“And if it had worked?” Craig asked, unwilling to let it go. “What would it have been like?”
“Dull,” said Paul. “Nobody ever gets that. But it's true. You wait for hours sometimes and you have to keep glancing around just in case anyone's clocked you or on the off-chance something might be happening. You have to have something to keep you awake too. I avoid coffee—it makes me want to piss. Usually, I take a novel. Keep reading, keep glancing. That's the trick. Then when whatever you want to happen
does
happen—
if
it does—then you get the buzz. Instinct kicks in. You get on with the job and get out as soon as you can. Unharmed if possible. And knowing that if you did well, then it's money in the bank and the satisfaction of a good result.”
“Hey, a lot like modeling then. And acting too.”
“Yes, you might be right. When's your next assignment anyway?”
“I'll have to call the agency to check it out later, but I think it's not ‘til next week. And there might be a one-off acting job coming up too. If I'm lucky. What about you?”
“All paperwork ‘til the finale this week,” Paul said with a sigh. “I'll try the
stake-out
again next week, depending on what the client says. The subject's very regular. Usually.”
Craig closed his eyes.
“Good,” he said. “In that case, I'll have to ring Mrs. E. Langley. See if she's willing to meet up.”
* * * *
It took him three attempts to make the call. He waited until everyone was out of the house as the thought of someone listening in to what he was saying was simply too much. The things he was
thinking
were too personal; never mind the things he'd be saying. He even hid in the bedroom. Bloody hell, he was such a wimp. The first time, he punched two of the digits Paul had given him before swearing and slamming the phone down on the bed.
He lay back and thought for a while. It came to him that his life—if he went through with this—might be about to change. Big time. Did he want it to? He was happy enough as he was: scraping a living with modeling work and the occasional acting job; ignoring enough of his past to enable him to have a present and maybe even a future; he had friends who accepted him for who he was now; and, most miraculous of all, he appeared to be at the beginning of a relationship with someone he fancied like crazy. Liked too. A lot. Why should he want to change things?
Taking a deep breath, Paul's face came into his mind. Craig didn't know a great deal about him—yet—but he knew enough to understand that if Paul had a problem he was the type to worry at it until he'd solved it. Something to do with his profession, yes, but something more to do with him.
As for Craig, for too long now he'd drifted. Taking things as they came, making the best out of them if they were bad and laughing at them if they were good. He felt that everything he'd done had been a reaction to something else. Or an attempt to avoid the past. Surely it was time to make a decision for himself. By himself. Even his father—whatever he was doing out there, damn him—was managing to make him jump in directions he hadn't chosen to. Bloody hell, at least it was Craig's choice—
his
—to search for Michael.
The second time Craig dialed Mrs. Langley's number, he reached the last digit before cutting the connection. It was like trying to ring Andrea all over again.
Coward, coward, coward
, he called himself and was about to go on saying it when he realized the voice in his head was his father's.
No.
When, this final time, the phone began to ring, he wondered where Mrs. Langley's phone was and even if she was there at all. At that number. He found himself hoping hard that it wouldn't go to an answering machine. That would be unbearable, and he'd be even shakier if he had to ring off and think of what message to leave before he rang again.
Please God, don't let it happen, please God
.
The sudden silence in his ear almost made him drop the mobile again but then he heard a woman's voice. A voice that took him deeper into the puzzle he was only just beginning:
“Good afternoon. Eva Langley speaking. May I help you?”
Funny how when things went according to plan, he never really expected it. Craig opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a tiny gulping noise.
Hell
, she was never going to want to speak to him—not when he couldn't even talk.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“H-hello,” he managed to reply, heart beating wildly. “Is that Mrs. Langley?”
Stupid,
stupid
. Of course it was. She'd just said so, hadn't she? But it gave him time to try to think what to do. And he needed that.
“Yes, speaking. Can I help?”
He shut his eyes. “Yes. I hope so. My name is ... is Craig Robertson. I knew your brother, Michael, Michael Harris, years back. I was hoping to get in contact with him again, and wondered if you knew where he might be?”
Hell, that was good. Even he was impressed. He hadn't had any idea beforehand what he might say to this woman. He half-wished now that he'd had an audience after all so they could have applauded his genius. Only half-wished though.
Mrs. Langley didn't reply at once. Of course she wouldn't though; he was being an idiot still, in spite of his delusions of genius. Michael was missing. Craig already knew this. He was only making things worse for her. Which was, though he knew it didn't look like it, the last thing he'd wanted.
“I'm sorry,” he began to say, but she was already talking.
“I think you should go. I don't know anyone called Craig Robertson. I know the names of all his friends. Michael never mentioned you. Please get off the line and don't call again.”
“But I.... “He tried to think of what to say that would make her listen. Something that would stop her from disconnecting the call. He knew he had only seconds before she would be gone, and he didn't know if he could find the courage to ring her again. “
Please
. You have to hear me out. I—”
“No. That's enough. I'm not listening to any more of this. If you call me again, I'll ring the police and—”
“Please,” he whispered, and God alone knew where the inspiration came from, but come it did. “I used to be called Daniel Clutton when Michael knew me. Seven years ago. He would have known me as Daniel. Please....”
A sharp sound in his ear. Somewhere between a gasp and a cry.
“Daniel,” she said.
“Yes.” And then it was as if the conversation they were having was not in the words at all.
“Then you'd better come and see us,” she whispered.
Chapter Eleven
She lived in Muswell Hill. Craig couldn't believe it. All this time, she'd been so close and he'd never known it. When he first moved to London, he'd looked at a hostel in Muswell Hill. Considered it even, before opting for one farther south. Later, when he was looking for flats, he'd wandered around here often enough, and where he lived now in Crouch End was almost next door. Maybe he'd even seen her, bumped into her, Michael's sister, and not known it.
It made him feel sick.
And still he couldn't acknowledge why. There was something else going on inside him and he couldn't acknowledge it. Not yet. He wanted to know that Michael was all right. He
needed
to know it. For a variety of reasons, none of which he could put into words. Least of all to himself. Craig wanted to help find Michael if he was still missing. If he could. After all, way too many people in his life were still missing and he didn't like it. Wasn't that after all Gay Rule Number Nine?
Always know where those you've loved end up or you might not know what's lurking ahead of you
. Or maybe that, like others of his rules, was for everyone now. These days the boundaries were merging.
The only thing he truly understood was that if he could see Michael now—have him stand before him and
be
there so that it couldn't be denied—then he'd be happy. He'd be happy and walk away. That would be enough. Because Craig didn't want to be with him again. No. Not in that way. In
that
way, he wanted to be with Paul. He hoped in the middle of all this, Paul realized that. He'd been generous with his time so far, but Craig had no guarantee how long that generosity would last. Neither could he blame Paul if it didn't.
For that reason, and for that reason alone, he was standing on his own in front of Mrs. Eva Langley's house in Muswell Hill—or, more accurately, lurking—and trying to scrape up the courage to ring the bell. It was Monday morning, the third week in January. He was bloody freezing.
He couldn't stay here forever or he'd die of frostbite at this rate, and he couldn't go back. The need to finish this wouldn't let him. So, cursing under his breath, he rang the bell.
Almost at once—as if the person he was ringing for had been waiting—the intercom crackled before a woman's voice drifted into the chilly air. The same voice as on the phone. Trying not to think too much, Craig gave his name—his old name—then mentioned the phone call and waited.
A silence as if Mrs. Langley was still making up her mind about him, and then the door catch was released.
“Come upstairs,” she said. “It's Flat Two.”
He found it on the first floor. The staircase up was wide and the cream walls hung with brightly colored prints. He recognized a Vettriano but that was all. And only then because it had been used as a backdrop to an advert he'd done years ago. Already, the place felt cared for in a way his Crouch End flat would never be.
The door was open when he arrived there, and a glance inside showed him a large bright living room strewn with toys and board games. Children, he thought. She has children. Then: Michael's an uncle.
The next moment, a woman stood in front of him. At the door. Behind her lurked a tall blond man, his expression grim. The woman was holding something in her hand he couldn't quite see. For a moment, Craig felt as if he were looking at Michael himself. Dark hair, brown eyes. The same face shape. But slighter than Michael had been, and with a feminine slant to everything that he had never had. He almost said Michael's name, then took a step backward before recovering himself.
Something of this must have shown in his eyes as Mrs. Langley's lips tightened. She stared at him for a long moment. Then finally she lifted her chin and spoke. Her words weren't what Craig was expecting at all.
“Did you kill him then?” she said. “Did you kill my brother?”
Craig blinked. He took a step back and swallowed. His skin felt hot and for a heartbeat or two the world around him faded out and back again.
“No,” he whispered, glancing downward. “No, I didn't.”
Another silence. Finally, she lowered whatever it was she was pointing at him and gestured him indoors. The blond man frowned but allowed him to enter. Walking past her, Craig caught a faint smell of oranges. He saw that the object in her hand was a bottle of Mace and he realized he was shaking. Once inside, she didn't close the door but left it half-open.
“It's all right, Jack,” she said to the man, who had to be her husband. “It's all right. I can deal with this now. It'll be fine.”
A moment of unreality passed as Craig and Jack shook hands.
“I'll be in the office,” Jack said. “Call if you need me.”
Eva Langley waited while her husband strode through the living room and disappeared through a door in the corner. Then she stared at Craig.
“You're very beautiful,” she said, “and so very young. I'm not sure I expected that. I used to think you might be a murderer, but my husband told me I shouldn't think in that way. He said it was pointless.”
Craig had no idea how to reply but she seemed to be waiting for an answer.
“I didn't know he has a sister,” he said.
For another long moment, there was silence, and he wondered where her children might be before realizing that of course they would be at school or being looked after by someone. She would want them out of the house for this meeting.
Then, to Craig's surprise, she smiled. But it was brief and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “No, he was never much of one for talking. And anyway I suppose you had other things to say.”
“You know about me then?” he asked.
“Yes. My brother sent a couple of postcards from his holiday all those years ago. He might not have been one for talking but he did like to write. He mentioned you. Both times, the second time in more ... enthusiastic terms.”
“I see.” He nodded. Though he didn't. Not really.
“You think I look like him, don't you?”
Her question came from nowhere and Craig was going to deny it, but something forced the truth out of him. “Yes.”
She nodded. “Everyone always said that. Michael used to groan when he heard it. People don't say it now of course. They haven't said it for a long time. Would you like a drink?”
He was having trouble keeping up with her sudden changes of subject and he wondered if she was in fact as nervous as he was, and this was why she was talking so much and so disjointedly. And why he himself was saying nothing.
“Water's fine. Just from the tap, thanks.”
While she disappeared, presumably to get the drink from the kitchen, Craig stood in the middle of the living room, not daring to sit. The toys he'd already spotted from the shared hallway were only part of what they had; a huge box of them dominated the wall near the television. It didn't look as if you could get much more in there. Not only that, but a rocking horse stood at the edge of the large picture window and he felt a twinge of jealousy. He'd always wanted one, but it had never happened. His father had told him rocking horses were for girls and not only that but they took a young boy's attention away from praying to the Lord, and that had been the end of it. Craig shook his head and looked away, nearly stumbling over the coffee table. It was strewn with papers and files, and when he picked one up he saw it was something to do with student recruitment and retention figures. It was branded with the University of London logo. Same business as Maddy then, though a different university.