Nocturne (21 page)

He was on his feet again. He began to talk about some CID
detective, a woman on the station called Gaynor who specialised in
cases like these. She was back on shift tomorrow. I
’
d be interviewed
again. She
’
d tell me the score. She knew everything worth knowing
about stalkers.

Stalkers? I thought hard about the word. Even now it was difficult to
associate Gilbert with the
sinister
guys I
’
d read about in the papers.

My friend with the notepad was back behind the desk and for a
moment or two I toyed with sharing this thought with him but he
didn
’
t give me the chance.

‘
What about tonight?
’
he said.
‘
Have you got somewhere to go?
’

‘
Yes,
’
I
lied at once.
‘
Why?
’

‘
Just asking.
’
He checked the phone number I
’
d given him and then
pocketed the notepad.
‘
Someone
’
ll
be in touch tomorrow.
’

Outside the police station, it had stopped raining. I stood at the
kerbside, trying to decide what to do. This area of north London is
generally hopeless for cabs and in the end I set off on foot. I
’
d been in
the police station for nearly two hours but it was still barely nine
o
’
clock.

I was in the High Road when I saw him. He was on the other side of
the road, keeping pace with me, that distinctive walk, head bowed,
shoulders slightly sagging. The moment I stopped and looked across
the road he ducked into the doorway of a video store, his back turned.
There were half a dozen or so people inside the store. I could see them
through the metal grilles on the big plate glass windows. They gave me
courage.

I crossed the road and tapped Gilbert on the shoulder. The back of
his jacket was soaked. He must have been standing in the rain for ages.
He turned round. His eyes seemed red and inflamed and I swear he
’
d
been crying. Again.

‘
You know where I
’
ve been. You must do.
’

He nodded, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘
You said you would,
’
he muttered.

‘
This is serious, Gilbert. I
’
ve been in there for over an hour, talking
to them. I
’
ve told them everything. They know what you
’
ve been
doing.
’

He nodded again.

‘
It
’
ll be OK,
’
he said hopelessly.

‘
It won
’
t be OK, Gilbert. It won
’
t be OK until you leave me a
lone,
until you let me get on with my own life. Do you understand that?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
You
’
ll leave me a
lone ?
’

‘
I
’
ve never touched you.
’

‘
You have. You
’
re doing it all the time, not physically ma
ybe, but in
other ways. That
’
s n
ot right, Gilbert, and it
’
s against the law too.
’
I
must have been more forceful than I
’
d intended because Gilbert
backed into the shop. I followed him, determined not to surrender the
advantage. One or two heads turned, curious.
‘
The law,
’
I repeated.
‘
You
’
re breaking the law.
’

Trapped against a rack of Action Movies, Gilbert shook his head.

‘
Laws don
’
t matter,
’
he said hotly.
‘
I
’
m here to protect you against
all that.
’

‘
Protect
me?
’
I stared at him. Gilbert tried to push past me but I had
him cornered. Close-to, he smelled of damp and neglect. For one
overpowering moment, I wanted to give him a good scrub and a bowl
of something filling, and tuck him up in bed. Then I remembered the
kitchen ceiling again. That same eye. Watching me.

‘
I
’
m not who you think I am,
’
I told him.
‘
I
’
m normal, and boring,
just like everyone else. So let
’
s just forget it.
’

‘
Forget what?
’

‘
Me. What
’
s happened. Let
’
s just go back to normal, back to the
way we were before.
’
I smiled with what little hope I could muster.
‘
Yes?
’

Gilbert gazed down at me for a while, not answering, then I felt his
hand gripping my upper arm. To my surprise, he was immensely
strong. By the time we were outside, he was hurting me.

‘
Let go,
’
I said.

He was walking fast. I had to half-run beside him. He was beginning
to pant, little choking gasps. Couples strolling towards us made space
in the middle of the pavement. No one intervened. They must have
thought it was personal.
If so, they were right.

‘
Let go,
’
I said again.

Gilbert was beginning to slow. We were close to a pedestrian
crossing. He was mumbling to himself now, some phrase or other,
over and over, punctuated by the rasp of his breathing. When I spotted
a break in the traffic, I wrenched my arm free and bolted across the
road. Safe on the other side, I ran as fast as I could. Beside the subway
to Seven Sisters tube station, still trembling, I stopped and looked
back. Gilbert had disappeared.

Brendan was inspecting the bru
ises on my upper arm, an almost
perfect set of fingertips, purpled and angry.

‘
How did you know where to find me?
’

‘
There was an address on that Boots envelope. The one you showed
me at lunch the other day.
’

‘
And you memorised it?
’

‘
More or less.
’

‘
Why?
’

‘
Because I
’
m nosey.
’

His new flat was a rented place, a spacious split-level basement in a
pleasant Dalston
s
quare. All I
’
d seen on the Boots envelope was the
name of the square, De Beauvoir. The flat itself I
’
d found by trial and
error, circling the square until I
’
d spotted the Mercedes, then ringing
the bell chimes until I found the right door. Seeing me standing there
hadn
’
t surprised him in the least. He was cooking, he
’
d said, and there
was plenty for two.

Now, we were standing in the bathroom. Brendan filled the
washbasin with ice-cold water, then bathed my upper arm. For the
second time in less than a week, his expertise surprised me.

‘
How did it happen?
’
he asked at last.

I began to explain about Gilbert. Half an hour later, we were
finishing the story in his lounge, me sprawled across his e
normous
sofa, Brendan sitting on
the floor, his back propped against an
armchair. Not once, to my astonishment, had he interrupted, a
restraint I put down to a couple of enormous tumblers of Glenlivet.

‘
You think he
’
s mad?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
A
nd does he frighten you?
’

‘
Yes,
’
I
nodded.
‘
He does.
’

‘
Because he
’
s obsessed?
’

‘
Because he
’
s unpredictable. I don
’
t think he can help himself. I
don
’
t want to see him locked up but I
’
m not sure there
’
s an
alternative.
’

‘
But who locks him up?
’

‘
God knows. The police? The social services? I
’
ve no idea. But he
’
d
be better off locked up. I mean it.
’

Brendan pulled a face and got to his feet. Out in the kitchen I could
hear him opening and closing the oven door. When he came back, he
had a sweater loosely knotted around his shoulders. He held out a
hand. I too
k it and he hauled me to my feet
.

‘
Where are we going?
’
!

‘
Your place.
’

I shook my head. The last thing I needed was Brendan trying to settle
my account, another little outburst of violence to even the score. His
earlier suggestion sounded nicer. I thought I could handle supper and a
bottle of wine.

Brendan was grinning. Sometimes, I
’
d noticed, he could be truly
intuitive.

‘
Don
’
t worry,
’
he said.
‘
I
just want to see those photies.
’

Napier Road was in darkness when we got there, no sign of life from
upstairs. I let Brendan into the flat and led him through to the kitchen.
The photos were where I
’
d left them, littered over the table, and while I
shuffled them into the envelope and let the cats out, Bre
ndan did exactly what I
’
d done, balancing on the table and peering upwards
. There
’
s not a lot
you can say about holes in the ceiling and we were back in the hall
before Brendan voiced the obvious question.

‘
Do you want to stay here?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
You want to come back with me?
’

‘
Please,
’
I looked at him.
’
Is that OK?
’

We took the short cut across to Dalston, Brendan threading the
Mercedes through a warren of side streets. Somewhere in Stoke
Newington, he reached out, turning down the volume on the CD.

‘
So what will you do?
’

‘
I
don
’
t know.
’

I was looking out of the window. Every passing shadow might have
been Gilbert. I
’
d already told Brendan about going to the police. Now I
mentioned the specialist detective, Gaynor. With luck, she was due to
make contact next day.