dangerous. And beyond the improbable lay only the impossible: explanations that made even less sense.
Standing in the street, Rebecca shook her head. She had no idea what Cash wanted but the distraction was welcome. And the fact he d
id not want Claire Hamilton to know they were meeting suited Rebecca perfectly.
Now, as she glanced around Haworth Manor’s converted coach house, Rebecca became aware she was being watched. She lowered her eyes from the beams and glanced at Cash.
He chuckled. ‘And where were you?’
‘Sorry,’ said Rebecca. ‘I was miles away.’
Cash smile faded. ‘I could see that. I’m just a little worried.’
‘Huh? Why?’
The artist looked at her intently. He was silent a moment and Rebecca felt she was being weighed and measured. Finally, he shrugged. ‘I was very taken with you yesterday, Miss Shah,’ he said gravely.
She bit her lip, conscious of the change of address, instantly worried what it might mean.
Cash frowned. ‘As I told you, I know a few people who knew your uncle and it was easy enough to make a few calls and find out a little about you as well. I wasn’t interested in the kind of rubbish you might put on a CV. What I was interested in what kind of girl you really are, what makes you tick.’ He shrugged. ‘And what I heard matched my initial impression, which is why I asked you here this afternoon. But…’ Cash paused. ‘There’s something different about you today. You seemed hesitant when I spoke to you on the phone and all the time you’ve been here this afternoon I’ve sensed a kind of reserve about you. There’s a part of you that isn’t here today.’
Rebecca twisted uneasily on her chair. She opened her mouth but Cash held up a hand.
‘I’m bothered by it,’ he said. ‘If you’d been like this yesterday it probably wouldn’t have crossed my mind to offer you this job. But, although I’m a little worried, I’m not going to go back on my word. My instinct about you remains the same. But, before you say anything, I’d like you to do me one favour when you do answer.’