Deathwatch (9 page)

He’d been reluctant to take on this task in the first place; he’d never done a talk in a school before.

“You’ll enjoy it,” Miss Logan, the education officer at the museum, had said.

Well, what did she know? She hadn’t had a clue whether he’d enjoy it – she’d just been saying that because she’d had to find someone for the task.

And he’d been it.

Well, he was the person for the task. In theory.

It was that girl’s fault. Silly, pathetic, spoilt kid. Did she ever think about others? If she only knew where her stupidity had got him. How it has ruined him, perhaps.

How can he go back to work at the museum now?

He feels palpitations, chest pains, an overwhelming blackness coming over him. His eyes prick with tears. His life is all falling to pieces again. Just as it did when he had to give up work through nervous exhaustion. It was panic attacks then, too.

It must not happen! He must do something. He must take back control.

Somehow.

A
dark dry wind whipped the early leaves off the ground as Cat set off for the swimming pool on Tuesday evening the following week. Car headlights shone on the main road ahead.

She looked to the left as she closed the door. A cyclist was coming round the corner, no helmet, his body bulky in a coat. He did not look at her as he sped past and soon turned right onto the main road.

She took a deep breath. She really didn’t feel like training today. But she still hadn’t found the moment to say anything to her parents. It wasn’t easy. And, hanging there in her mind, was the knowledge of her grandfather, and that her mum kind of thought she’d follow in his footsteps. Every now and then she’d say how proud he’d be of Cat. But he was an old man who’d lived in another time, another world. He couldn’t begin to understand her if he were alive today. He’d never known her and she’d never known him.

And her friends might drift away if she didn’t spend enough time with them. Bethan was starting to go out with Josh. All the pairings and friendships were changing – what if she wasn’t around to be part of it?

Sport had always made her feel secure, something she knew she did well. But maybe it was also a trap and she’d get stuck in it, left behind by the rest of life.

She had to tell her parents. Get out of the trap. As soon as possible.

Cat pressed her headphones into her ears and selected the music she wanted. She turned right onto the main road and began to walk.

She buried herself in the music as she walked, speeding up, getting her heart rate going. The walk or jog to the fitness centre was a good warm-up. She would start running in a moment. She adjusted the bag on her back, made sure it was properly fastened. Checked that her phone was there.

The wind blew into her eyes, carrying leaves and dust with it. It was oddly warm, like a desert wind. Cat quickened her pace and rounded the corner. Two men stood some metres ahead, under a streetlight, one holding the other by the arm, as though about to lead him across the road. The one being held was looking at her as she came round the corner. She saw that he was staring straight at her, wide-eyed. Cat tried not to look at him, but she’d seen his face before she could look away: the mouth open, the cheeks hollowed in the orange light, the hair hanging straggly and greasy from under a knitted hat. A young man.

He was shaking his head from side to side. The other man gripped his shoulders, calming him.

She hurried on. She wanted to go the other way, but she was committed to this direction. The man shouted – crazy nonsense. Some kind of mental patient, probably a day patient from the hospital. Out with his friend, or maybe his carer. The carer spoke to him firmly, trying to make him look away from her.

The man waved his arms wildly in Cat’s direction. Most of his words were unintelligible to her, but some were clear enough. Even over the sound of her iPod. She caught the words, “She’s bad! Bad!” amid the nonsense. He was trying to get away, trying to cross the road into the traffic. The carer was holding him back.

As she came level with the men, she looked towards them, forced a quick smile and a muttered hello before hurrying on. She only wanted to reassure them. But the young man just shouted more loudly. “Bad! Bad!”

As soon as she could, Cat began to jog. If her friends had been with her they could all have laughed about it together. An odd hysteria rose inside her.

But, although the young man was clearly seriously unstable, it still left a horrible feeling. What kind of illness did he have? Could it be schizophrenia? She knew that usually involved hearing voices, seeing things that weren’t there. What had he seen when he looked at her? Why did he look at her with such fear and horror? She shivered.

She hoped that carer knew what he was doing.

How could her mum work with people like that? How frightening to face it every day. She hoped her mum would always have someone with her when she had to see patients like him. Probably there were rules to protect her, safety procedures or whatever.

Cat jogged on and tried to put the incident from her.

A little more than ten minutes later, she was at the fitness centre. She breathed in the warm, heavy smell of chlorine. This was where she felt in control, safe. This was what she loved: the feeling of wellbeing that came over her like a drug when she exercised.

Her grandfather must have known this feeling. Maybe he even had the same conflicts as she did. What did he feel like when he had to give up through injury? But what he’d
felt
had never been part of the story told about him. Maybe no one knew or thought about it. He was spoken of like some soldier killed in a war – heroic and dead. But not real.

She lowered herself into the comfortable water and pushed off, slipping into an easy freestyle. She had a lane to herself and she was able to switch her mind off, concentrating solely on her muscles, her breathing, the rhythm, feeling her own strength.

There were three other swimmers: a woman and two men. All swimming seriously, ploughing up and down the lanes. But she was as good as any of them, slicing through the water as if it were her natural habitat. One by one, they all stopped swimming and left the pool. She was on her own in the soft, warm water.

Cat swam on. She ignored everything apart from herself and the water. She ignored the silently spinning exercise bikes in the gym through the toughened glass. She ignored the lifeguard, an old guy, sitting on his high perch. And, after a brief flash of irritation, she ignored the one man watching from the gallery. If you concentrate hard enough you can ignore anything – it’s something you learn to do when you’re an athlete. Ignore bad feelings, ignore unwanted attention and comments, ignore everything except speed, strength, technique and winning.

She put the bad feelings of the last few days behind her: the lousy weekend, the incident with the insect, her parents’ moods, Danny, the creep on Phiz. That, incidentally, seemed to have ended: when she’d gone online the last few times, nothing had happened. Oh, apart from her laptop behaving badly, being slow to load and crashing once when she was in the middle of something. But the guy with the spider had gone.

She would do some extra lengths. It was a mental thing, winning – you had to have winning in your mind. That’s what her coach was always saying. And he was right. It was amazing the difference in performance if you thought you were a winner.

And Cat
was
a winner. No one would take that away from her. Certainly not a jerk like Danny.

Cat was ready to leave the fitness centre an hour and a half later, tingling with energy, her body not even slightly tired after twenty extra lengths. She took her phone out of her bag as she stood just inside the entrance. Phoned home. As promised.

Her mum answered. “Hello, Catty. Sorry, Dad’s not home yet. He’ll be here any minute. No, wait; I’ll phone him and tell him to pick you up. Just stay there. Inside the centre. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Can’t you come and get me?”

“I’m really sorry – I had a glass of wine. Anja came round. I thought Dad would be back in time. Can you just wait? Maybe ten minutes. Less even.”

“All right. But I’ll phone Dad and if he’s not nearly here I’ll walk.”

“No, Catty. You won’t.”

“I’ll run then. I’ll be fine.” Though she remembered the power cut. The feeling of being chased.

It wouldn’t happen again. The only reason she was even thinking about it was that it was the same time, same place.

“No, Catty. It’s too dark. Do as you’re told and stay there. If necessary I’ll come and get you in a taxi.”

“But, Mum, I’ve got homework to do! I
need
to get home.”

“Just be patient. Anyway, if you don’t get off the phone, I can’t phone Dad. See you soon.”

Cat fumed. All because her mum’s friend had come round and wine had simply
had
to be consumed. Sometimes, parents just didn’t think ahead.

She sat on one of the moulded plastic benches inside the reception area, fiddling with her phone. The hard-faced receptionist was flicking through a magazine, looking bored. Cat stared out into the darkness, willing her dad to arrive quickly. The fitness centre was on a wide but quiet road, a residential district. On the other side of it, she could see the dark area where the park was. Which she’d have to cross to get to the main road to pick up a bus or taxi. Or to run home. As she wanted to.

Why couldn’t she do that? So much easier.

When would her mum phone? Cat should have insisted she’d phone him herself. But her mum always had to take over.

The occasional car went past.

A thin figure stood hunched under some trees over there, collar up.

Footsteps behind her. She swung round.

A
man had come from the changing rooms. His hair was wet. He put his bag on the bench beside Cat and spent some time putting his things away and zipping the bag up.

“You’re a good swimmer. Powerful.”

“Thanks.” She wished he would go away. She was not used to strange men talking to her and it made her feel uncomfortable. On the other hand, no one actually dislikes praise.

A thought hit her with a small punch: he was the man who had been watching from the gallery.

Cat sneaked a look at the man, just a glance. His face was turned slightly away but she could see his profile. Tough, no flab, thick muscled neck. Very short, lightish brown hair. A hard man, into fitness by the look of him. But not particularly creepy. Ordinary clothes, no dirty raincoat. A sort of bulky, padded coat that he was just pulling on now.

A glance towards the receptionist showed her still reading her magazine, not noticing anything else. Nothing could happen while she was there.

Cat didn’t look at him any more. Even when he spoke to her.

“You swim for a club? You should.”

“I do.” She wouldn’t, of course, tell him which one. She knew all about not talking to strangers. Had done it in nursery.

Then she realized that she didn’t need to tell him: her tracksuit and her bag both had the club’s name emblazoned onto them. A chill scurried through her.

But what harm could come of it? He couldn’t know where she lived, or her name, or anything. Anyway, she was being paranoid. She was becoming as bad as her parents.

Whatever, she wished he would go.

Her phone rang. Dad. “Catriona – Mum says you’re waiting at the fitness centre? I’ll be there in five minutes, OK? Look out for me from inside the entrance.”

“OK, Dad. Thanks.” She kept the phone conspicuously in her hand and said
Dad
particularly clearly for the benefit of the man. But when she looked round, he had gone.

She looked through the doors again. It had begun to rain suddenly, veiling the trees, turning everything into a darker shade of shadow. A cyclist left from the car park of the fitness centre – probably the man who had spoken to her, judging by the shape of the coat. The figure under the trees had gone, too.

The sound of sirens swelled in the distance. Many sirens. Police, fire or ambulance – she couldn’t tell which. A few seconds later she saw the lights go past on the main road on the other side of the park: flashing blue lights, urgent, blaring. A few seconds later, more vehicles passed. Gradually the sound faded into the distance.

Something big. A major fire maybe. But nothing that needed to concern her.

Mind you, her parents, being cynical, were boring on the subject of sirens. “That’ll be them wanting to get home for their tea,” they would say, knowingly. How did they know? What if someone was dying? What if someone actually died while her parents were accusing the emergency services of rushing home to tea?

Adults took the wrong things seriously. Worrying about things like Phiz and
not
worrying about fire engines, police and ambulances trying to prevent deaths.

Anyway, there was her dad. The car was pulling up, the window easing down.

“In you get! Quickly!”

“What’s the hurry?”

“It’s raining, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, but I’m the one getting wet,” she said as she clambered in.

“Yes, well, I’ve got a lot to do this evening. I’ve had to come out of my way. And the traffic’s appalling. Something’s happened.”

“I heard loads of sirens.”

“There’s something going on near the bridges: Chambers Street, apparently. The buses have been rerouted. Everything’s blocked off.”

“What sort of thing?”

“No idea. Probably a fire. Could be lots of things. An old tenement that they’ve decided isn’t safe. Someone threatening to jump off a building. Who knows? Could be nothing.”

Later that evening, they heard what it was. Someone had phoned the police to say there was a bomb at the museum. Nothing had been found. So far. Could be a hoax. But the threat was being taken seriously.

Who would do such a thing? Why the museum? Surely it wasn’t a terrorist target.