Lucy sighs. Then shrugs. ‘On foot it is, then.’
‘Urgh... I’ve got a breakfast meeting with new clients, like at seven thirty. And it’s Saturday! What kind of monsters schedule a breakfast meeting at half seven on a Saturday morning?’
‘It’s OK. I’m off tomorrow, I’ll take her.’ She hooks an arm under Gillian’s, hauling her upright. ‘We’re off to see the wizard. You ready?’
‘Mmmmnnnt. Everything... tastes... tastes funny...’
‘And whose fault is that?’
Mandy leans in and kisses Lucy on the cheek. ‘Thanks, babe, I owe you, OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
She stays there, watching as Mandy hails another taxi, clambers in the back, and drives off into the night.
‘Right, you drunken monkey, let’s get you home.’
You’d think, at this time on a Friday night, there would be more people going about. Instead the street is deserted, just a black-and-white cat prowling its way between the parked cars. Trees line the road, casting rippling shadows as their leaves block out the streetlight one moment only to let it through the next, like scrambled Morse code signals from the great beyond.
Gillian has her head on Lucy’s shoulder, leaning on her as they walk-stagger down Newman’s Lee. ‘I love you, I really do. You’re my best... best friend.’
‘You’re only saying that so I don’t abandon you.’
‘No! No, you’re my best friend.’
The junction with Camburn Walk looms up ahead in the undulating darkness.
‘Remember... remember when... when Steve left?’ Pronouncing his name as if it was a venereal disease. ‘And... and he took everything. He took... took everything, Lucy! Even Mr Rumples! What... what kind of... sick... sick bastard takes a... takes a person’s dog?’
‘He was a dick.’
‘He was a dick.’ A little whimpering sound makes its way out of her, escaping into the night. ‘I loved him so... so much, and he... he took my doggie.’
‘Come on, we’re nearly home.’
‘And you... and you found out where... where he was staying.’ Gillian swings out her spare arm, hand curled into a claw. ‘And... and you went over... over there... and you got... you got Mr Rumples back.’ She pulls her claw down hard, as if she’s ripping the testicles off a very tall gentleman. ‘And kicked him in the nuts!’
‘I didn’t kick him in the nuts, Gillian. He fell down and injured himself.’ Honest, officer.
‘Pow!’ Pausing to lash her foot out. ‘Right in the nuts!’
‘No: because that would be assault, and I didn’t...’ Lucy freezes. Is that footsteps? Behind them? But when she whips her head around to check, there’s no one there.
So why is that familiar feeling back? The one that crops up every time she walks down a street at night. The one that came free with being born female. Like pins and needles, prickling out across the base of her neck.
Like she’s being watched.
Dark street, late at night, not too far from Castle Hill Infirmary — the sort of place a certain kind of man would think is a good hunting ground for nurses. Where you can sneak up on them and do what you like.
‘Come on, Gillian, let’s get a shift on, eh? Could murder a cup of tea.’
‘Sod... sod tea.’ But she starts moving again. ‘I’ve got... nice bottle of... bottle of vodka from... from a very grateful-to-be-alive... patient. We’ll put... put on some music... and... and dance all night!’ A rattling burp. ‘And... and we don’t have to shhhhh...’ — finger to her lips — ‘cos no one’s bought... bought poor old Mr Rayburn’s house yet.’
‘Great. Let’s do that.’ Lucy picks up the pace, works her spare hand into her jacket pocket and grabs hold of her keys. Fiddling with them until one pokes out between each finger in her clenched fist.
There’s the sound of footsteps again. Speeding up now. Getting closer.
She swings around onto Gillian’s street. Twin terraces of sandstone townhouses face each other across the wide stretch of tarmac, big pavements, small front gardens, expensive cars. More trees. Not just on either side — the looming mass of Camburn Woods lurks at the end of the road. About as inviting as a fairy-tale wolf.
She keeps her voice low. ‘Come on, Gillian, faster. We’re almost there.’
Number six is just up ahead, a little light glowing above the door. The houses on both sides are empty — the one on the right crawling with scaffolding, a skip sitting outside, full of rubble where the contractors have ripped the building’s guts out. The one on the left lies in darkness, just a drooping for-sale sign to mark the death of its owner. All the other homes have their curtains shut, blinds drawn, letting light and life leach out. Which means no witnesses. No one to help.
Almost there.
The footsteps are so close now, she can almost feel the rasp of his breath on the back of her neck.
‘Up the stairs, quick, quick!’ Hauling Gillian up the six steps to the front door. ‘Keys. Keys!’
‘I can’t find them!’ She fumbles through her pockets, dropping things to ping and clatter on the stone.
A footstep on the stairs behind them.
Lucy spins around, shoving Gillian behind her. Drops into the fighting stance they taught her at Officer Safety Training.
It’s the man from the Fisher King. Not the arsehole — the one in the suit.
He stops where he is, hands up, eyes wide as he clocks the makeshift knuckleduster in her raised fist. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ Backing away a couple of paces. ‘Your friend dropped this at the pub.’ Holding up a bulging tatty purse. ‘I’m...’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I know this isn’t the best way to make a good impression, and normally I wouldn’t chase after women on dark streets, but her address was inside and her keys, and I thought if I caught you then you wouldn’t have to break in...’ He licks his lips. ‘I did shout, but you didn’t seem to hear me.’ His cheeks darken in the jaundiced streetlight. ‘I’ve kind of made an arse of this, haven’t I? Sorry.’ Clears his throat. ‘Didn’t mean to make you think... Yes.’ He offers Gillian the purse. ‘Sorry.’
Lucy lowers her key-studded fist as Gillian unlocks the door. ‘It’s just, we thought you were—’
‘I know, I’m an idiot. And kicking myself right now.’
The door swings open and Gillian staggers inside. ‘It’s my birthday. Vodka, vodka, vodka, vodka...’
He tries for a smile. ‘Think your friend’s going to have a very sore head in the morning.’
‘Oh, like a complete beartrap.’ Lucy smiles back. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s Neil, by the way. Neil Black.’
‘It was nice of you to return her purse, Neil, we—’
His fist smashes into Lucy’s cheek, sending her stumbling back over the threshold to crash down onto the tiled hallway floor as the world screams and jagged shapes writhe in the darkness.
‘Yeah.’ He steps in after her. Closes the door behind him. Locks it. ‘Let’s see if we can find a way for you both to thank me.’
22
Silence reigned supreme. Not so much as a breath to break the weight bearing down on Lucy’s chest as she lay on Dr McNaughton’s dusty old sofa.
Then a rattle of jewellery as he shifted in his seat.
Then more silence.
Lucy cleared her throat. ‘If you say, “And how did that make you feel?” I’m going to come over there and break your knees.’
She shifted on the couch, setting free another plume of dancing dust motes. ‘How does that make me feel.’
Thumped her head back against the cushion a couple of times.