The Red Room (27 page)

My flat looked neglected, as if no one
was living there any longer. All the windows were
shut, the curtains ambiguously half closed as
if I had gone on holiday, the surfaces
dusty. There were no fresh flowers, as there 469
usually are, except some dead ones in a vase
on the kitchen window-sill; no fruit in the bowl
on the kitchen table; no books lying open on the
arm of the sofa; no notes from Julie stuck on the
fridge door. I opened the fridge. It was
clean and almost empty: one carton of
semi-skimmed milk, a tub of butter, a little
jar of pesto, half full, a bag of coffee
beans.
And when had I last properly seen Julie?
With a little jolt of shame, I realized that I
couldn't remember. Over the last few frantic
days, she had been like a hazy outline on the edge
of my vision, hovering there but ignored, blinked
away. I had a vague recollection of her
saying we needed to talk as I rushed past her,
on my way somewhere else. When had that been?
The door to what I had grown used to thinking of
as her bedroom was open, so I put my head round
it. It looked too tidy. Julie always left
clothes on the floor, the bed unmade, lipstick
and pots of face-cream open on the filing
cabinet that she had turned into her dressing-table.
For a moment, I wondered if she had gone alt,
but her suitcase was still on the floor, and the
cupboard was full of clothes.
I went back into the main room and opened some
windows. I wiped the surfaces. Then I ran
out of the flat, down to the deli on the corner, where
I bought goat's cheese and a rough slab of
Parmesan, fresh pasta, single cream,
Italian salami and ham, olives stuffed with
anchovies, little almond biscuits, basil
growing in a small pot, artichoke hearts, four
plump figs. It wasn't that I wanted to eat
any of these things; I just wanted to have them in my
house, like a welcome for whoever came through the
door.
After the deli, I visited the greengrocer's
further up the road: red peppers, yellow
peppers, green apples, one pale-striped
melon, nectarines, purple plums and a bunch
of black grapes. At the florist's, I bought
a huge, brash bunch of yellow and orange
dahlias. I staggered home with the plastic bags
digging into my fingers and the flowers tickling my
nose. I put the kettle on, ground coffee
beans, stuck the flowers in a glass vase, put
the cheese in the fridge, piled the fruit and
vegetables into a large bowl. There. If 471
Julie came in now, she'd know I was back
home again.
I was just thinking about a bath when the phone rang.
"Yes?"
"Kit, I'm going to pick you up in about five
minutes, OK? I'm nearly with you now."
"I thought you said it was over, Daniel."
"It is, it is. This is just a coda. You'll
appreciate it, I promise you."
"I don't like surprises--was I began, but
the phone had gone dead.
"You've been in on this from the beginning. I thought
you should be here at the end as well."
"I still want to know where we're going."
Oban grinned. "Don't grumble so much."
A few minutes later, we were standing at the
Teales' front door.
"Are you sure she's here?"
"I rang in advance."
When Bryony opened the door, I was taken
aback by her appearance. She had tied back her
orange hair and her face looked pale. There
were smudges under her eyes, as if she hadn't
slept for days. She looked thinner under the old
blue jeans and an oversized white shirt she was
wearing, and the smile she gave us didn't reach her
eyes.
"Come in."
"This won't take long, Mrs. Teale," said
Oban, as soon as we were in the living room.
"I just wanted to ask you if you'd ever seen this."
Then he pulled a thin glove on to his right hand,
leaned down into the bag he was carrying and, like a
conjuror, he flamboyantly produced a
small leather pouch.
Bryony took one look at it, and her hands
flew up to her mouth. "Yes," she whispered.
"It was found in Michael Doll's house."
He darted a look of pure triumph at me.
"Oh!" She gasped, as if someone had punched
her in the stomach and all her breath was being
expelled. Abruptly, she started to cry, bending
her face into her hands and whimpering. Tears
dribbled between her fingers.
I glared at Oban, who got up and crossed
over to her, putting a hand clumsily on her
shoulder. "There, now. It's all right. It's all
over, Mrs. Teale, Bryony. He's dead,
you see. You are safe now." 473
"Safe?" She lifted her drenched face,
looking bewildered. "Safe?"
"Yes. I can't tell you the details, but I
can say that we are confident that Doll--the man who
passed himself off as a witness to your attack--was
the murderer. He has always been a suspect, and
he was found dead in his flat this morning. He had
in his possession items belonging to both you and
to Philippa Burton. We knew this was yours"
-comand he held up the pouch, jingling it--"because it
contains, among other things, your labeled house
keys. Maybe he'd collected something belonging
to Lianne, too, but we'll probably never know
that." He nodded at her genially. "Trophies,
you see."
"But how ... what ...?"
"He had been the target of a vigilante
attack before, so we're working on the supposition
that they killed him. Early days yet."
"My pouch," she said slowly. "He had my
pouch."
"Do you remember losing it?"
"No. I don't know. I mean, I must have
lost it on the night of the attack. But I
didn't think ... I knew it had gone, but I
didn't remember where I'd last had it. I was
too confused. When I fell, he must have ... I
thought he was helping me. ... How did I think
that?" She shuddered violently and wrapped her arms
tightly round herself.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
She turned to me. "I suppose I must
be," she said. "I feel a bit sick, all
of a sudden. I mean, it's all going to be all
right now, isn't it? I suppose it hasn't quite
sunk in." She made an effort, and smiled.
"It's been an interesting few days."
He held out his hand. "Goodbye, Mrs.
Teale, we'll be in touch again soon. Tying up
the many loose ends, as it were. Though it won't
ever be quite tidy enough for you, Kit." He looked
smugly at me.
"Goodbye, Bryony." I was going to shake her
hand as well, but she put her arms round me and
kissed me on both cheeks. She smelled clean
and felt soft and fragile. "You've been
lovely," she whispered in my ear. "Thanks."
"Satisfied?" said Oban, as we left.
"Don't crow, Dan, it doesn't 475
suit you. Where are you off to now?"
"Press conference. I hope you're coming."
"You don't hang around, do you?"
"Not when we've got a result. Jump
in." He held open the passenger door.
"I don't know why I let you bully me."
He snorted with laughter. "That's a joke."
I don't know why, but I put my fingers up
and touched my scar lightly. "It's funny," I
said, "but I can no longer remember a time when I
didn't look like this."
"Like what?"
"Scarred."
"You're all right," he said,
self-consciously. Then: "Come on, climb in,
we can't stand outside Mrs. Teale's front
door discussing your looks all afternoon."
It was getting dark by the time I returned
home. The windows were dark, which meant that Julie
hadn't come back yet. I let myself in and
immediately ran myself a bath. Less than twelve
hours ago I'd been staring down at Doll. His
face rose unbidden in my mind, not just the mess
I had seen on the carpet but the face he'd
turned toward me when he'd sat fishing by the
canal. That expectant smile. He had
killed two women, Lianne and Philippa.
He had tried to kill a third, Bryony.
Yet despite that, I couldn't stop myself feeling
a spasm of pity for the man. He'd never had a
chance. He had been vicious, repellent,
perverse, murderous, but he'd never had a chance.
I'd met too many people like Doll.
"Hi. You've got foam in your hair."
I sat up. "I didn't hear you come in."
"That's probably because you were under the water. The
flat looks nice."
"Good. I'd been neglecting it."
"Yes."
"It's finished."
"What?"
"The case. It's over. It looks like it was
Michael Doll all along."
"Doll? The man who was in the flat?"
"Yes."
"Christ. That'll make me more careful about whom
I open the door to."
"Julie, why don't we go out this evening?
Unless you've got something else on." 477
"I'd love that. But I'm rather out of money at
the--was
"On me. I've got plenty of money and
nothing to spend it on."
"Oh, I'm brilliant at spending."
I ordered clear soup, Thai fishcakes,
pork and chicken satay, noodles and rice,
steamed spicy dumplings, king prawns in chili,
squid with lemongrass and coriander, spare
ribs, a bottle of South American wine.
Julie looked impressed and alarmed.
"And two glasses of champagne," I added.
"What's all this about?"
"What?"
"You're ordering enough for six of us. You're not
pregnant, are you?"
The champagne arrived and I chinked my glass
against Julie's. "This is my New Year's
Eve."
"It's August, Kit."
"The New Year can begin anywhere."
"I can't work out if you're celebrating or
drowning your sorrows."
"Bit of both. I'm glad it's over. I'm
glad Doll isn't going to do any more harm. But
I don't understand how it all happened, it's
completely baffling, it doesn't add up. And that
makes me feel ..."
"Frustrated?" supplied Julie.
"More than that. As if I've failed them.
Philippa and Lianne. Does that sound mad?"
"Yes. It does. You've been worrying me
with your--was
"At the press conference today, Oban went out of
his way to praise me. He was effusive, even.
I felt a complete fraud."
"Because?"
"Because I feel as if I haven't laid them
to rest yet. It sounds stupid, doesn't it?"
"They're dead so they're already at rest. And
surely what most matters is that he's been
caught."
"He's dead."
"Oh." She looked taken aback.
"Killed by vigilantes who'll feel
completely justified when they find out what he'd
done. Here we are, our meal."
I drank the whole bowl of soup. It was so
spicy it was like swallowing pins and 479
needles. My body glowed with the after-effect. Then
I ate three of the spicy dumplings. I chewed
them lots of times and had to make an effort
to swallow them. But I managed it.
"I'm sorry I've been so obsessed."
"That's OK. I just want to know what happened
with Will Pavic."
"That's over too. Or it might be, at
least."
"Really? That was quick. But maybe that's not such a
bad thing. He was rather grim, wasn't he?"
"I think his grimness is the point," I said.
I bit into my spare rib and took a large
gulp of wine to swill it down. Doll's pulped
face floated in front of my eyes. The room
was in my head, sprayed with his blood, with mine.
"So why end it?"
"What? Oh, because I don't want to go down
that road. I think, well, I think I should try
to be happy."
"That sounds like a good idea."
I picked up a ring of squid. It looked like
rubber. Or guts. I laid it back on the
plate and stared at the beige rice. I drank
some more wine. I felt extremely odd.
"I've got something to tell you," Julie was
saying, through the mist in front of my eyes.
I blinked. "What's that?"
"I'm leaving."
"I know, you're going to find a flat of your
own."
"No. I'm leaving the country again. I can't
stand it. I feel trapped. I don't want
to be a teacher, or work in a record company,
turn up at an office every day in my boring
suit, with tights and leather shoes. So I'm going
away again. Do I sound like someone who's having
trouble coming to terms with real life?"
"I've always thought that there's nothing wrong with
escapism," I said, and my voice seemed to come
from a long way off.
"I just want to be happy too. Like you."
I raised my glass. "To your happiness."
"Don't cry, Kit. We can both be
happy. At the same time." We giggled
tearfully at each other. "And while you're
drunk and emotional," she added, "I think I
ought to tell you that I borrowed your black velvet
dress without asking you, then I washed it in hot
water and it's gone all funny. The 481
hem looks like a wave. Sorry."

39

I woke the next morning to the sound of wind
rattling at the panes and clattering in the trees
outside. A few yellow leaves scratched at
the windows as they fell. For a horrible moment I
couldn't remember anything: not what day it was,
where I was, who I was. All I knew was that
I couldn't remember anything, that I was a
blank. I lay waiting for the vacuum in me to be
filled up with memories. And sure enough, the
memories came flooding in. Doll without a
face, first of all, lying in his blood and all
around him blood dripping from the walls, from the
ceiling. A torture chamber. Then Doll with a
face, his arm raised, the jagged porcelain in his
fist, the blood spraying everywhere, and it was my
blood. I lay pressed back against my pillow
with my eyes open but seeing what was inside my
head. I felt as if I had been running and
running for all these months, thinking I was leaving the
red room behind. And all the time I had been coming
full circle, back to where I had begun.

I drove straight from Market Hill
to Kersey Town, where I parked. On an
impulse, I ran to buy some flowers. I
didn't have a clue what kind of flowers she had
liked, if she liked any, but I bought a fat
bunch of anemones, purple and red and pink, still
dewy and like a cluster of soft jewels. I ran
along the pavement, for I didn't want to be
late. It seemed to me that to turn up on time was
the least I could do. I wanted to pay tribute.
I wanted to say sorry.
I don't know why Lianne had touched me so
deeply. I had never known her, but she was motherless,
like me. I had only seen her face when she was
dead, a round face with freckles on the bridge
of her nose. I knew nothing about her, and perhaps
if I'd met her when she was alive, I wouldn't
have liked her or felt any kind of tenderness
toward her. I knew nothing about her life. I
didn't even know her real name. No one did.
She might have been a Lizzie or a Susan
or a Charlotte or an Alex. Anyone. She
was an unknown girl, being buried in a council
plot, and maybe a woman who had never 483
met her would be her chief and only mourner.
As I arrived people were coming out of the previous
ceremony--the taped organ music ushered them out
and then, after a few minutes of silence, the music
ushered me in. The room was quite long, painted
cream, and was lined with new wooden pews. In
front of them stood Lianne's coffin. I was the
only one here. I didn't know what to do with my
flowers. Should I put them on the coffin? Was that
what people did? I glanced round, then laid the bright
anemones on top of the pale, shiny coffin with its
gilt handles. Then I sat down in the front
pew and waited while the taped music played.
After a minute or so, there was a rustle behind me,
and a woman came and sat down beside me. She had
her hair tied back in a headscarf and wore a
dark gray jacket over her flowery dress, as
if she'd pulled it on in a hurry.
We smiled warily at each other, then she
leaned across to me and said in a whisper, "Hello,
I'm Paula Mann, from the council." She
waited a beat, then went on, "I didn't know
her, but I'm the one who organized this. She died
in our district, see, and with no one else ...
poor mite, whoever she was. It falls to us.
We like to come and pay our respects if we get
the time. Sometimes we can't manage it. But it's not
right they should be sent off with no one."
"Kit Quinn," I said, and we shook hands,
and I thought, Not just one but two mourners who only
ever saw you when you were dead.
"I don't suppose you knew her either?"
"No."
"Thought not. Usually we manage to find someone
if there's someone to be found," she said. "It's
amazing how many people die all alone, and you don't
even know where they came from. Says something about the
way we live, I reckon. So much
loneliness." Her nice face creased.
"Did you try and find out who she was, then?"
"That's my job, see. I'm like a
detective, really, except usually there
hasn't been a crime. I get the corpses that
haven't been claimed and I've got to see if
there's a next of kin, or a friend, even, who'll
take responsibility--and if there isn't I
arrange the funeral and sort out all the
possessions. Throw them away in most cases.
Sometimes I feel terrible, when I come across
photographs, or letters, or things that 485
mst've meant an awful lot to someone once. And
we just bundle them all up, and keep them in a
big cabinet for a few months, then chuck them.
Burn them."
"What did you do with Lianne's stuff?"
"She was different--we don't even know if she
had any stuff. All we got was a dead body
found by the canal."
"And that doesn't happen often?"
"Not so much--though it happens more often than you'd
care to think."
The organ music changed and the chaplain came
in, so the two of us hushed. He looked at us
solemnly and laid his hand on Lianne's plain
coffin, just above my bunch of flowers. But before he
could say anything there was a noise behind us. I
turned and saw four young people hovering awkwardly on
the threshold. I recognized them at once,
though they were dressed very differently, in strange
assorted black garments that they'd probably
cobbled together from friends. There was Sylvia with the green
eyes, who looked like a sprite; the shy black
girl, Carla, who'd been the last of the group
to see Lianne alive; Spike with the shaved
head; hairy Laurie. Each of them held a
small bunch of flowers, though Sylvia's
looked as if it had been grabbed from a front
garden as she had passed. Carla had bought huge,
waxy lilies that must have cost a lot; I could
smell them from where I sat. I smiled at them but
they didn't smile back. Perhaps they didn't
remember me. They looked embarrassed,
self-conscious, and Spike was giggling and nudging
Laurie as they shuffled up to the coffin and laid
their flowers next to mine, then trailed back to the
pew across from us.
The service began at last. At least the
chaplain didn't pretend he knew Lianne
or could say anything about her. He just made his
way quickly through the required ritual. Halfway
through, I felt as though someone was staring at me and
turned round. A small pain jabbed me in the
chest. He was there. W. Dressed in an austere
black suit and looking more like a crow than ever.
He sat at the back with his arms crossed and stared
at me. No, that wasn't it. He was staring through
me, as if I wasn't there at all. His eyes
looked like holes in his gaunt, stubbly face.
His hair was cropped to his skull, and I could
see a small white scar on his 487
scalp. I turned back, but it was as if his
gaze was burning a hole in my neck.
When the coffin slid away I imagined
Lianne's body inside it, burning up. From a
fridge to a fire. I imagined her sweet little
face, her bitten nails, that heart locket:
"Best ..." Tears pricked at my eyes but
I blinked them back. Across the aisle, there was the
sound of weeping. When I glanced over, it was not
one of the girls but Laurie. Laurie who had
once been kissed by Lianne, who'd let her
take his clumsy face in her hands and kiss him
full on his hopeless mouth. Timid Carla was
holding his hand. Spike was looking down at his
big black boots and I couldn't see his face.
Only Sylvia gazed ahead, with her calm,
sea-green eyes.
The piped music played, and we stood up
to leave. Will was still sitting at the back. His gaze
was fixed on the space where the coffin had been.
He looked impassive until I saw that his
face was a sheet of tears. He didn't bother
to wipe them away or conceal them. I walked
to his pew and held out a hand. "Come on," I
said. He looked at me then, but I might have
been a stranger. I took his hand and pulled.
"Come on, it's the next funeral in a minute.
You don't want to sit through another one, do you?"
I steered him out, blinking, into the sunlight. His
hand was cold and he moved stiffly.
"Are you all right, Will?"
He didn't answer but he looked at me at
last, blindly. I pulled a tissue out of my
bag and wiped his face. He stood still and let
me. I put a hand on his shoulder, but it was like
touching a board. "Will? Will, can I drive you
home?"
"No." He jerked away from me.
"Where's your car?"
"I walked," he managed. His face was
stunned, as if someone had brought a brick down
on his head.
"Let me help you."
"I don't need help."
I looked at his closed face, his stony
despair, and all the old tenderness welled up in
me. He needed help more than anyone I'd ever
met.
"Come on," I said, and put my arm through his.
"Let's walk a bit." 489
We walked in silence away from the
crematorium. He went whichever way I steered
him, as if he were stumbling along in a pitch-dark
cave. I could have led him to the canal and pushed him
over into the brown water and he wouldn't have noticed.
But bit by bit I felt him relax against me.
I wanted to take him home with me and take care
of him. I wanted to rub the back of his neck,
run him a bath, cook him a meal, make him
smile, watch him sleep in the darkness, hold
him tight, kiss the side of his unhappy mouth--
not for sex but for intimacy. Human contact: the
feel of someone else alongside you in this crappy
cold world. But he was never going to let me in.
Not like that.
"Here's my car. I'll run you home."
He didn't argue. I opened the passenger
door and pushed him inside. He looked up at
me and seemed to be about to say something, but he
changed his mind. I drove in silence, and left
him at his front door. The last I saw of
him, he was still standing there like a stranger who had no
idea where he was. He looked so lonely.