A Greater Evil (12 page)

She swallowed. Trish saw her eyes were damp. It seemed wrong to take notes, but she wanted to check the story’s details later.

‘He was heavy, yeah? I never realized he’d be so much more heavier if I’d of carried him like that, in a box, like, ’stead of laying up against me. My arms was sore. But we got there, see. I thought of clearing the snow off of the step before I put the box down, but people was still coming and going, even though it was like four o’clock in the morning. I left the box on the step by the door, where the snow couldn’t of got to him. Then I went home, yeah? I didn’t have no money. Where else would I of gone?’

‘You wrote in one of your letters that you put your wedding ring in the box with him. Was that true?’

‘Course.’ The woman’s surprised expression was more convincing than any angry protestation of truth. ‘He didn’t have no birthmarks, so there had to be something to tell who he was.’

‘Where exactly did you put it?’

‘In his nappy. I didn’t want it to fall out of the box, see, so I tucked it in his nappy.’ She brushed the back of her hand against her eyes. Trish saw more wetness sparkling on her skin.

So maybe the hospital staff didn’t steal the ring, Trish thought. Maybe it was simply chucked away with the filthy nappy.

‘It don’t matter, though, not now they have that DNA. The test can say who he is. Why won’t he have it?’ Maria-Teresa Jackson asked, her voice whiny with pain or resentment. ‘It’s easy. Only like a scraping in your mouth. It don’t hurt.’

Memories came back to Trish of a study carried out in New Zealand, which explored the violence prefigured in a damaged or low-active MAOA gene on the X chromosome. As far as she could remember, boys with the faulty gene were unusually passive – unless they’d been physically, sexually or emotionally abused, in which case they were likely to be violent. Abused boys who didn’t have the damaged gene were no more likely to be violent than the rest of the population. Girls with the damaged gene were less at risk because of their second X chromosome. If Sam did have the DNA test this woman wanted, maybe the lab could also check his MAOA gene. An undamaged one wouldn’t prove anything, but its existence would be reassuring.

‘It’d be the best Christmas present in the world,’ said Maria-Teresa, twisting her left hand in her straggly hair. ‘Every time I go to mass, I ask for it. At the Protestant service too. You know what it says in that carol they have? “Unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given.” It’s what I want. Just to know Sam’ll take the test, like, and see he’s mine.’

‘Why is it so important now?’ Trish said and watched a fanatical light flash in the woman’s eyes. But she didn’t answer. Her greyish lids dropped over her eyes, hiding whatever they might have revealed. ‘Because of the trial that’s coming? Do you want the court to know how you saved the life of one baby boy all those years ago so they’ll find it easier to believe you might be innocent this time?’

‘I di’n’ kill Danny,’ Maria-Teresa said with quiet dignity. ‘I tried to protect him, like I tried to protect Sam, all them years ago. It’s not why I want him to know he’s mine. I don’t want him in court, giving evidence, like. Only to say he knows why I done it and left him at that hospital. That’s all.’

‘Fine,’ Trish said, more curious than ever. There was more to this woman than her pathetic looks suggested. Unfortunately neither her increasingly obvious intelligence nor the hints of spirit that were sparking like an engine about to ignite meant she was honest. ‘But just tell me …’

Maria-Teresa Jackson stood up, stiffening her spine so that she looked much taller.

‘I don’t want to talk no more.’ She turned and stalked away.

Feeling thoroughly rebuked, Trish gathered her belongings and made her way towards the exit. As she left the visiting room, she heard a long agonized scream and shuddered. In the old days that had been the sound of Holloway for her, more even than the endless shouts and banging doors. Designed to give the impression of a hospital rather than a prison, it had confounded all its creators’ intentions and become a place of horror for many of the inmates.

Mentally ill, addicted to drugs, incapable of seeing the outside world or its inhabitants as anything but hostile, they were confined in cells and dormitories that made recovery unlikely. Weeping, screaming, cutting themselves, they infected each other with their own particular breed of distress. Like the wildly multiplying bacteria of MRSA, misery ended up devouring all the healthy emotions it touched. Trish shivered again, then checked her watch.

It was a gesture David had recently shouted that he hated, so she tried to do it as little as possible. The trouble was that time ruled her life. There was never enough. At least today he was having tea with one of his friends and wouldn’t get back until nearly six. Even so there was no incentive to linger, either in the prison or on the depressing walk back to the Tube.

Minutes after her train had left King’s Cross, it screeched to a halt, making much more noise than usual. Mildly surprised, Trish raised her eyes, expecting to see Russell Square station. All that met her gaze were the dingy brick walls of the tunnel. Careful not to contravene Tube etiquette by catching the eyes of any other passengers, she went back to her paper. Five minutes crawled by. Everyone in the carriage was becoming restless. Trish recrossed her legs and turned to the foreign news.

There was still trouble in the Middle East. She couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been and wasn’t sure she could imagine how it would be if all the killing and kidnapping stopped. A croaking noise from the loudspeaker distracted her and she tilted her head to hear better.

‘Erm, well, folks, sorry about this delay,’ said a disembodied male voice. ‘I’ve been informed that there’s a signalling problem. Should be sorted out soon and we’ll be on the move again. Sorry about that.’

Grimacing, Trish found herself catching the eye of the woman opposite. Now there was a problem, it seemed reasonable for them to communicate.

‘It’s a right pain, isn’t it?’ the woman said. ‘I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes.’

Trish offered a sympathetic smile, then went back to her paper. The tension in the carriage increased as the long minutes dragged on, and there were sounds of much fiddling with packages and luggage. No more information came over the loudspeaker. She didn’t look up again until a different woman’s urgent shout disturbed her.

‘Kayleigh, come here! You come back here. Now.’

A wail told Trish Kayleigh couldn’t be more than a toddler. She tried to hide her loathing of mothers who yelled at their children with that kind of cruel edge, but she couldn’t stop herself looking up to see who they were.

A small dark-haired child in a pink parka was being hugged so tight it made no sense of the woman’s harshness. Puzzled, Trish followed their frightened gaze and looked further along the carriage until she saw a sallow young man with a dark beard, sweating heavily into his long beige robe and paler overshirt. He had a crocheted cap on his head. A canvas bag rested on his knees, tightly gripped between his hands. As she watched, he started to shake, looking first one way then the other, as though for sympathy, or perhaps a means of escape.

A European man, several years older, got to his feet to take a seat right at the opposite end of the carriage. Two teenage boys exchanged glances and crashed open the door connecting theirs to the next. Several of the women, looking steadfastly at the floor, collected their bags together and sat on the edge of their seats, clearly not sure whether to follow the teenagers’ example.

‘Sorry, folks.’ The same disembodied voice made Trish jump. ‘The signalling problem seems more serious than we thought. But it shouldn’t be too much longer. Just relax and we’ll be away as soon as we can.’

The heating seemed to have been turned up. There wasn’t enough air. Trish pulled at the polo neck of her sweater, swallowing with difficulty.

It’s ludicrous to think he’s got a bomb, she told herself. Ludicrous, racist and disgusting.

She caught sight of a poster opposite, informing her that cameras had been installed on the train for the greater safety of passengers. Had they picked up the face of a wanted terrorist? Was the voice lying about the signals?

It was impossible not to look at the bearded man. He stared back, apparently terrified, then down at his watch. Was the bomb on a timer? Had he planned to leave his bag and get out at the next station? Or was he a suicidal martyr to his cause, ordered to wait with it until it killed everyone within reach?

Either way, Trish did not want to be caught in a tunnel with an explosion. It wouldn’t do much good to get further down the train, but the possibility of being out of this particular carriage was becoming so attractive she was twitching in her seat like most of the others.

The lights went out. Darkness sharpened the menace. Further down the train people were moving. Someone sobbed, probably a child. Someone else swore sharply.

The engine began to whirr and the lights flickered back on. Another crash of the door at the far end made them all turn to look. Two uniformed police officers came through from the next carriage with a man in plain clothes and a ticket inspector.

‘No need to panic,’ said one of the police officers, with the kind of cheerfulness that was more worrying than any severity. ‘We won’t be long.’

They walked steadily along the carriage, looking carefully at all the male passengers. Trish waited for them to reach the Middle Eastern man and was amazed when they passed him without comment. She saw a woman pull at the sleeve of the plain-clothes man and point to him. The official shook his head.

A tall brown-haired man in jeans got up from the seat next to Trish’s and moved casually to the doors, heaving his rucksack with him and leaning against one of the glass panels, as though he could barely stand. Sitting at right angles to him, she could see he was pale, and his fleshy face was damp. In a way she wasn’t surprised – the airlessness and tension were enough to make anyone feel faint – but he was a big man, and his loose, scuffed, black leather jacket did nothing to conceal his powerful shoulders. He looked too tough to be overcome like this.

The uniformed officers closed in on him. The plain-clothes man said something too quiet for Trish to hear. He struggled. One dirty trainer connected with the shins of one of the officers, who grunted and bit back an insult. Handcuffs snapped and the tall man was still again.

‘Okay, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the plain-clothes officer, relief making his voice breathless. ‘Sorry for the delay. Would you now like to make your way along the train. You’ll find the front coach is already in Russell Square station and you can make your exit there. No need to panic now, but move on as fast as you can.’

Trish didn’t wait. She had no luggage and was on her way before most of the others had even stood up. Conscience-stricken, she looked back from the doorway to make sure there was no one old or frail enough to need help, then she hurried along the train, eventually reaching the end of the queue to get out.

On the platform, she found a phalanx of officers, instructing all the passengers to move straight up to street level.

‘What’s the problem?’ she asked. ‘What did that man have in his rucksack?’

‘Don’t you worry about that, madam,’ said a woman officer, not meeting her eyes. ‘Just make your way up to street level. We’re evacuating the station. Please keep moving. Fast as you can.’

Oh shit! she thought. If it’s not a bomb, it’s chemicals of some kind.

The robed man had caught up with her, still hugging his canvas bag to his chest. ‘What did they tell you?’ he asked in a clear British accent.

‘Nothing,’ she said, meeting his eyes. ‘Except that they’re evacuating the place.’

Together they waited for the lift, both longing for escalators that would have got them out quicker. Eventually they were up, breathing in the sweet petrol-scented air.

‘Goodbye,’ he said to her. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks. Same to you.’ She wanted to apologize for her suspicions, but that would have made the injustice worse. She compromised: ‘That was horrible, wasn’t it?’

He nodded and hurried away. A taxi passed with its light on. Four separate people claimed it and started to argue. There were no other taxis in sight. Trish could have caught a bus, or even walked back to chambers from here. It wasn’t far. But she needed time to get rid of the taste of fear, and the shame that she’d made such a misjudgement of a wholly innocent man. It wasn’t his fault he shared his appearance with a few genuinely violent terrorists.

Over the heads of the agitated, curious crowd, she saw the trees of the Brunswick Square garden and thought she might sit there for a few minutes and recover her common sense. Even chilly drizzle was welcome after the stultifying fifteen minutes in the Tube.

Sitting on the damp bench, she let her head fall back and her eyes close. She felt light-headed, quite unlike her usual efficient self. After a while, she sat up straight again and looked around. There were few people here, but she could still see the crowds on the pavement outside the Tube station. There were police vans too and a couple of ambulances standing by.

Had
it been a bomb in the rucksack? Or poison gas?

You’ll know soon enough, she told herself, looking round for distraction. A big double-fronted building stood at the far end of the square. She’d never spent any time here before and had no idea what it could be. A few people walked up the steps and disappeared inside. Curious, she followed them and found a sign announcing the Foundling Museum.

Intrigued by yet another coincidence, she decided to go in. When she’d paid her entry fee and bought a guidebook, she discovered the museum was devoted to Thomas Coram’s eighteenth-century hospital for abandoned children. The place was so quiet she felt as though a shutter had fallen between her and the quarrels of the modern world.

Starting at the top, she found a lot of the museum taken up with the artists and rich men involved with the charity. The attic belonged entirely to Handel, one of the earliest benefactors. But on the ground floor were exhibits that brought home to Trish the reality of life for some of the foundlings.