Ms Shearer’s skirt was where she had left it this morning. The tiny fragments she had cut from the inside of the hem had soaked all day without the slightest alteration in the colour; a successful experiment showing that this solvent was safe for the rest. The light in here was bright and the bare room was cold and cheerless after the warmth upstairs, despite the sweet antiseptic smell. The lace cleaned yesterday was dry. The skirt hung like a brilliant flag. She took a last look round, thinking the holiday is over, the work will be coming back soon.
The newly cleaned, de-infested teddy bears sat where they had sat drying for days. Angel’s old teddy bears, to be restored for Mum and Dad, if they wanted them, now nice and dry. She looked closer.
The teddy bears had no eyes.
She remembered Angel taking out the eyes. She went back upstairs and turned the music on, loud.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Later than midnight and the music had stopped.
Wake up, old man, wake up. Talk to me.
He had been pirouetting round the polished floor and then he had fallen. Marianne had liked salsa; the Lover did not care for it himself, and could not remember why he was trying to remember the few steps she had taught him, pleased with himself that he did. Oh, so clever. He had staggered, recovered enough to career across the room until he hit the bed and sprawled on it, still dizzy. Mildly shocked, with his heart not even pounding until he opened his eyes, minutes or seconds later, and saw that man leaning over him in double vision. An awful coat, pushed up to the elbows, as if he had something to do which should not be done while wearing an overcoat, like dancing.
Where’s her stuff, old man? Where is it? What do you know?
A voice in the background saying, come away. What are we doing here anyway?
It’s your sister’s shag. Where’s her stuff, you old bastard?
A face, too close to his own, spittle on his skin, angry, shouting in a low octave no one would hear, as if anyone would hear. The distant music, and his own voice, his Loverly, mellifluous voice saying, go away, you silly little man, in his best accents, using his hand to push that other body, his fist encountering solid muscle.
Confused now, beginning to be afraid but not enough to mask his contempt for anyone who came into this place without an invitation, the Lover sat up wearily, then turned his head to the other person in the room, the one he sensed, rather than saw, and said, ‘Who is this clown?’
‘Don’t,’ the figure said, knowing something he did not. ‘Don’t provoke him.’
There was a disgusting smell of stale beer.
‘Where’s her stuff, old man? That bloke came from Noble to find it, didn’t he? I followed him, and now he’s gone home, and you’re on your own.’
Desperately awful, dear, but easy on the eye. Dress sense? Unbelievable.
Her stuff, where’s her stuff? Where’s her paperwork? Where’s the stuff she was going to put in a book? If you haven’t got it, where is it?
Spitting the words; gobs of spit landing on the Lover’s face.
Stop shouting at me.
Look, I’m Marianne’s dearest. She loved me, old man, she loved me. I want my legacy, and he wants his money, all of it, not some of it, do you hear me?
Marianne loved you? How ridiculous.
He found the thought of Marianne touching this creature amusing. She would despise you. She did, didn’t she? She would despise you both.
He thought it, he might have said it, whatever he said, his voice sounded high and shrill to his own ears and he felt as if he had fallen not on to his own soft couch, but down into a pit from which he would never arise. A huge hand slapped him into silence, cutting off contemptuous laughter.
Tears sprang into his eyes and he roared, You stupid little prick.
He, they, left him then. He could hear them, banging around the room, pulling open drawers. He heard a glass smash, then another, the noise of the fruitless search of someone who did not know what they were searching for, sensing the one pulling the other back, somehow smelled the presence of rage and caution and the rattle of breathing which might have been his own. He sat on the side of the bed where they had lain, countless times, let the spittle remain on his face, refusing to wipe it away in the same manner he and she had let the sweat dry in its own time. Oh, he had been proud of her, once, why had he never said it? The same face loomed over him. Write it down, the voice commanded. Write down where everything is. The notepad from his briefcase was held in front of his eyes. He nodded.
He took hold of his own pen and wrote in large, shaky letters, NOT PETER. Then he let go of the pen, and pulled the man’s hair, hard, holding a fistful of it, and not letting go although the texture disgusted him, grabbing it for purchase as he butted him on the forehead, twice, still not letting go until he felt drops of blood on his face. He had known how to fight, once. Then he let go. He felt the hands circle his neck, almost without surprise, heard again that distant shouting and let himself go limp.
He was aware of nothing much now, except that it had been a mistake to laugh, and he was face down on the bed with his buttocks exposed, and a searing pain as something sharp ground into soft flesh.
One voice said, make it look like a rent boy didn’t get paid. Another voice pleading, no, no, stop. The sound of retching and whining. No music.
He laughed at me. He hit me first.
Then… silence. Pain and silence and only the sound of his own breathing. Focusing his thoughts on something else, the way he did to maintain control, never letting anything drift. Controlling his mind the way he had ever since he was a boy and lost everything. Remembering what she had said once, if you’re ever going to get murdered, make sure they leave their DNA all over you. Such unequivocal evidence. He was faintly proud of writing NOT PETER, as if the DNA wasn’t enough to exonerate the person who had not done this. She had liked the boy, would never have wanted him implicated, shame she had never had a son. However unnecessary the writing had been, it was still a nice touch and the least he owed her. Were they sent by her to kill him, or had it been entirely unintended?
If he moved now, he might bleed to death. It would be better to lie still and wait for someone to come. He decided to move, all the same, because he could not bear the thought of anyone finding him like this.
Undressed.
January 12. Morning
The cold was intense, as raw and grey as it ever became, with a fierce wind tugging at coats. Snow was forecast and the arrival would be a relief. People scurried on to the train and did not want to get off. They were cross and defenceless because close-packed streets and ordinary clothes were not keeping them either safe or warm. Peter Friel was glad he had not been born in a city. The very idea that it sheltered you was just another illusion. He had been born a country boy, sent out to school in sensible vests, and it still amazed him when Londoners reacted to cold, ice and snow as if it had never happened before.
It was another emasculating lack in himself not to own a car, since a non-car-owning male was far less useful or desirable, he was told, but he hated cars and loved the thinking times provided by trains. He could retreat into his own skull on public transport, even when hemmed in by other bodies; he could read or think even when hanging from a strap in a swaying carriage or he could lose himself in watching. His father said if Peter could speculate on investments the way he did on crowd observation, he might make his family rich. No chance of that. Peter felt almost childish and irresponsible on a train and he was looking forward to seeing the sea, as if this was a holiday. He allowed that anticipation to overcome the seriousness of the mission and his profound disappointment with all of them. Because of a terse, hardly informative phone call from Thomas Noble, he was angry with Hen for not trusting him with whatever she was prepared to take to Noble herself and he was relieved that she had been, in Thomas’s brief words, sent home safe. He was angry with the Lover for being extraordinary; he was furious with Ms Shearer, QC for everything, including her own humiliations, and he was trying to preserve a little righteous anger with Hen’s parents whom he was, after all, going to see. He was irritated with himself for not knowing quite which way to turn, for not phoning Hen and deciding to do only what he had already promised to do today. He knew enough about law to know that it was usually best to concentrate on one thing at a time and to allow everyone to speak at their own pace, in their own time, especially if truth was required.