Untouchable Things (35 page)

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“That friend of yours has a lot to answer for.” There’s a sudden bite in her voice.

“Sorry?”

“Seth Basildon. She’s never been the same.”

Charles’ heart speeds and swerves. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Larson, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You are in touch with him, aren’t you?”

“I – well, actually that was part of the reason for getting in touch with Bridget. We’ve sort of – lost him.”

There’s a slight pause. “I think you’d better come over.”

There’s nothing of any significance in all this. Not to you, anyhow.

You may well be right, Mr Maslowe. But we have to be sure. Please go on.

He’s only been to their house once before but he remembers the location almost photographically. That evening is stored on an index card in his brain. He seemed to stand six inches taller as he walked with Bridget’s arm tucked through his, listening to her anecdotes of playing with her brothers on the street. Meeting her parents was the first step in a journey he hoped would never end.

Today there is no sense of anticipation, no looking forward. He is not where he should be. He longs for his flat, the 3pm pot of Earl Grey tea, settling into the Chippendale armchair and
Test Match Special
.

There’s the house. Still nicely kept, hanging baskets by the front door. The door opens as he is about to knock and he almost stumbles into Mrs Larson, dressed in a frilly apron and dusting her hands of flour. Their slight muddle sidesteps the greeting issue – neither a kiss nor handshake seeming quite right – and she waves him through to the front room. Gold chintz curtains with elaborate tiebacks. Tea laid out on a circular coffee table, spotless white lace tablecloth presenting a cosied teapot and plate of scones. Just like his first visit.

“It’s milk and one sugar, isn’t it, Charles?” and he is touched by her remembering. She serves him taupe liquid in a rose china cup.

“Do help yourself to a scone – there’ll be more ready soon.”

He’s not hungry but makes a show of appreciation, adding a blob of homemade jam from a tiny silver spoon.

“David sends his apologies – he’s got a meeting at his golf club this afternoon. Besides,” she looks at him and he isn’t sure if the new severity in her face is an expression or due to wear and tear, “it might be easier to talk without him. He tends to find this type of thing difficult.”

Charles isn’t sure what
this type of thing
is exactly, but he can see why an afternoon at the golf club might be preferable.

“So. You wanted to contact Bridget to see if she was in touch with – him.” Mrs Larson’s mouth twists.

“With Seth? Yes. I – we – haven’t heard from him for some time and people are getting worried. I thought Bridget might know something.”

“And what made you think they might be in touch?”

“I, er, found her name on a piece of paper at his flat.” Charles takes a sip of his tea to break an intense eye contact he is starting to find alarming. When he looks up, he is relieved to see Mrs Larson leaning back a little.

“We were very disappointed when you and Bridget broke up, you know. Both of us. David has always spoken very highly of you.”

“Oh. Thank you.” The words should warm him but they nibble at his heart like carnivorous fish. “It was a difficult time.” He swallows. “But I forgave Seth years ago.”

“That is to your enormous credit. I fear I shall never forgive him.” She sees Charles’ expression. “Oh – not for that, though it was most regrettable. Bridget was much to blame as well. But she lost sight of herself whenever she was around him.”

A car suddenly speeds out of the silence, revving a juddering engine absurdly. Charles jumps.

“Those wretched kids. I’ve already written to the council twice.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “I’m guessing, Charles, that you don’t know what happened to Bridget after you two… ended things?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know now.

“She went on to do a Masters and started a PhD. We were so proud. Then we got a call in the middle of the night from Addenbrookes hospital.” She took a deep breath. “Bridget was unconscious. They pumped her stomach of alcohol and sleeping tablets. Luckily she was found in time. But she’s never been the same girl again.”

The teacup starts to slip from Charles’ grip and he rattles it down on the saucer.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Larson. I had no idea. That’s terrible. But – I don’t quite see. Do you think Seth had something to do with this?”

She pours them a top-up and reaches for the milk jug. “My theory is that Seth Basildon quite calculatedly sucked my daughter in and destroyed her. When she told me what was going on in that house…”

“House?”

“Den of iniquity, more like. Under the guise of being some sort of club for the gifted few. Drink, drugs, sexual depravity – I can’t bear to think about it. Bridget couldn’t handle it. At some point, your friend seems to have tired of her and rejected her in a cruel, public way.”
Wind her up and watch her go.
Mrs Larson is looking out of the window and he notices the tea quivering in the cup as her hand grips the saucer.

“When we found out the extent of it, we notified the police. I believe they raided the house. But knowing your friend he’ll have wriggled out of it. I gather from Bridget that he just disappeared.” She looks up. “Like he seems to have done now.”

The
your friend
comments are derailing Charles, preventing him from hearing her words properly. It’s almost as if he’s to blame. Wasn’t he the wounded party? She’s talking again.

“…and after he betrayed her with that
Sarah
. Well, I suppose she should have seen that coming after their start together. But it wasn’t just a case of cheating on her. It was like he wanted to take her apart.”

Mrs Larson puts her cup down and he thinks she’s weeping but when she turns to him her eyes are bitter as jackfruit. “I know it’s not your fault, Charles. But much as we liked you, much as you made Bridget happy, we can’t help wishing she’d never met you.”

There’s a terrible ticking silence. Charles’ breeding kicks in with the automatic response. “I’m sorry.” He can’t meet her eye. He wills another car to go past, but nothing occurs to distract them from each other.

“I think, given all this, you’ll understand why I haven’t handed you Bridget’s number. She’s terribly fragile and I don’t want to risk unsettling her.”

“Of course, I understand.”

“At some point I may tell her about your visit and give her your number so she can ring you if she chooses. But not right now.”

“No, of course.” Charles stands up. Mrs Larson gets to her feet and looks him square in the eye.

“Be careful, Charles. You’re a good person and that man is dangerous. I don’t know why you choose to be around him, but if I were you, I would let him go now. Don’t try and find him. You have a chance to break free.”

He shivers when he gets out onto the street and dabs the sweat from his forehead. He has already dismissed her interpretation of events as coming from an overprotective mother. Not hard to believe that Seth was into all sorts but the idea that he would deliberately ruin someone… no.

He strides towards the evening sun, tailed by shadows, trying to focus on the client meeting he has first thing in the morning. But that line keeps coming back to him.
Wind her up and watch her go!

You’re a very forgiving man, Mr Maslowe.

Well, everyone deserves a second chance, I suppose.

Not everyone would see it that way.

No. I suppose they wouldn’t.

They all chip in, questioning him endlessly. Anna is in full flow. “So she blames Seth for the demise of her dear daughter by introducing her to alcohol. Please!”

People smile but the atmosphere is subdued.

“And it sounds like she got Seth into trouble with the police. I wonder what happened. Did they find anything? That could be why he disappeared afterwards.” Rebecca runs a hand through her hair.

“Do you think he got done?”

“Who knows? Maybe we should try to find out.”

Jake stubs out a cigarette. “There’s a fine line between concern and snooping. If Seth ’asn’t told us any of this I’m not sure we have the right to start digging around in ’is past.”

Jake’s eyes look different without their usual smile crinkles. For a second Charles wonders what events in his past he might want to conceal. What secrets they might all be hiding.

Scene 9

So you all had keys cut for Mr Gardner’s flat. Did you ever use yours, Miss Carmel?

She tells herself it makes sense to try Notting Hill first. Hasn’t someone from work mentioned a lamp shop on the high street? She could pop there and still be in time to meet Keeley at eight.

They don’t have what she’s looking for. She’s only five minutes’ walk from the flat and has an hour to kill. She feels the cold knobble of the key in her pocket and sets off, stopping and starting like the cars beside her in the evening traffic. She’s a doing person, not one to sit around torturing herself about what she could have said and done. About what would have happened if she’d taken Seth’s call on the day he disappeared instead of dragging home that bloke from PSN after having too much to drink over lunch. She’s got enough guilt in her life.

From the outside nothing has changed; still the same shiny twists of the black balcony rails and the outline of the African vase behind net curtains.

“They’re not net curtains.”

“What are they then?”

“Lengths of the finest Turkish lace hung with great skill to create an atmosphere of tasteful opulence.”

She smiles and closes her eyes for a second against the blast of missing him. When it passes she checks her watch. There’s time for a quick cuppa.

She fiddles at the lock awkwardly. Thank God there’s no alarm to deal with as well. Heading straight for the kitchen she fills the kettle and switches it on, anticipating the soothing shush that will make her feel better. She glances at the plate and cup in the sink and crumbs on the worktop; Catherine’s not doing her job properly. But at least there’s fresh milk in the fridge. It must be the steaming crescendo that blocks the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen door as she fiddles around finding tea bags and the right cup for the moment.

“Hello, Anna.”

She screams and drops the cup.

Scene 10

I believe Seth’s disappearance affected you rather badly, Mr Stanley.

Let me guess who you’ve been talking to. Anna? Catherine? Not telling me? I admit it was a shock at first. You don’t – you don’t know what to think. Not knowing is frustrating. But you have to stay logical.

“For fuck’s sake!” Michael boots the silent hoover, which achieves nothing except to leave him one slipper down. He retrieves his slipper and bends down to push the plug back in at the end of its taut lead. As the machine yowls into action he grabs it by its long neck and continues where he left off, slamming sofa and skirting boards, ignoring the occasional crunch and scream as it slurps up something unsuitable. Before long it sighs to a halt again.

“Piece of shit.”

He falls back onto the sofa and covers his face with his hands. Even a hoover can push him over the edge at the moment. A gargly, guttural noise emerges from the back of his throat. What’s the point anyway? The carpet’s so threadbare the hoover could swallow it whole. His left-wing, pot-smoking landlords are renting him this place at a good price – for London, of course – but draw the line at maintaining it. On a teacher’s salary where else could he go?

Of course – he has relented, now vacuuming his room with grim gusto – people like Seth have their own reality involving trust funds and mortgages. Not even a mortgage in Seth’s case. He grinds his teeth, picturing those high arched ceilings and dusk sweeping in behind the French windows. How did he ever become sucked into a world like that? His right arm aches as it jerks and retracts. Seth has his cleaners to do this kind of thing. Wonder if they’ve tried turning up for work recently.

You’ve spoken to the cleaners, I presume?

They’re on our list.

Fifteen years of Tory government, soaring house prices and the gap between the haves and have-nots becoming irreconcilable. And it will take more than charm, smarm and a theme tune to sort things out. He stood with the others that sunny May morning, clapping and exhilarated, banishing his faint unease whenever Tony Blair spoke. It was too early to judge him. But something about his smile put Michael’s teeth on edge.

Seth’s hoover is one of those things with a face and a name.
Henry
. His body heats abruptly and he flings off a jumper. He doesn’t want that memory now, would like to suck it up and throw the bag away. Things are unsettling enough without adding that to the mix.

He tries to clear his mind, running over a patch of carpet near the door as if ironing awkward creases out of a shirt. The roar in his ears is getting loader. What the hell has happened to Seth? What kind of weird game is he playing? Jake’s right, they should all forget about him and get on with their lives. Why is it so hard to do that?

Because you opened yourself up to him and he ditched you. You let down your defences and believed him, believed his bullshit, and more fool you for falling for it. How long did you wait for him that Wednesday evening? How long before you had to admit the truth, that you’d mistaken the curiosity in his eyes for concern?

Trails of tiny fibres like fairy dust swirl on streams of sunshine pouring in through streaked windows. Michael squints and sees Seth turning mocking eyes and pursed matinee idol lips towards him. Sweat runs down his face and into eyes that already feel wet. He fumbles with the hoover, pushing buttons – panic buttons – as the snarl of the motor fills his head.