The Mirror World of Melody Black (11 page)

I could tell straight away that they were dickheads. They were suited and sweating, and began talking loudly about the wholesale price of meat and last quarter's net profits and their BMWs and some fresh-out-of-school administrator that one of them was apparently banging like a drum at carnival time. I rolled my eyes and tutted quietly at the Queen, but she had her eyes fixed on the
Daily Telegraph
in a valiant attempt to ignore them. I decided to do the same, and set to typing a plan for a top ten train stations in film and/or literature. It was June, so a travel feature was certain to sell. MSN would probably snap my hand off.

1) Grand Central –
North by Northwest
. 2) King's Cross –
Harry Potter
. 3) What was the station in
Brief Encounter
? 4) I'm a big fan of Paddington Bear, but I can't really put Paddington Station in there, however wonderful the toilet. 5) Why can't they shut the fuck up and let me concentrate? It's a beautiful day for a train journey and they're ruining it for every other person in this carriage. 6) Gare Montparnasse –
Hugo
.

Then the ticket inspector arrived, and my ears pricked up. For a moment, it seemed I was to be saved.

‘What do you mean
not valid
?'

‘I'm very sorry,' she repeated, ‘but these are advance tickets. They're only valid on the stated train. This is the 10.36.'

‘Yes, I realize this is the 10.36, love. We got to the station earlier than expected, which is why we're on the earlier train.' It was the largest and sweatiest of the meat men. He was speaking in the slow, patronizing voice usually reserved for the very young, the very old, or the very foreign. ‘Anyway, the man behind the information desk at Slough told us these tickets were definitely valid for this train. If they aren't, it's his mistake not ours.'

The ticket inspector looked towards the door at the far end of the carriage, as if imploring for back-up. At the same time, the meat man winked smugly at his two sweaty colleagues. I tried to beam supportive thoughts into the ticket collector's head:
stand firm, tell him he's a lying bastard, call the transport police
.

‘I'm sorry, but it's very unlikely that you were told that. Perhaps you misheard?' She was being far too gracious. ‘The simple fact is that you don't have a valid ticket for this train. None of you do. You'll have to buy replacements.'

‘
Buy
replacements? Because of someone else's incompetence? You've got to be joking!'

‘If you wish to make a formal complaint you'll have to put it in writing to central office. They'll decide if the fare should be refunded.'

‘Oh, what's the bloody point? Your man in Slough will just deny it.' He pulled out his wallet and slapped it on the table with the kind of indignation that only those feigning insult can manage. ‘Well? How much?'

The ticket collector tapped at her machine. ‘Three first-class singles to Hereford comes to two hundred and sixty-two pounds and fifty pence.'

‘
How
much?'

‘You can move to standard if you'd prefer. Then it's only one hundred and twelve pounds.'

‘One hundred and twelve pounds! To sit in steerage? That's literally highway robbery!'

This jumble of metaphors, cliché and appalling English was the last straw.

‘Oh, for God's sake!' Four sets of eyes swung in my direction. ‘A highway is a road, steerage is a nautical term, this is a train, and you're being an absolute arsehole!'

I didn't say it in a hostile way, but just as a self-evident list of facts; I borrowed my sister's telephone voice. Nevertheless, the meat man's face went lobster pink. ‘This has nothing to do with you, sweetheart.' He was trying to do alpha male, but sounded more like a sullen adolescent. ‘Keep your opinions to yourself.'

‘Ha!' My laugh was genuine, possibly borderline hysterical, but I couldn't help it. It was such a ridiculous thing for
him
to say. I turned to look at the ticket inspector, giving her my warmest smile. ‘You know, I saw him wink at his buddies – just after that bullshit about being given inaccurate advice at the information desk. I can write you a statement if you like. How much is the fine for deliberate fare evasion?' She looked at the meat man and arched an eyebrow. He looked as if he'd just been kicked in the balls. ‘Or maybe he'd prefer just to buy a valid ticket – for
steerage
– and keep his mouth shut for the rest of the journey?'

If life were a film, this would have been the moment when the rest of the carriage broke into spontaneous applause. If it were an American film, there would have been some whooping too, and maybe an isolated ‘You go, girl!' But this was reality and I was in Britain, the land that invented social awkwardness. I got nothing. Most of the other passengers had already averted their eyes from this unseemly public confrontation. The Queen looked mortified. The ticket inspector cleared her throat and returned the carriage to some semblance of normality. ‘Er, yes. I think the young lady is probably right.'

The meat man shot me a look that said this wasn't over. I shot a look back that told him I was getting off at Oxford and had no intention of ever visiting Hereford, much less Slough, so it was. Anyway, his associates were already up and getting their briefcases from the luggage rack. I flashed him a catty smile and went back to my top ten stations.

I smoked a cigarette at Oxford Station and then looked up the number for the Department of Experimental Psychology. My plan was to phone reception to try to get a pinpoint on Professor Caborn's whereabouts. I would say I was an old colleague. But this was the full extent of my plan. I had absolute confidence that I'd be able to wing the conversation and everything would fall into place.

A couple of rings.

‘Hello? Psychology – Sarah speaking.'

‘Oh, hello, Sarah. My name is Julia. I'm trying to track down Joseph Caborn. I'm an old colleague of his. From Liverpool.' (God bless you, Wikipedia!)

‘Joseph Caborn?'

‘Yes.'

‘I think he's in his office. Just a moment, I'll put you through.'

‘No! No thank you, Sarah, but, well, I'd actually prefer it if he doesn't know I'm coming. We worked together a while back. Actually, I was one of his Ph.D. students four, no
five
years ago. I haven't seen him since. I've just got back from Uganda and I'd really like to surprise him.'

‘Oh.' A brief pause. ‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Julia. Dr Julia' – I searched for a likely surname – ‘Walters.'

‘Julia . . . Walters? Julie Walters?'

Shit. ‘Oh, yes. Ha ha! No relation.' I found my feet. ‘Sorry, I get this all the time. Phone calls are always a nightmare.'

‘Yes, I can imagine.'

‘I'm just thankful my surname isn't Roberts.'

Sarah laughed. Good: despite a shaky start, she was starting to relax. Charm and self-assurance – they can't teach you these things on a journalism degree.

‘Sarah, I'm in Oxford, as you will have gathered, and I have a spare couple of hours. So I was planning to pop in to see if Joseph wants to grab a bite to eat. I'm going to come over now. Is that okay?'

‘Um, well . . . If you're a friend I'm sure it will be fine.'

‘Oh, yes. We used to be very good friends.' Too suggestive; I didn't want her to think there was anything funny going on. ‘Actually, I suppose Joseph has always been more of a mentor to me. Almost everything I know about primatology came from him.' I was extremely proud of this line. Not only was it a good recovery, but it was also, technically, true. ‘You won't tell him I'm coming, though? As I said, I'd really like to surprise him.'

‘Er, no. My lips are sealed. He should be in his office until at least midday.'

‘Thank you, Sarah. I'll see you very shortly.'

We said our goodbyes and I hung up.

I followed my GPS map through central Oxford, admired the dreaming spires, and thought a bit more about Dr Julia Walters. The telephone conversation had gone pretty well, but I knew I'd have to be even sharper in person. I needed to inhabit my character. I couldn't afford any blips.

So what did I know about her already? She'd done her Ph.D. under Professor Caborn five years ago. That made her thirtyish – easily within my range. She'd graduated from Liverpool, though she would have done her undergrad degree at Cambridge, I decided.

What else? She was a primatologist, apparently, and a snappy dresser, evidently – too snappy to make a convincing scientist, perhaps. Oh, well. Not much I could do about that now. She'd have to be one of those rare science babes they find to present documentaries on BBC Four. It wasn't difficult to imagine her dabbling in broadcasting. Maybe that's what she was doing in Uganda?

Hmm. Now that I thought about it, Uganda was another hole I'd dug for myself. On the one hand, the lie was exceptionally smart – lot of monkeys in Uganda – on the other, it was exceptionally problematic. Where the hell was Julia's suntan? I briefly considered nipping into a salon for a swift spray-on, but there wasn't the time. I'd told Sarah I was on my way. Much better if Dr Walters simply can't tan. She has to slap on the factor 50 or she burns like a vampire. Plus I never said how long she'd been in Uganda. Maybe it was just a couple of days. Maybe she was like Professor Brian Cox and just flew to exotic locations to film a thirty-second soundbite then hopped on the next plane home.

By the time I'd walked the mile or so to the psychology building, Julia Walters had a biography so intricate it could have been a Christmas bestseller. She was the second daughter of Paul and Annette Walters. Her father was a surgeon, her mother a human rights lawyer. She loved Thai food and was having a messy affair with her producer. And of course none of this was likely to come up in casual conversation. But it helped just to know it. It meant that when I walked up to reception, I
was
Julia Walters.

There was only one woman sitting behind the desk, so that removed the first potential obstacle straight away. I held out my hand and smiled. ‘Sarah? Hello. Julia Walters. It's a pleasure to meet you. Awful day to be stuck behind a desk.'

It turned out that Julia was also quite a chatterbox.

Sarah smiled back and took my hand. If she was at all surprised by the young, fair, fuchsia-clad doctor of primatology she found herself greeting, she gave no sign. I think I introduced myself with so much aplomb she had no choice but to be swept along in the colossal fantasy I'd unleashed.

We chatted for a few minutes. I laughed and joked and gesticulated, made a couple of casual remarks about the job I'd just landed in Manchester. (‘The north suits my complexion!')

Uganda, sadly, never came up.

Up the stairs, two lefts, a right, another left. The Department of Experimental Psychology turned out to be something of a maze. I never would have found Professor Caborn's office without Sarah's excellent directions. She would have shown me through herself, she said, were it not for the fact that she was the only person on reception and could not desert her post. This came as a relief. I felt that Sarah and I had bonded over the course of our two brief conversations, and the thought of her uncovering my deception was not a pleasant one.

I passed a few people in the corridors. I strode confidently and made eye contact, smiled a polite, professional smile. The reassuring click of my heels echoed off the bare walls and floor.

There was a toilet en route, where I took a couple of minutes to freshen up and reconfigure my mindset. I checked my appearance in the mirror – still fabulous – splashed cold water on my pulse points, urinated, and left Dr Walters in the cubicle like a forgotten umbrella. I was all Abigail again as I approached Professor Caborn's office – the first of six on an unremarkable corridor illuminated by two fluorescent strips. His name was on the door in simple black lettering, just above a narrow rectangular window. But I wouldn't have needed the sign; peering through the glass, I was able to extrapolate the back of his head from the photo I'd seen on his webpage. His hair was pearly white with just a touch of burned-charcoal grey at the temples. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was in a swivel chair at his computer, the screen commanding his full attention. I watched him for several moments, then checked my watch: 11.58; perfect timing. I straightened my back and knocked briskly on his door.

‘Come in.' He said this before he'd started to spin his chair, and by the time he'd finished the half-turn, I was already in the room, greeting him with my most disarming smile.

‘Professor Caborn.' I extended my hand and walked the three paces to his chair so he didn't have to get up. ‘How nice to see you. Please forgive the intrusion.'

‘Er . . . no intrusion. I was just tidying up my inbox.' He glanced at our clasped hands through oval spectacles, his forehead wrinkling. His lips were slightly parted, framed by his small, tidy beard. ‘Um, can I help you?'

‘Yes, I very much hope so. I'm Abigail.'

‘Oh, yes. Abigail . . .' Professor Caborn withdrew his hand. He had the look of a man who had walked into a film halfway through and was trying to get a handle on the plot. I kept smiling, reassuringly. He returned the smile, then cleared his throat, very delicately. ‘I'm sorry: I feel like I should know who you are, but I don't. I'm afraid I'm not very good with faces.'

I laughed. ‘That's quite all right. We haven't met. You recognize me from my profile picture. I've emailed you a few times. Abigail Williams. I've come to take you to lunch.'

‘Oh. That's . . . odd.'

I shrugged. ‘Are you hungry?'

‘Um, maybe a little. I'm not quite sure. This is . . . Abigail, would you take a seat for a moment?' He gestured to the other chair in his office. It was against the wall, between an overfilled bookcase and a teetering stack of journals.