They knock for her early the next morning, and the car takes her through central London, crawling through snarls of traffic. Familiar buildings rise up and then dip away. A phrase from the memorandum floats into her mind. She knows that under its terms she is forbidden from ever returning to London, if she wants to keep her police protection. This might, then, be the last time these streets ever imprint themselves upon her eyes. The car is moving past Trafalgar Square, and she watches as the fountains spray clear jets of water against the greying sky and drain to the ground below, foaming and scattering in whirlpools. She has a moment of instinctive knowledge that this image will stay with her – that in years to come it will ambush her at odd times, a nervous twitch of the mind.
Out of London, the car gathers pace and speed, flying along the motorways so fast that the motion and the unchanging lines of road lull her to sleep for a short while. When she wakes, Deborah turns round and offers her a drink, lemonade from a plastic bottle. She drains it, the sharp citrus liquid fizzing stickily on her tongue. Staring out of the window, she watches the miles fall away. Roads narrow and traffic thickens. A strange fidgety excitement is plucking at her skin, a feeling she remembers from childhood when, on holiday, she glimpsed the first sight of the sea.
Deborah speaks with her eyes on the road, not turning round. ‘You’re clear on our itinerary for today, Rachel?’ she says. ‘The salon first, then the station, and then Tom will take you to the furnishings store to get stuff for the new house.’
The car is pulling up outside a small boxy building, unidentifiable as anything specific. The DC, Tom, speaks for the first time. ‘Doesn’t look like much, does it,’ he says, ‘but you’ll come out a new woman.’ He laughs, swinging the car into a space and screeching on the brakes. Deborah shoots him a sharp look, as if in reprimand.
‘Come on, Rachel,’ she says. ‘Let’s go in.’
Inside, the building is small and windowless, lit by artificial spotlights, the air circulating and re-circulating through the churning blades of fans. It does remind her, in a way, of a beauty salon. There is the water cooler in the corner, the mirrors lined up at intervals around the walls, the pile of magazines on a side table. The only difference is that she is the only customer. The chairs around her are empty, the radio in the corner silent.
The woman is brisk and efficient. Rachel wonders, vaguely, whether she herself is a policewoman, or simply some associate sworn to secrecy. She sits down in front of the nearest mirror and looks at her reflection.
‘We’ll dye first, and then give it a cut,’ the woman is saying, running her hands possessively through Rachel’s long blonde hair. ‘And then coloured lenses and glasses, right?’ She is speaking to Deborah, over Rachel’s head.
She is led to a basin. She leans back as the water surges to her hairline and hands begin to work there, rinsing and cleansing, squeezing and untangling. The dye is applied in stages, stiff sheets of silver foil bound all over the length of her head. She registers, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she does not know what colour it is, has not thought to ask, and now it seems too late. They offer her magazines, engage her in conversation as she waits, and she answers automatically, chatting about celebrities. When they lead her to the mirror again, she averts her gaze. She does not want to look yet, and when her eyes do slide for an instant towards her reflection, the queasy sense of unknowing that creeps over her at the sight of the woman with the long dark hair is enough to make her look quickly away.
The scissors are flashing around her face, the woman working fast and efficiently. Great swathes of hair falling on to her arms and lap, soft and sweeping, scattering like feathers. She feels a new lightness at the base of her neck, the whisper of cold air across her skin.
‘Tip your head back for me and try not to blink.’ The woman’s fingers are pressing at the corners of her eyelids. The sensation is strange, but not painful, the slightest sense of a cool wetness which evaporates into nothing within moments. Next, the sharp pain of tweezers at her eyebrows, teasing and plucking, dragging hairs out at the root. ‘There,’ she says. ‘Take a look.’
Rachel turns back to the mirror, and for a second, she simply stares. Looking back at her is a woman with dark hair cut into a sharp, neat bob, hanging above her shoulders. Her eyes are darker too. Tentatively, she puts a finger to her cheek. Incredibly, the new shaping of her eyebrows has changed the whole cast of her face, re-angling the structure of her bones. She takes the glasses the woman is handing her, and puts them on, but there is no change in her vision. Clear glass, she thinks. The glasses give her an air of alertness; they make her raise her chin and square her shoulders. She has the strangest sense that this woman both is and is not herself. Something is stirring inside her: the knowledge that this process is going further and cutting deeper than she imagined. This change is more than exterior – she can feel it spreading under the skin, uncomfortably mingling with everything she has always known. She is neither one person nor the other. She is weightless, no more than a concept. She does not know, yet, who she will turn out to be.
Five days later, they drive her to the house for the first time, down a long, straight street dotted with spindly trees just coming into bursts of white blossom. The houses are tall, terraced, with dark red brickwork and white-framed windows. A young couple are wandering down the street, pushing a buggy; she hears the thin, querulous squall of the baby winding through the air. The car pulls up outside number 58, and slowly she gets out, looking up at the house.
‘Welcome home,’ says the young DC with the chubby cheeks and the cherubic smile. His name is Drew, and he will be her primary point of contact. Deborah has dropped out of her life as quickly as she came, silently, and with no formal goodbye.
Inside, the living room is decked out with the items she chose in the furniture warehouse: the tall lamp balanced in the corner of the room, the squat burgundy sofa. For a moment, she has a strange impulse to laugh. It is as if she is playing house, the way she and Sadie used to do as children – dragging things into their Wendy house and looking round proudly at what they had created. Back then, that was the end of the game. She remembers sitting in the little tented house and feeling at a loss. She feels the same sensation now – the same sense of having got to the end of a road.
‘The bedroom’s upstairs,’ says Drew. ‘Or up the stair, I should say.’ She realizes, after a few seconds’ delay, that he was making a joke; one large, wide step leads them to the bedroom door. She looks around at the bed pushed snugly into the corner crevice, the red and brown sheets she chose draped over its surface, and the terracotta curtains, neatly tied back to frame the window. Drew sees her looking and touches her briefly on the arm. ‘Everything all right?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it’s fine, it’s … great.’ She has no idea what she is expected to say.
‘Great,’ repeats Drew briskly. ‘I’ll get back to the station, then. You know where your panic buttons are, and you’ve got the new phone, right? Any time you’re concerned, you call.’ As he reaches the front door he hesitates and stops. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to,’ he says. His face is kindly and understanding. ‘But you’ll get there.’
She nods and waves him off, closing the door quietly behind him, and stands in the sudden silence. She thinks, my new home. The words have an unreal ring. Uncertainly, she edges back into the kitchen, and fills the kettle with water. She stands listening to the flat, shrill whine as the water boils. Very faintly she can hear the sound of someone strumming a guitar overhead.
It hits her then – the irrevocability of what has happened, and the absolute finality of the door that has closed behind her. She stares at the pretty little orange tiles that frame the kitchen worktops, and feels blind panic, desperate and childlike. Sharply, she breathes in. The kettle has boiled, but she does not move towards it. She cannot imagine sitting here and drinking a cup of tea. The thought is as strange as if she has broken in with the intention of burgling the place, and has dec
ided instead to take a nap and tuck herself up in her victim’s bed.
Abruptly, she turns and walks fast to the front door, grabbing her keys and slamming it shut behind her. Almost breaking into a run, she heads towards the centre of town, going on instinct. It is late afternoon, and the lights are starting to switch on in pubs and bars. She enters one at random. Music is spilling out from speakers and the bar is half full, scattered with laughing strangers. She looks from one face to the next, as if expecting to find one she recognizes. But there is no one.
Slowly, she walks over and orders a vodka and cranberry juice. She sips it. She can see herself reflected in the mirror behind the bar. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale-pink glossed mouth. The sight is still a novelty. The strange thought comes into her mind that she might be dead – that she has been given the freedom, in an afterlife, to roam these streets unseen.
A man is hovering at her elbow, smiling slyly at her. ‘What’s your name, love?’ he says.
She turns to face him, smiling back. For the first time, she says out loud the new name they have given her. She hears how its syllables fall neatly, the new rhythmic cadence of her identity. For a moment, she half expects him to contradict her, expose her, but of course he’s just nodding and accepting, passing on without comment. And as simply as that, it’s done. Rachel Castelle ceases to exist.
Part Five
* * *
Alex
September 2017
THE NEXT DAY I go to the supermarket to buy some treats for Jade that I can take in next time I go. She must be getting cabin fever in the hospital. The last time I spoke to Doctor Rai, he told me that she might be discharged in a matter of days, but I haven’t told her that yet. Part of me worries that she won’t think it’s entirely good news, and although I barely want to admit it, I’m not relishing the prospect myself. She deserves to come back to a safe haven, but how can I give her that, with no liveable home and the constant background of a threat that I don’t even know how to measure?
At least Natalie has agreed to go to the police at last. We’re going to call in at the station tomorrow, once I’ve had a chance to warn Jade that questioning may be coming her way and given her time to get used to the idea. We’ll speak to them about the man in the house and the possibility that he may be someone who wants to do us harm. I can’t say I’m expecting miracles from them; ever since I had that barbed conversation with the policeman outside the house who spoke to me about the burn pattern, I’ve heard nothing except for a terse confirmation that their investigation is ongoing. Reading between the lines, it’s obvious that we’re not their top priority. Still, the information that we’ve got for them should galvanize them – although it’s frustrating not to be able to tell them more. I promised Natalie last night that I wouldn’t make her go into detail about her own past, unless she has to.
Clearly, she doesn’t trust the police. It’s understandable, I suppose – from what she’s told me, she all but sleepwalked into witness protection, placing her trust in the hands of others, and relinquishing that kind of control can be frightening. Not as frightening as your wife and daughter being caught in a house fire and hospitalized, though, I can’t help thinking. Not quite as frightening as that.
I browse the confectionery aisle, thinking about Natalie and the intentness of her expression as she talked, the movements of her fingers as she traced invisible patterns in the air. The unwavering steadiness of her eyes, the perfect oval of her cheeks and the sad, resigned lines of her mouth. It was so dark by the time we finished talking that I could barely make these things out, and this darkness seemed somehow part of her – a side I hadn’t seen before but which I know now is there, a long-suppressed weight with its own gravitational power. I had asked her if she regretted what she had done, and she had blinked once, considering. No. I’d do the same again. You have to do what you feel is right. For some reason I hadn’t expected this certainty, but there were no cracks in this conviction, no room for doubt to seep through, and I found myself with nothing left to say.
I pay for the groceries, then go outside and perch on the wall, taking a picture of the bags of fizzy sweets and marshmallows that I’ve bought to indulge Jade’s sweet tooth. I write, Incoming delivery!! Next time I come x – and send the message along with the photo. Within moments, she’s texted back, also with an accompanying picture. It’s a selfie – her thumb up, eyes widened crazily in only-half-joking glee. I smile; she’s still very pale, the skin almost translucent, but I can see something of her old energy returning. As I gaze at the picture, I notice a new bunch of gaudily coloured flowers behind her on the table. She hasn’t mentioned any other visitors, but maybe one of her schoolfriends dropped in. I text back: Nice flowers. Who are they from?
There’s a brief hiatus, and then the reply appears. Don’t be mad, but they’re from Jaxon …!!! He sent them this morning. It’s clear that she knows I won’t be happy, but can’t resist letting some of her excitement slip.
I frown down at the phone, my fingers moving quickly. What? The boy you were messaging? You told me you would slow things down.
Can’t help it if he wants to send me flowerrrrrs … she replies smartly.
I know, but all the same. You’ve got to realize, Jade, he could be anyone.
I’m uncomfortably aware of the hypocrisy in what I’m saying. I can’t help thinking of secretroom, and my interactions with Cali. Distasteful though the thought is, she too could be anyone: a precocious schoolgirl, a fat fifty-year-old trucker. But of course there’s a world of difference between fantasy and reality, and for Jade this definitely seems to be moving into the latter.
There is a longer pause this time, and then her message pops up. Dad you don’t understand. He’s not some weirdo off the Internet. I HAVE met him. Wanted to tell you yesterday but thought you might be even more mad. But maybe not …
Wrong-footed, I hesitate a moment, and then I simply hit 1 on my speed dial and call her. This isn’t a conversation for text.
She answers guardedly. ‘Ye-es …’
‘Hi, Jade.’ I try and soften my voice, but I can’t help a slight brusqueness creeping in. ‘Now, what’s all this about? You’ve met this boy? How? When?’
Jade sighs down the line, making it buzz. ‘You remember a few weeks ago when the dishwasher broke? And we called someone out to fix it? Well, I came home from school and he was still there. We, um, got talking, I guess. And before he left, he kind of asked for my number.’
With difficulty, I do recall the dishwasher breaking down, and my asking Natalie to look up a local tradesman and call them out. ‘Did Natalie know about this?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Jade admits grudgingly. ‘She was out of the room when he asked me. I mean, he’s not going to do it in front of her, is he. Imagine if I said no.’
‘How old is this boy?’ I ask. ‘I mean, to come out on his own on a job like that, he’d have to be …’
‘Seventeen,’ Jade supplies. ‘He’s on an apprenticeship.’ She sounds inexplicably proud, as if being on a learning curve to fix other people’s broken-down white goods is some kind of badge of honour, but I bite back the social snobbery, which after all isn’t the point.
‘That’s three years older than you,’ I point out. ‘It might not sound like much, but at your age, it’s a lot … There are things he might be into, or might want, which you, well …’
‘Dad,’ says Jade, embarrassment creeping into her tone. ‘Look, he’s, um, respectful, all right? I told him my age and he was happy to just message for a while, get to know each other, before meeting up. So that’s what we’ve been doing. Honestly, it’s no big deal. Sophie’s had a boyfriend for four months, I’ve mentioned him to you loads of times, and you don’t care about that.’
‘Well, it isn’t my job to care about that,’ I respond automatically, but nonetheless something in her words has struck home. ‘Look, I’ll be in to see you a bit later,’ I say to buy myself time. ‘We can talk more then.’
‘OK,’ Jad
e says meekly. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ I say, and then I hang up. Does the fact that Jade has met this boy make it better, or worse? I’m not sure. And is she right in what she’s intimating, that under more normal circumstances I wouldn’t be so up in arms over it? It’s true that she’s spoken to me about friends’ boyfriends lately, more than once, and I’ve thought little of it. I remember myself at fourteen – a typical teenager, all mouth and no trousers, embarking on romances that were ultimately pretty tame, no matter what I liked to tell my friends. Jade is growing up, and this is a natural part of that.
The more I consider it, the more I can’t help suspecting that my judgement is off at the moment. It’s hardly surprising if I’m paranoid, but the hardest thing is that I have no idea just how much is paranoia. I have no way of judging the real level of any threat to us. I can feel frustration rising in me, tightening my throat. This isn’t sustainable – I can’t carry on in this limbo, walking in the dark, waiting for something to happen because I know so little about what’s going on around me. I think again about talking to the police; perhaps it will help, but I still can’t muster up much faith in their ability or willingness to act fast.
I can’t stop thinking about the man in the house. I don’t know his name, but I do have one other fact at my fingertips: the location of the club. From what I’ve read online, it sounds as if it’s changed both hands and image since those days, but nonetheless, it’s possible that there may still be people around the area who remember Kaspar and his associates.
I look up Blackout again and find that it’s a bar as well as a club, and that it’s open from five p.m. I could go up there this afternoon, see what I can find. I might not have got far with Kaspar himself, but if I can track down this guy and talk to him man to man, convince him that Natalie and I just want to live our lives without trouble, then maybe it could help. Whatever’s going on here, it’s been sparked by ancient history, a pointless exercise in raking over old ground. This might be about revenge, but I’m willing to bet that like most crimes, it’s just as much about boredom, frustration, lack of choices. I can’t help thinking that there must be some way it can be resolved.
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