“Have you still got that photo?” he said. His mouth felt dry and he swallowed. There was a back-taste of onion and charcoal.
“What photo? The one of the guy outside the garage.”
He nodded, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t see him. “Yes,” he said. “Did you keep it?”
“What do you think? You know I love your stuff. What’s going on?”
He felt a surge of happiness, that she should treat him like a real artist, then fought to suppress it. “It’s just that, well, I think I saw the guy again, that’s all.”
“What d’you mean, you saw him again? How long ago?”
“The other day, in Manor Park Gardens. And then this evening, up by the clock tower. I think it was him, anyway. He was too far away for me to see him properly.”
The line went quiet, and for long awful seconds Kip felt certain she knew he was lying, that he was telling her only a small part of the truth. He pressed the phone hard to his ear, but all he could hear was his own breathing. When Sonia spoke again the sound was unnaturally loud.
“Can I tell you something, Eddie? Promise you won’t laugh?”
“’Course I won’t, Son. Just tell me, all right?” He wondered if she was about to dump him, although it didn’t sound like that from her voice. If you touch her I’ll kill you, he thought. You rat-faced bastard.
“He reminds me of someone. The guy.”
“Someone you know, you mean?”
“Not really.” She hesitated. “I think I saw him in a dream once. Only he wasn’t really a man, he was some kind of monster. He could kill people, just by looking at them. I had problems sleeping after that, for a while. My mum thought it was all to do with my periods starting.” She giggled, a light, tight sound that was not really like her. “It was ages ago now. I’d forgotten all about it until I saw the photo.”
“A monster?” He could hear his voice rising in pitch, and he knew he sounded as if he was about to explode with laughter, only it wasn’t that, it was the opposite. He felt like breaking down and telling her everything.
“Yes. You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not. So you reckon the guy in the photo is the guy from your dream?”
“Of course not. How could he be? They look the same, that’s all. Something about the cheekbones. And those glasses.”
“Like a rat.”
“That’s a strange way of describing it but I know what you mean.” She paused. “I put the photo away in a drawer. Do you mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. I wish you’d chuck it out, though, get rid of it.”
“I’m not binning your work over a stupid dream I had five years ago! The guy in the picture is just some guy anyway, he’s no one. I was just a bit freaked, that’s all.”
“You’ll keep the photo in the drawer, though, won’t you?”
“If that’s what you want. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Do you want me to come over tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was Saturday. Croft had said he would be busy over the weekend. Busy with what exactly? Kip found he didn’t want to think about it.
“You’d better, or I might kill you. We can go to the woods, if you want.”
Kip guessed what she meant, and felt himself blushing. “I’ll bring my camera,” he said absently. He remembered how she had looked the last time, afterwards, the yellow leaves in her red hair. If you could capture a moment like that then you were some kind of genius.
“Go home now,” said Sonia. “It’s getting late.”
“How did you know I was out?”
“I can hear the road, silly.”
“You’re magic, Son,” he said, and ended the call. On Lee High Road the buses sailed by like pirate ships, and from the gardens in Brandram Road there came a faint scent of honeysuckle. He realized it was night, real night, the bottomless tract of hours between dusk and morning. In his grandmother’s stories this had always been the time of the wilkolak.
He met Sonia off the 122 bus at the bottom end of Lee High Road, then they walked up Lee Park to Blackheath Village, where they caught the number 89 to Shooter’s Hill. Sonia had made a picnic: cheese sandwiches and flapjacks and orange juice. She had also brought a canvas holdall with a blanket in it. They spread the blanket under some trees and had sex again. It was better than the last time, different somehow, as if both of them had grown older overnight.
Neither of them mentioned the monster. Sonia talked about what might happen when they went away to college, and Kip supposed her need to make plans for them might have scared some people but it didn’t worry him. He found he liked it. He closed his eyes and drifted. A sweet breeze played with the leaves, and Kip found himself thinking that they were safe here, that Croft wouldn’t come to the forest, he was a city rat.
He was awakened by Sonia kissing him. She kissed him full on the mouth, pressing her lips carefully against his as if she meant to leave an imprint there, the way girls did with soldiers’ handkerchiefs in the old war movies.
“I want you to know that whatever happens, today was real,” she said. “That all of this really happened.” Her top half was still naked. Her hair trailed in the grass, like runners of flame about to start a brush fire.
“What do you mean?” Kip said. “What do you think’s going to happen?”
“Nothing,” Sonia said. “I’m just saying.”
He took some photos of her, just head shots. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes cast spider-leg shadows on the curves of her cheeks.
Kip knew that someone would have had to photograph Rebecca Riding; that if he were serious about forensic photography he might soon be having to photograph dead girls all the time.
When he arrived home that evening he found his parents were going to dinner at the Toklins’. His mother had put on a dress Kip knew his father liked to see her in: cream-coloured silk cut low at the front and covered in large pink roses. She seemed nervously excited, as if she and Andy had only just met, and her nervousness made her beautiful. She was perched on the edge of the sofa, painting her nails with gold varnish and watching the news.
“Where’s Dad?” Kip said.
“At the off-licence, I hope. He’s supposed to be buying a bottle of that Bulgarian Merlot Toke likes. Be quiet for a moment, Eddie, I want to listen.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“It looks like they’ve caught that maniac.”
Kip stared at the television. The photo fit of the monster was filling the screen. A man had been arrested and charged with the rape and murder of Rebecca Riding. The man’s name was Steven Jepsom and he was from Brownhill Road, Catford.
“Thank God for that,” Lynn said. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“We don’t know it’s him yet,” said Kip. “Not until he’s been convicted.”
He wished they would show a picture of Jepsom but Kip guessed it was illegal to put someone’s photo all over the news while there was still a chance they were innocent. He knew he should feel relieved but he somehow didn’t. He wanted to know if Jepsom looked like Croft. It occurred to him that Steven Jepsom might be Dennis Croft’s real name.
His mother glanced at him, her lips tightening.
“Aren’t you pleased? At least it’s some comfort for the family, knowing he’s behind bars at last.”
“I’m just saying,” Kip said. “I hope they got the right bloke, that’s all.”
Lynn frowned, and looked as if she were about to say something else, but at that moment Andy Kiplas returned from the off-licence. He had the bottle of wine under one arm, wrapped in a sheet of green tissue paper. The ends of the paper had been twisted into a fan shape.