‘Nah,’ Harry said, smiling. ‘You get home. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘See you,’ Corinne replied, heading to her car. ‘Hey, Harry?’ When he turned, she smiled. ‘You did good. I’m proud of you.’
The sound of builders on the footpath outside his window roused Harry from a deep sleep the following morning. It was nearly eleven, he noted without concern, rolling over in bed, reaching for his phone and logging onto the newspaper’s homepage. Already there were two missed calls from the office. They would have just come out of conference and would be scoping out ideas for follow-ups to keep the momentum over the course of the week. But come on, he had already filed enough copy to last them another two days, he had earnt a late start at least.
Taking a moment, he stayed in bed, pulling a cigarette from the packet on the floor and scrolling through his story online, noting the numbers of comments and shares that had already amassed since the piece went live just a few hours earlier. Closing his eyes, he held himself there for a moment, letting the peace wash over him. Jesus, after how much he’d risked to get that scoop, he could at least afford himself a couple of minutes’ grace, in his own bed, at last.
He felt himself physically lift. After six months of constant guardedness, at last he could breathe. It was over. He had done it. It had been hairy for a minute but it was done, and now he was free. It had been worth it, of course, but it took its toll. These things always did.
When he finished his cigarette, extinguishing it in the dregs of last night’s glass, Harry stood and stretched out his arms. Ducking through the bedroom door into the boat’s main living area, he filled the kettle and leaned back against the countertop, flicking to his email and ignoring the usual pile-up of unsolicited PR bollocks that had landed overnight. At the top, there were two new messages. One from Corinne and one from Eddy. Both with words to the same effect: Get into the office. Now.
Harry worked hard to ignore the feeling that something was very wrong as he pulled on his jeans and a clean shirt, trying to dismiss the nagging doubt. There was no reason to panic, he told himself – not yet. His editors would just be stressed, as ever, from managing their overburdened staff, rather than anything more sinister. It was fine, Harry repeated to himself as he showered quickly and dressed. He grabbed his bag then stepped off the stern and onto the towpath by Millfields Park. Everything was just fine. He just had to keep his cool.
Within moments of approaching Eddy’s office, less than an hour later, it was apparent that things were far from fine.
‘Hey, Harry.’ The faintest flinch in the corner of Khadija’s left eye as he passed her gave her away.
‘Take a seat.’
Eddy was standing in front of his desk, flicking through a copy of the morning’s paper, making a show of it with his fingers. Harry had no need to look; he already knew the headline shouting back at him from the front page by heart, having bought a copy of the paper on his way in, stopping at the newsagent’s under the footbridge next to South Quay station while the train trundled on above his head, putting off whatever was coming as long as he could.
Exclusive: Leading Charity in Cahoots With Arms Dealer.
Harry stood where he was, waiting for Eddy’s opening shot.
‘We had a call this morning, from a Mr and Mrs Conway.’
These were not the words he was expecting, and Harry shifted onto the other foot. Maybe it was going to be OK after all.
Rubbing at his temples with his thumb and forefinger, he tried to think, but he was too strung out. None of this was making any sense.
‘I’m too tired for games, Eddy, please just spit it out.’
‘OK,’ Monkton said, scratching his nose with his middle finger. ‘You want me to spell it out for you, I will: you’re a nonce.’
He didn’t raise his voice but his words cut through the air as though the volume had suddenly been turned up on an old pair of speakers. Harry felt his whole body grow rigid, every part of him so tightly held that he felt if he moved he might snap.
‘What?’
Harry turned to look at Corinne, to make sense of what he’d just heard, expecting to find her expression incredulous, willing her to turn to him and throw her hands up at the ludicrousness of Eddy’s suggestion, of how clearly he had this wrong.
But as he looked he saw her wince, her arms wrapped defensively around her body, her eyes refusing to meet his. Through the cheap glass wall behind him, he felt the journalists scattered across the newsroom drawing nearer, aware of the heat emanating from the editor’s office.
Harry’s mind struggled to focus, to process the words.
‘What the hell are you …’ But even as his thoughts spiralled, freefalling in front of him, one of them caught and it was as though it had hooked into his skin.
‘Jesus.’
He spoke under his breath, closing his eyes as if to block out the flashes of freckled skin, the whiteness of her eyes, her face tipped back in a smile. The tears the night she came to his room to find him there with his bags packed.
Naomi.
Monkton charged on. ‘I tell you what’s going to happen. For some reason that is completely beyond me, the parents have agreed with Naomi – that’s her name, isn’t it? The fifteen-year-old you were fucking while on payroll? It’s important to get the details right, as I’m sure you’ll understand … Well, her parents have agreed – presumably under some duress from their traumatised teenage daughter – not to report this to the police, or even to the PCC. On the condition that you are sacked and that you disappear quietly …’
Harry shook his head, too shocked to keep his counsel.
‘Naomi? She told me she was twenty …’
‘I haven’t finished,’ Monkton continued, savouring the moment. ‘They won’t press charges on the condition that you are sacked and that you don’t write for another paper again. Maybe they want to spare their daughter the ordeal of having to relive it all, or maybe they’ve read about prosecution rates for rape cases, although one like this – statutory rape – I would have thought that would be more cut-and-dried. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Eddy, I didn’t know … I asked her. She told me she was twenty—’ Harry’s voice grew hostile.
He carried on as though Harry hadn’t spoken. ‘An eye for eye, and all that—’
‘This is absurd.’
‘You know why I never liked you, Harry?’ Eddy’s voice was pensive as if he was processing something for the first time and Harry looked away.
‘Me neither,’ he continued, coming to terms with something strange but inevitable. ‘I just didn’t. I never trusted you. You were too perfect, I suppose. Too charming. Too handsome. Too fucking smooth for words. I always knew you were rotten, I just didn’t know how. And now I see it. But, I have to say, I didn’t see this one coming.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a fucking disgrace.’
‘Eddy,’ Harry said, raising his voice. ‘I didn’t know.’
But it was too late. It was over. And it had only just begun.
When he thought about it later, Harry understood how different things might have been if he had just kept walking when he left the office that day. If he had simply followed the footpath back to the station and away from there. But he hadn’t.
He couldn’t be sure how long he walked that afternoon, zigzagging from pub to pub. By the time he reached the bar near Canary Wharf, the sky was a dusky grey. Weaving through clots of smokers gathered around outside heaters, Harry moved inside and waited to catch the barman’s eye before ordering himself a pint, paying with a handful of cash.
Without waiting for his change, he moved through the bar and out into an otherwise empty garden, away from the hordes of office workers and the low roar of the speakers.
It was dark by now and Harry focused on the soft glow of the fairy lights hanging limply between a couple of barren pot plants; anchoring his thoughts as his mind spun.
There was a shriek of laughter followed by a flurry of voices as the doo
r from the pub swung open, but Harry was so immersed in his own thoughts that he barely noticed the figures fingering unlit cigarettes as they moved outside. It wasn’t until one of them stood and walked towards him that he gave them a second thought. When he looked up, the young woman was just a couple of feet away, pushing strands of auburn hair away from her face.
‘You got a lighter?’ Her Newcastle accent was at odds with those of the friends behind her, a man and a woman both in their early twenties, lurking like members of the chorus in a Greek tragedy.
‘Hold on, you’re Harry Dwyer,’ she said suddenly, her face glinting with recognition. ‘I read your story today – we’re interning at your paper, Anna and me.’ She gestured towards her friend as if this was a great coincidence, a real hoot.
He looked back at her, too drained and too drunk to respond properly.
‘I’m Meg.’ She took another step towards him. His eyes automatically moved over the black tights beneath a tight black mini-skirt and DM boots.
‘Come and sit with us?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m good, I’m going soon.’
‘Don’t be like that …’ She persevered and even though he wanted to be alone, he felt himself standing. He knew girls like this; there would be no getting rid of her without a fight.
‘This is Anna and this is David.’ Harry nodded.
Someone asked if he wanted a drink and he found himself nodding again. It was such a long way home, and he was not yet ready to face the night bus, the next chapter looming precariously in front of him. At home, he would have to think, to try to work out what this all meant. He wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
One more drink, he told himself. Just one more.
* * *
Harry woke to the steady churn of the cement mixers, which seemed to have been turning solidly on the building site along the towpath for the past few days. Casting his eyes over the remnants of a kebab stagnating on the table beside an empty bottle of Bells, he pulled open the fridge and closed it again, leaning back against the kitchen counter with a sigh, rubbing the hollows of his eyes with his fingertips.
The boat that had been parked on the opposite bank had moved overnight and through his window he had a clear view of the marshes; dogs of varying shapes and sizes scuttling at the heels of a lone walker, beyond them the grasses moving gently in the morning breeze.
Turning back into the room, he caught sight of his rucksack slung in the corner and he pictured Naomi, her fingers clasped tightly around the straps, attempting to pull him back. He heard himself trying to placate her: It’s over, I’m sorry. I have to leave. I’m sorry. And he was. But not as sorry as he would be.
Folding his hand into a fist, he cracked his head back against the wooden wall between the window panes, the pain throbbing at his skull bringing temporary release.
The boat was so small, it was closing in on him. He needed air.
It wasn’t sunny as he stepped outside into the daylight, but the glare of the sky was harsh, making him wish he owned a pair of sunglasses as he moved along the towpath towards the hill. The nearest shop was only a short walk away and he picked up a pint of milk, coffee and bread from two sparsely stocked aisles, pointing out a bottle of Bells to the man behind the counter. Once he had what he needed, he walked towards the canal, breathing deeply, focusing on the oxygen moving in and out of his lungs, reminding himself that he could do this. He had to do it – there was simply too much at stake not to.
A wave of too-loud reggae and stale beer spilled out from the bar as he stepped inside the Hope & Anchor, ordering a pint and taking it back out to one of the damp picnic benches that lined the canal. He spent a moment watching the rowers, their movements strong and purposeful in contrast to the meandering progress of the coots and the ducks, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cigarettes. Shit, no lighter.
For a moment his mind faltered. He had barely left the boat in the past couple of days, where he had been lighting up from the hob, but he could have sworn he had a lighter in his jacket pocket. The image came to him of the girl outside the pub a few nights earlier. She must have pocketed it, or maybe he had left it there on the table, having walked off without looking back after a couple of drinks in the company of her and her friends, tuning out of their conversation as his mind went still with drink.
Right now, drink was what he needed; that blissful oblivion.
It wasn’t that he was worried, as such, he told himself as his attention turned back to the present. Worry was a futile emotion; its only power was to hold you back. If he had to name the feeling that followed him as he stood later that afternoon, swaying slightly from the final pint, stumbling towards the poorly lit foot tunnel that led back towards the boat, the echoes of his own movements eclipsed by the sudden rumbling of a train above, the name he would be forced to give would be fear. Fear was different to worry. Fear released adrenaline and adrenaline propelled you forward; in a fight or flight situation, fear could save your life.
It was completely dark when he woke on the sofa a few hours later, the sound of knocking at the canal-boat door so faint at first that he wondered if he had imagined it. Perhaps it was just the purr of the wind brushing through the branches of the trees that lined the water. But the boat was motionless, Harry realised as he stood, glancing at his phone.
It was only 21.09. He was still fully clothed. He had a memory of working his way through the whisky, on this sofa, as the afternoon sun gave way to the moon, bright and lonely against a still East London sky.
All the lights were still on, so there was no way to pretend he wasn’t there.
The sound of knocking came again a moment later, too particular this time to be mistaken for the scuffle of the rats who built their nests on the banks here, between the twists of roots that clung to the earth. It was too quietly purposeful to belong to another boater asking to borrow a spare part.
Whoever it was who had come for him could have easily gone unnoticed as they moved towards the canal, passing by a couple of old workers’ cottages, and beyond those, up and away from the water, housing estates that lined the vertiginous residential streets towards the main road at Stamford Hill.
In a flash of memory, Harry pictured the night he had cracked the story on the charity’s corrupt elements, plying one of the employees with enough booze to loosen his tongue, shifting himself in his chair so that the angle of the button-hole camera in his shirt was pointed at his face while he implicated himself and several other members.
It wasn’t like Harry to concern himself with potential reprisals. Exposing corruption, and all that came with it, had its pitfalls – that was his job, it was what he was good at, and if he let himself dwell on the possibility that those he exposed might come seeking revenge, he might have lost his nerve altogether. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t be worried at all. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be people who wanted him punished. Never more so than now. In this moment there were very good reasons for Harry to fear for his life.
Moving through the boat, the adrenaline finally kicked in, and with it the kind of clarity – even through the cloud of whisky and beer – that made his skin bristle.
Yet perhaps there really was no one outside. His mind flickered between two conflicting states, faltering as it moved from catatonia to wakefulness, because suddenly it was so quiet again out there that he could believe it really was just his brain playing tricks on him. Then there it was again: not a knock this time, catching his attention above the crackle of wood from the wood-burning stove. This time it was movement rather than sound that he sensed on the footpath. The rest of his body completely still, he felt his eyes drawn to the small curtain above the sink opposite the sofa, understanding at once that there was someone approaching the stern. The same person, or was there more than one?
Slowly moving towards the kitchen area, he pulled open the top drawer quietly so as not to give himself away, slowly drawing out a knife. As he turned back towards the front doo
r, his senses on high alert, he finally heard a voice.
‘Harry? I know you’re in there. For God’s sake, man, let me in.’
Aware of a hand slapping against the door, he moved quickly towards it, the blade held out at his side.
‘What do you want?’ His voice was a hiss.
‘Harry?’
There was a pause, and then the man spoke again, and at once Harry knew whose voice it was, and he felt his body sag with relief. Reaching for the wall with one hand to right himself, he felt the other hand loosening around the handle of his weapon.
‘Nigel …’ Harry hissed as he pulled open the door, his voice shaking with the instant shift from relief to fury. ‘You scared me half to bloody death.’
Nigel stood in front of him, his angular features half in shadow. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
Harry
Harry took the overground from Clapton train station the next day, changing at Liverpool Street and standing with his back to the wall on the tube, out of habit, as the Central line shuttled him into Tottenham Court Road. The sun was bright and the chill of the crisp morning air revived him as he walked, admiring the details of the buildings that stretched across a blue sky, making his way towards the address Nigel had given him the night before.
Harry’s interest had immediately been aroused as he sat listening to Nigel, the boat rocking steadily beneath them.
‘From what we know of Clive Witherall, he started the business as a legitimate commodity trading firm back in the Eighties. Over the years the company has grown to incorporate everything from the trading of oil, metals and minerals to asset management, through a subsidiary company.’
Nigel had topped up their glasses, then continued.
‘But it seems that with expansion has come, shall we say, diversification … Our client, the one who is paying us to look into all this, has reason to believe that TradeSmart is embroiled in a number of trading activities which don’t feature under its official FTSE 100 listing.’
The Second Woman Page 10