Keeping Bad Company (19 page)

My unknown visitor came back that night.

Before going to bed, I had managed to convince myself that I’d imagined it all two nights ago. It was that sealed little bedroom, I’d told myself. Now I was sleeping out here in the living room, my mind wouldn’t be tempted to create wandering ghouls. Anyone lying in the subterranean room, listening to footsteps overhead, would be bound to start making up scary tales. In this way, a late-night, homeward-bound stroller had stopped for a quiet ciggie and in my imagination I’d built it up into a Gothic novel.

Whereupon he proved me wrong. He came back. He even ventured a little closer. He came down the basement steps into the well and stood by the window. He couldn’t see in because I’d drawn the curtains and all the lights were out.

I woke up with a start and a sick feeling in my stomach that was fear, not indigestion. Even in my sleep I must have been aware of his approach. Now, as I sat up on the sofa hugging the duvet around me, I saw him.

To be exact, I saw his silhouette on the curtain, slightly distorted by a fold in the curtain. The lamplight outside the house shone down into the basement well and there he was. Not a tall man, not Merv certainly. A squat figure, burly, and somehow familiar. He stood still and silent for a moment or two and then he moved away. I heard his heavy footstep, wearing strong boots of some kind I guessed, as he reclimbed the steps. Then he must have walked off in the other direction, and not back past the basement well, because I heard only the faintest footfall and then, very distantly, a revving motorbike engine. But traffic noise out on the main road travelled at night and the two last things needn’t have been connected.

I went into the kitchen, got the bottle from the fridge and drank what remained of the wine Ganesh had brought. With the Dutch courage it provided, I wished I’d had the presence of mind to jump out of bed, snatch back the curtains and glare at him, eyeball to eyeball. Ten to one, it’d have scared him off. He was a prowler, a creeper in the shadows. He played out his fantasies in secret. He didn’t like to face his victim.

Victim? I tipped up the bottle but it was empty. Was I indeed to be a victim? If so, what sort? He could just be a nutter. There were people like that who went out at night and roamed about. They had given rise to tales of werewolves and vampires in ages past. Now we just knew them for psychos. But what could he want?

I ran through the possible variations on this theme. He might be a rapist. Basement flats were notoriously vulnerable to break-in. But I had a chain on the door and bolts on the windows.

Or he might be a burglar. But surely he didn’t think my place worth robbing? I ought to tell Daphne, though. He might think she had valuables around the place, or money. But I didn’t want to frighten her, that was the thing. If he were interested in the rest of the house, why hang about in the basement? If I were the sole object of his attentions, why trouble poor Daphne?

Did he know, I wondered, that I was aware of him? Tonight had he known that I’d woken and seen his shadow on my curtain? He hadn’t rattled at the window, trying it. So what the hell was he playing at? To frighten me? Was that his aim?

I raised the empty bottle to him in salute. ‘You’re doing a good job, friend,’ I said. ‘I’m frightened.’

I could tell Ganesh. But Ganesh would go berserk. I could tell Parry. No, things weren’t that bad.

I crawled back beneath the duvet, but I didn’t sleep much.

Dawn came at last and I fell asleep for a restless hour. I reawoke around six thirty and jumped off the sofa. I couldn’t afford to waste daylight. Not now. One thing not on my side was time – amongst all the other things which weren’t on my side, of course. Come to think of it,
nothing
was on my side.

If you added to that The Shadow hanging round the place at night, I didn’t lack good reason to get moving. But at least I now knew where to start looking. I showered, dragged on jeans and a sweater, and trotted off to St Agatha’s women’s refuge.

I can’t say I was feeling very chipper. But once away from the flat, the sheer normality of daily life all around encouraged me to believe I’d sort it all out somehow. Besides which, I had Szabo’s hundred quid in my pocket and being in funds is guaranteed to brighten the outlook. I hadn’t told Ganesh about the money. I knew he’d say I shouldn’t have taken it. He’d probably argue that I’d implicitly put myself under some sort of obligation to Szabo and that’s certainly what Vinnie intended. But I make my own rules.

There was some activity at the refuge this morning. They’d had a visitor of their own since I’d been there. Not content with just heavy breathing like my nocturnal caller, this one had kicked in the front door, which was off its hinges and leaning against the wall. A couple of carpenters were replacing the wooden panel. A skin-headed glazier, half his shaven skull tattooed with a spider’s web, was fixing the broken window, getting everything shipshape till the next time. Fixing up St Agatha’s must be like painting that Scottish bridge.

There was a transistor radio on the pavement blaring out pop music, and what with that and the sawing and hammering and the workmen all shouting at each other about football, it was bedlam.

I couldn’t get past the carpenters so I had to stand next to them and shout. ‘Excuse me!’

‘My pleasure, darlin’!’ said the younger one, all purple singlet, muscles, body odour and dirty blond locks tied back with a bit of ribbon.

‘He lives in ’opes, he does,’ said his mate to me, winking. ‘You want to go in there, do you?’

Oh yes, we’d got a quick thinker here! I was only standing on the step, trying to get past.

‘What’s up?’ enquired Purple Singlet. ‘Your old man give you a thick ear?’

‘I’ve just come to see a friend,’ I explained, hoping to shut him up. I edged past them both.

The radio had stopped blasting out pop and a presenter was waffling on about something. The shaven glazier burst out unmelodiously into song, informing the world he was forever blowing bubbles.

‘You don’t want to go in there,’ said the second carpenter. ‘Right funny lot in there.’

‘I wouldn’t mind getting in there,’ said Purple Singlet.

‘’E’s sex-obsessed!’ shouted the West Ham supporter from the windowsill.

‘Well, ’oo in’t?’ Purple Singlet justified his interests.

I left them arguing it out and managed to get past the damaged door into the hall.

The door to the dining room was shut, as was a door to my left. But the door to the right marked ‘Office’ was ajar and the rattle of a keyboard could be heard. I knocked.

As I’d been hoping, the dragon with the fright wig wasn’t on duty this morning. She’d been replaced by a motherly but competent-looking woman wearing a silk shirt, a drooping skirt and, yes, an Alice band securing faded fair hair. I knew where I was with this one. It was time to polish up the legacy of a good education (in my case, gone wrong, but that didn’t matter).

‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you,’ I said with a diffident smile.

‘Not at all,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Come in and do sit down. Just a moment, I’ll make a space.’ She swept a pile of papers from a chair. ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens this morning, I’m afraid.’

‘Gosh, yes,’ I burbled. ‘I saw the damage. Frightful.’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ she reassured me. ‘Just a bit of a nuisance.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They
will
play that music.’

I sat on the chair, keeping my knees together as taught. ‘The reason I’ve come is that I’ve been terribly worried about a friend, well, an old schoolfriend, actually. I hadn’t seen much of her since I left school but I bumped into her a little while ago and we had a coffee and a sort of catch-up talk, you know?’

She was smiling and nodding, but her eyes were watchful.

I plunged on. ‘She didn’t seem to be awfully happy. She had some sort of man problem which she wouldn’t talk about. The thing is, she’s rather disappeared. I’ve asked for her all over the place and no one’s seen her. So I’ve started looking anywhere the least bit likely. That’s why I came here. Her name’s Lauren Szabo. She’s got longish hair and the last time I saw her she was wearing jeans and a sloppy sweater and had a hairband like yours.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. ‘You understand we don’t give out names or personal details. We just can’t. We operate here on a principle of trust.’

‘Oh yes!’ I breathed earnestly. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to! I just would be happy if I knew she’d been here and was safe.’

‘Well, yes . . . I do see your problem. The trouble is – ’

There was a rap at the door and Purple Singlet put his head round. ‘You know your frame isn’t square?’ he demanded.

I cursed him silently and tried telepathy to get him to clear off and sort out the crooked frame for himself. After all, he was the carpenter. But telepathy didn’t work.

‘We’ll have to plane the door down or it’s gonna stick, otherwise. All right?’

She looked flustered. ‘I’ll come and see.’ She turned to me. ‘Could you just wait a moment? Oh, um, not in here. Just come this way, would you?’

She led me past the carpenter, who winked at me and asked, ‘All right, then darlin’?’

‘Thank you!’ retorted my guide for me before I could answer. She scurried down the hall and opened the door to the dining room. ‘Please, if you don’t mind?’ She gestured at me to enter. ‘Back in two ticks!’ she promised, and shut me in.

The room smelled of stale vegetable water and old grease mixed with the vinegary aroma that scouring powder manufacturers call ‘lemon-scented’. I sat down at the table wondering what they were all going to have for dinner that evening and glad I wasn’t going to be eating it myself.

The door creaked and I turned my head. It opened slowly. I waited. There was a scuffle on the other side and a child put her head round.

‘Hullo,’ I said.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the child suspiciously.

‘I was told to wait in here,’ I said truthfully.

It seemed a satisfactory explanation. She came in and closed the door. She appeared to be about nine, with a round, wary, tough little face and straggling brown hair. She wore a sleeveless denim pinafore dress, which was too big, crumpled off-white socks and black PE plimsolls. She climbed up on the dining chair at the head of the table, leaned her elbows on the scarred table-top and surveyed me closely.

‘You’ve got no bruises,’ she said reproachfully, as if I’d failed some test.

‘Yes, I have,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a bruise on my back and on my arm, as it happens.’ I pushed up my sleeve to display the imprint of Szabo’s chauffeur’s fingers.

But it wasn’t judged good enough. She sniffed scornfully. ‘That’s nuffin’. My mum’s got a broken arm. Gary, her boyfriend, he bust it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What’s your name? I’m Fran.’

‘My name’s Samantha,’ she said with dignity. ‘I was named after a Page Three girl.’

‘It’s a pretty name. So you and your mum, you’re here because of your mum’s friend.’

‘I never liked him, I never liked Gary,’ she confided. ‘I liked the boyfriend she had before. He was called Gus. He could make all his fingers crack, like this . . .’ She tugged fiercely at her small fingers but, disappointingly, they refused to crack. ‘She should’ve stayed with Gus. He had a job and everythin’.’

Clearly we had here a budding Agony Aunt. And perhaps she was right, at that. Being able to crack your fingers is an achievement of sorts. Not everyone can do it, after all. Throw in a steady job and I was inclined to agree that Samantha’s mum had been unwise to leave Gus for violent, workshy Gary.

Then I remembered the brief discussion between the workmen. Gary probably had the charisma of a pop star and, when he wasn’t belting the living daylights out of a girlfriend, was the life and soul of the party. While poor old Gus had sat there evening after evening, cracking his fingers, before turning in early because he had to get up to go to work in the morning.

I just hoped Samantha here remembered all this when she grew up. It might be better to phrase that ‘when she grew older’ since she appeared to have grown up already.

‘Whatya doing here?’ she asked shrewdly. I wasn’t battered enough to be a genuine refuge-seeker. I had to be after something else.

I glanced at the door. It was taking the woman a long time to sort out the carpentry problem, but this might be to my advantage.

‘I’m looking for a friend,’ I said. ‘Have you been living here long, Samantha?’