Lover (40 page)

A
fter a week sitting in the Ops room doing sweet FA, it was a relief to get away this afternoon. I sat on the train into London, watching the faces. My brain still felt like cotton wool. These last few days, everything's looked like it does when you fly through cloud, and all the sounds seem muffled. Must be that stuff the MO gave me. It's an odd feeling, but probably just as well. I thought I'd enjoy looking at the WAAFs in the Ops room, but all they did was remind me of that stupid bitch Lucy, and then the anger built up inside me—the only feeling I've had that penetrates the cloud inside my head like a sharp point—jabbing at me, goading me until I wanted to grab hold of one of those girls and squeeze the life out of her.

I haven't been going into the mess much. Even if the others don't say anything, I could see it in their eyes. I knew they were thinking ‘that could be me' but they've got no idea—it's like a barrier, and if I could just get across it, I could be one of them again, be with them. And I will. I'll do it. Because it's all I've ever wanted, but it was that bitch, stopping me. She thought she could trap me, make me weak, but she got what was coming to her, I made sure of that. I wouldn't let her take it away. I knew I could make it all right. Had to be done. Because the planes didn't look the same. I'd stand on the airfield for hours, staring at them, but it wasn't the same—as if I couldn't see them clearly any more, see them as they really
are
…the most beautiful things in the world. The bitch reduced them to nothing, lumps of metal, and the thrill was gone. But I knew I could sort her out. I knew she'd be there, just so long as my letter arrived, I knew she'd be waiting for me, and she was.

And I was prepared. I'd got a knife from the kitchen, a big one, and I took the bloodstained clothes out of the cupboard and got rid of them in the wood. I'd planned it, managed to nip into the mess and pinch the coal-shovel when no one was looking. They'll think it's someone playing silly buggers again. It was hard work digging the hole, but I managed it. No one was about.

I'd arrived in London a couple of hours early and wandered around Piccadilly in the dusk. Eros is boarded up now, just a pyramid shape, and the failing light gave the buildings soft edges, and the bodies, rushing past, seemed fuzzy. I suddenly realised I haven't seen London in the daytime since the bombing started. There are white marks where they've painted the kerbs with stripes.

The odd thing was, the haziness from the pills made it better. When Lucy arrived, I felt quite calm. The idea of what I had to do was fixed in my mind, the only thing that stood out with clarity. When I looked at her, her face seemed blurred as it had the first time, when I saw it through the stocking. We were standing on the corner of Regent Street, and the noises kept coming and going in flashes through the fog in my head: a bus, or high heels on the pavement, very loud, as if isolated from all the other noises, and then it would all merge back, and I'd hear her voice again, talking…like switching frequencies on the R/T…and she kept calling me Tom.

She thought she was clever, all right. Tried to trick me with some cock-and-bull story about having to go and see a woman in Soho to collect a handkerchief, talking about how they'd met on a bomb site and this woman wanted to see her. I didn't believe it—I could sense that it might be a trap—but she kept insisting, saying she was afraid to go alone. I asked her who the woman was, and she got silly then, giggling and pretending she didn't know—gave me some name she'd made up—and then she started saying Soho was dangerous, which was why she didn't want to go there on her own. I said, ‘But you've been before,' and then she started talking about how she'd never visited anyone and some woman she knew had said it might be the white slave trade. I wanted to get on with the job in hand, but she was irritating me with her yapping wearing me down, so I said I'd go just to get some peace, and we began walking towards the place. She took my arm and started giggling again, and it made my skin crawl. I wanted to shut her up there and then, get hold of her and shake her and shake her until she stopped, but there were too many people around, so I stopped listening to her and concentrated on staying ahead of the game, touching the knife inside my jacket and preparing myself for what might happen when we got there.

The front door of the place, alongside a shop, was open, and I followed the bitch into a dingy front hall and up some stairs. She made a great pretence of not knowing which floor this woman was on, which I didn't believe. It was the second floor, I think, and a brown-haired tart came to the door and said, ‘I was hoping you'd come, dear,' to the bitch. I was standing back, but I could see she'd got her eyes fixed on me the whole time. I couldn't see the face too well in the hall, but once we got inside I was sure it was a trap and that the two of them were in it together, trying to confuse me, because the tart had the same hair and eyes as the bitch—older, and with heavy make-up, but apart from that, almost identical.

The bitch said, ‘I've brought someone with me. I hope you don't mind.'

‘Not at all, dear, not at all. I'm Rene, how do you do?' Then she went straight on, without waiting for me to introduce myself. ‘Now, would you like some tea, or something stronger? I've got some beer, if you'd like.'

I thought, you must think I'm stupid if I'm falling for that one, because she seemed very nervous, as if she was up to something, so I said, ‘No, thank you,' but the bitch said she'd like a cup of tea. The tart held up a curtain and said, ‘Now, you two make yourselves comfortable. I'll be right through.'

It was a room with armchairs and a bed. The bitch looked a bit uncomfortable when she saw that, and sat down quickly and stared at the floor.

I said, very quietly, ‘You know what she is, don't you?'

‘Well, yes…but she's still a human being, isn't she? Though what my mother would say, I don't know. I'm glad you're here, Tom.'

I saw she was undoing her coat buttons and said, ‘Let's keep it short, shall we?'

‘Yes.' She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Don't worry, I'll keep my coat on. Don't want to make ourselves too much at home, do we?'

She laughed and went on talking, but I wasn't listening, because I'd seen how the bed was reflected in the mirror over the mantelpiece—I knew it was done on purpose, because I kept looking at it, then away, and each time I thought I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the body of a woman, one of the tarts, with her stomach and between her legs gouged and bloody. I couldn't see which one because it changed every time I looked—it was making me feel ill and I knew this was what they'd intended, to get me all unsettled, but the bitch was pretending to be concerned. ‘What is it, Tom? What's the matter? Are you all right?' She was sitting with her back to the mirror and I saw she wanted me to sit opposite, but I wasn't going to do that because of the mirror, and there wasn't another chair, so I went to sit beside her, and just as I stepped on the rug I saw it, in front of the clock: the blue felt case I'd given to the bitch, with the cigarette card in it. The one that belonged to the brunette. She couldn't have put it there—I'd have seen her. She must have given it to the other one…

I was trying to figure it out but my head was spinning; everything was getting out of control and I didn't know what to do next. I thought of making a run for it but then the bitch would have won and I'd have nothing. I knew I had to see it through: it was them against me, and whatever they did,
I had to see it through
.

The tart came in with a tray of tea. ‘You look like you ought to sit down, dear. Are you sure I can't get you anything?'

‘May I have a glass of water?'

‘Of course, dear.' She turned to go into the kitchenette and I thought, I know what you're up to, you'll slip something in it, so I followed her to make sure. The room was untidy, how you'd imagine with a woman like that: dirty, with drawers not closed and a lot of clutter everywhere. I noticed a tin-opener on the table, half-hidden by a newspaper, and when the tart had her back to me, rinsing the glass, I slid it out from underneath and slipped it into my pocket. Something extra, as well as the knife. It made me feel better, stronger.

The tart had been chattering away: ‘Such a nice girl, Miss Armitage, and so brave. I'm sure she's told you all about it. You must be very proud of her. I'm sure she's proud of you, too,' but she must have heard me moving about because she whipped round suddenly to face me and the glass she was holding smashed against the edge of the sink and cut her hand. She held it up and I could see a gash between the forefinger and thumb, blood running across her palm, and that made me want to pick up a piece of the glass and stab her with it, and I went to move towards her—she was all I could see, nothing else in the room but her face, the fear in her eyes and her hand with the blood… And then I heard the bitch's voice and it all seemed to break up, and I didn't want to do it any more.

I knew the tart was frightened. When she gave me the water and I went into the other room I heard her clattering about with the cutlery, dropping things on the floor, and I thought she might be looking for the tin-opener. I wondered if she was going to say anything. The bitch was chattering away, but I wasn't listening. I managed to swallow some of the water, but I could feel myself sweating. The stuffy little room seemed to be closing in on me until I thought I was going to choke, and when the tart came back the two of them pretended not to notice, just carried on talking, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes like horrible birds, beady brown eyes darting at me, their heads swivelling round when they thought I wasn't looking, talking as if I wasn't there, and I kept catching sight of dead women in the mirror; sometimes the blonde, sometimes the brunette, lying on the bed, so vivid I couldn't believe they weren't actually there, but each time I turned, there was nothing. Then I realised the women had stopped talking—they were looking at me and I didn't know what to do.

The bitch said, ‘Tom—' but I didn't hear the rest because it was drowned out by the siren, and the tart glanced at the mantelpiece and said, ‘One thing you can say, they're good timekeepers,' but I knew she wasn't really looking at the clock, but at the thing underneath it, the little blue case, and I saw the bitch's head turn in the same direction, and her eyes widen, and I could tell she was about to speak, so I said, ‘Where's the lavatory?'

The tart stood up and said, ‘Out here, dear. I'll show you,' and she took me onto the landing and pointed down the stairs. My bowels felt molten, ready to explode, and I just got there in time. I knew she couldn't have put anything in the water, because I'd have seen her, and besides, I'd only had a couple of sips. But I knew I had to be quick—I couldn't leave them alone together. The tart wasn't important, just a distraction; it was the bitch. I had to deal with her as soon as possible.

She was standing at the top of the stairs when I came out. Just her, no sign of the tart. She had the blue thing in her hand, holding it out towards me. ‘Tom? What's going on? I don't understand…' She started to come towards me, down the stairs. ‘You said…you told me this was your sister's…' She stopped in front of me and glanced upwards. ‘She said it was her friend's, and she died, and then she said—'

I hit her, and she staggered backwards, one hand on her face. ‘Tom!'

‘Listen, you stupid—' I reached out to grab her, but she was too quick. She pushed me away and then I was off balance and reeling as she bolted down the stairs. I heard her wrench the door open and then she was gone. I followed, as fast as I could—I had to catch up with her, stop her—and as I left I heard the tart's voice, shouting after us, but I thought, it doesn't matter, she doesn't know who I am, and anyway, she's insignificant, it's the other one I want, the bitch. It took a moment to pull out my torch, but then I saw her near the end of the street. I thought she'd go straight ahead, and I knew I had to catch her before she got to Soho Square, to the shelter, but she turned a corner and then ducked into an alleyway, and I followed. I picked out her feet and ankles in the beam of my torch, then she must have tripped because she was sprawled out in front of me, face down, and I could see all along the length of her stockings, where her coat and skirt had gone up as she fell. She twisted round and tried to get up, and I heard her panting. She was saying, ‘Please, Tom, I'm sure it's a mistake, please don't hurt me, let me go, please—'

I made a grab for her but she clawed at me and knocked the torch out of my hand and then she was on her knees in front of me and I had my hands round her neck, but I couldn't get a grip on her—the coat was in the way, and the hair, and she was thrashing back and forth and I couldn't hold on to her. The next moment I heard footsteps come up beside me—a woman—and there was a light shining in my eyes, blinding me. I lunged for it, knocked it away and fell forward and heard a grunt underneath me and one of them scrambling to their feet, but I couldn't see anything, just a flurry of arms and legs and hoarse breath and voices. I don't know how long it lasted, but I managed to get hold of a hand; it was balled into a tight fist and when I prised back the fingers there was a crack and a scream and I knew I'd got the bitch because the blue felt thing was there. She was holding it, trying to keep it from me, but she had it all right… I got on top of her and hit out at her face and pulled out the knife. It was hard at first, with the clothes and the way she was flailing about, but I did it, did it to her with the knife and the tin-opener, and then she stopped moving and I knew I'd beaten her and I'd won and felt alive again, with all the sensation coming back to my body and the excitement and the thrill of it, it was there, and I didn't need to look back, even for the torch. I just ran and ran with no idea of where I was going, but it didn't matter, I'd done it, and I knew I could fly again and everything was marvellous and I was free…