Land of the Living (22 page)

Nineteen

We had toast in bed. The crumbs spilt on to the sheets, but Ben lay back on the pillows and pulled the duvet under his chin, looking very comfortable.

‘Don’t you have work to do?’ I said.

Ben leant across me to look at the clock by the bed. Funny how quickly you could feel comfortable with another body. ‘Eighteen minutes,’ he said.

‘Won’t you be late?’

‘I’m already late. But there’s someone coming in to see me. He’s come all the way from Amsterdam. If I’m not there to meet him, I’ll be a bad person as well as late.’

I kissed him. It was meant to be just a peck.

‘You’ll have to stop doing that,’ he said. ‘Or I won’t be able to go.’

‘You see,’ I said, whispering it, because my face was almost touching his, ‘if I were you and you were me, I’d think that you were mad. Or I was mad. If you see what I mean.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘If somebody I’d met disappeared and turned up a fortnight later and seemed to have no memory of even having seen me, I’d think they were completely mad. Or a liar. As you know, the police are torn between the two theories.’

‘I thought
I
was mad. Then I thought you were mad. Then I just didn’t know.’ He stroked my hair. It made me shiver with pleasure. ‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘It seemed an impossible thing to explain. I suppose I thought that I had to make you like me again. In any case, the idea of me saying to you, “You’re attracted to me, or at least you were, you don’t remember it but you really were”… It didn’t sound particularly sane.’

‘You don’t have hands like a designer,’ I said.

‘You mean they’re rough and scratchy?’

‘I like them.’

He contemplated his own hands with curiosity. ‘I do a lot of my own manufacturing. Things get spilt on my hands. They get scratched and hammered and scraped, but that’s the way I like it. My old man is a welder. He’s got a workshop at home and he spends all his weekends taking things apart and putting them back together. When I was younger, if I wanted to communicate with him, the only way was by going in there and passing him the wrench or whatever it was. Getting my hands dirty. That’s what I still do, on the whole. I found a way of getting paid for what my dad did as a hobby.’

‘It’s not quite like that for me,’ I said. ‘Not with my dad or with my work.’

‘You’re fantastic at your job. You pulled the whole thing together. You scared us all shitless.’

‘Sometimes I can’t believe the things I do — or did. You know, risk assessment for an office? You can imagine risk assessment for an oil rig or a polar expedition but the insurance company wanted a risk assessment for the office so I did it. Just at the moment I’m a world expert on every bad thing that can happen to you in an office. Did you know that last year ninety-one office workers in the United Kingdom were injured by typing-correction fluid? I mean, how can you injure yourself with typing-correction fluid?’

‘I know exactly how. You use the fluid, you get some on your fingers and then rub your eyes.’

‘Thirty-seven people injured themselves with calculators. How do they do that? They only weigh about as much as an egg carton. I could tell them a thing or two about risk.’

It didn’t seem so funny any more. I sat up and looked at the clock. ‘I guess we both need to get going,’ I said.

We took a shower together and we were really very disciplined. We just washed each other and dried each other. We helped each other dress. Putting Ben’s clothes on him was almost as exciting as taking them off had been. On the whole it was better for him, no doubt. He had fresh clothes to put on. I had the same ones from the night before. I had to go back to the flat and change. He came over to me, ruffled my hair, kissed my forehead. ‘It’s a bit creepy seeing you in Jo’s clothes, though,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘We must have the same taste,’ I said. ‘These are mine. In fact, this shirt is the one I was wearing when I was kidnapped. I would have thought I’d have thrown it in the bin, or burnt it — but it’s quite a nice shirt, and I figured that I’m not going to stop thinking about things just because I set fire to some clothes…’

‘That shirt was Jo’s. She bought it in Barcelona. Unless you’ve been buying clothes in Barcelona as well.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

I fell silent. I was thinking furiously. That was something. That meant something. But what?

When we were standing on his doorstep, we kissed again. For a moment I felt as if I couldn’t let go. I would just stay clinging to him and I would be safe. Then I told myself not to be so stupid. ‘I need to go back into the horrible world,’ I said.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going home — I mean to Jo’s — to change. I can’t go around in this stuff.’

‘I don’t mean that.’

‘I’m not sure. Today or tomorrow, this man is going to discover that he’s killed the wrong woman. He’ll start looking for me again. Maybe I’ll see if I can find out where Jo has gone. Though I don’t know whether that will do any good.’ The hope I had felt earlier, lying in bed with Ben eating toast, was fading again.

Ben was fidgeting with his car keys, deep in thought. ‘I’ll call Jo’s parents today,’ he said. ‘They should be back by now. Then we’ll take it from there.’

I kissed Ben. I had to stand on tiptoe to do it. ‘That means “thank you”,’ I said. ‘And that you don’t have to go out on a limb for me.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Abbie. I’ll call you later.’ He handed me a card and then we both laughed at the formality of the gesture. ‘You can always reach me at one of those numbers.’

We kissed and I felt his hand on my breast. I put my hand on his hand. ‘I’m just thinking of this man from Amsterdam,’ I said.

I lay in the bath with the flannel over my face, and I tried to think what he would be thinking. He was about to discover that I was still alive. Perhaps he knew by now. There was another thing as well. There had been that reckless phone call to my own mobile. He had kept it. It was his trophy. And I claimed to be Jo. Did he think I was after him?

I dressed in Jo’s clothes. I deliberately chose grey cords and a cream-coloured, thick-knitted sweater that were different from anything I had ever worn. Abbie Devereaux had to be dead and gone for the present. I’d just be one of the millions floating around London. How could he find me? But, then, how could I find him?

Next, I did what I should have done before: I picked up the phone and dialled from memory and Terry’s father answered. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Richard, it’s Abbie.’

‘Abbie.’ His voice was frostily polite.

‘Yes, look, I know how awful everything must be at the moment…’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. And I’m so sorry about Terry.’

‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

‘Has he been released?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘I just wanted to say that I know it wasn’t him and that I’ll do anything to help. Maybe you could tell his solicitor that.’

‘Very well.’

‘I’ll give you my number. Or, no, I’ll ring you again, or Terry when he’s back. All right?’

‘Very well.’

There was a silence, then we both said goodbye.

I stood in the centre of Jo’s main room and looked around. It was like that awful stage of looking for something when you start looking again in the places where you’ve already looked. Even worse than that, I didn’t know what I was looking for. A diary would have been useful. I could have discovered if she’d had anything planned. But I had already rifled through her desk. There was nothing like that. I wandered around picking up objects from shelves and putting them down again. There was a pot plant standing on the shelf by the window. My mother would have been able to identify it. She would know its Latin name. But even I could see that it was yellowing. The soil was hard and cracked. I brought atumbler of water from the kitchen and dribbled the water on to the sad plant. It ran down into the cracks. That was another thing, wasn’t it? Would a grown-up responsible young woman like Jo go away on holiday and leave her plant to die? I watered the banyan tree as well.

All of the pieces of evidence I had found were like mirages. They shimmered in the air, but when I ran to clutch them they melted. I had been living in the flat. It might well have been that she went on holiday leaving me in residence. She might have assumed that I would be there watering her plants.

I looked at the pile of mail that I had already filleted in search of anything useful. I flicked through it, for want of anything more sensible. One envelope caught my attention. It was the gas bill that I hadn’t paid yet; my own funds had run out. It had one of those transparent windows, so that you could see the name and address inside. I gave a little grunt of surprise when I saw the name: ‘Miss L. J. Hooper’. Almost in a dream I found Ben’s card and called the number of his mobile. When he answered he sounded busy and distracted, but when he heard my voice, his tone softened. That made me smile. More than smile, it sent a warm feeling through me. It made me feel ridiculously like a fourteen-year-old with a crush. Could you have a crush on someone you had just spent the night with?

‘What is Jo’s first name?’

‘What?’

‘I know it’s a stupid question. But I was looking at one of her bills and she has an initial. An L before the J. What does it stand for?’

I heard a chuckle on the other end of the line. ‘Lauren,’ he said. ‘Like Lauren Bacall. People used to tease her about it.’

‘Lauren,’ I repeated, numbly, and I felt my legs tremble. I had to lean against the wall to hold myself up. ‘Kelly, Kath, Fran, Gail, Lauren.’

‘What?’

‘That man, he used to give me a list of names of the women he had killed. Lauren was one of the names.’

‘But…’ There was a long pause. ‘It could be a coincidence…’

‘Lauren? It’s not exactly in the top ten.’

‘I don’t know. There are some funny names in the top ten nowadays. The other problem is that she didn’t use the name. She hated it.’

I started murmuring something, more to myself, so that Ben had to ask me what I was saying. ‘I’m sorry, I was saying that I know how she might have felt. She might have given that name to him because it was her way of refusing to be beaten by him. It wasn’t her, Jo, that he was humiliating and terrifying, but someone else — her public self.’

I put down the phone and forced myself to remember. What had he said about Lauren? Kelly had cried. Gail had prayed. What had Lauren done? Lauren had fought. Lauren hadn’t lasted long.

I felt sick. I knew she was dead.

Jack Cross’s tone did not soften when he heard my voice. It darkened. It grew weary.

‘Oh, Abbie,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’

‘She was called Lauren,’ I said. I was trying not to cry.

‘What?’

‘Jo. Her first name was Lauren. Don’t you remember? Lauren was one of the list of the people he had killed.’

‘I’d forgotten.’

‘Doesn’t that seem significant?’

‘I’ll make a note of it.’

I told him about the clothes as well, the clothes of Jo’s that I’d been wearing. He seemed cautious.

‘This is not necessarily significant,’ he said. ‘We already know that you were living in Jo’s flat. Why shouldn’t you have been wearing her clothes?’

I looked down at Jo’s grey cords that I’d put on, then I shouted, ‘For God’s sake, what sort of evidence is good enough for you?’

I heard a sigh on the line. ‘Abbie, believe me, I’m on your side, and as a matter of fact I was looking through the file just a few minutes ago. I’m even putting one of my colleagues on to it. We haven’t forgotten you. But to answer your question, I just need the sort of evidence that will convince someone who doesn’t already believe you,’ he said.

‘Well, you’re going to fucking get it,’ I said. ‘You wait.’

I wanted to slam the phone down but it was one of those cordless phones that you can’t slam, so I just pressed the button extra hard.

‘Oh, Abbie, Abbie, Abbie, you stupid, stupid thing,’ I moaned to myself consolingly.

Twenty

I knew Jo was dead. I didn’t care what Cross said, I knew it. I thought of his whispery voice in the darkness: ‘Kelly. Kath. Fran. Gail. Lauren.’ Lauren was Jo. She had never given him the name that people she loved called her by. She’d given him the name of a stranger. It was her way of staying human, of not going mad. Now he could add another name to his litany: Sally. Although perhaps Sally didn’t count for him. She was a mistake. She should have been me. I shivered. Nobody knew where I was except Carol at Jay and Joiner’s and Peter downstairs. And Cross and Ben, of course. I was safe, I told myself. I didn’t feel safe at all.

I closed the curtains in the main room and listened to the new messages on Jo’s phone. There wasn’t much; just one from a woman saying that Jo’s curtains were ready for collection, and another from someone called Alexis saying hello, stranger, long time no see, and he was back at last, and maybe they should meet soon.

I opened the one letter that had arrived that morning — an invitation to renew her subscription to the
National Geographic
. I did it for her. Then I phoned Sadie, anticipating she wouldn’t be there, and left a message saying I wanted us to meet soon and I was missing her, and found as I said it that it was true. I said the same kind of thing on Sheila and Guy’s answering-machine. I sent a cheery, vague email to Sam. I didn’t want to see or talk to any of them just yet, but I wanted to build bridges.

I made myself an avocado, bacon and mozzarella sandwich. I wasn’t really hungry, but it was comforting to put the sandwich together methodically, then sit on the sofa and chew the soft, salty bread, not really thinking of anything, trying to empty my mind. I found myself seeing the pictures I’d made for myself when I was kept prisoner in the dark: the butterfly, the river, the lake, the tree. I set them against all the ugliness and all the dread. I closed my eyes and let them fill up my mind, beautiful images of freedom. Then I heard myself saying: ‘But where’s the cat?’

I didn’t know where the question had come from. It hung in the quiet room while I considered it. Jo didn’t have a cat. The only one I’d seen round here was Peter’s downstairs, the tabby with amber eyes that had woken me in the night and spooked me so. But thinking about the question that I’d posed was giving me a peculiar feeling, like a tingling in my brain. It was as if a half-memory was scratching at my consciousness.

Why had I thought of a cat? Because she had things that went with a cat. Things I’d seen without noticing. Where? I went to the kitchen area, pulled open cupboards and drawers. Nothing there. Then I remembered and went to the tall cupboard near the bathroom where I’d come across the vacuum cleaner and Jo’s skiing stuff. There, beside the bin-bag full of clothes, was a cat-litter tray, which looked new but might have been merely scrubbed clean, and an unopened pack of six small tins of cat food. I shut the door and went back to the sofa. I picked up the sandwich, put it down again.

So what? Jo had had a cat once. Or maybe she still had a cat and it had gone missing because she’d gone missing and wasn’t there to feed and stroke it. Perhaps it’s dead, I thought, like… I didn’t finish that sentence. Or maybe she had been about to get a cat. I went back to the cupboard and took another look at the six tins. They were for kittens. So it looked as if Jo had been about to get a kitten. Why should that matter, apart from being one more poignant detail? I didn’t know.

I pulled on my jacket and woollen hat and ran downstairs and out on to the street. I rang Peter’s bell and he opened the door as if he’d been watching for me out of his window. His cat was asleep on the sofa, its tail twitching slightly.

‘This is a nice surprise,’ he said, and I felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Tea? Coffee? Perhaps some sherry. Sherry’s warming in this weather.’

‘Tea would be lovely.’

‘There’s some I’ve just made, in the pot. It’s as if I knew you were coming. No sugar, is that right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’ll have a biscuit this time, won’t you? Though you’re always in a rush. I see you running out of the house, running back in. You should slow down, you know.’

I took a digestive from the tin he held out. It had gone soft. I dunked it into the tea and ate it in three mouthfuls.

‘I was wondering if I could get you anything from the shops,’ I said. ‘You probably don’t want to go out much in this weather.’

‘That’s the beginning of the end,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘When you stop going out and doing things. I go out three times a day. I go in the mornings to the newsagent for my paper. Just before lunch I go for a walk, even if it’s raining like today, or icy cold. In the afternoon I go to the shops for my supper.’

‘If you ever do need anything…’

‘It’s very kind of you to think of me.’

‘What’s your cat called?’ I stroked its stippled back gently and pleasure rippled along its spine. It opened one golden eye.

‘Patience. She’s nearly fourteen now. That’s old for a cat, you know. You’re an old lady,’ he said to the cat.

‘I was wondering, did Jo have a cat too?’

‘She wanted one. She said it would be companionship for her. Some people love dogs and some go for cats. She was a cat woman. What are you?’

‘I’m not sure. So was she going to get one?’

‘She came and asked me where she could find one; she knew I was a cat-lover too, you see. I’ve always kept them, ever since I was a child.’

‘When did she come and see you?’

‘Oh, a couple of weeks ago. Just before you arrived, I think. You should know, though.’

‘Why should I know?’

‘We talked about it together, when I met you on the day you moved all your stuff in.’

‘The Wednesday?’

‘If you say so. Anyway, don’t you remember? She said she was going to get one.’

‘When?’

‘That afternoon, if she could find one. She seemed very keen on the idea. Said something about needing to set about making changes in her life, starting with the kitty.’

‘So what did you say to her, when she asked where she should look?’

‘There’s all sorts of ways of finding a little kitty. For a start, you can look at the cards in the newsagent’s and the post office. That’s what most people do, isn’t it? There’s always something. I noticed a card today, when I was getting my paper.’ The telephone started ringing on the table beside him and he said, ‘Sorry, dear, will you excuse me. I think it must be my daughter. She lives in Australia, you know.’

He picked up the phone and I stood and put my cup in the sink. I waved at him as I left but he barely looked up.

I wanted to ring Ben and hear his voice. I had felt safe in his house, wrapped up in his warmth. But he was working and there was nothing I needed to say to him except hello, hello, I keep thinking about you.

It was already getting dark, although it was barely four o’clock. It had been the kind of dull, drizzly day when it never seemed to become properly light. I looked out of the window at the street, which had been covered with snow a few days ago. All colour seemed to have drained away. Everything was sepia and charcoal and grey. People walked past like figures in a black-and-white film, heads bowed.

I rewrote my Lost Days.

Friday 11 January
: showdown at Jay and Joiner’s. Storm out.

Saturday 12 January
: row with Terry. Storm out. Go to Sadie’s for night.

Sunday 13 January
: leave Sadie a.m. Go to Sheila and Guy. Meet Robin for shopping spree and spend too much money. Meet Sam for drink p.m. Go back to Sheila and Guy’s.

Monday 14 January
: see Ken Lofting, Mr Khan, Ben Brody and Gordon Lockhart. Phone Molte Schmidt. Fill car with petrol. Meet Ben for drink, then meal. Sex with Ben. Phone Sheila and Guy to say not coming back for night. Stay night with Ben.

Tuesday 15 January
: Go to café with Ben. Meet Jo. Ben leaves. Talk to Jo and arrange to move into her flat. Go to Sheila and Guy and leave note saying found somewhere to stay. Collect stuff from there. Go to Jo’s flat. Book holiday in Venice. Phone Terry and arrange to collect stuff next day. Order Indian takeaway p.m. Make video?

Wednesday 16 January
: collect stuff from Terry’s and move it to Jo’s. Meet Peter and talk about Jo getting a cat. Phone Todd. Go out and buy bonsai tree. Go to Ben’s house p.m. Sex without condom. Go back to Jo’s.

Thursday 17 January
: Ring Camden police station to say Jo missing. Take first morning-after pill.

I stared at the list. Jo must have gone missing on Wednesday. Searching for a kitten. I wrote ‘
KITTEN’
in large letters under the list and stared at it hopelessly. The telephone rang. It was Carol from Jay and Joiner’s.

‘Hi, Abbie,’ she said, sounding warm. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘I just got a strange phone call from a man who wanted to pass on a message to you.’

‘Yes?’ My mouth was dry.

‘His name was — hang on, I’ve written it down somewhere. Yes, here we are. Gordon Lockhart.’ Relief surged through me. ‘He wanted to have your address or your number.’

‘You didn’t give it to him, did you?’

‘No, you told me not to.’

‘Thanks. Go on.’

‘I said he could write a letter to us and we’d forward it to you. But he said he just wanted to say thank you again.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘And he said you should clip the roots every two years to stop it growing. Does that make sense? He went on about it. On and on. In the spring, he said. March or April.’

‘Thanks, Carol. It’s just about a tree. Keep me posted, will you?’

‘Sure. And your old man got in touch all right?’

‘My dad?’

‘He’s probably trying to phone you as we speak.’

‘Dad?’

‘He said he was trying to track you down. Wants to send you some present, but he’s mislaid your new address.’

‘Did you give it to him?’

‘Well, it was your dad.’

‘Fine,’ I managed. ‘I’ll speak to you later. ’Bye.’

I threw the phone down, took a few deep breaths, then picked it up and dialled.

‘Hello.’

‘Dad? Hi, this is Abbie. Is that you?’

‘Course it’s me.’

‘You rang the office.’

‘What office?’

‘Just a minute or two ago. You rang Jay and Joiner’s.’

‘Why should I ring them? I’ve been doing the garden. The snow pulled down the orange climbing rose. I think I can save it, though.’

I was suddenly cold, as if the sun had gone behind the clouds and an icy wind had sprung up. ‘You mean, you didn’t ring them?’ I said.

‘No. I keep saying. You haven’t phoned for weeks. How have you been keeping?’

I opened my mouth to reply, and then the doorbell rang, one long, steady peal. I gasped. ‘Got to go,’ I said, and jumped to my feet. I could hear my father’s tiny voice through the phone’s mouthpiece. I raced from the sitting room into Jo’s bedroom, grabbing my bag and keys as I ran. The bell rang again; two short bursts.

I fumbled with the catch then pulled up the window and leant out. It was only about an eight- or nine-feet drop into Peter’s narrow, overgrown garden, but it still looked horribly far and I’d land on concrete. I thought about going back into the living room and dialling the police, but everything in me was telling me to flee. I clambered out on to the window-sill then turned so I was facing backwards. I took a deep breath and pushed off.

I hit the ground hard and felt the shock jarring up my body. I half fell, hands outstretched and scraping along the cold concrete. Then I straightened up and ran. I thought I could hear a sound from the flat. I pounded across the garden’s overgrown and sodden lawn. My legs felt like lead as I dragged them over the rotted mulch of leaves; I could barely make them move and it was as if I was running in a dream. A nightmare, where you run and run and never get anywhere.

There was a high wall at the back of the garden. It was full of cracks and in some places the bricks had crumbled and come away. There were brambles with purple stems as wide as hosepipes climbing up it. I found a handhold, a foothold, pulled myself up. I slipped, felt rough brick grazing my cheek; tried again. I could hear myself panting, or sobbing; I couldn’t tell which. My hands were on top of the wall, and then I was there, one leg over, the next. I let go and fell into an adjacent garden, landing painfully and twisting my ankles. I saw a woman’s face peering out of the downstairs window as I staggered to my feet and limped to the side passage that led out on to the road.

I didn’t know which direction to go in. It didn’t really matter, so long as I went somewhere. I jogged along the road, each step throbbing in my ankle. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. A bus drew up at a stop a few yards away and I hobbled towards it and jumped on board as it was drawing away. I went and sat by a middle-aged woman with a shopping basket, even though there were spare seats, and looked back. There was no one there.

The bus went all the way to Vauxhall. I got off at Russell Square and went into the British Museum. I hadn’t been there since I was a child and it was all different. There was a great glass roof covering the courtyard and light flooded down on me. I made my way through rooms lined with ancient pottery, and rooms full of great stone sculptures and I saw nothing. I came to a room lined with vast, leatherbound books; some were on stands, opened at illuminated pages. It was softly lit and quiet. People, when they talked, talked in whispers. I sat there for an hour, gazing at the rows of books and seeing nothing. I left when it was closing time; I knew I couldn’t go home.