She wanted more.
She wanted out.
Of course, she knew what people would say: you’re just emotional, dear. It’s bound to be upsetting, something like this. And it was. Oh, Jesus sweet Christ almighty, it was. Yet she felt more powerless and aimless than ever. She’d told her story to all the charities, she’d done her bit talking to the taxi drivers, but what was left? She knew there must be something she hadn’t tried, but couldn’t think what. All she knew was, this was where she had to be.
Now that she had a feel for the city, she enjoyed the walk to Marchmont. The steep climb up Cockburn Street, full of ‘alternative’ shops — some of them had even taken her flyers. Then up the High Street to George IV Bridge, and down past libraries and bookshops to Greyfriars Bobby. Past the university and the milling students, carrying books with them or pushing their bicycles. Then The Meadows, flat and green and with Marchmont rising in the distance. She liked the shops near Johnny’s flat; liked the tenement itself and all the streets around it. The roofs seemed to her like castle turrets. Johnny said the area was full of students. She’d always imagined students living in poorer places.
She opened the main door and climbed to Johnny’s landing. There was mail behind his door. She picked it up, took it through to the living room. It looked like bills and junk; no real letters. No photos in his living room; gaps in the wall-units which she would have filled with ornaments. Books tidied away into piles: before she moved them, they’d been lying everywhere. There was a time Brian wouldn’t have stood for it if she’d moved his stuff around; these days, he probably wouldn’t even notice. Johnny had noticed when she’d tidied up, but she wasn’t sure he’d been pleased, even though he’d said ‘Thanks.’
She took mugs, plate and ashtray through to the kitchen. Took a blanket from the sofa and put it on the bed in the spare room. When everything was to her satisfaction, she wondered what to do next. Clean the windows? With what? Make herself a cup of something? Listen to some music... when had she last sat down and listened to music? When had she last had time? She looked through Johnny’s collection. Pulled out an album — one of the first by the Rolling Stones. It looked the same copy he’d had when they’d been going out together. On the back she found an ink doodle: JLJ — Janice Loves Johnny. She’d put it there one night, wondering if he’d notice. He always liked to study his LP sleeves. And when he had noticed, he hadn’t been too thrilled, had tried taking a rubber to it. You could still see the smudge...
Summers in the café, long evenings with the Coke machine and the jukebox. Then a bag of chips, salt and vinegar. Maybe a film some nights, or just a stroll in the park. The youth club was run by the local church. Johnny hadn’t liked that; hadn’t been churchy. Yet here was a copy of the Bible, sitting alone on the mantelpiece. And other books that looked religious: The Confessions of St Augustine; The Cloud of Unknowing. She liked the sound of that last one. Lots of books, yet he didn’t seem much of a reader, and the books looked brand new, most of them.
His bedroom... she’d sneaked a peek in there. Not the most inviting of rooms: mattress on the floor, clothes in piles in a corner, waiting to be decanted into the chest of drawers. Odd socks: what was it with men and odd socks? The whole flat had an unloved feel to it, despite some redecoration in the living room. His chair, positioned next to the bay window, phone on the floor next to it — the whole flat seemed to revolve around that one space. Kitchen cupboards: bottles of whisky and brandy and vodka and gin. More vodka in the freezer; beer in the fridge, along with cheese, marge, and an unpromising quarter of corned beef. Jars of beetroot and raspberry jam on the worktop, breadbin with two stale rolls and the heel of a loaf.
They said you could tell a lot about a man from his home. She got the feeling Johnny was lonely, but how could that be when he had the doctor, Patience whatser-name?
The doorbell. She wondered who it could be. Went and opened the door, not even bothering with the spy-hole. A man standing there, smiling.
‘Hiya,’ he said. ‘Is John in?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
The smile disappeared; the man checked his watch. ‘I hope he’s not going to stand me up again.’
‘Well, in his job...’
‘Oh, that’s true enough. You’ll know all about it, I suppose.’
She felt herself blushing under his gaze. ‘I’m not his girlfriend or anything.’
‘No? And here I was thinking he’d struck lucky, the old devil.’
‘No, I’m just a friend.’
‘Just good friends, eh?’ He tapped his nose. ‘You can trust me, I won’t tell Patience.’
Her blush spread. ‘We were at school, Johnny and me. Met up again recently.’ She was babbling, and knew it, but somehow couldn’t stop herself.
‘That’s nice: old friends getting together. Plenty to catch up on, eh?’
‘Plenty.’
‘I know the feeling. I was out of touch with John for years too.’
‘Really?’
‘Working in the States.’
‘How interesting. Were you there long...?’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry, I can’t keep you standing out there, can I?’
‘I was beginning to wonder.’
She opened the door wider, took a step back. ‘You better come in. My name’s Janice, by the way.’
‘You’ll laugh when I tell you my name. All I can say is, nobody consulted me.’
‘Why, what’s your name?’ Laughing now as he stepped past her into the hall.
‘Cary,’ he told her. ‘After the actor. Only I’ve never managed to be quite so suave.’
He was winking at her as she closed the door.
The flat was empty when Rebus got home, but he sensed someone had been there: things moved, things tidied. Janice again. He looked for a note, but she hadn’t left one. He took a beer from the fridge, then turned on the hi-fi. The Stones: ‘Goat’s Head Soup’. On the album cover, David Bailey had photographed them with their made-up faces covered by some diaphanous material, making Jagger look more feminine than ever. Rebus turned the volume down and called Alan Archibald’s number. Nobody home but the answering machine. Archibald’s voice sounded clipped and distant.
‘It’s John Rebus here. A simple message: ca’ canny. A taxi driver picked Oakes up near your home. I can’t think of any other reason he’d have been in the neighbourhood. He’s also been in my street. I don’t know what his thinking is, maybe he just wants to rattle us. Anyway, consider yourself forewarned.’
He put down the phone. Forewarned is forearmed, he thought, wondering how Alan Archibald would arm himself.
He turned up the volume, sat by the window and stared out at the opposite tenement. The kids were home from school, playing at their living room table. Some card game, it looked like. Happy Families maybe. Rebus had never been much good at that. When he turned from the window, he saw a shape in the doorway.
‘Christ,’ he said, putting a hand to his chest, ‘don’t do that to me.’
‘Sorry,’ Janice said, smiling. She raised a carton of milk for him to see. ‘You were running out.’
‘Thanks.’ He followed her through to the kitchen, watched her put the milk in the fridge.
‘Did you forget your appointment?’ she asked.
‘Appointment?’ Rebus was thinking: doctor? Dentist?
‘You stood your friend up. He was round here an hour ago. I went with him for a coffee.’ She tutted at Rebus’s fecklessness.
‘You’ve lost me,’ he said.
‘Cary,’ she told him. ‘The two of you were going out for a drink.’
Rebus felt his spine turn cold. ‘He came here?’