The Darkening Hour

by Penny Hancock

  One message.

  From Sayed. It’s in Arabic.

  We have news! An address for Ali in London. It’s a residential address, not a holding centre, and it’s not far from here. This is nothing to do with that crook Hamid. I found it for you. Come to the shop and I’ll give you directions. I won’t charge you much!

  My heart is a heavy drumbeat against my chest. The date on the message shows it’s been here for two days! Two days when I could have gone to him, got away! But there’s no point in thinking of what might have been.

  I look about me. I have nothing. I’ve sent the last of my money to Ummu, saving just twenty pounds for the week, which is in my bag in Charles’s flat.

  I remember I still have the locket that Max was going to give to Dora; it’s in my pocket, my only safe hiding-place. I may not have documents, but with money, with enough money, you can get most things.

  Perhaps I should forget my bag. Just walk down the stairs now, go straight to Sayed’s shop. Hand him the locket, demand to have Ali’s address – even ask him to take me there.

  Yes, that’s what I must do.

  I start down the stairs.

  As I reach the landing outside Leo’s room – what Dora fondly calls the piano nobile – I stop. Dora’s downstairs. I daren’t face her again. The door – the front door onto the world – is not an option for me anymore. I’m not free to walk through it without her permission while Dora is there.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Mona’s words play through my head. Daddy’s too unreliable, surely, to be used as any kind of witness? But I can’t tolerate the smug way Mona thinks she’s won something over me.

  I’m startled out of my reverie by a thump on the floor. Daddy’s banging with the broom handle on his ceiling, and I can hear his voice floating up through the dumbwaiter shaft.

  ‘Mona! Come on, Mona! I want you.’

  I go to the foot of the stairs and shout up, ‘Mona, it’s time to go back down to Daddy! You can finish the rooms later when you’ve done the dishes.’

  As long as I have Mona, if this thing erupts, I have the perfect story. That my maid, in her desperation to get a better life, made a pass at my rich American lover. She’s done it before at Madame’s. And, when my lover refused her, in her panic that he would tell, she killed him then drove his body to the river . . . The baby monitor may still have her fingerprints on it. The overall will have her DNA on it – after all, she had been wearing it all day. Yes, that version of events sounds credible.

  Then other thoughts start up.

  That Max did love me, after all, that he was preparing to come and live with me. I stand up, run my hands through my hair, go to the mirror and look at myself. Put my hand on my necklace, telling the world who I am. It’s all right. I am Theodora Gentleman. No one will ever suspect me.

  It’s several minutes before I realise Daddy is banging on the ceiling again.

  I go to the bottom of the stairs again, shout up. Still no response. I grow impatient.

  I take the stairs, calling Mona to me. She doesn’t respond.

  I feel that tingle suddenly, the one I felt when I realised she was using my bathroom without my permission.

  Is she snooping about my room? Silently rifling through my documents? Is she looking for her passport, planning to run away again? The tingle intensifies. Is she about to side-step me again, just when I need her most, for my programme and, if the worst comes to the worst, for the police if they come?

  Panic mounts as I reach the top of the first flight.

  I check Leo’s room. His computer’s on, its screensaver dancing across the screen, but nothing else moves.

  I climb the next flight. She is, perhaps, in the bathroom preparing it for me the way I like. Candles, incense.

  No one there.

  Up the third flight, blood banging in my ears now.

  At last I push open my bedroom door.

  It’s empty.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  I take the pole, the one Leo used the day we got the decora -tions down. Unhook the trapdoor. Thankfully, from all the physical labour I do every day, my arms are strong. The ladder slides down easily.

  Dora will lie to save her reputation. I’ve seen her do it, she is capable of saying and doing anything to save herself. She will weave a story and the police will come after me.

  Then I’ll never see Leila or Ummu or Ali again.

  I climb up the steps and into the warm quiet dark of the attic.

  It’s more complicated shutting the attic door than it is opening it. And Dora’s calling, ‘Mona, Mona, I need you. Come now!’

  I pull at the ladder, but it’s heavy, and awkward to move it from this angle. If she finds me up here, I daren’t imagine what she’ll do to me.

  At last I manage to drag the weight of the ladder up, until it clanks down onto the floor and the trapdoor bangs shut, enclosing me in darkness. I sit and wait for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

  I feel for a moment as if the darkness is soft, a protective layer that holds me safe for a while, and I breathe deeply.

  Then there’s the thump of footsteps on the stairs, and I know I must keep moving.

  ‘Mona. Mona – come at once!’

  I move across the rough wood beams on the floor, groping, splintering my hands and grazing my shin. At last I reach the far wall where I can feel the tiny doorway into the next-door attic, the one Leo showed me the day we found the Christmas decorations.

  I push it. It seemed to open with ease for Leo, but for me it won’t budge.

  I feel in my pocket. Check I still have it. Max’s gift to Theodora tucked up against me. I was going to give it to her, but it’s too late now. It’s all I have.

  Then I hear more footsteps – Dora making her way upstairs. How long before she works out where I’ve gone?

  I push at the little door again but still it won’t open.

  I take a deep breath. Lean back, press my feet against it and give an almighty push.

  The next bit is easy.

  There is no partition between Desiree’s attic and the one belonging to the children who play with stones out on the street, and the next door swings back.

  I must now have entered the large house with the women’s heads on the porticoes. This is the biggest attic so far, with a window in the roof looking out onto the sky.

  Moonlight spills in and falls upon broken piano keys, an old round table turned on its side, a rocking horse and a doll’s house. The toys make me think of Leila and my head begins to spin at the danger I’m in. How if I mess this up, I’ll lose her forever.

  There doesn’t seem to be a door in the next wall. I feel for a crack, a gap in the panelling. Nothing. My heart begins to race. Am I going to have to give up, after all?

  I can see the trapdoor down to the house below, go over to it, put my ear to the floor. There’s music playing, the faint murmur of voices. Then another sound startles me – the harsh whoop of a police siren. Has Dora decided to tell them? Have they come for me already?

  I go back to the wall, press my hands on it, and eventually find one panel that is more loosely fitted than the others. With a few shakes I manage to get it out and I crawl through into a space as dark and stifling as the previous one was light and airy. I replace the loose panel. Feel again for the locket, my passport to freedom if there is to be one.

  I think how for the months I’ve lived here, I have been invisible to people outside. But now there’s a body, a crime, it won’t be long until everyone is interested. I hug myself. Now they are looking, now they care, it’s too late. If things go to plan, by the time they come I will have melted away completely.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  I check my study, the wash room. Mona’s not there. Daddy’s thumping now and shouting. He’s not going to give up until someone goes.

  ‘Mona!’ I run up the stairs again.

  I can’t cope with Daddy without her.

  Daddy thumps hard again. There’s no ch
oice, I’ll have to go down and quieten him.

  I go out into the cold night and round the back.

  I shudder as I pass Mummy’s head, feel her watching me as I descend the steps.

  Daddy’s in his sitting room in his pyjamas. The broom in one hand, banging on the ceiling.

  ‘It’s OK, Daddy, you can stop that now. I’m here.’

  ‘I want Mona.’

  ‘Daddy, you’re going to have to come up to the house. I can’t stay down here with you and I’m not sure where Mona is.’

  I fetch a dressing-gown for him, and his slippers, and help him put them on.

  He hangs onto my arm and slowly we make our way up the steps. He stops after a few steps.

  ‘I need my handkerchief.’ He starts to turn. He wants to go back to the flat to fetch it. If it takes him as long to go back as it’s taken to get here, we’ll be here all night.

  ‘I’ve got tissues in the house, Daddy. Keep moving.’

  ‘I need the handkerchief. I’m not using paper things. I’ll have the embroidered one Maudy did for me.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to let me get it. It’ll take you forever.’

  I leave him hanging onto the railing on the steps. It takes me ages to find the hankie he wants.

  When I get back to him, he takes it, starts to slowly wipe his nose. He’s shaking from the icy-cold night air. I grow impatient, want to shout at him, ‘Move faster, Daddy, I haven’t got all day!’ I want to pick him up and carry him if it means we’ll get there quicker. Instead we have to move laboriously, stopping every other step for him to gather his wits or regain his balance. I had no idea what hard work it was, these days, taking Daddy out. Imagine if I had tried to get him to concerts and the things Anita and Simon are constantly advising but failing to help with themselves.

  It takes forever to struggle with him round to the front, along the pavement, up the steps.

  At last I manage to get him into the house and install him in the drawing room in front of the TV.

  I realise with repulsion that he’s wet himself. His pyjama bottoms are sodden. I need Mona! Do I dry him first? Bathe him? Pull off his soiled trousers, or find him some dry ones before I do anything? I run back down to his flat, fetch a towel and some thermal underwear. By the time I’ve sorted him out, I feel exhausted.

  I look at him half-asleep, oblivious to the world and everything that’s happening to me.

  Daddy then opens his eyes and demands to see Mona.

  ‘I’m trying to find her, Daddy! I’m doing all I can.’

  At last Leo comes in. ‘Mum, I think Grandpa’s really unwell. I reckon he needs a doctor. His colour, it’s not good. He looks jaundiced.’

  I’m wondering where Leo has heard the word jaundiced before. He’s never revealed any medical expertise in the past. He’s right though. Daddy’s skin is an odd dark yellow colour and he’s barely able to open his eyes; his breath coming in short gasps.

  How can he do this to me now? With the picture in the newspaper taunting me. Now that they’ve found Max’s body! And with Mona goodness knows where.

  ‘You’ll have to shift off the sofa,’ I say to Leo. ‘Help me make up a bed for Daddy. He isn’t well enough to move again.’

  Together we fetch pillows, a duvet, a hot-water bottle and his medication and try to make Daddy comfortable.

  ‘Where is Mona?’ Leo asks. ‘Has she gone?’

  I look up sharply.

  ‘What do you mean? Why would she be gone?’

  He shrugs. ‘She just seemed a bit edgy, a bit homesick, since I brought her the babouches.’

  ‘She can’t be gone,’ I say without thinking. ‘I’ve got her passport and documents in my bag. She wouldn’t dare leave without them.’

  Leo stares at me.

  ‘You what? You took her passport?’

  ‘It’s normal,’ I say. ‘Anyway, there’s no time to discuss Mona now. We need to sort out your grandfather.’

  ‘Look, Mum,’ says Leo with uncharacteristic grace, ‘Grandpa needs you. I’ll look for Mona. You stay in the drawing room with him in case he gets worse.’

  ‘Where will you look?’

  ‘She must have gone to the High Street. I must have missed her. Perhaps she got chatting with someone. Something must have delayed her.’

  I say nothing, but am quietly appreciative as he goes upstairs for his hoodie and some duty-free cigarettes, and then yells, ‘See you later!’ as he slams out of the front door.

  He’s doing something to help, at last.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  I don’t know which attic is the last. They seem to be eternal, one opening after another. I see these attics as representations of my life, how each stage has felt dark, then revealed a way out to me, led me into a new space, from which I’ve then had to escape. How I have to keep on moving: one more and I’ll be a step closer to Ali.

  The one I find myself in now is cramped and dark and smells of rotting things. The trapdoor in the ceiling hangs half-open; the ladder down.

  I crawl across to it. Lights are on in the house below. I put my ear to the opening.

  I can hear voices.

  Relief washes over me.

  Sayed, Johnny.

  Hearing the voices of people who have tried to help me, even if it was at a cost, is such a relief I almost weep.

  I climb down the rickety ladder into the house. The carpets here are damp. There’s a fetid stench of stale smoke, and mould. There doesn’t seem to be anybody about, but I slip quietly down the stairs, the pulse in my throat banging.

  I’m in a narrow hallway, mirroring Dora’s own, but even less well-kept than hers was when I arrived. It’s badly painted and the carpet underfoot is in shreds, scattered with debris – as if it’s never been cleaned. Along the passage, through a chink in the doorway, I see Sayed, sitting at a kitchen table rolling a cigarette or a joint.

  He looks up, alarmed, as I walk in.

  ‘Sayed, I need your help.’

  ‘You! How did you get in here?’

  ‘Through the attics.’

  The two men laugh, looking at each other in surprise.

  ‘Why didn’t you come down the street like a normal person?’

  ‘It’s not funny. I had to get away – I am in danger. I had to leave the house without being seen. I don’t know how long I’ve got.’

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you to come to the shop, haven’t we, Johnny? You never met Hamid, but it’s probably for the best. He was into something dodgy.’

  ‘You said you had an address, for Ali?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got an address. But you never came by, so we couldn’t tell you. We know where he’s living, but there’s a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Tell me!’ They glance at each other. ‘If it’s money, if that’s what you need to give me the information, look, you can have this.’ I hold out the locket reluctantly – once I’ve let it go, I have nothing left but hope.

  They exchange another glance. Johnny takes the locket. Examines it.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ he says. ‘This is worth mad skrilla, man.’

  ‘Can you get me to his address – please – without anyone seeing?’

  ‘Calm down. Yes, we’ve got the address, but . . .’

  ‘You can have the locket, Sayed, but only if you take me to him.’

  I feel a surge of excitement tighten my stomach muscles. Once I’ve found Ali, I won’t need documents or passports. I am his wife.

  I can take his name, share his documents.

  My goal is within reach. I close my eyes and pray.

  Sayed drives his scooter through the night like a djinn.

  I cling to him, my head clamped against the leather of his jacket. We zip between cars and buses. We dip beneath railway bridges and zoom over tube tracks. We veer left and right, tipping this way and that so at times I feel we’re going to turn right over and I’ll fly across the road under the great tyres of a truck. But I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid of anything, becaus
e I’m about to see Ali.

  Sooner than I imagined, Sayed pulls up in front of the gateway to an estate of flats. He looks round at me, speaks through his helmet.

  ‘Paradise Street. You sure you want to go alone?’

  I nod, climb off. ‘You go, Sayed, but thank you. Barak Allah feek. May God bless you.’

  He shrugs, revs his engine. And then he’s off, and I’m alone. I wonder how I look. I must be dishevelled, windswept, and my clothes are the ones I work in – tracksuit bottoms, a fleece, old trainers. The hideous spare overall.

  But Ali has seen me looking exhausted after Leila’s birth, he’s seen me with my hands in dishwater, he knew me as a child, he loves me for who I am. I do not need to paint myself for him.

  I walk through the gate.

  The estate is a square of reddish-brick blocks around a central yard. Here, behind wire-mesh fences, teenagers rollerblade under spotlights, over black tarmac and up steel ramps covered in graffiti. A group of little kids squat in a group on the only scrubby patch of green outside, staring at a mini-beast of some sort, a worm or a snail. Unused to wildlife, amazed by the movement of such a tiny thing, they are poking it with sticks, seeing if they can make it move, make something come out of it, or make it go back inside.

  There are several entrances with the flat numbers displayed. I find numbers 150-250 and climb the concrete stairwell. It smells of stale urine and things cooking. Number 204 is on the second floor, along a shadowy walkway past front doors. Each door is different. Some have windchimes or fancy door numbers screwed on. Others are unadorned, tatty, the paint peeling. Tricycles lie on their sides, next to airers for washing, empty bottles and piles of newspapers. Muted voices float out from the open windows: a child crying, a man shouting, a radio blaring out an Adele song. More cooking smells – spices, curries, chips. Down below, the whoop of a car alarm, the screech of a siren. And further off, other sounds of the city – the rumble of traffic up on the main road, the rattle of trains, the drone of aeroplanes.

  I remember my first sighting of this city, how massive it looked from above, how vast as we drove through it when I arrived. I’ve only occupied a tiny section of it. Beyond, lie endless hubs and centres and seething crowds, the palaces and shops and parks and monuments I imagined, and have told Leila about, hoping to show her one day, but in all my time here have never yet seen.