The Dangerous Kind

by Deborah O'Connor

  Giles stiffened. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

  Jessamine pretended not to have heard, and as they approached the studio in question she slowed her pace and peered through the glass, hoping to see something new that would help her understand its significance. A sign on the door said it was out of use until further notice, but two people were inside, a man and a woman. The woman was sitting awkwardly behind the microphone, the man leaning over her shoulder, pointing to various parts of the desk. He seemed to be giving her a demonstration of sorts. A lesson. The woman fumbled with a dial and the man placed his hand around her wrist to guide her. Jessamine came to a stop. They both had their backs to the door but there was something familiar about the man’s build, the length and heft of his legs.

  Sensing he was being watched, the man turned around. He locked eyes with Jessamine, then took a step back, away from the young woman, as if caught red-handed.

  Mick.

  Next to him was Camilla Medwynter, her replacement.

  A knock and she turned to see Jitesh in the studio next door, waving at her from the other side of the glass. He poked his head into the corridor.

  ‘H-h-how did it g-go?’

  Jessamine shrugged. ‘As expected.’

  Giles from HR coughed. ‘When you’re quite ready.’

  Ignoring him, Jessamine looked beyond Jitesh to a man wrestling with a spill of wires coming out of a wall. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Things keep going wrong with this r-r-r-row.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘We’ve isolated it to these th-three studios.’ He motioned to the one he was in and the two that flanked it. ‘Malcolm thinks there must be something p-putting stress on the electrics. He th-thinks he’s found a mass in the services duct. Something big. Maybe a mouse nest.’

  Jessamine compared Cassie’s diagram to the layout, a thought forming. ‘Show me.’

  ‘The duct runs the entire length of this s-side of the building.’ He indicated a waist-height point on the wall behind him. ‘It comes to a s-s-stop around there.’ He pointed at the bust.

  ‘I think you cleared your desk on the day of your suspension,’ said Giles, trying to get her moving. ‘If you left anything behind, or if we find something hidden away that belongs to you, we’ll make sure to send it on.’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I said if you’ve left something behind . . .’

  But she was no longer listening, her focus now on the section of wall behind the bust of Lord Reith.

  ‘Maybe that’s it,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘Jessamine,’ said Giles from HR, ‘it’s time to leave.’

  She slammed her hand against the glass making Mick jump. ‘Only one way to find out.’ Leaving Mick where he was for a moment, she marched into Jitesh’s studio and, ignoring Malcolm’s open-mouthed stare, started picking up different tools from the floor and weighing them in her hand. Settling on a claw hammer and a large wrench she came back out to the corridor and turned to the other studio with Mick and the woman inside.

  ‘Jessamine,’ said Faye, ‘I know you’re feeling angry right now and that those feelings may extend to your old work colleagues but, as your union rep, I strongly advise you not to go in there. The terms of your severance package—’

  But it was too late.

  Jessamine pushed on the glass door and went in. Mick’s face was now white.

  ‘I’m calling security,’ said Giles, already holding the phone to his ear.

  As Jessamine approached, the wrench now held aloft, Mick took another step away from Camilla, and held up his hands, as though in surrender.

  ‘Jessamine!’ shouted Faye. But Jessamine paid no attention: she was too set on the task in hand.

  Rowena

  I follow them down the corridor and into the lift. We make our way to the underground car park and the celebrity leads me to an emerald car.

  ‘Aston Martin,’ he says, stroking the bonnet. ‘I call her the Green Goddess. She’s my pride and joy.’

  He opens the passenger door and I climb in. I’ve never been inside a car like this before. The seats are soft cream leather, the dashboard polished wood and chrome.

  I put on my seatbelt. Through the back window I can see his brother, busy heaving the suitcase into the boot.

  All done, he squeezes into the back seat while the celebrity takes his place behind the wheel. Before he pulls away he reaches across and places his hand on my knee. He is wearing a gold watch and the metal is cold on my thigh.

  ‘You got any brothers or sisters?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Count yourself lucky.’ He locks eyes with his brother in the rear-view mirror. Shakes his head. ‘They can be a right royal pain in the arse.’

  I try to smile but my head is aching. I want water and paracetamol and something to settle the churning in my gut.

  He guides the car out onto the street and soon we are driving through London. We cross a bridge, its sides picked out in lights. In the distance I can see the bulge of St Paul’s and the London Eye, its disc bright against the night sky.

  ‘I need to make a couple of stops,’ says the celebrity. ‘Won’t take long. Then we’ll have some fun.’

  I feel vodka and bile rise up in my throat and have to work hard not to be sick all over the cream leather.

  On the other side of the bridge he pulls up at traffic lights and the brother hops out. He rolls down the window.

  ‘So you’ll sort it?’ asks the brother, his palm against the car roof.

  ‘Don’t I always?’ says the celebrity, already pressing the button to close the window.

  The lights turn green and we pull away. I turn and watch his brother slide out of view. I realise he has left his suitcase in the boot.

  We drive on through the centre of town and soon we’re on Regent Street. We cross Oxford Circus and the celebrity pulls into a small side road, outside a building covered with scaffolding. On the pavement next to us is a large sign that reads ‘No Parking Any Time: Tow Away Zone’ and a CCTV symbol.

  ‘Know where we are?’ He nods at the building.

  I shake my head.

  ‘That trailer. The one with the sofa. We’re sat in the same spot where it used to be.’ He clocks the no-parking sign, rolls his eyes. ‘I helped make this place what it is today and how do they repay me? By replacing me with a younger model.’ He mutters to himself, ‘No bloody respect.’ He turns to me. ‘Know what you do when someone doesn’t show you respect?’ I shake my head. ‘You take it back. You remind yourself who’s boss.’

  He undoes his seatbelt. ‘I need to drop something off.’ He laughs bitterly. ‘A gift of sorts. You wait here and make sure to take care of the Green Goddess while I’m gone.’ He wags his finger in my face. ‘Or else!’ I can’t tell if he’s joking. He gets out, goes round to the boot and lifts the suitcase onto the pavement. Then he wheels it over to the entrance, pushes on the doors and disappears inside.

  Alone in the car I think of the headed notepaper, still blank in my pocket, my chance to leave a letter for Millie now long gone, along with Leo, back to Oxford. I try to work out what do next. It’s nearly three in the morning and I’m stranded in the centre of London without any cash and a tiny amount of credit on my phone. I could call Queenie and ask her to direct me to where she lives in Brixton. Or I could wait here for the celebrity to return.

  Two knocks on the glass. I jump, and as I lift myself from the seat I feel how the backs of my legs have stuck to the leather. I look out to see a traffic warden peering in. He mimes rolling down the window. I do as he asks.

  ‘You can’t park here.’ He points at the sign. ‘Any car that does is liable to be clamped or towed.’ He nods at a truck on the other side of the road, its engine running, the men in the cab waiting to pounce.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone. He won’t be long.’

  If the celebrity returns to discover his pride and joy has been towed he’ll be
furious.

  ‘Tough,’ says the traffic warden, already filling in a form. ‘You’re in the middle of a fire route.’

  I look to the brown doors, hoping to see the celebrity returning.

  ‘Please,’ I say, remembering the flash of anger in his voice at the party. I don’t want to know how it feels to have that anger directed at me. ‘He’s famous.’

  The traffic warden stops writing, holds his pen in the air.

  ‘Let me go and get him.’ I undo my seatbelt. ‘Two minutes.’

  ‘One minute,’ he says, returning the pad and pen to his front pocket. ‘If you’re not back after that, I don’t care if this thing belongs to Frank bloody Sinatra.’

  I leap out of the car and run over to the entrance. The doors are heavy, the glass patterned with metal. I push my way inside and find myself in a large reception area, apparently untouched by the building work going on around it. The floor is made out of tiny polished tiles, the reception desk flanked by marble pillars. At the top of each pillar and edged around the ceiling there are boxy black and white lights. There are two security guards. They look at me from behind the desk with suspicion. I approach them with a smile. Mention the celebrity by name. Tell them about the traffic warden.

  ‘Can you get him?’

  They share a look. Smirk.

  ‘The old dog.’

  They laugh.

  ‘Didn’t think he still had it in him.’

  They talk as though I cannot hear them, as though I am a creature behind glass at the zoo. I start to worry that they’re not going to help but then one presses a buzzer and the barrier opens.

  ‘Get him yourself. Second floor.’

  Inside the lift there is plaster dust on the floor. The numbers 3, 4 and 5 on the control panel are covered with cardboard and tape. I hit 2 and soon I’m stepping out into a wide corridor. On one side is a series of doors that lead off into small rooms. On the other there is a mess of open space, beams and exposed wires. The space is divided by wooden frames, yet to be covered with plasterboard, the skeletons of future rooms.

  I start to panic. Time is ticking by and this place is huge. I don’t know where to begin. The whole floor seems deserted. Then I hear him at the other end of the corridor. He is whistling.

  I follow the sound down the corridor and around a corner. The whistling is getting louder.

  Then I see him.

  I’m about to call out when I stop. He is on the building-site side of the corridor. This section is more complete than the other bits I passed. Some of its walls are already in place. Bunches of electrical wiring spew out of feet-, waist- and shoulder-height holes and I can see a large metal duct disappearing and reappearing behind the section of wall that faces out onto the street. A bronze head on a plinth, covered with protective plastic, is the only other thing of note.

  The celebrity is on his knees, busy with something in the cavity between the metal duct and the wall. The suitcase is open on the floor nearby, its lid in the air.

  A grunt, and he emerges from the hole and goes over to the suitcase. He bends down, as though to pick something up. As he stands up to his full height I see he’s carrying a large object. At first I think it’s a duvet, rolled like a sleeping bag, and I wonder why he has gone to such effort to bring something like that all the way up here. Then I see them. Two small feet poking out of the bottom end. The feet are wearing navy sandals, the strap across the front decorated with three racing cars: one red, one yellow, one green.

  Billy.

  I blink and blink again. Trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  The celebrity fumbles with him for a second and the top of the duvet falls away, revealing Billy’s top half. His arms are at his sides, his face grey. His head lolls back and I see a thick red band around his neck. At first I think it’s a ribbon and then I realise: it’s his skin.

  He is dead.

  Who did this? The celebrity? The brother? Both of them?

  Frightened he might catch me, I take a step back and continue to watch him from behind a corner on the other side of the corridor.

  He covers Billy with the duvet and carries him over to the duct. After lifting a thick bunch of wires out of the way, he slides Billy and the duvet inside. Then he starts fixing the walls back into place.

  A rumble. He looks up and there it is again. A low, deep sound that seems to surround us. The whip and snap of the tarpaulin that covers the scaffolding outside.

  He continues to shove the duvet and Billy forward, deeper into the duct.

  I wonder what will happen when Billy is not returned to his children’s home tonight. How long it will take them to raise the alarm? But then I remember everything Queenie said about Billy and us and all the other kids that come to the parties. They choose us because they know we have no one to kick up a fuss on our behalf. They know that we don’t matter.

  I look around, trying to get my bearings. Standing here now, I’m powerless. But later I can go for help. I can kick up a fuss on Billy’s behalf. And when I do I’ll need to be sure about where I tell them to look. This place is so big and the building site has left everything so messed up. I need a map.

  Keeping one eye on the celebrity, I feel in my pocket for the notepaper and pen I’d planned to use for Millie’s letter, flatten it on the wall and then, as best I can, I sketch the rough layout of this section of the building. Taking care to mark how the rooms are divided, the position of the various doorways and the position of the plastic-covered bronze head in relation to everything else, I mark the wall behind which the celebrity is, right at this moment, hiding Billy’s body.

  X marks the spot.

  He wedges a piece of metal across the hole he has just emerged from, stands up and slaps the dust off his hands. Then he zips up the suitcase and, after pausing to stick out his tongue and flick Vs at the bronze head, he continues out into the corridor. He is headed right for me.

  I shove the map into my pocket and do the only thing I can think of. I take off at pace, making sure to deliberately crash into him, as though I’ve only just arrived.

  ‘The Goddess,’ I say, my voice shaky. ‘They’re going to clamp her.’

  He is startled but he soon recovers.

  ‘Good girl.’ His face softens. ‘Coming to get me.’ He guides me back towards the lift, pulling the now empty suitcase behind him.

  I’m terrified but I try my hardest to act normally. The last thing I want is for him to twig.

  In the lobby he strides across the tiled floor, whistling under his breath.

  We’re almost at the door when one of the security guards calls, ‘You there. Stop.’

  The celebrity freezes. A flicker of worry. He looks through the doors, to where the warden is waiting by the Aston Martin. I think he’s going to ignore them but then he fixes his smile and turns. ‘Gentlemen.’ He nods politely.

  I look at the expression on the faces of both security guards and feel a wave of relief. Somehow they know what he’s done, they’ve seen Billy on their CCTV, and now they’re going to confront him. Maybe they’ve already called the police to come and arrest him. I tune into the noise of the passing traffic outside, straining for the wail of approaching sirens.

  ‘Before you go,’ says the guard, coming round from the back of the desk. He seems nervous. I understand. He’s about to accuse the celebrity, a powerful public figure, a legend no less, of a serious crime. But then, blushing, he holds out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

  I’ve felt queasy with booze all night and all night I’ve managed to keep it down. Not any more. Bracing my hands against my knees, I throw up, all over the tile floor. Booze and bile. Some of it spatters the celebrity’s linen trousers. Once my stomach is empty I continue to retch. It’s as though my body wants to turn itself inside out, as though it wants to help me become something else entirely. It’s a few minutes before I can pull myself back up to standing. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, my cheeks wet with tears and sweat. Underfoot
I feel a rumble. The first Tube of the day. On its way through the tunnels, somewhere far from here.

  Jessamine

  Jessamine barrelled towards Mick and Camilla, and as she got to within striking distance of his head there was a collective intake of breath from Giles, Faye and Jitesh, but then she carried on past him to the bust of Lord Reith. There she stopped and, side-stepping behind the plinth, she pulled out her phone and brought up Cassie’s diagram.

  ‘The services duct runs behind the wall here, right?’

  Jitesh nodded.

  Jessamine looked from the phone to the picture, the picture to the phone, comparing the drawing against her current location. Once she was sure, she placed her ear close to the wall, and began to knock. She soon homed in on a spot around hip level and then, using all her might, she lifted the wrench into the air and smashed it hard against the plaster-board. She peered in close, examining her handiwork. Her first effort had left nothing more than large dent. She tutted. Swinging her arm back she smashed the wrench into the wall but this time she didn’t stop to check on her progress. Hitting the wall over and over again, she kept at it until finally a small hole started to appear.

  By now Mick and Camilla had retreated to the corridor where they joined Faye, Giles, a bewildered Jitesh and Malcolm.

  ‘Keep going and this will become a matter for the police,’ shouted Giles over the banging.

  But Jessamine was undeterred. Once she had created a largish hole she switched to the claw hammer, using its curved end to pull at a corner of the plasterboard. Before long she’d exposed the wall cavity behind. She pulled the board free, heaved it off and threw it to the floor. The end section of a large metal services duct was now exposed.

  ‘J-Jessamine,’ said Jitesh, approaching her gently. ‘W-w-what are you doing?’

  She stopped to wipe the sweat from her forehead. ‘We know Cassie sketched this place for some reason, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That it was important to her.’