Attend

by West Camel

  But when she had let Sam in, with his tight but relaxed clothes and his polite hello, a whole other story had seemed to unravel and she was lost again. What she was sure of was that Bob and the rest of them had it all wrong. They thought this beautiful blond boy was a rival for their jobs, for Mel and Derek’s trust. They were even a little scared of him – his manners, his flick of blond hair, his clever eyes. They thought he might have a gun in his pocket, or a wad of red fifty-pound notes. In another situation, they would have had him on the floor, taking their kicks and punches. But they had hesitated, held back by their lack of information, their imaginations trying to fill the gaps.

  She gave the basketball court, the car park and the little green beside the block another scan. Nothing. She made her way down the stairs and across the estate, homewards.

  At the reception a warm boyishness had shone through Derek’s troubled face; she remembered noting how different it made him from Mel now, when years ago people had mistaken them for brothers. And perhaps because she had not seen him in such a long time, perhaps because once, briefly, she had wanted to be the reason for that warmth, a glimpse of a thought told her that this man Sam – a boy, really – was the reason for the change. That would be a shock for Mel if it were true. She gave a snort of grim laughter, thinking again of Mel’s big bum stuck in a window frame, Derek trying to push it through.

  But where did that leave her? She didn’t even know if the house Mel and Derek had broken into was the same one that Deborah had lived in; the one where Nigel had lived when she sold him hash. The one where there was a tunnel.

  She stopped walking for a second. When had she accepted that Deborah’s stories were true? She’d been sceptical about them, hadn’t she? They were the odd fantasies of an odd woman. But perhaps at least the tunnel part was real.

  She started moving again. But with each block she passed, each corner she turned, she realised she was not going home; she was going back to Deborah’s. Whatever fantasies Deborah had, whatever elaborate tales she told, she still lived and breathed. Perhaps Anne could glean some scrap from her.

  Sam saw Anne ahead of him as she was passing under the railway in Church Street. He frowned; it couldn’t be her. But as he turned under the viaduct himself he saw her waiting at the crossing; it was definitely Anne. He must have got himself more lost than he realised and she had overtaken him. He slowed so that he remained in the shadow of the arch. If she turned her head through a very small angle, she would see him. But the lights changed and she started to cross. He was safe. He watched her disappear into the red-brick estate on the other side of the road. Perhaps it was where she lived.

  He crossed the road himself and took the footpath between the railway and the estate, taking big strides to make up for lost time. By the time he reached the mural on Creekside, he was almost running. He skipped into the mouth of the alley, then paused for a moment, preparing for answers.

  As Anne walked through her courtyard, she nodded a hello to the Nigerian woman on the ground floor who was sitting on her front step. Her daughter – Anne thought it must be the youngest one – was clattering round the yard on a pink plastic tricycle.

  When she had arrived at Rita’s earlier, she had stepped in to give Julie a hug, not really sure how close their bodies should be. But Julie had slid away, dropping onto the sofa. There was no mending. It hadn’t even hurt. Anne had reached down and cupped Tom’s soft head instead. He looked up and bounced some noises off her.

  ‘He’s trying to tell me something, isn’t he?’ Anne said.

  ‘Yeah. He’s getting chatty.’ Julie smiled briefly, keeping her eyes on her baby.

  Anne had sat in the armchair and watched Tom too. He sat upright in the middle of the swirl of petals and leaves on the carpet, turning his head from her to Julie and then back again. They had both grinned at his questioning looks. But, no, there was no mending.

  Now she glanced up at the empty windows of her flat, wanting to go home and sit still, quiet and warm. But there was too much to know. She had handed Nigel to Mel on a plate, and now she had to find out what Mel had done to him – for Julie’s sake, apart from anything else. She put her hand up to pull at the end of a lock of already twisted hair, but stopped herself. Sam knew something about Nigel. And he knew something about the house in Albury Street too. No one else had seen it – but then why would they? The only reason she had was because … Her confusion made a knot in her throat.

  She came out the other side of the courtyard just in time to see a figure entering the alley. She stopped in the middle of the empty road. It was early evening now; the kids who usually kicked a football against the mural would be sitting in front of the TV eating their teas. The figure had been tall with blond hair and a blue jacket. It couldn’t be Sam; it was probably just that she had been thinking about him. But now that someone else was in the alley, how could she go down there and get to Deborah’s? She turned back towards her courtyard; she could wait to see Deborah later, perhaps.

  And then, almost without a thought, like diving into cold water, she spun around, crossed the road and walked past the alley entrance, her head turned to catch as great a view as she could.

  There he was, halfway down, just before the kink. It was Sam. She stopped, and stared as he went out of sight around the bend.

  It was like she was about to turn over a piece of Deborah’s tapestry having been gazing at the back, full of knots and dog-legged stitches. The front would be neat and clear. She ducked into the alley and hurried down to the bend.

  As he reached the creek wall, Sam heard someone behind him. He turned, expecting to see Deborah’s squat, grey figure. Instead he saw a tall, slender woman. Anne.

  She stopped a few feet away and they stared at each other for a moment. He saw her hand rise towards her hair. He remained poised to climb over the wall, his hand on the parapet, his body leaning over, but his head twisted back. For a sliver of a second he thought she had followed him; that Bob and his crew had sent her. But she had been ahead of him. And anyway, why would they send her? He swivelled around, as if to hide what he had been doing; pointlessly concealing the way to get to Deborah. Pointlessly? Why was she down here?

  And it was as if, with an industrial clanking and a spinning of reels, Deborah appeared in the air between him and Anne, floating an impossible couple of feet off the ground.

  Anne felt the sun on her back. It filled the alley behind her, throwing her shadow across Sam’s face, so she couldn’t quite make out his expression. But the guilty twist of his torso and the way his arms and legs were spread made her want to slap her head for the second time in as many hours. He knew Deborah. That was the connection; she should’ve known as soon as she saw him enter the alley.

  ‘Sam, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. You’re Anne, aren’t you?’

  She nodded.

  A thrust of wind brought the clip, clap, slap of the creek water to her ears. What was stopping her saying Deborah’s name? What if she didn’t? Would she make some lame excuse for following him down here then turn back home, defeated? She was so nearly there – at some sort of summit, with a team behind her who didn’t even know they were roped together: Rita, Kathleen, Julie, Derek. Nigel. And Mel below, his weight dragging down on them, imperilling them all. If she could just make the cut; frustrate his plan. Just act for once.

  She spoke: ‘So you obviously know Deborah, then?’

  As Sam saw Anne’s lips move, it was as if the lightly woven Deborah hovering between them burned away. The threads unwound from their bobbins, snapped and fell to the floor. He nodded. It was done. At the end of this alley, just over this wall, was the real Deborah – in the flesh.

  ‘I thought so,’ continued Anne. ‘You nearly choked when Bob mentioned Albury Street. I knew you knew something. And now seeing you down here…’

  Sam found it difficult to read her face clearly, with the sun ticking down through the layers of sky behind her. She was ahead of him; he had to run t
o catch up. ‘So, you know about the house in Albury Street too?’ he said. ‘About Deborah going in there?’ This was risky – who would this woman tell? But she had kept quiet among all those confused men in the flat. He had to trust someone if he was ever going to touch Derek again. If he was going to find out what he had done.

  Anne paused, deciding how to reply. ‘Yeah, I do,’ she said simply. ‘And you do too, then?’ She took a couple of steps towards Sam. There was a clutch of things she wanted to say about Deborah, but there was so much else to consider. A train swooped by on the rails overhead. ‘And do you know Nigel?’ she asked.

  Sam didn’t answer immediately; he still thought he had to take care. ‘I don’t know him, not really. But Derek talked about him a lot.’ He leaned back against the wall. ‘Derek was angry with him, but I think – no, I know he got over that.’

  Anne nodded and as her head tipped, it was lit better; Sam saw a smile.

  ‘I’ve known Derek for years,’ she said. ‘I saw him at the weekend, and you’re right – he’s got over his problem with Nigel.’

  Sam relaxed a little.

  ‘Budge up a bit,’ she said and leaned beside him against the wall, not quite touching him.

  It would have been a relief to gush words about Nigel and Derek to her. But he held them back, formulating a careful question instead: ‘So, that woman, Rita, she said Nigel’s disappeared?’

  ‘Yeah. Rita’s my mum. She’s mates with Nigel’s girlfriend. He’s not been seen since yesterday.’

  Sam turned and looked down into the creek. He knew there was thick mud at the bottom, and above it an unknown depth of water. He needed to know to test his own reaction. Could he love…? The word flapped in his face. Could he love Derek if he had done what he thought he might have done?

  ‘I’m just really worried that Derek has … has hurt Nigel. He told me that he didn’t want to anymore; but something happened, and I just don’t know now.’

  Anne turned around too and, seeing the tilt of Sam’s head, hearing the slight crack in his voice, feeling the hopeless warmth as he looked down into the muddy water, she knew that Derek and he were in love. Perhaps it should have surprised her – she had never thought of Derek as gay, bi or queer; not until today. But she nodded her head and closed her eyes briefly, as if she had tasted something cooked just right.

  ‘Derek’s a good bloke.’ She leaned over so her sleeve touched Sam’s. ‘I’m sure if something has happened, it’ll be Mel’s doing, not Derek’s.’

  Sam looked at her.

  ‘I know both of them,’ Anne went on. ‘Him and Derek are cut from the same cloth, but they’re different in the end. I was married to Mel, you know. I know what he’s capable of.’ She let her hand wander to her neck. It was still tender from Mel’s grip.

  ‘You were Mel’s wife?’ Sam said. Anne could see him piecing the puzzle together. ‘So you’ll know about Mel’s sister committing suicide, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’ Anne had to speak through inhaled breath; holding her neck in her palm to stop a sob. ‘She was my best friend – way back. We all knew each other, when we were younger.’ She barged Sam’s shoulder and choked out a laugh. ‘It seems so long ago. And now she’s gone.’

  ‘Derek said it was Nigel who gave her the drugs. He said that Mel was roping him in to pay Nigel back.’

  Anne nodded, unable to speak now, unable to uncap what had been fermenting within her since she had received the call from Rita a few hours before: it was her doing. All the time that she had thought she was fiddling on the fringes, feeling the vibrations of what was happening through long, extended lines, she had been right here, in the midst. It was all about her. She couldn’t think of any way she hadn’t been involved. Perhaps she hadn’t tied knots and woven webs; perhaps it was more like felt – a bashed mash of fibres. But the effect was the same: Kathleen was dead; Nigel was missing; Derek was out of his depth; and Julie was as good as orphaned.

  She found her voice again. ‘I want to find out what they’ve done to Nigel as well. That’s why I’m here – and I’m guessing that’s why you’re here too.’

  Sam nodded at the water. ‘It wasn’t a burglary.’

  ‘No.’ Anne stood up straight and drew her lips in. ‘OK, Sam, no more mucking about. Deborah told me there’s a tunnel under that house, but I just wasn’t sure it was true. But now Mel and Derek were there—’

  Sam interrupted, ‘There is a tunnel. I’ve been down it.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Deborah took me down there on Saturday night. I didn’t believe her either, really. But it’s there, I’ve been in it.’

  Anne examined his face; it was a mass of taut crumples. She saw it all now. ‘You told Derek about it, didn’t you?’

  Sam nodded again. Hearing it spoken made him feel wet, young and a little foolish. He had been seeing such a simple picture, all centred on him and Derek – behind it was something much more untidy and layered.

  ‘Right,’ Anne placed her hands firmly on the wall beside his and looked out across the creek. Her face was old and young at the same time, Sam thought. She had clear skin, a little like Deborah’s, and even her eyes – unfocused while she thought – had some of Deborah’s world-worn charm. He felt that he had known her for longer than these few short minutes.

  ‘Derek asked me for the address yesterday morning,’ he offered, ‘and then he said he knew how to sort this out.’

  Anne tapped her fingers on the bricks. ‘They’ve taken Nigel into the tunnel. That’s what they’ve done.’

  The sound of a boat motor reached her ears. She looked downstream in its direction. It was still some distance away, but approaching steadily.

  ‘Mel would’ve killed Nigel,’ she continued, ‘he’s got it in him to do that. But Derek gave him a different idea.’

  ‘And I gave Derek that idea.’ Sam ruffled his hair, so it stood up from his forehead, making him look even more boyish. ‘I don’t know if that was good or bad.’

  ‘Derek knows Mel as well as I do. There would’ve been no persuading him out of going after Nigel. Suggesting imprisoning Nigel in a tunnel would’ve been a way around him.’

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, so the light was cooler. ‘Mel locked me in a flat for days once,’ she murmured. ‘A tunnel would be just his thing. That was clever of Derek.’

  Sam believed her. Jailed in the pitch-black of the tunnel, Nigel would be as good as dead. But Derek wouldn’t have killed him. Sam could see the compromise.

  The late-afternoon light reflected off the water and showed up what he thought were tears in Anne’s eyes. His own eyes smarted unexpectedly. If she had put her arm around him at this moment, he wouldn’t have resisted. ‘Deborah might know if Nigel’s down there,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right. We’ll have to see her. But I was here only a few hours ago and she didn’t say anything.’ It seemed a century ago to Anne – a time when Deborah was all her own. ‘But then she never told me about you.’

  ‘She never said anything about you, either.’ Sam replied. ‘Strange we never met.’

  And now they had, he could have said, it was almost as if Deborah could be removed with a sharp pull, and nothing would be different.

  ‘How long have you known her?’ he asked.

  ‘Not long. Just a few weeks. I lived away from Deptford for a long time. I only came back a couple of months ago.’ Anne tucked her hair behind her ears to stop herself pulling it at it. But now it seemed as if she had never gone. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I only met her a couple of weeks ago – by accident, really. She nearly got run over; I pulled her out of the road.’

  ‘Sounds like Deborah.’ Anne leaned her elbows on the wall and rested her chin on her cupped hands. It would have been pleasant to stay like this, she thought, watching the creek, the evening gliding in over the sky – lost in a pleasantly confusing haze, without the strong sunshine to clarify and harden things. But they had stuff to attend to. She had to take charge. �
��Come on,’ she said. And hoisted herself up onto the parapet.

  Sam was impressed by Anne’s quick, practised movements – just like his own. And with someone else there, the rungs seemed more rusty and real against his hands.

  ‘Could you believe this place when you first saw it?’ he called to Anne from behind, as they edged along the ledge.

  ‘I know. You’d think someone was making it up if you didn’t see it with your own eyes.’ Anne knocked at the door. ‘But then, Deptford’s full of this kind of thing. You only have to dig a little.’

  As they stood waiting for Deborah to reply, the long boat they had heard approaching – the same one Anne had seen earlier in the day – pulled up alongside the opposite bank. The two men standing by the bowed tiller looked over the water at them. One of them gave an exaggerated sailor’s wave. ‘Afternoon,’ he called.

  Sam waved back and Anne put up her hand awkwardly.

  ‘Going for a sail?’ called the man, his friendly bush of beard wagging as he pointed at Deborah’s boat, which lay at their feet, knocking its blunt nose and swelling sides against the ancient wooden buttresses of the creek wall.

  Sam hiked his voice, so it would cross the water. ‘Maybe. Just seeing what a friend thinks.’

  Chapter 25: Anne and Sam

  There was no sound behind the door. On the narrow ledge, Anne had to stand closer to Sam than she felt was normal for two people who had only met properly a few minutes before. Their sleeves touched and she caught the smell of his sweat – just briefly, before the twisting currents of air above the water spiralled it away.

  She knocked on Deborah’s door for a second time and Sam edged back to look up into the bow window that extended above them.

  Anne looked down into Deborah’s boat below them. Then bent over in concern. While old and worn, Deborah’s things – her house, her clothes, all her possessions – were always neat. But now: the creamy sail was jumbled in the bottom of the boat; ropes straggled lazily across the thwarts and hung, soaking, in the creek; the boom swung, unsecured.