Virtue (41 page)

Suddenly, the ladder pitches wildly just as I shift my weight. Momentarily, I lose my grip, slip, dangle, gasp as I watch myself fall, find that, after all, the survival instinct has kicked in and I’m hanging with both arms wrapped round the vertical. Kick around and find the crossbar, get feet onto the rung, stop and allow a single sob to escape before I take three deep breaths and look up. Harriet is on the ladder above me and heading at what feels like breathtaking speed in my direction. Damn it: it’s me that should be the little monkey, shinning up and down drainpipes without fear; instead Harriet, the lanky one, heads down the ladder with a confident athleticism that’s liable to trample me.

I start down again. See my bedroom window drift past, the room inside misty with a pall of black and choking smoke.

It takes a moment to register. My room. I’ve covered two floors. One more floor and I probably won’t die when I hit the ground. One more floor and I’m on quadriplegia. One more floor after that, maybe I’ll break a leg or two. And one more floor after that, an ankle sprain from an awkward dismount. I look up again as the ladder does a renewed flail, see Mike’s big feet appear at the top, Harriet still bearing down on me, close my eyes again, go down.

Foot, foot, hand, hand. Just keep going. You’re almost there. And I swear, I will never make you hang over a height again. No parachuting, no hang-gliding, no microlights, no abseiling. Your feet stay on the ground from now on.

I put out my foot to find another rung, and find thin air. Grope again, nothing. Oh, God, what
now
? Don’t look down. Don’t be stupid, I have to look down. You can’t be too far off now. I open my eyes, peer over my arm and, with a rush of relief, realise that there’s no rung because, three feet below where I’m standing, is the tainted earth of my industrial garden. I’m there.

I jump. Collapse to my knees and very nearly do a Pope John-Paul with the ground. Look up to see where the others are and discover that they’ve stopped. In fact, Harriet seems to have started ascending. She’s come up against Mike somewhere around the fifth floor. He’s looking down, she’s looking up and they seem to be arguing. He shakes his head. She nods vigorously, the bottom of the ladder where I’m standing whipping frantically from side to side. Again he gestures refusal and suddenly she starts up the ladder towards him again. Then he takes a hand off a rung, pushes a palm at her face. For a few seconds they are still, then Harriet begins to make her way earthward while, to my astonishment, Mike begins to ascend. What is going on? What the hell is going on?

He gets to the top, swings a leg up and over and bounds out of sight. Harriet is passing my room now, working her way methodically down: hand, hand, foot, foot, never a pause.

When she’s at first-floor level, he reappears on the railing, and he seems to be wearing my black rucksack on his back. And when he swings back out, I see that the rucksack is moving. Not just moving: jumping about angrily on his back, wriggling, thumping outwards against the tightly fixed straps like John Hurt’s chest in
Alien
, evidently throwing him off balance.

Henry
. Oh my God, I forgot Henry.

Harriet jumps to earth beside me, looks up, rubbing chafed hands together. ‘Has he got him?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’ Thank God he’s got strong arms. The bag is now jumping about like – like what? – like a cat in a sack, of course. They used to sell brilliant wind-up toys called cat in a sack on street corners in Covent Garden a couple of years ago: a sack with a big ginger tail sticking out, that rolled and wriggled just like Henry is doing now. As they pass the two-storey mark, a long yellow leg emerges from beneath the flap at the top of the bag, swats a couple of times with the claw at Mike’s ear. Henry’s furious head follows, and a yowl of pure rage pours down upon us.

‘Oh, Christ,’ says Harriet. ‘He’s going to jump.’

Henry breaks free from his confinement, and it’s only when his hindquarters get loose that he seems to realise that he’s not in a position to be fighting. He looks startled, scrabbles at the air in front of him a couple of times, and then a furry tummy and four straight-as-dowels legs are heading full-plummet for my upturned face.

I duck. He hits my back with a perceptible
doof
, knocks me sprawling to the ground, bounces, rolls, leaps to his feet. If ever a cat was glad of nine lives, it’s not Henry right now. He stands on tiptoe, tail like a pine cone, back arched in fear and fury, and shrieks the C-word at us through bared and howling gnashers.

‘CAAAANT!’ he howls. And then he shoots off as if his tail’s on fire and disappears into the boat sheds.

Mike clambers down the last few steps, jumps to the ground and, hand clapped over a torn and bleeding ear, lets off a few expletives of his own. ‘Never,
ever
again!’ he yells, jabbing a finger at Harriet. ‘Next time your cat wants saving, he can fucking
burn
!’

I have to say, he looks magnificent. If you ever want to see what a magnificent man looks like, try finding one who’s swearing his head off after saving the life of your moggy.

‘And if you ever,
ever
try to tell me that there’s nobody after your hide,’ he shouts, ‘I’ll come round and set fire to you myself!’

There are police everywhere. Police in uniform, police with bomber jackets zipped up to the collar jingling change in their pockets, policewomen conducting by-the-book checks on our need for counselling, police swabbing our fingernails, police taking photographs, police writing laboriously in notebooks, police standing with their arms folded in reflective jackets in front of the gate to attract attention to the fact that there’s been an incident behind it, police milling about going ‘sierra tango bravo F-U Roger?’ into radios, police just generally milling about. Burglars throughout the region must be cracking open the champagne.

It’s a warm night, but someone following form has produced thermal blankets and insisted on wrapping us in them. Every time one of us tries to shed our covering, someone comes along and hitches it back up over our shoulders. The yard stinks of wet cinders and lock-water. The front door no longer exists apart from a few shards of soggy charcoal and some heat-twisted studs that have dropped, one by one, into the pile of ash on the ground. Behind it, the stairway gapes black and oily; there’s been some puzzlement about the volume of smoke involved until word gets around about the popcorn, the tin of varnish and the bag of moulding resin that were sitting on the stairs. Then the post-facto wisdom of the fire service points out that flammable materials are generally best kept stored where they aren’t going to catch fire. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I don’t think we were expecting someone to pour a can of petrol through the letter box and chuck a burning rag in after it.’

I’m calm in all this milling about: calm but hacked off because no one will let me back up the stairs until the forensic people have finished their stuff, and until I’ve been upstairs I can’t see what that thick black smoke has done to my belongings. At least my credit card was in the side pocket of the rucksack, magnetic strip facing away from Henry’s offended claws.

But then something happens to break my calm. Harriet has been the centre of a huddle of men in bomber jackets for the past ten minutes, Mike Gillespie talking solemnly among them, frowning, listening, rejecting. Lost in thoughts of my antique chenille bedcover and the vulnerable brocade on the curtains, it’s only when Mike breaks away and approaches me that I even notice, really.

And when he gets to me, he says, ‘We’re taking Harriet to a place of safety. Everyone thinks it’s for the best.’

‘Okay,’ I reply, and make to follow him, but he says, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just Harriet.’

And all in a rush, I’m in a panic. It’s like someone’s thrown a bucket of freezing water over me. ‘You can’t be serious.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m sorry. My superiors are under the impression that she’s the one who’s at risk, and they want to get her out of here as soon as possible.’

No. You’re kidding. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do without Harriet? Christ. ‘And I can’t come with her?’ I ask feebly, because suddenly my voice has gone weak, like my knees.

‘No. I’m sorry. It’s just her.’

Harriet is arguing with one of the bomber jackets, shaking her head vigorously and pointing at me as he gestures to squad car parked on the other side of the lock. He tries to take her arm and she shakes it off with the irritation of someone brushing away a bothersome insect, and then she actually stamps her foot. Finally, she marches over in our direction, her attendant reluctantly following.

‘Anna, I’m sorry,’ she practically shouts when she gets within five paces. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Where are they taking you?’

‘They say I’m not allowed to say.’

‘You’re kidding.’

She throws a poisonous look at bomber jacket, who looks glumly back.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not allowed to tell
anyone
.’

‘But this is
me
!’

‘Can’t she come too?’ Harriet pleads to bomber jacket, but he simply shakes his head. ‘
Why
can’t she come? What’s she supposed to do?’

Bomber jacket addresses me. I don’t like him. He has a big moustache and little beady eyes like a chipmunk. ‘I’m afraid that Lady Harriet is our primary concern at the moment. We have to ensure her safety.’

‘But why can’t you tell me where you’re taking her?’

I am assailed by an extraordinary combination of emotions: confusion, fear, anger, frustration, a wish to protect my friend. Harriet and I have never not known what the other one was up to for more than twenty-four hours in ten years. We look after each other. That’s what we’re there for.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replies. ‘It would hardly be a place of safety if we told everybody where it was, would it?’

Patronising tosser. ‘Why can’t I come?’

‘You can’t.’ Blunt, dismissive. He starts to pull Harriet away by the arm. And that’s when I really panic. I start shouting. Screaming, almost. ‘What are you
doing
? Where are you taking her? Harriet!’

And Harriet is dragging back against him, wide, frightened eyes fixed on my face. ‘Anna!’ she shouts. ‘Oh, God, leave me
alone
! Anna!’

I turn to Mike, realise that he’s not the one with the power, turn to the man in the bomber jacket, start to plead. It feels as though I’m pleading for my life. ‘But you don’t understand! What am I going to
do
? I’ve lost everything! Everything! I don’t have anywhere to go! What am I going to
do
?’

‘I suggest,’ he replies, ‘you check into a hotel for the time being. We’ll let you know when we no longer need you.’

Oh my God. ‘Do you think I’m part of this? Is that what this is about?’

He looks at me impassively, says nothing. Won’t even commit himself, the bastard. Just leaves me with the mute accusation.

Now I’m shouting, ‘You’ve got to be joking! What are you thinking?’ and Harriet is shouting too, ‘What are you
on
? You can’t be serious! Haven’t you paid any attention at
all
? She’s had as much happen to her as me, for God’s sake. She’s been here all the time!’

What the hell am I meant to feel now? I’ve been burgled, beaten, burnt and now I’m guilty? This is too much. This is too bloody much. As he pulls Harriet down the path towards the lock, I can’t stop the rage and the horror from hauling itself out. I clench my fists, close my eyes and let out a scream.

She breaks away from his hand, runs back up the path, throws herself on me. We cling together, thumping hearts, tears bursting hotly, and she cries, ‘I don’t think it! It’s not me! It’s not me! Anna, it’s not me!’

Hands prise us apart and Mike Gillespie is holding me round the shoulders while bomber jacket and a uniformed policewoman pull Harriet by the wrists. ‘It won’t be for long,’ she yells. ‘I promise. I’ll be back. I won’t leave you!’ and I’m sobbing without let, choking on my anger and my grief. Harriet is helped into the back seat of the car, people get in all around her and she’s driven away, her white face staring at me through the back window.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Mike says quietly. ‘I promise I’ll look after her.’

But now I don’t care. I’m crying for myself now. ‘Fuck you,’ I sob at him. ‘Just damn you to hell, you fucker. Screw you into the fucking ground. What about me? What am I going to do? I don’t have
anything
.’

He lets me go, comes round to face me and takes my arms. Dips down to look into my face. ‘You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine. Don’t lose it now, Anna. You’ll be okay. I’ll take you to a hotel and get you sorted out, and you’ll be
okay
.’

‘I don’t want you. I don’t want you. You think I—’

‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘No I don’t. I’ve seen you and I know you and I believe that you don’t have anything to do with this. They just have to play it safe, Anna. Calm down. It will be okay.’

‘Don’t tell me to calm down. You total, total bastard. You’ve done this on purpose, you bastard.’

And he just takes it, lets me cuss him out and scream invective. And when I start to slow, he puts a kind arm round my shoulders and I let him lead me through the gates to his car, which is still parked beneath the intercom, and buckle my seatbelt obediently when he tells me. An officer in a luminous jerkin looks at me curiously through the windscreen. Oh, look. There goes the suspect. I make a face and he waves us off.

Mike says, ‘You’ll be fine for tonight. What are you going to do after that?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I can’t go home, can I?’

He shakes his head. ‘That’s going to be out of action for a while. And to be honest, I’m not sure how safe you’d be there anyway. Is there anywhere else you can go? Maybe you should get out of London for a bit.’

‘I’m wanted for questioning,’ I say sulkily.

He makes a sort of pffft noise. ‘Don’t be dramatic. I’ll sort that out. But I think it might do you good, if nothing else. Is there anywhere you can go?’

In my pocket, my phone beeps. I get it out, look miserably at it. There’s a little envelope in the top left-hand corner. I pull up the text menu.
Harriet mob
it says. The message is short, left in a hurry.