Fragments (20 page)

An ironing
board filled up the tiny space on the other side of the bed, with
an expensive iron on the floor beside it. Not the cat this time, as
it had been carefully placed to cool out of harm’s way. For all the
chaos in the room, an expensive jacket in dark blue hung impeccably
on the back of the door. A matching skirt had been hanging in the
shower room, obviously left to steam out its wrinkles. The tiny
fragrance bottle by the bed was pricey but affordable enough to
have been a present to herself. A secretary, the report had said.
The flat screeched up and coming PA at him; with three daughters of
his own, he was wise enough to know the difference. The probationer
sniffed around after him as he called in the details, heeding his
warning to touch nothing. She crumpled her nose in disdain at the
mess, and smell. She’d learn. She’d learn bloody fast. A double
duty of nights in the riot months of summer and her no doubt
currently pristine room back at the police house would look the
same. He logged the time and complete lack of evidence in any
direction. Her suitcases were on top of the wardrobe, and the
drawers filled with underwear, clothing and two sex toys. A
vibrating egg and slim finger sized vibrator. This made it
extremely unlikely she’d just walked away. He finished his report
and sighed: this didn’t feel a good one, not at all.

A week of
searching saw Joanne Maitland’s neatly typed details logged and
filed, the case unofficially closed. She was lost somewhere in the
mystery that the city became at these times, her disappearance
overshadowed by a sensational libel case and another marital
dispute over at the House of Windsor. Mrs Maitland, crumpled and
creased from the jostled and chaotic trip South, shed her tears for
the camera, wailing a little at Fleet Street’s seeming
indifference. Had a paparazzo photograph of a distraught Princess
of Wales not stolen the morning headlines, a little more might have
been made of her one shot appearance on the evening news. As it
was, London lifted its head in grief for a split second, returning
to business as usual by close of trading. Jo, oblivious to the
future of her good name, left behind a less than fitting epitaph in
the form of her last confirmed sighting. Breathless, half in her
jacket, red from the run, she had stood and watched the tube she
had just missed hurtle down into the depths of Archway station.

“Shit!” is what
she had said, loudly, as she stalked up and down the platform.
“Shit!”

It had been
another vile day. Too much work, not enough time. Fridays were
always her worst day, not the usual Blue Monday of office worker
fame. Friday was the day she’d be in such a rush that she would
skip breakfast completely, her Monday good intentions on sensible
eating abandoned sometime around Wednesday. Friday breakfast
usually joined Thursday dinner as a non-event. Friday break would
find her stuffing chocolate biscuits down her throat as quickly as
she could, her now up and running body desperate for anything that
looked and acted remotely like a calorie. If she was lucky, and
this Friday she hadn’t been, lunch was a sandwich and a doughnut,
washed down with lukewarm coffee. Every Monday she began a perfect
routine of fruit for breakfast and break, with peppermint tea to
wash her virtue down. She would smile sweetly at the others as they
moaned about the coffee machine being broken again, as she waited
for her tea bag to infuse. By Wednesday she was beginning to think
maybe she should phone through for a new machine herself, as she
waited for the damn thing to gurgle out more tepid caffeine. Friday
always found her deciding that she’d damn well put the order
through as urgent as soon as she had a minute on Monday, as she
sent out an order for a massive triple mocha from the coffee shop
on the high street.

Minutes were
Friday’s real problem: there were not enough of them. Work that had
not seemed too important and could be put back for a day or two,
suddenly had to be cleared and logged out of the office before the
weekend. Logged and cleared by her, for she’d learnt, as had her
boss, that if she didn’t do it personally, it sometimes wasn’t
done. Friday nights usually saw her pegged on the couch, having
missed the soaps again, picking the topping off an extra large
pizza, a bottle of plonk for company and a tub of ice cream melting
in the sink, awaiting her pleasure. Fridays she was fit for nothing
but collapse and retreat.

This Friday had
been a Friday from hell. The end of financial year accounts about
to be closed and set. She hadn’t even got to the chocolate biscuits
‘til after 2. The phone never stopped, the fax machine had over
spilled twice and her boss had looked at her with one of those
looks. The ‘I know you are so very busy and you are so very
competent, but can I please have the report on my desk now’ looks.
Yes, she loved the bustle. Yes, she was good enough to do
everything well, no matter how busy it got. Yes, it was great fun.
Sometimes. But it wasn’t really her job to do all of it and it was
about time someone recognised that. They’d almost had words, Jo
backing down at the last moment when the phone had rung once more,
embroiling her in another minor crisis in the photocopying room.
She had sent out for coffee and a sandwich, but either they had
never arrived, or she hadn’t noticed them in the mêlée.

She had felt
defeated when it was all sorted out, not exultant so, when the
usual shout had gone up about where and when the office was
congregating for party mode, she’d listened. She rarely joined in
with the Friday night extravaganza that the bosses actively
encouraged the staff into. She was always late, always tired, and
found getting it down and boogying with the others a waste of time.
Today, however, had been different. All she wanted to do was go out
and get absolutely smashed out of her skull. Forget it all and
start the weekend in bed, too past it to care about anything. She
may even get laid, or try to. The safety of getting drunk in the
company of her fellow workers stood against her managing a little
horizontal jogging. Embarrassed encounters over work areas on
Monday mornings were not her idea of fun. Not that she’d ever had
such an encounter, but it might happen yet. There was a Northern
chill to her backbone that usually saw to it that nothing squidgy
happened, despite her fantasies. Perhaps tonight, she’d shuck off
the puritanical streak she hadn’t realised was part of her until
she moved to London.

Unprepared for
a night out, she’d made the decision to leave some of the work
undone and rush back home to change. With luck and the right
connections, she would meet up with the others as they made their
way across London to catch a boat that was going to let them drink
themselves sick as it drifted along the Thames. Experience had
shown that this was very convenient, both for throwing up
discreetly, and for controlling who had access to you in a
‘fragile’ state. With the train now hurtling away from her into the
darkness, there was a good chance she was going to be late.
Thankfully, the next train popped up quickly, although she was
going to have to change at Leicester Square, which suited her well
enough as she didn’t have that much cash on her. Her temper had
cooled as she stopped off to pick up money from the hole in the
wall. Folding the notes into her purse, she allowed the chiming of
the nearby Swiss Centre to register the time with her, bursting the
bubble of her self-delusion. It was too late. She had missed the
launch, they’d be heading downstream by the time she got there. She
didn’t have one jot of a clue as to where it was picking up along
the route, should have listened better as they all chattered about
who was wearing what, who was gunning for whom.

She fought back
the irrational prick of tears that threatened to engulf her,
concentrating on what she wanted to do now. She was dressed for
fun, she was in the right part of town. She had money in her purse
and the night, if not the evening, was still young. She couldn’t
face returning to her flat so soon after rushing out of it, all
caught up with the idea that she had somewhere to go. Unnoticed by
the crowds she slipped into the first decent looking pub she found.
A quick glass of wine, some time to calm down. A meal, maybe a
movie. Something of the evening would be salvaged. Besides, she’d
be so much safer on her own.

Restlessness
had brought him out onto the streets earlier than usual. The day
had been hot; sticky and close. There was a fine drawing of his
nerves building; a faint twitch. He cruised the bars from Soho down
to the Square, scanning the eager young faces he passed. It was too
early for the true desperates to be abroad. He wondered where they
went in the city centre bustle between the hours of the commuter’s
rush and the emptying of the bars. The young and helpless, tricking
the night away to fill their bellies and their veins. The air was
grey and stale, not heavy enough to call with it rain. Deep and
dark enough that it lay in layers around him. The scents caught by
each step forward drummed the sense of city into his bones. Sweat,
concrete, cheap perfume. The sharp and noxious odour of urine,
splashed carelessly behind bins and crates. Dark alleyways
completely overlooked by the tourists. Rotting vegetables and
rubbish caught in the trap of the gutter, wind brushing all to the
corners of the streets. Noise assailed him from the edges of
Chinatown, ancient spices and herbs drifted out to him from the
apothecary’s shelves. Tonight was not a night for easy prey, swift
endings. Tonight, he was in the mood for fun.

The pub was
packed and she’d found her way to both the bar, and an empty table,
with a lot of pushing and jostling. The table was crowded with
bottles and had an overflowing ashtray. She edged it away,
wrinkling her nose in distaste. The table was tiny, a fake
hardboard top over a fake beer barrel. There was only one stool but
she’d be nearer the door where there was a sense of fresher air to
be found. Squeezing into a gap in the heaving bodies around her she
settled into the seat, ruefully reflecting that the fresher air
from outside was just as cloying, if somewhat drier than the sweat
and lager laden fug around her. She scanned her somewhat sketchy
memory of the area for rememberings of a good restaurant. One with
air conditioning.

The street was
a small one, lined with pubs and wine bars. The prices in each
varied greatly. He’d learnt that such a range offered interesting
possibilities. He took his time, savouring the appearance and
demeanour of everyone around him. There was a tow-headed young man,
a boy really, sitting on one of the cheap plastic seats outside a
cafe. He looked as if he’d just been jilted, his eyes staring
intently at the label of the bottle he held. He almost didn’t fit
the new jeans he was wearing, his shoes scuffed and rather more
worn than looked cool. Promising. Next door, a wine bar with
pretensions of glamour. The woman taking advantage of the dim light
of an alcove was in her late forties. High quality make up sought
to cover the lines and wrinkles of excess, powder clogging her
pores, eye shadow making pretence of much younger looks. Good
clothing, bag and matching shoes. Expensive perfume barely masking
stale body odour. Dark roots just peeping into view. There was a
harshness, a nervousness about her. Eyes constantly roaming,
searching, eager. Her hands were never still, the rings surrounding
her fingers twisted and turned this way and that. She brought her
hand up to her face regularly, hiding, entreating. He savoured her
plight, how easily she would be caught. He shook his head, not for
this evening, although he may return at a later date, not doubting
that this was a favourite haunt.

The boy had
gone when he returned to the street, his place taken by three
giggling girls, their almost skirts not quite matching their almost
tops. Make up applied with more enthusiasm than skill, their flesh
tones lost in a jumble of clashing shades and colours. Long
gangling limbs embraced in cheap bangles and bracelets, shoes all
bought in a sale. A vestige of some shared shopping spree no doubt.
He smiled at them as he passed, evoking shrieks of delight and
raucous comment on his intentions. The smile was genuine as he
savoured the raw scents they spread around him. Musk, heat, and the
fresh tang of just washed flesh exerting its own perfume over that
of soap and deodorant. He mellowed into the chase, thoroughly
enjoying the pace and selection the evening had so far offered. He
tipped them a wink and moved on, relishing the sounds as he passed
them by.

Jo found her
glass of wine soothing. It had a sour taste, kept overlong in a
bottle behind the bar, but the alcohol warmed her blood. It was a
stupid thing to do, get so frazzled, just for another pointless
office party. She studied those around her, making guesses at who
they were and what they did for a living. The main performer in a
tightly woven pack of young men looked over at her and winked. She
smiled, dropping her head to look at her glass. When she looked up
he was engaged in another tall tale, his mates well on the road to
joining him in a night of excess. A small part of her was
disappointed that she’d been dismissed so easily, laughing the
slight off with a quick toss of her head. A gesture for a mythical
companion who was at the bar buying the next round, or weaving his
way back from the Gents. A clear signal for the one who’d passed
her over so quickly. It didn’t make her feel better; it made her
feel worse, more aware of how vulnerable she was feeling. It was
stupid to take it to heart, she was alone after all. No matter the
attraction, the guy who had winked would have only broken ranks to
approach her if she had been surrounded by her mates. Something for
them all to get their teeth into. Shares for everyone, that was the
pack rule. As she drained the glass her stomach announced its
immediate rebellion. She must eat, must fill the void. Collecting
her jacket and bag, she rose to leave.