The rank and fetid air hit me hard as soon as I pushed the door open. I whistled for the bloody dog again, but still he didn’t come. I took a deep breath and steeled myself against the foul smell, propped the street door open with my bags and slowly crept up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs I froze, my hand already sweating where I clutched the metal banister. I stared and stared, but I couldn’t quite absorb any of it.
‘Oh my God.’ My voice was a cracked and empty husk.
What lay before me was utter carnage – a car crash, a train-wreck of a living room. The flat destroyed, my world turned upside-down: ransacked by someone who could only mean me harm. Rubbish from the bin lay strewn across the kitchen floor, rotting vegetables, old teabags, meat-bones – worse. Alex’s painting of dawn over Waterloo Bridge was slashed to pieces above the fireplace; my framed photos smashed. Every book and CD had been pulled from the shelves and flung across the room; clothes were scattered all down the flight of stairs from the bedroom. I looked closer. No, not my clothes – my underwear.
And across the back wall, once a stark and brilliant white, were huge words: scrawled in that red paint again, looking like the letters had just bled:
I’M GETTING CLOSER
What was that smell? I could taste it in my mouth now, hot and meaty. I gagged as it pervaded every pore.
And then I heard a noise. My top lip went all clammy. ‘Digby?’ I whispered, but I couldn’t see him. There was a creak on the stair, followed by a footstep. My heart began to gallop faster.
What the hell did I do now? I looked around desperately; the bread knife was on the floor about five feet away. I made a lunge for it just as I heard another footstep.
Alex appeared on the stairs below me.
‘What the fuck’s happened here?’ He looked horrified. ‘And what the hell is this?’
In his hand he held an envelope, from which tumbled a stream of long black curls.
I burst into tears.
Once DI Fox had established that neither the roof-terrace nor the front door had been forced in any way, he wanted to know who had keys to the flat.
‘Only me and my dad. Oh, and Alex’s estate agent.’ I dried my tears fiercely and tried to drink the coffee Alex had brought me from the café across the road. I wanted to get the hell out of the flat as soon as possible, but I had to wait for Fox to finish his questions.
‘Estate agent?’ Fox crooked a sandy eyebrow.
‘It’s on the market with Costana and Mortimer.’ Alex looked shifty, towering over the smaller man. ‘But actually – the estate agent’s lost his keys, apparently. That’s why I called Maggie the other day.’
‘Lost them?’ The policeman frowned. ‘That’s not very professional, is it?’
‘Nothing to do with me, mate,’ Alex snapped.
‘I didn’t say it was, sir,’ Fox replied mildly.
‘He said they were in the office somewhere; they’d probably got mixed up with another set.’
‘So you don’t have keys any more yourself?’
‘No. I gave my last set back to Maggie, the others to Costana.’
‘Right. And what about you, Maggie?’
‘I’ve got a set, so has my dad. And there’s the set Alex gave me back. They’re in the bowl on the side.’
But they weren’t. The bowl my mother had made so many years ago was in tiny pieces, the phone ripped out of its socket, wires protruding like plastic guts. I felt like I’d been violated. I sipped my coffee miserably; it tasted as bitter and foul as I felt. ‘Can I go now? I’d really like to get out of here.’
DI Fox smiled patiently. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll help you clean up.’ Sifting through the debris, Alex picked up a pair of frilly pink knickers he’d once much admired. The crotch had been completely ripped out. ‘Nice.’
‘Oh God.’ I stared at the flimsy bit of silk. ‘This is doing my head in.’
‘Can you leave everything alone, sir, please,’ Fox’s blonde Detective Sergeant interjected, ‘until the SOCOs have done their stuff.’
‘The SOCOs.’ Alex dropped the knickers back on the ground. ‘Right. Sorry.’
‘Have you seen the dog?’ I asked Alex.
‘No. Not since I got here.’
‘Can you go and call him?’ I said urgently, peering out of the window onto the street below.
Alex shrugged. ‘Sure.’
‘Just one minute, sir,’ Fox apprehended him. ‘I just wondered – you and Ms Warren are no longer an item, are you?’
‘No, we are no longer “an item”.’ Rudely, Alex mimicked Fox’s cockney accent. Fox drew himself up to his full height, which was still way below Alex.
‘So what were you doing here this morning?’ the policeman asked him in a neutral tone.
‘I’d come to get the keys. For the estate agent. And to pick up the rest of my stuff.’
‘And what stuff might that be?’ Fox glanced round.
And it was only then that I noticed the two boxes of Alex’s junk which I’d packed up in misery the other night were still by the door.
‘There,’ I mumbled, pointing at the still sealed and apparently untouched cardboard cartons, Alex’s name scrawled on both.
Our eyes were all drawn to the spot.
‘That’s funny.’ Fox knelt down by the boxes and ran a finger over the masking tape that held them shut. ‘No one’s had a go at these, sir. Though everything else has been turned right over. How very fortunate for you.’
‘What exactly are you insinuating?’ Alex’s voice dropped dangerously low.
‘Nothing at all, sir.’ Fox stood again, reaching for his mobile phone from the pocket of a mac that had seen better days. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ He turned away as his call connected.
My heart began to hammer again. ‘Alex, where the hell is Digby?’
‘He’s probably scavenging outside. You know Digby.’ I imagined that Alex’s face softened as he looked at me. ‘Come on, Mag. We’ll go and find him – and then I’ll give you a lift to work, if you like.’
I ran down the stairs. ‘I’m not going to bloody work. I just need to find the dog.’
Outside, the fog was still wafting down the street like a grand dame on her way to a ball. There was no sign of the dog anywhere, although my bags were still leaning against the wall.
‘Digby,’ I called, ‘Digby. Here, boy.’ My voice was sharp and cracked. ‘Oh God, Digby, where the hell are you?’
Mrs Forlani appeared through the fog like a ghastly apparition, in a pink dressing-gown and fluffy slippers, her dark hair wild. She never got dressed before three.
‘
Bellissima
, are you all right?’ She eyed the police car with its top light still flashing through the strings of fog as if it might leap forward and bite her. ‘I ’ave been so worried about you.’
‘That’s nice. I’m fine.’ I was gabbling. ‘Or, no, I’m not fine actually. Have you seen my dog?’ I couldn’t stop. ‘I can’t find
him. Someone’s broken into the flat. They cut up my underwear. It’s all a terrible mess.’
‘Oh my God.’ Mrs Forlani clapped her hands to her face in horror. ‘I say to Matteo, I told you how I was so worried on the telephone the other night.
La giovinastra
– how do they call them now in the news here – that hoodie waiting around your door. It give me the creep.’
‘Creeps,’ I corrected absently, vaguely recalling her message. ‘Have you seen the dog, though?’
‘She was very strange.’
‘Who was?’
‘Her.
La ragazza
I talk about. This stranger.’
‘He,’ I corrected again, walking towards the corner to call Digby. ‘You said it was a “he”.’
There was a massive crash and a yelp. I nearly jumped out of my skin as Digby shot out of a pile of butcher’s crates. ‘Oh, thank God.’ Falling to my knees, I grabbed him before he could run off again, burying my face in his back. ‘You silly boy. You really scared me.’
Mrs Forlani was shaking her head fervently at me, her bulgy eyes all wild and starey. ‘No, no, Maggie. It was not an ’e outside your flat.
Mio Dio, ma perche’ questi inglesi non mi capiscono
mai
?’
Or perhaps it was me that was mad. That was more likely, in fact.
‘
Ho detto una donna, intendevo una donna! Buon Dio!
’ The fluid Italian washed over me as I looked up vacantly from the pavement. ‘Most definitely not a man,’ Mrs Forlani finished crossly, wrapping her dressing-gown tighter around her drooping bosom.
‘Get the hell up, Maggie.’ Alex appeared above me. ‘It’s wet down there, for God’s sake.’ He tried to help me up but I felt all crumpled, like a rag-doll, quite happy to be on the floor, next to the dog’s sinewy warmth. I would just lie on the pavement
for a while and let all this hideous strangeness go on above me. Without me. But Alex leaned down and grabbed my hand, pulled me to my feet.
‘Ouch,’ I complained. He forced me to stand; otherwise I think I might have lain down again. Mrs Forlani had recommenced her babbling. ‘Sorry, but you’ve lost me.’ I looked at her.
‘It was most definitely
una ragazza
that I saw. A girl who was trying to enter your flat.’
And as I stood there gaping at her, trying to comprehend it all, Stefano Costana rounded the corner in a cheap shiny blue suit, his belly straining against his pink shirt.
‘Morning all! Sorry if we’re late,’ he said cheerfully. A curl of dark hair poked through the gaping buttons above his waistband. I looked at Alex; Alex looked rather ashen. My mouth dropped open further. Pitter-pattering behind Costana, her face framed perfectly by her black fur hood, was my worst nightmare.
And as she smiled winningly at us, her hood fell back, and I heard my own sharp intake of breath echo in my ears. It was Fay standing before me, but with newly short hair, cut just like mine and dyed the same shade of red.
‘What the hell is she doing here?’ I asked no one in particular. And as no one answered, I asked Fay herself. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
She smiled beatifically. ‘I’ve come to see your flat.’
‘My flat,’ I repeated numbly. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve heard it’s lovely.’
‘It’s not lovely any more. It’s a tip. Literally.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She frowned very slightly. ‘It looks very nice on the details. It is for sale, isn’t it?’
‘You’re not –’ I stared at her, ‘you’re not thinking of buying it, are you? Not seriously?’
Stefano Costana looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Sorry – do you two know each other?’
‘Oh yes, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Maggie?’ said Fay, at exactly the same moment as I replied, ‘No, not really.’
She gazed up at me. ‘Do you like my hair, Maggie? I really hope so. I’ve brought you the rest of my curls.’ She tried to hand me an envelope. ‘I posted some the other night when I called round, but now I think it’s best if you have them all.’
‘Why would I want them?’ I refused to take the package.
‘It’s like a kind of bond. You know, like blood sisters at school. I think the Red Indians used to do it as a sign of friendship.’
‘Well, the Red Indians can have them then.’
‘It is a bit chilly, though, I must say, round the old ears.’ To my huge relief, she pulled her hood back up.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your twin?’ Alex muttered, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets. I felt like someone was kneeling on my chest.
‘I don’t think we’ve met. Fay Carter. Maggie is my saviour.’ Fay offered her hand to Alex now. She didn’t quite flutter her eyelashes, but … He was so tall and she was so tiny, so doll-like, they looked incongruous next to one another. I had a sudden vision of Alex scooping her up and sticking her in his pocket.
‘Did you know about this?’ I muttered, stupefied.
‘What, about freako here? Stefano told me he had someone seriously interested in the flat, that’s all.’
‘It’s such a fabulous area, isn’t it? Borough Market. Ever since Maggie told me all about it, I’ve wanted to explore,’ Fay breezed.
All about it? I felt my brow knit anxiously. I hardly remembered mentioning the flat to her. I gazed at Fay. Droplets of fog lingered pearly on her fur-hood, her eyes so enormous with innocent enthusiasm that I could practically see the male hearts around me melting.
‘Stefano says it’s very up-and-coming. And when I heard it was your flat, Maggie, I was just so excited. It’s like it was meant to be.’
‘But
how
did you hear it was my flat?’ I shook my head slowly. ‘I don’t understand. How could you possibly know?’
‘Stefano must have told me, mustn’t he?’ Fay patted the estate agent’s portly arm with a dainty little hand. ‘After all, it’s not every day you get a famous TV producer’s flat to sell, is it, Stef?’
‘That’s right.’ He smiled fondly down at her, his goatee practically quivering with testosterone.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I muttered. I glanced at Alex to see if she was having a similar effect on him, but he was savaging his nails, almost scowling, staring over at the florist as she put another bucket of greenery out on the pavement.
DI Fox suddenly materialised at the front door, his pretty DS close behind him. ‘Morning,’ he said coolly. ‘DI Fox. And you are?’
‘I’m Stefano from Costana and Mortimer, and this, this is Fay. She’s a prospective buyer.’
Fay stuck out that willing hand again. ‘Hi.’ Then she screwed up her little nose in thought. ‘You look kind of familiar, DI Fox.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He considered her briefly.
‘I know.’ She clapped a hand to her heart. ‘From the TV show:
I Overcame a Trauma
.’
I groaned quietly.
‘I ’spect that’s it. Weren’t my finest hour, it must be said.’ Did DI Fox wink at me then? The DS’s radio crackled loudly and she stepped away.
‘Anyway, in the circumstances, I’m afraid you can’t go in,’ Fox said. ‘This is currently a crime scene, while we wait for fingerprints to be taken. I’ll have to ask you to come back.’
‘A crime scene?’ Costana shifted from brogue to shiny brogue, scowling slightly.
‘There’s been a break-in,’ Fox explained. The DS was now signalling to an unmarked car pulling up through the dispersing fog.
‘A break-in? I see.’ Impatiently Costana tapped a glossy set of details for the flat against his thigh. ‘It’s not exactly a great selling point, is it?’ He glared at me and then smiled apologetically at Fay.
‘So sorry about that,’ I muttered.
‘Are you Maggie’s boyfriend? You’re lovely and tall, aren’t you?’ Fay was smiling up at Alex. ‘I thought you were single, Maggie, you naughty girl.’
I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood.
‘Ex,’ Alex said wearily. ‘Ex-boyfriend.’
Fay twinkled knowingly. ‘Aha.’
‘Excuse me,’ I said faintly, ‘but I’m not feeling all that
wonderful.’ If I didn’t leave immediately, it might just become a murder scene. I gathered up my various bags. Perhaps it was the fog; perhaps it was just sheer desperation to get away from Fay, but somehow I went flying as I stepped off the pavement in search of peace.
I whacked my head on the kerb as I fell, and my mobile went straight down the gutter. There was a big hullabaloo, I remembered afterwards, with potatoes and Cornish Yarg and little tomatoes rolling all over the road, and then someone phoned my father and asked him to collect me as I sat with my head between my knees for a while. The DS gave me the once-over but nothing was really damaged apart from my pride.
‘Get some ice on that when you get home,’ she advised, and gave me a brief rundown of the symptoms of concussion while I looked mournfully up at the flat and wished that I actually had a home these days.
Fay picked up the tomatoes. She returned my collection of bags to me, and then eventually she and Costana dissolved into the chilly day, although Fay wanted to stay, I could tell even in my dazed state.
‘Please go now, Fay,’ I said, and she tried and failed not to look put out. I heard Alex assuring her he’d take good care of me. Fox patted my hand and said he’d talk to me later.
Then Alex practically carried me to the pub on the corner and bought me a double whisky and, after I pleaded, cigarettes from the machine. He ordered fruit juice for himself. The landlord greeted Alex like a long-lost friend, which he was, I supposed sadly. Sitting in the corner booth, I hugged Digby to me. My teeth kept chattering though it was warm and fuggy in the pub.
‘What’s going on, Mag?’ Alex asked, eyeing my drink.
‘You tell me.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘Can you get me another whisky please?’
‘You haven’t finished that one yet.’ He frowned. ‘So why weren’t you at work?’
‘Why weren’t you?’
‘I’m meant to be getting on a plane back to Glasgow in about’, he checked his watch, ‘an hour.’
‘You’d better go then.’
‘Yes, I better had.’ But he showed no sign of moving. ‘And you?’
‘I’m having a crisis,’ I said, and drained my glass. ‘Another one.
Please
get me that drink now.’
So he did. And another orange for himself – apparently. I was so suspicious I even tasted it.
‘What kind of crisis?’ he asked, ignoring the insult, pushing my whisky towards me.
‘An everything crisis,’ I said mournfully.
‘Right. One of those.’
I stared at the wall opposite, at the little etching of a knife-grinder on London Bridge serving a bonneted lady. ‘My life’s falling apart, Alex.’
He sighed deeply. ‘It’s not, Maggie, honestly. It just – it probably just seems a bit like that.’
‘Someone’s out to get me and I’m really scared. Sometimes I think I might be –’
‘What?’
I couldn’t bear to say it.
Turning out like my mother
. I shook my head. ‘And I don’t trust any of you –’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘It’s a strange way to live, isn’t it?’ The world seemed to be retreating. Or perhaps it was due to the whisky. ‘And I wish that bloody girl would get off my case.’
‘Which girl? The redhead?’
‘She’s not a bloody redhead. She’s a nutter.’
‘I thought she was a friend.’
‘Hardly.’
He chewed his thumbnail. ‘She’s very –’
‘Don’t say it, please.’ I held up a hand. ‘She’s very pretty. The kind of girl you just want to take care of.’
‘Yeah, she’s pretty,’ he grinned. ‘She looks a bit like you actually.’
I groaned.
‘But I was going to say – odd. Kind of – spaced out. She looks like she’s – I don’t know. Almost nervous of you.’
‘Nervous? Of me?’ I was incredulous.
‘Like – in awe. Like you might turn round and bite her.’
‘You’re making it up.’
‘If you say so,’ he shrugged. ‘So why else are you having this crisis?’
‘I want to leave Double-decker, that’s the main thing. I’ve remembered that I hate it.’
‘Well, do it then. You know what I think.’
‘Yes, I do know, thanks.’ I took a big slug of my drink. The whisky fumes burnt the lining of my nose. ‘But it’s not that easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, what else would I do?’ I looked at him. I took a deep breath. ‘And also – it’s Charlie.’
‘What about him?’
‘He won’t
let
me go.’
Alex’s face closed down. ‘Fuck Charlie.’
‘I’d really rather not.’ I swirled my whisky round the glass. It was very golden under the ceiling light. I wasn’t sure I even liked whisky, but I seemed to be quite enjoying it now. ‘Although he did try it on with me the other night, I think.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ Alex banged his own glass back on the table. ‘Just tell him where to go, Maggie, why don’t you?’
‘I can’t,’ I mumbled. ‘He’s kind of threatening me.’
‘With what?’
I looked at him very directly. ‘I imagine you know perfectly well what with, Alex.’ I couldn’t pretend I didn’t remember any
more. The early-morning nightmares had become reality as my brain finally filled in the gaps. Relieved as I was to have not lost my memory for all time, the images of the night that precipitated my downfall were so unpleasant I’d rather not have recalled them at all.
Alex shifted slightly in his seat, gnawing his thumbnail in that oh-so-familiar gesture. ‘Because of –’
‘Because of the summer, yes.’
Alex looked away like the memory actually hurt him. In the corner by the fruit machine, two stallholders were arguing about the most lucrative kind of tourist. The taller one had wiry hair that looked like it had been neatly folded on top of his head.
‘And what’s Charlie going to do about it?’ Alex asked grimly. His eyes were slanted half-shut against the overhead light.
‘He’s angry. He says I let him down, and he says he’ll make sure I don’t work again. He’ll ruin my reputation.’ I picked at a cardboard beermat. ‘Whatever reputation that might be. I don’t think it’s a very good one any more, do you?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Maggie.’ Alex stood up too quickly and whacked his forehead on the lampshade. ‘The bloke’s a fucking bully.’
‘Sit down, Alex. He might well call you the same, you know.’
‘He might, I suppose,’ Alex muttered, rubbing his sore head almost violently. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this? I could talk to him –’
‘It’s nothing to do with you any more, Al. I’m not your problem now, you know that.’
He looked down at me and suddenly I felt like I was on a keeling ship, as if I was pitching up and down; as if I needed to grab for Alex. If I grabbed on, perhaps I could haul myself back up to safety.
Alex sat down beside me now. Digby grinned up at him happily.
‘You’ll always be my problem, Mag,’ he said quietly, fondling the dog’s silky ears with his long, nicked fingers.
‘Why’s that then?’ I peeled the whole colourful top layer off the beermat.
‘Because,’ he rubbed his craggy face tiredly. ‘Because you’re my best friend.’
‘Really?’ I stared at my drink. My heart felt like it was somersaulting across that deck. ‘Well, you’re not a very good best friend, Alex.’ I looked at him again. ‘In fact, you’re an extremely bad friend. You’ve practically cost me my career.’
And he looked at me and I looked back, and suddenly it was like we were connected again, just like we used to be. It was a strange sensation, and I tried to remind myself of all the black days, the violent rampages, the terrible despair, but –
Alex took my hand in his; the hard skin on his fingertips just as I remembered, the blister from where he held his pencil too tight when he drew, the scars and scratches from where he simply didn’t care enough. ‘Cold as ever,’ he muttered, turning my palm up. I felt most peculiar, like I was about to lose myself.
And then my dad walked in.
‘Maggie, love!’ His eyes found me, his long face all consternation, his anorak crackling damp from the fog and drizzle that had started outside. He suddenly looked old, and I felt a huge rush of guilt over all the stress and worry I kept putting my poor father through.
Alex stood up. ‘Hi, Bill.’ He shook my dad’s hand.
‘Alex. Thanks for looking after her.’
I snorted. ‘I’m not a child, you know.’ But the way they both looked at me then made me doubt my own words.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked my father, almost hopefully.
‘No, better not, thanks all the same. I’d like to get you home, Maggie. I’m double-parked outside.’ He patted Alex’s shoulder absently. ‘Another time, old chap. I’ll be in the car, Mag.’
My father returned to his car while Alex went to the loo and I finished up my drink. The stallholder with the folded hair was ranting now. ‘You can’t trust those middle-class prats,’ he informed his milder companion ferociously, wiping a beer-foam moustache away, ‘they always buy one poxy mackerel after you’ve just priced up lobster.’
Some middle-class prats soaking up the local atmosphere over half-pints of cider looked around rather nervously. The other man conceded.
‘I suppose so, though they spend more than the bloody Japs, thank God, and they don’t bleeding photograph you all the time. Got fifty pence for the machine, Fred?’ He slotted the money in, followed swiftly by the clank of winning coins.