He stopped to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around him to get his bearings, then set off up the street which led to the metro station. He hadn’t seen me; he was, I thought, too preoccupied to notice. There was the rattle of a train and through the arch in the station building I saw it pull up to a stop. It was one of the brightly painted ones, advertising a chain of garden centres. Howdon put on a spurt of speed towards the ticket machines though he must have realized he didn’t have a hope of catching it. The doors opened and a horde of people pushed out. There was a school party, a group of five- and six-year-olds in bright red polo shirts shepherded by teachers and parents. It took them a long time to leave and perhaps Howdon could have caught the train if he’d had the right change for the machine, but now he hung back, content to watch. I followed his eyes and saw, framed by the metro doors, Ronnie Laing.
I was astounded. He must be here to see Howdon, but what could the two men have in common? I had found it hard to believe that Ronnie had been a friend of Philip’s. This connection made even less sense.
Ronnie looked cool and dapper waiting for the sea of red, chattering children to allow him through. I stood for a moment, trying to gauge my reaction to him. No excitement. No desire to touch him. That infatuation had been part of the illness, as I’d suspected. There was something disappointing in the coolness of my response. Did it mean that if I continued with the treatment I’d never be excited by a man again? I was still brooding about that when I realized how exposed I was, and turned quickly and walked away down a street which faced directly onto the station. On the corner was an old-fashioned launderette with huge cream machines, and posters for washing powder which looked as if they’d been there for forty years. There was a long window which gave a clear view of the station façade. An elderly woman, so shrivelled she was as small as a monkey, must have been in charge of the place. She was asleep on a chair behind a Formica counter. She breathed gently and regularly, like a baby sleeping. When I went in her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t wake. No one else was there.
Howdon had been looking out for Ronnie Laing. A meeting had been arranged. I could see that at once. They shook hands. It wasn’t like friends meeting. They kept a distance between them. I couldn’t hear anything that was said and it’s possible, I suppose, that I’d got the body language all wrong, but I don’t think so. My impression was that Howdon wanted something from Ronnie. He was the supplicant and Ronnie was listening, not liking what he heard, and starting to become agitated.
The conversation lasted no more than ten minutes. They walked a little way towards me and sat on a wooden bench under some horse chestnut trees. Another train came in and my view was obscured for a moment by the passengers who sauntered out towards the town centre. When the crowd cleared they were still there. I don’t think anything had passed between them. Howdon’s briefcase was still at his feet. Ronnie was calmer now, almost impassive. His expression suggested that he was open to persuasion but that the argument had better be good. As I say, I could have been reading the encounter all wrong, but that was how it seemed at the time. Howdon was squirming, waving his hands, flexing his stubby, sausage-shaped fingers. Then he bent to open his briefcase. He took out a file which he handed to Ronnie. Ronnie read for a moment, handed the papers back and slowly nodded his head. Howdon didn’t respond immediately, then he seemed so relieved that I thought he was going to pull Ronnie towards him in a bear hug, like two Soviet politicians cementing a deal, but he only relaxed his face into a smile.
Ronnie stood up first. There was the sound of a train in the distance and he walked briskly to make sure of catching it. He didn’t break into a run, but it seemed as if he wanted to escape. Howdon shouted something after him. It could have been Good luck or Thank you. I couldn’t make it out. Ronnie frowned slightly, as if he thought Howdon was making a show of himself. The train pulled into the station and he walked on without looking back, without acknowledging the solicitor’s presence.
Howdon only got up then. He straightened his trousers and wiped imaginary specks of dirt from his suit. When he started back down the road towards the town, I left the launderette and followed. The old woman muttered something in her sleep as I opened the door.
He headed for the main street, where I’d first seen him. He was in less of a hurry now and stopped to take off his jacket. He held it over his shoulder by the collar. Very jaunty. He slowed down at the entrance to the alley where Nell and Dan had taken me, and I wondered briefly if the two events were connected, if he intended to meet up with them too. Instead he went into a florist’s and came out with a big bunch of roses. I imagined them as a peace offering for his wife. She was a woman who would need constant placating. His jacket was back on. It was beyond him to carry it and the briefcase and the flowers. He walked to a side street, where he’d parked his car. He put the roses carefully on the back seat and drove away. He had no suspicion that I’d been watching him. That gave me a feeling of power, but it was unsettling too. It was as if I were invisible, as if I didn’t exist.
Chapter Thirty-two
It’s dark and I long for the light more than I long to be out of the cell-like room. In the light I’d feel more in control of the situation. If I could see Nicky’s face, I’d judge his thoughts, his intentions.
As it is, I’m helpless. There is nothing I can do. He can sense every movement. I open my mouth to speak, but before the words come out, he whispers, ‘Shut up.’
The footsteps return. Someone is opening every door on the corridor and calling to the kids in turn, ‘Is Lizzie Bartholomew there?’
I recognize the voice. It’s Maggie, one of my colleagues. She has cropped hair and big glasses. She sounds slightly worried, but there’s no panic in her voice. This is reassuring. I can almost believe it’s all a big mistake, a practical joke which will soon be over. Her footsteps come closer.
Nicky pulls me back into a sitting position. The knife is still against my left breast. His breath comes in small shallow pants.
The footsteps stop outside his door. I imagine Maggie’s hand reaching for the knob.
‘Don’t come in.’ After the sinister whispers I hear his words as a defiant shout.
‘Nicky.’ Now Maggie is panicking, but she tries not to let on. ‘Have you got Miss Bartholomew in there?’
‘If you come in, I’ll kill her.’
We both know it’s true. He’s killed once. He’s looking for an excuse to kill again.
He moves the knife suddenly. I feel it like a bee sting. A thin trickle of blood runs down my breast and dries, almost immediately. I begin to sob.
The next time I saw the main players of the day in Whitley – Nell and Dan, Ronnie and Howdon – they were all together in the same place, a coincidence which only added to my sense of the surreal and fuelled my fantasies. I admit now that I was losing my grip on reality. At night my theories to explain the deaths of the two boys grew wilder and more paranoid. I saw a spider’s web of cause and effect, individuals all monsters and all interrelated. In the morning I’d wake exhausted and my dreams seemed ridiculous. The flashbacks were vivid and real.
I decided at the last minute to go to Wintrylaw, to the Countryside Consortium fund-raiser I’d seen advertised in the arts centre where Dan worked. There wasn’t any specific reason for the trip, though it did occur to me that Doreen the volunteer might be there and she might be persuaded to talk. At that time there was no planning to anything I did. I thought vaguely that Howdon and Ronnie Laing would be around, and hoped I might find out more about what they’d been plotting in Whitley Bay. I hadn’t worked out how I might get that information. I’d wing it as I went along. There was the possibility of seeing Dickon again too. I had an ambition to tell him jokes and make him laugh.