Don't Look Back (8 page)

Harry studied the pattern on his mug as though it was
the most interesting thing in the room. ‘So what do we do now?'

‘We should have a look round before we leave. The mad wall artist could be holed up somewhere.'

But there was nothing to suggest that anyone apart from us had been in the flat. I was still certain that Patrick was responsible and that he was somewhere close by.

‘Patrick could have set up a diversion for me last night,' I said, ‘then sneaked into the flat and waited until I was asleep to make the image … but … it's so detailed, way beyond his capabilities.'

‘Maybe it's a giant transfer,' Harry suggested. ‘You moisten the back and the image is transposed on to a surface – that wouldn't need any skill.'

I tugged my hair in frustration. What was I missing? I clutched my head and did my impersonation of
The Scream
painting. It usually made Harry smile, but not today. His tongue rested against his top lip as if he was brooding on something.

When he spoke his tone was subdued. ‘I think I noticed some letters in the bottom right-hand corner of the mural … they might be a signature.'

‘Why didn't you tell me before?' I asked crossly, sloshing my coffee over the worktop.

I went back to the living room, asking Harry to grab a pen and some paper. But every time I bent down to study the wall, he did the same and I had to point out that he was blocking the light and we should take it in turns. It
took us both over ten minutes to decipher all the letters, and even then we were unsure if they were correct because some were indistinct and others written back to front.

‘It's too long to be a name,' I said. ‘It could be another maxim, like
Tempus fugit
.'

Harry's fingers busily keyed in words on the Internet, his brow furrowed with concentration.

‘Any match?'

‘Bingo.' He turned my laptop towards me and grinned. ‘
Sic transit gloria mundi
– So passes away earthly glory.'

Passes away … time passing … earthly glory … reminding us of our mortality.

OK, Patrick. I'm starting to get the picture, but what's this all about?

Harry read from the screen. ‘It was the motto of a mission house that used to be based in Brick Lane. Now it's the Treatment Centre, a charity for recovering addicts.'

I clutched Harry's sleeve, my heart lifting. ‘Patrick used to check in there sometimes. He might be there now, just waiting to be brought home. Will you come with me?' I begged, heading for the door and checking the time.

Harry gave me a hard stare. ‘I want you to stop looking for Patrick.'

‘What? Why?'

‘I don't have a good feeling about all this, Sinead. He's leading you into danger, knowing you can't resist. You're worried about him being in trouble, but what about
you
?'

I was itching to leave. I wedged the door half open, my
foot already edging outside. ‘I can look after myself. Really I can.'

‘No, you can't,' Harry said, unusually fierce. ‘You think you're somehow responsible for Patrick's problems – you even feel stupidly guilty about being born. Nothing about Patrick is your fault and you shouldn't be following him. I know I said I'd help you but that was before this got too heavy. You should walk away … now, Sinead.'

‘I can walk away any time,' I insisted. ‘And I have to do this.'

Harry turned his baby blue eyes to me. ‘Part of your
quest
? Still following his footsteps?'

My eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe. I have this weird feeling that if I find him … I'll be free of him for good.'

He nodded slowly, with a crooked half-smile. ‘OK then, Sinead. Let's go.'

‘There's no point taking my car,' Harry said, following me down the steep chapel stairs. ‘The one-way system will take us miles around, and there won't be any parking spaces.'

‘We could walk it in fifteen minutes,' I suggested, matching his broad stride. ‘Cut up Victoria Street, then down by the Cross Keys, shortcut through the university, bypass the multistorey and we're there.'

‘Speed up,' Harry mocked as my breathing grew more laboured as we walked uphill.

‘Keep pace, Harry,' I retaliated, and broke into a run. He had no choice but to follow suit.

We arrived in Brick Lane panting and clutching our sides. I had to sit on a wall to get my breath back. Harry's face was beetroot-coloured and his hair damp with perspiration. I used my fingers to comb my own hair and composed myself while Harry tried to cool down. I glanced around at the old buildings, the bricks blackened and honeycombed with age. There were three skips in the
lane, all full of building materials, and I remembered the area was undergoing some regeneration. There was a sign advertising flats to rent, a newly opened bistro, an antiques shop with a few chairs outside and some kind of specialist art shop. The Treatment Centre was a single-storey building. It was set apart with its own courtyard, but there were metal bars on the windows.

‘Will you go first?' I whispered nervously.

Harry seemed surprised. ‘Haven't you been here before?'

I shook my head. ‘This kind of place makes me feel a bit weird and … not that comfortable.'

Harry's eyebrows shot up. ‘Shall I go alone then, Sinead, in case it's too
uncomfortable
in there for you?'

I didn't reply, feeling ashamed and knowing that I deserved this jibe. I threw back my shoulders and reached for Harry's hand. Together we edged through the double doors. They opened straight into a hall with two long refectory tables running side by side and a counter serving food. The walls were lined with posters offering advice on everything from housing and welfare to drug and alcohol rehabilitation. Every seat was taken. It smelled like school dinners mixed with sweat and unwashed clothes. There was little ventilation and I immediately felt nauseous.

I made for the first person wearing an identity badge. She was young with short brown hair, dressed casually in faded jeans and a checked shirt.

‘I'm looking for my brother … he hasn't contacted his
family for over two weeks.' I got out my phone and showed her a photograph of Patrick.

She didn't seem at all surprised and I could only imagine how many relatives came here looking for family who had fallen off the radar. This made me feel flustered and even more anxious.

‘How long has he used our services?' she asked.

I felt as if I had to whisper. ‘He isn't … I mean … he doesn't come here that often.'

‘He does look familiar,' she said reservedly, ‘but we have so many comings and goings. You'd probably be better off talking to the regulars.'

‘Talking to –'

She must have seen my reluctance. Her pale eyes stared at me while I visibly wilted. I examined the floor and by the time I had the courage to look up she'd walked away.

Harry had heard every word and he sounded puzzled. ‘I thought you used to help out in a hospital?'

I groaned. ‘Yes, but only with the medical side of it. I'm not a social worker.'

‘I'll help,' he offered.

I licked my dry lips and took one step forward, catching the eye of a woman staring into space. Her face was hollow, her eyes sunken into the back of her head. Her arms were a pockmarked mess of collapsed veins and her bare legs angry with weeping sores. Something about her made me stop dead, and it only took a few seconds to realize why – it was like looking at hell on earth. I couldn't do this.

‘Don't feel well,' I muttered.

I stumbled outside into the baking sun and clung on to the gatepost. I knew I was being unfair. These people weren't Patrick and I had no idea what circumstances had made their lives turn out this way, but I couldn't disconnect from my unspent fury at my brother and what he'd done to our family. Harry didn't say a word and his silence stung more than his previous criticism.

I shuddered. ‘Sorry, I'm not very good at sympathy … It was all exhausted on Patrick.'

‘They don't need your sympathy, Sinead; just treat them like they're human.'

‘It just … overwhelms me,' I tried to explain.

‘Most of them are shunned by everyone … but I never expected it of you.'

I glanced at the people strolling by enjoying the sunshine and wished I was anywhere but here. Feebly I attempted to defend myself. ‘When I see them, all I can think of is Patrick and all the times he said it would be different, all the promises he broke and how he hurt us all … I see
him
in ten or twenty years' time, and it's frightening.'

‘Come back inside with me,' Harry said, his tone a little softer. He pulled at my T-shirt and managed to drag me into the building without further protest.

Harry approached another staff member, taking my phone from me and showing her Patrick's photo.

She didn't even have to think. ‘I do recognize him. Let
me check our register but … you must realize, people don't always give their real names.'

She took us to a small office. I gave her Patrick's full name, told her that he was my brother and watched her flick through some kind of ledger. ‘Here he is … Patrick Mullen. He left us eighteen days ago.'

I smiled gratefully. ‘I wonder … Did you notice anything …
strange
about him?'

Her expression was rueful. ‘We treat people at their lowest ebb, often people who have nowhere else to turn. Everyone here acts a little strange.'

‘I don't suppose you'd remember where he slept?' I asked, convinced that Patrick must have left something for me.

She looked back at the ledger. ‘The room he stayed in is currently occupied. And every room is cleaned before the next guest arrives.'

‘Even so, could we take a quick look?' I persisted. ‘My brother's disappeared and we're looking for anything that might help us find him.'

After a moment's hesitation the woman nodded. We followed her down a shiny, antiseptic-smelling corridor that reminded me of a hospital. She opened one of the many doors and ushered us into a spartan room that had only one tiny window. She stayed in the doorway watching us as we looked around. The current occupant had very few possessions for us to disturb. My eyes immediately scanned the walls for writing and I peered underneath the
iron bedstead. I rummaged in the bin, already knowing it would have been emptied. Harry checked out the chest of drawers, which was the only other furniture in the room. He shook his head.

The woman came inside and stood in front of the window, her eyes skyward. ‘Your brother's very observant. If you crane your head you can see a line of starlings sitting on a nearby roof. Like soldiers on parade, he said. I'd never noticed them before, but now I enjoy watching them.'

‘Patrick likes birds,' I answered dully.

I grimaced at Harry. There was nothing here, and I'd already sussed that the door didn't have a keyhole. I was about to leave when something pulled me back. It was unthinkable that Patrick would lead me this far and send me away empty-handed. There must be something I'd missed. I stuck my hand inside the pillowcases and threw aside the bedcovers. Then I patted the hollow mattress all over and towards the foot of the bed heard the faint scrunch of paper. My blood tingled. I reached my hand underneath, felt around and drew out a rolled-up newspaper. I checked the date. Eighteen days ago. I unrolled it carefully. The paper had been folded at the employment section and there was a job advert circled – LIFE-CHANGING OPPORTUNITY AT BENEDICT HOUSE. Harry was watching me intently, but I didn't move. My skin was prickling. At that moment Patrick felt so close, like when we played our game as children and he was just around the corner, waiting for
me to find him. It was the strangest sensation. I collected myself and showed Harry.

‘The advert stands out, doesn't it?' he said, frowning.

I looked to the ceiling for inspiration. ‘I don't even know what or where Benedict House is. There isn't a contact phone number or even a job description.'

‘It's a private house,' the woman piped up, ‘possibly the oldest in the area. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it.'

‘We're not that interested in ruins,' I said.

Harry shot me one of his looks. ‘What can you tell us about it?' he asked politely.

She shook her head. ‘Very little. I believe it used to be a manor house, but I thought it was derelict now.'

I scowled. ‘Obviously not, if they're putting adverts in the paper.'

I tucked the newspaper under my arm and thanked her for her help. Harry and I walked back to the flat, the sun's afternoon rays burning our necks.

‘We've come a long way,' I said. ‘We now know where Patrick's working … all we have to do is go there and find him.'

‘You're not going to just turn up at this … manor house?'

‘Why not? Patrick's probably passed out somewhere and needs to recover. Maybe his employers don't realize he has family who'll be worried.'

Harry gave a poorly concealed sigh. ‘Let's hope the trail ends there, Sinead.'

As we were walking he Googled Benedict House on his phone. ‘There isn't much about it on the Internet. It dates from the eleventh century, and the Benedict family are mentioned in the Domesday Book. There's a bit here about the architecture. It's a jumble of different styles and later additions: Tudor, Elizabethan, Jacobean …'

I checked my phone messages. There was one from my mum insisting I come home to give her a progress report. I groaned. ‘It's time to face the music.'

Harry offered me a lift home and reluctantly I agreed. I slid into the front seat of his car, glum at the prospect of seeing my mother again. Harry tried to cheer me up but I wasn't in the mood for conversation. Every now and then he flicked a glance my way.