Crossbones Yard (5 page)

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Authors: Kate Rhodes

BOOK: Crossbones Yard
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‘I’m a blubbering wreck, Al. Sorry.’
‘I’ve seen worse.’
A casserole was bubbling on the hob; when I lifted the lid an aroma of herbs, garlic and red wine wafted out.
‘I made dinner for you.’ Lola was almost back to her normal self. Even when we were at school her depressions never lasted more than ten minutes.
We ate the stew with chunks of warm French bread, but she turned down a glass of wine.
‘I’m on the wagon, until I get to the pub.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Soho, to see Craig and his mates. You’re coming too.’
‘Too knackered, sorry.’
‘You’re meant to be having fun, Al.’ She shook her head at me. ‘Come and meet some new people, let your hair down.’
‘Next time, I promise.’
‘Your loss. One of them’s just your type, a blond Adonis.’
‘No thanks.’ I held up my hands. ‘I’m off men for the time being.’
 
Lola threw on a dark red coat, then dashed out of the door. The kitchen seemed to have been hit by a whirlwind. Every saucepan had been used, potato peelings were clogging the sink, and there was a coffee stain on my pristine wooden worktop. I loaded the dishwasher and cleared everything away. Afterwards I stepped out on to the balcony for some fresh air. It was incredibly cold. Under the orange streetlights a thick frost was already sparkling on the roofs of cars. Across the street Will’s van was still in my parking space; the interior light was on and the curtains drawn.
I pulled on my shoes and ran downstairs. Will didn’t answer my taps on the window, so I put my hand on the freezing door handle and slid it open. He was lying on the narrow bunk, propped up on a filthy pillow. The air inside the van was only slightly warmer than outdoors, beads of condensation forming on the windows. When I touched his shoulder he startled awake. His hand lashed out, but his movements were so uncontrolled, he didn’t make contact.
‘Don’t touch me.’ His words slurred, as if he was talking in his sleep. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘It’s freezing, Will. Come inside.’
‘Let me sleep.’ He shifted away, turning his back on me.
‘Jesus. You’re fucking impossible to help.’
I slammed the door and headed inside, fists clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms. Ever since his breakdown he’d been impossible to reach, and the problem was exaggerated by the drugs he took. Whatever he could get his hands on: ketamine, heroin, cocaine. He refused to see a doctor since he was diagnosed bipolar, but he self-medicated all the time. Anything to keep the demons at bay.
I rooted in a chest of drawers for a blanket, then ladled a large portion of stew into a bowl. Five minutes later I was back in the van.
‘Lola made this for you.’
He stirred on the bed. ‘Lola?’
‘She’s staying for a bit. You can come in and see her.’
I spread the blanket across his legs. By now he was sitting up, spooning down huge, greedy mouthfuls of stew from the bowl I had given him.
‘It’s good,’ he mumbled.
‘I know. She’s still the comfort food queen, isn’t she?’
It was a relief to see him eat something substantial for once. I wanted to reach out and brush his matted hair back from his forehead; it had faded from gold to the colour of wet straw, greying prematurely round his temples. When he finally put down the empty bowl his eyes had come back into focus.
‘Why do you bother, Alice?’ He sounded so calm and like his old self that I couldn’t reply. ‘After everything I’ve done to you, everything I’ve seen. Why waste your time?’
I rested my hand on his foot. ‘You’re my big brother, that’s why.’
His eyes closed again. Whatever he’d taken was making it impossible for him to stay awake. Pulling the blanket up to his shoulders, I dropped a kiss on his cheek.
‘Come indoors when you wake up, Will, or you’ll freeze.’
I don’t know what made me so angry when I walked away from the van. The exact reason was hard to pinpoint. On my way into the building I gave the rubbish bin a vicious kick, but it didn’t help.
When I got back inside I turned on the TV. Normally I don’t bother with it. I’d rather spend my evenings running, or reading, or listening to the radio in the bath, but I was too tired to think. Flicking through the channels, I settled on a romantic comedy with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, which was like every film they starred in, slushy and comforting. It must have sent me to sleep because something woke me with a start. It was Will’s familiar loud knocking on the front door. He must have seen sense at last, and decided to come in and keep warm.
But the man standing in the doorway wasn’t my brother. Afterwards I realised I should have slammed the door in his face and called the police, but my reactions were too slow. By then there was nothing I could do.
Morris Cley was standing in front of the door, blocking my escape route. My heart battered against my ribcage.
‘What are you doing here, Morris?’
He looked exactly as he had at Wandsworth: frizzy grey hair, misshapen features, unable to look me in the eye.
‘You were nice to me,’ he stammered. ‘A lady in the library helped me find where you work on the computer. I followed you home afterwards, to see where you live.’
My tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth. Cley must have walked out of the huge gates of the prison, intent on tracking me down immediately. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Morris. The police could put you straight back inside.’ I tried to steady my breathing. ‘But now that you’re here, would you like a drink or something to eat before you go home?’
He shook his head. He was growing more agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clenching his fists. I glanced behind me, trying to remember where I’d left my phone.
‘I like you, you see,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d let me stay here.’
‘There’s no room, I’m afraid, Morris. My friend lives here too.’ I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. Lola must be drowning her sorrows. Or maybe she was already asleep on someone else’s settee.
Cley’s face contorted. It was hard to tell if he was angry or afraid. ‘I can’t go back there. My mum’s stuff’s in every room.’
‘And you can’t bear to look at it.’
‘She left her slippers by the door, all her bits and bobs.’ His eyes were brimming.
‘Where have you been staying then?’
‘In the park last night. There’s nowhere else to go.’
‘You can’t have had much rest.’
‘Jeannie let me sleep in her bed.’ He smiled and took a step towards me. ‘You look just like her.’
When I looked into his eyes I could see abject loneliness, but no hint of violence. Then common sense kicked in and my heart rate doubled. It dawned on me that a convicted murderer was telling me I was the spitting image of his victim.
‘No, Morris. You have to go home. Right now.’
I reached for the handle of the front door, but he caught my arm.
‘Please, just for tonight.’ His fingers locked round my wrist. ‘I’ll leave in the morning, I promise.’
He grabbed my other hand before I could free myself. Instinct told me that my best chance was to fight my way past him, get out into the corridor. But he was determined, and twice as strong as me. I tried to wrench myself free, then there was a burst of pain as my skull hit the doorframe.
God knows how long I was out for, but the next thing I remember was lying on my back in the hall, with Lola peering down at me.
‘Hell,’ she said, ‘that looks nasty.’
There was an odd, metallic taste in my mouth, black spots appearing and disappearing in front of my eyes. Drops of blood were falling on to the floor.
I sat up cautiously. ‘What happened?’
‘I bashed him with the lamp.’ Lola sounded as if she expected a medal for conspicuous bravery. ‘Then I called the police.’
Pieces of the china lamp base were scattered across the floor.
‘But he got away?’
She nodded. ‘He had you against the wall, trying to hang on to you.’
The raw skin on my cheek burned when I touched my face.
‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some ice.’
I was still sitting on the floor with a bag of frozen peas against my eye when DS Alvarez arrived. I gritted my teeth. He seemed determined to give me another dose of industrial-strength arrogance when he crouched in front of me.
‘You don’t have much luck, do you, Dr Quentin?’
‘That’s not true, actually. This is the exception.’
‘And you got me out of bed. The station called me because Cley’s at the top of our wanted list.’ He leaned towards me. ‘Let’s see your face.’ There was a vertical frown line between his eyebrows, as if he spent all his spare time worrying about things he couldn’t fix. He winced when I looked up at him. ‘I’d better run you to the hospital.’
‘For a split lip and a few bruises? Don’t be ridiculous. If it’s bad in the morning I’ll get it checked out.’
He reached forward and pressed the compress to my cheek. ‘Look, I don’t want to give you another lecture about personal safety.’
‘Praise the lord.’
‘But why put a spy-hole in your door if you don’t intend to use it?’
‘I do normally. I was expecting someone.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘She was expecting me.’ Lola emerged from the living room.
Alvarez reacted the way men always do when they see Lola for the first time. She hovered in the doorway, tall and pale-skinned as a lily, red curls flowing across her shoulders, the original Pre-Raphaelite stunner. Eventually he dragged his gaze back to me. Maybe it was the effect of concussion but his face was too close. I could read the dark smudges under his eyes, judge the exact length of his five o’clock shadow. I edged away, pressing my spine to the wall.
‘Cley didn’t mean any harm,’ I muttered.
‘You’re defending him now?’ Alvarez shook his head in amazement.
‘He’s afraid, that’s all. He wanted somewhere to hide.’
‘It’s crazy. You don’t seem to realise when you’re in danger.’ He rose to his feet. Maybe he had decided I was a lost cause. ‘Use both locks on that door in future.’
The heavy soles of Alvarez’s shoes thundered along the corridor as he made his escape.
‘Jesus,’ I muttered. ‘He talks to me like I’m five years old.’
‘At least he talks to you.’ Lola’s eyes were misty and out of focus. ‘Why are the gorgeous ones always married?’
‘You thinks he’s attractive?’
‘God, yeah. But did you clock his wedding ring? It’s half an inch thick.’
 
The next morning I stayed in the shower for a long time, soaping away the remains of the day before. My encounter with Cley hadn’t left any ill-effects, apart from a slight throbbing behind my right eye. When I confronted myself in the mirror the damage looked worse than it felt. There was swelling across my cheekbone, with a streak of dark blue bruises, but my vision was fine. The split in the middle of my lip was
already beginning to heal. I dabbed on some make-up, pulled on my black wool skirt and white silk shirt.
Lola was in the kitchen in a bright blue tracksuit, drinking coffee. She stared at me in amazement.
‘You’re not seriously intending to go to work.’
‘Course I am.’
‘Al, some madman attacked you last night. He knocked you out cold. Lie on the sofa all day eating chocolate like a normal person.’
‘I can’t. I’d be bored rigid.’
‘Jesus wept.’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘You’re an android, aren’t you? No human feelings at all.’
‘You finally rumbled me. Where are you off to, anyway?’
‘Dance class. I’m trying to get back in shape.’
She peered down at her mile-long legs anxiously, as if they might have lost a few inches overnight.
 
Fortunately people at work were too polite to mention my injuries. Psychologists are famous for it. Years of training makes it impossible to ask a direct question, or say exactly what you mean.
My boss Hari drifted up to me in the corridor. He’s been a friend for years and I’ve never seen him look less than immaculate, with his saffron turban, expensive suit and well-groomed beard. He’d been circling all morning, trying to find the right time for a meaningful conversation. They’re his speciality because he’s an expert on counselling skills, impossible to offend, upset or surprise.
‘Just ask me how I got the shiner, Hari. Go on, you’re dying to know.’
He gave his usual peaceful smile. ‘By saying that, I assume you’re dying to tell me.’
‘Reverse psychology, Hari. My favourite technique.’
Hari’s dark brown eyes studied my face thoughtfully, and I could see why my friend Tejo had married him. If it had been the sixties he could have grown his beard and become a guru. Pop stars would have paid fortunes to sit at his feet cross-legged, absorbing his advice.
‘I’m not going to ask how you hurt yourself, Alice, but I do think you’re working too hard, and that concerns me. You’re my star player. Don’t run yourself into the ground.’ He rested his hand on my shoulder for a second before turning away.
After my last appointment I walked down to Ruskin Ward to see the anorexic girl I’d admitted. Her mother was still sitting motionless by her daughter’s bed, like she had been there since the dawn of time. She nodded a greeting, but seemed too exhausted to speak. A piece of apple pie was balanced on Laura’s tray, swimming in bright yellow custard. She was conscious, but her skin was white and papery. When I stood at the end of her bed she stared at me, eyes so deeply shadowed she could have been fifty, instead of fifteen. There was a fuzz of downy hair on her cheeks. A sign that her hormones were running riot, while her starving body consumed the last of her fat reserves. Her anger flared up out of nowhere.
‘You can’t make me eat that shit.’ She shoved the pudding bowl away with surprising energy, custard slopping across the table.
‘I know I can’t.’ I held her gaze. ‘I can help you, but you’ll have to do the hard work for yourself.’
I felt relieved as I walked away, because I knew she’d recover. Her rage showed that she was still fighting to stay alive. The ones you have to worry about have already shut down. They lie under the covers without moving, willing themselves to disappear.
 
 
There was no sign of Lola when I got home. It was dark outside and a pile of mail was waiting on the doormat, which I scooped up and dumped on the kitchen table. I looked out of the window. Will’s van had gone, but a police car was parked across the road, two officers inside, eating sandwiches. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or afraid that Ben Alvarez was keeping an eye on me, in case any more ex-cons decided to pay a call.
I stepped into my trainers and ran down the stairs two at a time. One of the policeman gawped at me in amazement. Obviously I was failing to display appropriate victim behaviour. It was a relief to get moving, heading west, towards Tower Bridge. It’s always been my favourite, delicate as a cat’s cradle, but robust enough to carry a million cars each year. And it can open its jaw wide enough to allow the largest battleship in the naval fleet to sail through.
Reaching St Katharine’s Dock, I tried to imagine what it had been like before the property developers got hold of it, and it still belonged to the East India Company. Tall ships must have docked there every day, loaded to the portholes with spices and silk. I sprinted along Capital Wharf, keeping the river to my right. The tide was almost out, sluggish water drifting slowly east. By Wapping Old Stairs the backs of my legs were burning. I sat on the top step and watched a River Police boat dart up the central channel. Yards of dark brown silt gaped in front of me. It smelled of sewage and brine, everything the river had been forced to swallow.
 
It was after nine by the time I got home and the police car had disappeared. Sean had left two messages on my answer-machine. The first one was calm and reasonable, but the second sounded like a different man.
‘You’re a coward, Alice,’ his words slurred. ‘You ran off because you were starting to feel something, weren’t you? It’s
too fucking weird. I know you’re the shrink, but you need some help, you really do.’
The message rambled on for several minutes, explaining that I was afraid of my own feelings and listing reasons why we should be together. His tone veered between tenderness and rage. At times he sounded completely unhinged. He must have got back from work and sunk a bottle of wine. I pressed the delete button and went into the kitchen and boiled water for spaghetti, rooted in the fridge for ragu sauce and the last crumbs of parmesan.
When the meal was ready I browsed through the post. An animal welfare charity had written to me, enclosing a photo of a golden Labrador gazing longingly at the camera, like I was his last hope. My bank statement showed that my mortgage was consuming two-thirds of my wage. Stuffing it back in the envelope, I tried not to calculate how many years of debt were hanging round my neck. I gulped down another mouthful of spaghetti and moved on to the next envelope. It had been posted in central London. The writing was unfamiliar, tiny black letters leaning backwards, like a strong wind was blowing them in the wrong direction. The letter had been written on good quality white paper, no address or date, unsigned.
Dear Alice,
I feel I know you already. You’re the kind of person who works late because you imagine you can help people. Then you go running, almost every day. You look different when you run. Relaxed, as if no one could catch you, and there’s nothing to fear. One thing you don’t know yet is that pain is a kind of intimacy. It’s fulfilling. When someone’s in pain they can’t hide anything. You can see right inside them.
I am looking forward to seeing inside you, Alice.

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