Subway 4

by Violet Hunter

  Several bunches of flowers were tied to a lamp post, others placed neatly on the ground. There were little notes attached. I’d brought a bunch of dark purple daisies that I set down on the grass. I shut my eyes and spoke a prayer.

  As we stood there two young women wearing hijabs approached. They were carrying a small bunch of flowers each. They seemed hesitant; one of them looked at me and gave a small smile. They put the flowers on the grass and stood with bent heads. Nobody spoke.

  * * *

  I couldn’t make decisions, even simple things like what to wear or what to eat. Friends called to talk about Anton but none of them knew the truth about our relationship. The only person I wanted to see was Renee.

  One day I went to the supermarket, the first time I’d been to a crowded place since the murder. I kept thinking people were looking at me. When I got to the till I fumbled for my purse and dropped it on the floor, I picked it up but when I took out my card couldn’t remember my pin number.

  The woman cashier said, “Are you alright, dear? You look a bit funny.”

  I thought she was suspicious of me but then I saw the concern on her face. Tears flowed down my cheeks and I tried to find a tissue.

  “It’s alright, take your time, you look like you’ve had a shock.”

  I managed to speak, “Sorry, I’ll be alright in a minute.”

  Someone behind me sighed and the cashier said sharply, “We’re going as fast as we can, thank you for being patient.”

  * * *

  There was no word about when the funeral would be. I really wanted to talk to Anton’s dad to see how he was and to tell him how important Anton was to me. I knew that his mum had died a few years ago and that his dad lived alone. One day we’d walked past the house and Anton had pointed it out, I remembered the white door with a red tulip in the glass above.

  The house was in Honor Oak, one of several post-war houses built in the middle of a Victorian terrace, a reminder of bombs. I rang the bell and waited. The house looked closed up, the downstairs curtains were drawn even though it was the middle of the afternoon. I was about to turn away when I heard the sound of the lock.

  The door opened about a foot and he peered around.

  “Hello Mr Thomas, I’m Valerie, a friend of Anton’s. We met once at the showcase, do you remember?”

  He passed his hand across his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I remember.”

  “Sorry if I’m disturbing you. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  It seemed ages before he said, “Come in.”

  He walked down the hall ahead of me. I noticed that he had a slight limp and remembered Anton telling me about a hip operation. The living room was dark. He pulled the curtains apart and grey light filtered in. It was sparsely furnished; a maroon sofa, a table with two chairs and in the corner a small television. He stood by the table and didn’t suggest that we sat down. I looked around, trying to imagine Anton as a child there, then turned to face him.

  He bore a resemblance to Anton, his face was thinner and the hair mostly grey, but he had the same nose and mouth. His eyes were rimmed with red as if he’d been crying or maybe it was because he hadn’t slept. Seeing him made it more real.

  “I’m so sorry about Anton,” I said, trying not to cry. He looked at me and away again, as if he couldn’t bear to see anyone else’s grief.

  He picked up a framed photograph from the table and studied it as if he’d never seen it before.

  “This is Anton when he was nine. Soon after it was taken he had a bicycle accident. It was before everyone started wearing helmets. He was unconscious for about an hour. The doctors thought he might have a brain injury. I remember Rose and me sitting at either side of his hospital bed. She was praying for him. He came back to us that time.”

  He shut his eyes for a moment as if hoping it would happen again. When he opened them he said, “I am glad Rose isn’t alive to know this.”

  “It must be terrible to lose a child,” I said.

  He didn’t answer and I wondered whether I’d said the wrong thing.

  After another moment he said, “Anton said there was someone new, he didn’t tell me much about his personal life so I thought it must mean something.”

  “We were friends at college, we only started going out a few weeks ago, after he split up with Leila.”

  He looked at me as if taking me in for the first time.

  “He had everything to look forward to: acting, a family, a long time of happiness.”

  He sighed deeply and put the photo down.

  I wondered whether I should ask about the investigation. As if he knew what I was thinking he said, “The police are keeping an open mind about the murder. They’re looking at several theories, including that it might have been a racist attack. They have learned something perhaps.”

  I knew he was talking about Stephen Lawrence and the huge fight that his parents had to get his murder properly investigated. It had happened when I was four. I heard about it from my mum and dad and I took in that a young man was killed for no other reason than he looked like me. His name became as familiar as if he’d been part of my own family.

  “There is a liaison officer who’s keeping me informed. She said as soon as there’s more information she’ll let me know.”

  I wanted the person caught but I didn’t think I could bear to see their face, know that that human being was capable of such cruelty.

  We were silent for a moment then I said, “He was a wonderful actor. He made you feel things.”

  He nodded. “Rose encouraged him to sing from when he was little. She knew songs from many musicals. He soon picked them up and started singing them on his own. I didn’t think it was a good idea at first; I was worried about money and him not being able to support a family. David was never interested in art, he liked to analyse things instead, he used to turn his toys upside down and shake them until all the insides fell out. I am frightened about his future now.”

  He looked even more fragile and put his hand on the back of the chair in order to steady himself. I would have liked to have given him a hug and told him it would be alright but I didn’t know if it would.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I said. I wanted to stay longer, just to listen to his voice, which had the same tone as Anton’s, with the sound of the Caribbean. It was the first time I’d felt anything other than very lonely since I’d heard the news. If things had been different, I would have become a part of this family.

  “Thank you but David is coming tomorrow to help me. Please come to the funeral.”

  The thought of it was terrible but I said yes.

  * * *

  When I came out of the house it was almost dark. Overhead the clouds were huge, black and moving fast. A gust of wind hit me, nearly pushing me into the road. I was passing a row of shops when a young woman came out of a bar. Her coat caught my eye, black with white polka dots, tightly belted. She turned to wave at someone, then walked to the bus stop and stood in the shelter in front of an illuminated panel. A gust of wind caught her scarf and it lifted and billowed out. I noticed the colours and stopped – breath catching in my throat.

  She was looking at her phone and didn’t notice me staring. I moved closer. The scarf was just like the one I’d given Anton, pink and orange with the same swirling pattern. I couldn’t believe she had one too. When I bought it they told me that every scarf the artist made was unique.

  I had an urge to reach forward and touch it, see if it was silk, but just then a bus drew up, people surged towards the door and she disappeared amongst them. Hesitating, I wondered whether to follow. After a moment she appeared on the top deck near the front. I tried to catch her eye but she was looking straight ahead. The bus started to pull away. I watched it go, trying to make sense of what I’d seen.

/>   Since the murder I’d noticed I couldn’t always trust my mind. Twice I thought I’d seen Anton; once in a crowded shop and then on the other side of the street but when I’d looked again they were nothing like him. I could have been wrong about the scarf. The light at the bus stop had a yellowish tinge and might have altered the colours.

  It started to rain hard. I began to walk, the wind pushing me forwards. Brake lights were reflected in the wet pavement. Glowing red spots interspersed with wide circles of the streetlamps. When I got home I took off my jacket, turned on the heating and pulled a chair close to the radiator, waiting for it to warm up. Most of the heat went straight into the roof. It was too hot in summer and too cold in winter.

  I thought about the girl. She looked a bit younger than me. She was white, with long black hair, small and slim. Perhaps she too had gone to the shop in Oxford. Or perhaps she had a boyfriend who saw the scarf and thought it would go well with her polka-dot coat. The shop assistant could have been wrong about it being a one-off. Perhaps I was going mad. I’d heard that grief could make you like that.

  I wanted to tell someone. I thought about Matthew but didn’t think he’d understand the significance of it so I called Renee.

  “Are you OK?” she said.

  “I think I saw someone wearing Anton’s scarf.”

  “What scarf?”

  “I gave him one as a present, it was really beautiful. I saw a woman wearing it.”

  “She must have bought one the same.”

  “It was a one-off.”

  “They might have said that in the shop to make you buy it.”

  I didn’t answer and after a few seconds she said, “I know it’s really hard dealing with this Valerie. I miss Anton too but it must be much worse for you.”

  “I’m not imagining it, Renee.”

  There was a pause then she said, “Who was it?”

  I told her about what I’d seen.

  “I wish I’d followed her now but I was so shocked I couldn’t think. Anton told me he loved the scarf and wore it all the time, now he’s been killed.”

  “Oh no. That’s horrible then. How come she had it?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” I said.

  13

  JIMMY

  I’d heard about mothers shopping their sons so I needed to keep Mum sweet. I told her I was sorry for pushing her but that I had a lot on my mind then I cleaned the living room and did all the washing-up.

  Chris and me met up again and agreed on a text code to say whether there were cops sniffing about. ‘Millwall’ meant all clear, ‘Watford’ meant danger.

  The next thing to do was get in touch with Alan about an alibi but before I could do that Shelley called. She said she had something to show me and to meet her in a bar later. I asked what was going on but she said it was a surprise. When I got there I ordered a lager for myself and a white wine for her. I was halfway down the bottle when I saw her coming through the door. She looked gorgeous. A few blokes turned to stare as she walked past. She came up to kiss me but I was focussed on what she had on round her neck. She saw my expression and stopped still.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Where did you get that?” I hissed, eyes on the scarf.

  She put her hand up to touch it.

  “This? I found it in your pocket. Nice, isn’t it?”

  She was acting nonchalant.

  “What were you doing going through my pockets?”

  “Looking for your cigarettes.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “I thought I might start,” she said, casually, pulling out the chair and sitting opposite.

  “Take it off,” I said, keeping my voice low. I didn’t want anyone starting to pay attention.

  “Why? Does it belong to your other girlfriend, the one you’ve been spending so much time with?”

  “That’s stupid, Shelley, I haven’t got anyone else.” If only it was as simple as that.

  “Don’t call me that.” Her face changed from innocent to angry. “This is a woman’s scarf, how come you’ve got it?”

  I needed her to take it off.

  “If you must know I got it for you then I changed my mind. I didn’t think it would suit you. I was right, it doesn’t.”

  She looked at me suspiciously.

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t belong to another woman.” That much at least was true.

  “The thing is, I don’t believe you Jimmy. It doesn’t look new, someone’s worn it. And anyway you’ve changed recently. You used to pay me loads of attention, now you just want to go drinking. You say you’re with your mates but how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  Her voice was getting louder and people were turning to look.

  “Give me the scarf, Shelley.”

  It must have sounded worse than what I meant. She pushed her chair back and stood up.

  “If you threaten me I’m going,” she said.

  I caught her arm. “We can sort this out, it’s not what you think.”

  She wrenched her arm away. “Piss off Jimmy.”

  At the next table a man stood up, looking like he was about to come over.

  She started heading for the door.

  “Fuck,” I muttered. I grabbed my jacket and followed her. The man sat back down again as if relieved he didn’t have to do anything.

  She was walking fast up the road. I ran after her.

  “Leave me alone,” she said and began walking even quicker. I caught her arm and pushed her against a wall. I grabbed the end of the scarf. She tried to stop me but I unwound it with one quick movement and whipped it away.

  She screamed, “I hate you Jimmy,” and started crying. It had gone too far for me to feel sorry for her.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Shelley.”

  Shoving the scarf in my pocket I walked away, cursing because I knew I’d been a fucking idiot. I should have got rid of it straight away. Now she knew about it. She didn’t understand what it was and I couldn’t tell her. It was a mess and a dangerous one.

  I headed to the industrial estate in Rotherhithe, passing the skip lorries waiting to dump their waste and turned into a street of old warehouses which were waiting to be pulled down. They’d been waiting for years. No one lived round there. Most of the buildings were boarded up but I knew my way into one of them. Despite the gaps in the roof some parts of the concrete floor were dry. I pulled the scarf out and dropped it on the ground, got out my lighter, squatted down and held the flame at the edge. It took a few seconds to catch. The fabric seemed to melt and then dissolve as the flames edged along it. Suddenly it flared up, the ends curled and disintegrated. Standing up I kicked away the pile of grey black ash.

  There was a sound on the corrugated roof like falling stones. I watched through the gap as the rain came down. Every now and then a gust of wind blew water inside. I backed further in and lit a fag, waiting for it to stop. After a while I realised I was starving and starting to freeze so I headed out into the rain.

  14

  VALERIE

  The news said that the police were questioning a suspect. For hours I kept checking the website to see if they’d charged anyone but there was no more news. I wished I could talk to someone who knew more than me but I didn’t want to bother Mr Thomas. Next day the police let the person go.

  I was back working at the cafe. I was lucky that they kept my job open for me but I missed being at the theatre, with the other actors, suspended in a make-believe world. The real world seemed bleak, with no future.

  The picture of the woman at the bus stop kept returning to my mind. I could see the polka-dot coat and the scarf blowing in the wind. What if my intuition was right and she was connected to the murder? I wished I’d gra
bbed the opportunity and followed, it was probably the only chance I’d get to talk to her. I thought about going to the police but they’d probably see me as just another grieving person clutching at straws – they might be kind but they’d send me away as soon as they could.

  For nights on end I tossed and turned, trying to figure out what to do, then at last I decided to go and look for the scarf and the girl. Not because I thought I’d find her, but I knew that doing nothing was driving me crazy.

  When I saw her she’d been coming out of a wine bar at about 6 p.m. If that was where she worked she might always use the same bus stop so I decided to start there. After work I made my way to Dulwich and stood in the shelter. I waited for what seemed like ages. People came and went. I looked at the advert for so long I could have drawn the model’s face in precise detail. She didn’t come.

  Maybe she only worked there on a Friday, which was when I’d seen her. On the Friday afterwards I swopped my shift at work so I could arrive earlier. There were around fifteen people waiting but she wasn’t one of them. Four buses pulled up at the same time and when they moved off I was the only person left. I was about to give up when I saw her, heading towards me, spotted coat swinging out. I watched, not taking my eyes off her.

  As she got closer I saw her coat was open at the neck and, with a shock, that her throat was white and exposed. I thought she might not appear, but not that she’d be without the scarf. I didn’t know what to do. It seemed weird to ask about something she wasn’t wearing but if I didn’t I knew I’d be left wondering again and probably still think I was losing my mind.

  I went over to where she was standing. “Hi, can I ask you something?”

  She looked up from her mobile, surprised.

  “What?”

  “I noticed you here last week and you were wearing a really nice scarf.”

  The effect was dramatic. Her mouth dropped open, she turned red then pale. She put her hand up to her neck.