The Living (14 page)

Panic, now, eddying in my gut.

I stood jiggling on my toes, needing a plan – any plan. I had to go somewhere, talk to someone. I started to phone my parents after all, but cancelled before the call went through. By now, I knew I couldn't pretend to be calm. There'd be a scene. I couldn't stand it.

I'd go out, get in the car, drive over to Matthew's and make him let me in. I'd take the laptop with me, just in case—

Fuck. They'd be watching the house, of course.

So I couldn't go out the front door. Couldn't get to the car. I had visions of being set upon by grim men with vicious strength of purpose. Stifled; bundled into the back of a dark car with a tuneful registration number. Taken away for questioning. I didn't much care whether the people concerned were working within or without the law.

But I couldn't stay. I'd have to find some other way out. The flat roof of Sheila and Aidan's kitchen. The wall at the end of the yard. The narrow laneway at the back of these houses.

My heart raced; my breath came quick and shallow. I packed the laptop in its black case, cursing how heavy it was and hoping I wouldn't damage it. When I was wrapped up – again – in coat, hat, scarf, gloves, with my handbag slung across my body and the laptop case in my hand, I stood in the sitting room and took a last look round. An idea struck me, and I switched on the television, then went into the bedroom and opened the window. The sash would lift by just enough to allow me out.

The flat roof was about two feet below my windowsill. I leaned out and put the laptop case down before bundling myself gracelessly through the narrow gap. It wasn't raining now, but the dark grey tarpaper surface of the roof was still wet from earlier. I pushed the sash back down as far as I could. It was harder than I expected to pick my way across the roof in the dark, feet crunching on the
rough surface. I was anxious about my footing and – unable to see much – genuinely inconvenienced by the laptop. I reached the edge without mishap and considered my next move.

I must either make my way along the wall that divided this garden from the neighbours', or climb down into the garden and then somehow scale the end wall into the lane. I leaned out to assess the possibilities for climbing down by the kitchen window. Felt dizzy, drew back, took some deep breaths. Blood rushed in my ears.

Two gardens down, a dog started barking. If anyone came out and saw me, things could get very complicated. I had to move on quickly. My legs were like jelly, and a knot of adrenalin soured in my stomach.

OK, the wall. It was a continuation of the house wall, about a foot and a half down from the roof on which I stood. The top of it was curved, and it was alarmingly narrow. Very cautiously, I placed a foot on it and tested my weight. Sweat pricked out all over my skin, and I managed to leave the roof. I inched sideways along the wall with painful care – all of twenty feet. It felt like miles. At least there was no vegetation to slip on. The dog's barking subsided, to my enormous relief, making the noise of nearby traffic seem louder. When I reached the junction with the end wall I felt like cheering. I let out a long sigh, noticing only then that I'd been holding my breath. My mouth was dry, and I could taste my dinner on the back of my tongue.

I sat on the end wall and peered down into the lane. My eyes were used to the darkness by now, and I looked for easy ways
down. There didn't seem to be anything handy. I'd have to jump. The wall wasn't very high.

First I took off my scarf and tied the end around the handles of the laptop case. The night breeze came chill across my sweat-damp throat. By leaning right down, gripping the rough concrete top of the wall with a gloved hand, I was able to place the case safely on the ground. Then I manoeuvred myself round so that I was facing the house, balanced on my hands. A siren from a few streets away rang through my head.

It was only as I dropped down on to the leaf-carpeted surface of the lane that it occurred to me that the television would be on all night. I hoped it wouldn't disturb the neighbours.

It took me a moment in the silent lane to collect myself. I put my scarf back on, after brushing off the leaves it had picked up on the ground. The rich, tangy smell of leaf mould rose around me. My breath sounded loud, and I could just see the ghostly puff of it on the air. I was astonished that I'd actually done it.

I picked up the laptop and started walking.

T
HE WORST BIT,
in the event, was getting to the end of the lane. I knew that it was a haunt for young drinkers, and there was a fine selection of traffic cones and shopping trolleys along its length, as well as the usual litter. A bricked-up gateway, set slightly back, reeked of stale piss. I walked along on the balls of my feet, stomach fluttering, clutching the laptop with an iron grip.

I met nobody. As I headed out into the better-lit street I relaxed
and began to walk with more confidence.

It was colder than I'd thought, and damp, even if not raining. My senses were sharp: I could hear every car from a long way away, and I felt aware of everything on the street. I almost began to enjoy myself, in a detached sort of way.

Before long I hailed a taxi and gave the driver Matthew's address. I didn't phone him again, in case he tried to talk me out of coming. When we got to the house my heart sank to see that every window was dark. I took my time opening the garden gate and walking up the path. He'd better be there.

He wasn't there. Behind me, I heard the taxi driver turning his car. ‘Here!' he called. ‘Are you OK waiting on your own?'

‘I'm grand, yeah,' I said, waving my phone. ‘He's on his way.' A ball of cold fear sat in my chest.

‘Fair enough, so,' said the taxi driver. He dawdled a bit but eventually moved away.

I phoned Matthew now, with no success. It was after eleven – surely he'd be back soon. I had no idea what his habits were. I looked up at the sky – pale clouds spread out like a down quilt, lit by the city glow. There was nowhere else I could go. I hunkered down on the doorstep.

‘Cate!'

I jolted out of a half-dream and jumped to my feet. I was shivering and aching from being still for so long in the cold.

Matthew was hurrying up the path, his long coat flapping. ‘What the hell are you doing here?' He spoke roughly.

‘I'm sorry – I …' My voice came out in a scared little whine. ‘My flat was broken into.'

He stopped short. ‘Blimey. What happened?'

‘I don't know. They just … they didn't take anything. I think they were looking for – oh, I know this sounds weird – but something on the laptop. My laptop from work.'

He frowned. ‘Really?'

‘I know. It's ridiculous. But I think … some people have been following me around for the past few weeks.'

‘Following you around? Are you sure?'

‘I think so. I don't know.'

‘Did you phone the police?'

I was wrapped in a fog of confusion. Everything was wrong. ‘No, I didn't. You see, I think it might actually be the Special Branch following me.'

Matthew took this in silently, looking down. ‘Is that the laptop there?'

‘Yeah.'

He gave a short sigh. ‘OK, you'd better come in.'

‘Thanks,' I said. I moved towards him, and he put an arm round me as he got out his keys.

‘I can't believe I'm finally getting to see your flat,' I ventured.

‘You are, at that.'

‘Penetrating the inner sanctum.'

‘Is that how you see it?' His tone was cool. I'd struck a wrong note.

‘You're a very private person,' I said gently.

‘Meaning a secretive bastard, I presume,' said Matthew. He turned away from me to close the door.

‘No, come on, don't be like that. I just mean private. I know so much less about you than you do about me.'

‘Well, you don't ask me very much.'

We began to climb the stairs. I didn't attempt to explain how it felt whenever I did ask about his inner life, his memories, his beliefs – as if there were a moat round him, and I shouting across it, unable to hear the answers.

The hallway of Matthew's flat had originally been the landing of the house. He indicated kitchen and bathroom at either end of it, then led the way into the sitting room. I followed, feeling frail and shaky.

Matthew visibly pulled himself together. ‘So. Welcome.' He gestured vaguely. ‘Tea?'

‘Yes, please.'

I put down the laptop and took stock of my surroundings. The walls were painted a grating shade of yellow; the carpet was grey-blue, with tracks of wear curving through it. A fat, old, sagging sofa dominated the room, in front of which stood a coffee table with nothing on it but heat rings. Opposite, a television sat on a wooden chair, a DVD player balanced on its head. In the corner across from the door, a small pine-effect dining table with legs of tubular steel was clearly Matthew's desk. A black anglepoise lamp was clamped to its edge, and the surface area that was
not occupied by an elderly computer was covered with papers and books. A slightly wonky swivel-chair did duty as a coat stand. Several cardboard boxes took up most of the space under the desk. There were no bookshelves – indeed, apart from a small cupboard with peeling veneer, which crouched behind the door, no obvious storage space at all. The overall effect was seedy, bleak, unloved.

Sounds of pouring and stirring came from the kitchen. I put my coat and bags on the chair, then crossed over to the window to close the curtains, which had a floral print and didn't quite meet in the middle.

‘Here we are,' Matthew said from the door.

We sat on the sofa and sipped our tea. Matthew had added sugar to mine, for which I was grateful. I went on shaking long after I'd thawed.

‘I'm having a weird evening,' I said.

‘You poor thing,' said Matthew. ‘Why don't you tell me all about it?'

So I did. I started from my first sighting of the dark car, back in August that night after choir. When I told Matthew what had made me notice the registration plate, he exclaimed, ‘Ha! It had a tune in its number plate. Naturally!'

‘Yes. It was a particularly good catch, too.' I sang it for him: ‘Five two eight four five. Opening of
Chichester Psalms
.'

‘So they pick the one car you're bound to spot. What are the chances?'

‘I'd have saved myself a lot of worry if I hadn't been playing the game that day.'

When I finished my story, he said, ‘And your hypothesis is that this is the Special Branch doing a background check for Belfast, yes?'

‘Well, I thought so, but then George said it might be to do with the MacDevitt book …' I trailed off, remembering what George had said about Uncle Fintan knowing Eddie MacDevitt – and the trouble Eddie's book was apparently causing between him and Auntie Rosemary.

‘Somebody already knows all about the MacDevitt book, though, don't they, because they wrote that article in the newspaper.'

‘Yes, but George said another time that Eddie lives abroad for good reason – and Dad said there are dangerous men who'd like to get hold of him. Maybe they think the laptop might have his address.'

‘They'd just steal it, though. To me, this sounds more like the Special Branch.'

‘I don't know. It feels pretty extreme. I mean, is the Special Branch allowed to break into my flat without a warrant?' I shook my head. ‘Why am I even asking you?'

‘You forget, my dear: I study this stuff. As far as I know, they aren't. But what makes you think they didn't have a warrant? They'd get one, if they thought there was something specific to find. Particularly if they consider you a security risk.'

‘But that's bollocks! There's no way I'm a security risk. That's insane.'

Matthew said nothing.

I played with the edge of a hole in the sofa cover. ‘Does it feel strange, having me here?'

‘Yes, it does, rather. Not entirely sure why.' His tone was clipped, as though he were thinking about something else.

‘Like I said, you're private.' I hoped he'd react better to the epithet this time round.

‘Perceptive Cate.'

‘Don't worry, I'm not nosy,' I said. I caught his eye and had to look down.

‘Oh yes you are,' he said, and his voice was tender now, teasing. I put my tea down on the table, and he put his on the floor. When we kissed it was with surprising passion – there was a fierceness, a yearning that I had not felt from him before. He clutched at my hair, pulling me closer, plunging into my mouth, biting at my lips. My entering his territory had meant a lot, I realized. It made a difference. I kissed back with equal fervour, a pulse of pleasure beginning to spread in my belly.

‘All right then, if you put it like that,' I said happily, when we paused for breath.

‘Well, I'm glad that's settled,' Matthew said. He smiled slowly. ‘Now, tell me, did you have a look at the laptop, see if you could find anything?'

‘What? No …' I shook my head, feeling hopeless, stupid. Obviously, that was what I should have done first of all.

‘Then let's have a look, shall we?'

I stared at him. My stomach was fluttering at the thought that
there might actually be something to find. That would be altogether too concrete for my taste. ‘I don't know.'

‘Just a quick peek,' Matthew said. ‘It can't do any harm.' Was there a tinge of excitement in his voice?

‘But we don't know where to start,' I said. ‘It'd just be a game – there's no point.'

‘Cate, this doesn't sound like a game.' He put his hand on the back of my neck. The dry warmth of his fingers was so reassuring, so exquisitely ordinary, that I could feel my shoulders relaxing under his touch. ‘It could be important. I might be able to help.'

‘Fancy yourself as an amateur sleuth?'

‘Maybe a bit.'