Read The Darkening Hour Online
Authors: Penny Hancock
The Darkening Hour
Penny Hancock grew up in south-east London and then travelled extensively as a language teacher. She now lives in Cambridge with her husband and three children. Her first
novel,
Tideline
, was published to rave reviews and was a Richard and Judy Book Club pick in Summer 2012.
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster, 2013
A CBS company
Copyright © Penny Hancock, 2013
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Penny Hancock to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-47111-124-2
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-85720-624-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-85720-626-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
For Aunty Dorothy.
‘At every mooring-chain and rope, at every stationary boat or barge that split the current into a broad arrowhead, at the offsets from the piers of Southwark Bridge, at
the paddles of the river steamboats as they beat the filthy water, at the floating logs of timber lashed together lying off certain wharves, his shining eyes darted a hungry look. After a darkening
hour or so, suddenly the rudder-lines tightened in his hold, and he steered hard towards the Surrey shore’
Our Mutual Friend
, Charles Dickens
‘But know this; though you set out on a fool’s errand, among those who love you, you are beloved indeed.’
Antigone
, Sophocles
Deptford, south-east London
No one sees the woman push the man in his wheelchair through the market. Amongst the stallholders, shoppers, crack addicts, shaven-haired women, long-haired men, mums with kids
heaped onto the backs of buggies, teenagers plugged into iPods, drunks and dealers, amongst the general sense of busyness, of chatter, buying, selling, going somewhere – belonging, no matter
who you are or where you’ve come from – this pair do not fit or feature.
They dissolve into the background along with the Somali guy sweeping the road in his Hi Viz jacket, the thin girl with the old woman’s face selling the
Big Issue
, the group of
Vietnamese huddled around the money-exchange kiosk. They are of even less interest than the young Ukrainians sorting through textiles in the depot under the arches, or the Bengali chef in a doorway
left open to ease the heat of a steamy kitchen.
Anyone who did look would notice that the two – the woman and the old man – are not related. The man has pale darting eyes and fragile, crinkled skin, spotted in places with dark
patches – the effects of too much sun – while the woman’s brown skin is blotchy from the lack of it. She’s short with soft contours, her sunken eyes dark. There’s
another, more striking difference. The man exudes wealth – he’s dressed in good quality trousers, polished leather shoes, a thick wool jacket and a cashmere scarf, while the woman wears
tracksuit bottoms and a cheap fleece over a blue overall, and ragged trainers that soak up the puddlewater underfoot. More than this, an onlooker might notice the resigned look in her bruised eyes,
the indifference to the colourful shops and stalls and the bright chatter. It’s as if the woman, pushing the man down the street, his bag of fruit clutched on his lap, does not occupy this
city at all, as if her mind is in a place so far away and so long ago she isn’t sure it still exists.
But no one is looking, no one is interested. And even the old man in his wheelchair is not sure who it is that propels him along this jostling street at twilight on an early January evening. As
long as she gets him home soon, for he can feel hunger rumbling in his belly, and as long as he has his clementines, firm and fresh in his lap, he’s content.
The woman steers the wheelchair through the crowds, towards the broad expanse of sludgy river with its smell of oil and of cargo from other worlds. As they move away from the market, and its
sweet aroma of roasting chestnuts, the glow of makeshift bulbs dims behind them, giving the impression they are leaving not just light but warmth as well, though the stallholders’ breath is
white in the cold air.
She pushes the chair all the way to the alley that lies between a wall and the once-majestic Paynes Wharf, only its façade of six grand arches remaining. At the end of the little alley
they arrive at the top of some slimy steps that lead straight down into the murky water of the Thames. A hidden place, not easy to spot in the daytime but utterly concealed by shadows at night.
Here, she pauses and stares into the water for quite some time. Ten steps are visible – the tide is low.
After a little while she turns. Moves slowly back away from the river and wheels the old man down a narrow street of Georgian terraced houses. Every doorway is flanked by little angels or
figureheads frosting as it grows dark. She reaches the house at the end, takes the side entrance to the garden, where she helps him out of his chair, and together they descend the basement steps to
the front door of his flat beneath the main house.
Inside, Mona helps Charles into his reclining armchair with its footrest. Charles feels the hand under his elbow but he doesn’t know or care at this moment who it belongs
to. In his chair he asks for his dinner. Mona brings it on a tray, spoons it into his mouth, wipes the dribbles with a kitchen towel and offers him sips of water.
And when he’s finished his sausages and mash she peels a clementine for him. The feel of the segments in their loose membranes is similar to his limp penis which she holds while he wees
afterwards in the tiny bathroom.
She takes the peel to the kitchen and drops it into the full pedal bin, takes the liner, knots it and puts it ready to take out, replacing it with a new one. She washes his dishes and tidies up.
Then it is time to get him into his night things.
Above, in the main house, footsteps pound down the stairs and a door slams. Mona feels the sounds in her skin; it twitches and her ears ring. Her palms sweat. She longs for the day to end. Longs
for the moment she can lie down in the corner of her room on the makeshift bed, because she’s weary, and oblivion more than anything is what she craves.
Then it comes. The voice, echoing down the dumbwaiter shaft, floats into the room.
‘MONA!’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s seven o’clock.’
‘He’s going to bed now. Then I’ll come.’
‘You’re late.’
‘I’m coming.’
And the old man is demanding her attention at the same time, ‘You’ve hidden it again! Blast and damn you, woman, you’ve taken my whisky.’
And the shout from upstairs – ‘Now!’ – and the man’s grumbling, and her head beginning to pound.
Early the next morning, when a mist lies over the river and the streetlights continue to glow in their fuzzy orange corona, ripples falter over something larger than the usual
rubbish – the plastic bottles and beer cans, the syringes and the burger containers. The water has crept up the stairs in the night, bringing with it a peculiar figure. A torso, arms and legs
flailing in the deep, with a head that looks as though it’s been mummified, bandaged as it is in a blue overall that the police later find resembles one worn by domestic staff and carers.
And when the body has been hauled out and put in a bag, when the dead person has been identified and has appeared in the local paper, everyone wants to look, everyone wants to know. But
it’s too late.
Mona’s gone.
The Gift
CHAPTER ONE
Three months earlier
The first thing I notice about London is its statues. They people the city, a separate, stone population. Men on horseback, women half-naked, babies with wings, lions and
monsters. We’re driving through the streets, Mr and Mrs Roberts in front, me in my place at the back, my head resting on the glass.
Everything’s lit up. Keeping the night at bay. We turn away from palatial streets onto a wide bridge. The river is broad and dark beneath us, lights reflected in it like swords stabbing
the black water.
My
river, the Bouregreg at home in Morocco, is playful, winking bright sparks into the blue air. I want to tell someone that the Thames is darker than I imagined, London
bigger than a whole country. But there’s no one to tell. If it wasn’t for Leila and Ummu, I’d turn round, go back, make do, until Ali returned. Even if he is in London, as
Yousseff suggested, I’ll never find him in this vast sprawl. The idea was crazy. This city goes on forever.