I shove the mobile back in my locker and close the door. A few of them have already been claimed, some decorated with scraps of masking tape that have names scrawled across them and others, like Geoffrey’s, with more permanent, laminated signs. I don’t see Tommy’s name, though some of them have been left blank. I spot a roll of masking tape and a felt pen on the shelf below the mirror. Perfect. I peel off a piece, rip the end and stick it on my locker, printing my name with a flourish. There. I am officially a member of the performance team.
I can’t decide whether I’m more nervous or excited as I walk back to the museum floor and I marvel at where I am. Has it really only been two days? It feels like a lifetime ago since I waved my family off at the docks, but it was only Saturday night. Crazy.
“Niamh?” Tommy is holding court in the middle of a tour group as I enter. He looks up and his eyes lock on me. My skirt whispers along the floor, flirting with the cobblestones. His eyes on mine make me feel like the prettiest girl in the world. Well, they do until I realize I still have my neon pink trainers on. I do my best to hide them, making a mental note to pack my ballet pumps for my actual shift.
“Hey,” I reply, suddenly uncertain under his – and now the crowd’s – avid gaze. Did I forget to zip it up or something? “What’s wrong?” I twist my body around, craning my neck to check the back. All looks fine to me.
“Nothing,” he breathes, his eyes narrowed and tight. He approaches me slowly, as though I’m a venomous snake he might have to subdue. “You look . . . different, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” I joke, desperate to break the intensity. “Not quite my usual farm-girl get up, alright.”
He just stares at me.
“I live on a farm, you know, at home? In Ireland?”
He nods, blue eyes not moving from mine. OK, then. This is intense.
“Well, young Niamh.” Oh, thank God. Geoffrey approaches and his booming voice breaks the silence. I turn gratefully towards it. “You look the part, I must say. A superb Jane.”
“Jane?” Tommy echoes.
“Yes,” Geoffrey says, bowing towards a couple of tourists who have broken away from Tommy’s group and are strolling past. They smile at us before carrying on. “Jane was the daughter of the mill owner here. Your dress is modelled on an old portrait that was found down here during the renovations.” He looks at me closely. “I must say, the drama school did a wonderful job. The resemblance is quite uncanny, isn’t it, Tommy?”
Tommy nods mutely – he still hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
“Oh, well that’s good, isn’t it?” My voice sounds uncertain even to me. There is something off here, and I don’t know what.
“It is indeed!” Geoffrey is clearly delighted. “Come, she’s hanging in the dressing room.” He chuckles when he notices the blood drain from my face. “The portrait, my dear, Jane’s portrait. You should see it. It really is quite uncanny.”
I trail after him reluctantly. Tommy doesn’t move and when I turn to check if he’s following, he’s melted back into the shadows, the automatic timers slowly returning the street to dusk.
Geoffrey pauses in front of me, holding a door ajar, and gestures for me to take the lead. I enter a Victorian lady’s dressing room, complete with ornate dressing table, padded chair and an oval looking glass.
Only, I realize, it’s not a looking glass. It’s a portrait. An old portrait of a young, pale-skinned girl of around sixteen. A smattering of freckles dusts her nose and dark, wavy hair tumbles over the lace collar at her throat. The embroidery on her dress seems to shimmer and large sleeves gather around her elbows.
I’m not actually looking in a mirror – but I might as well be.
“You’re so overdramatic!” Meghan laughs at me from the screen. “She hardly looks like you.”
“She does so,” I reply, tracing my nails over the stone wall outside the museum. The air is warm, welcome after the air-conditioning inside. My induction is officially over, and my first full shift will be later this week. I was a bit freaked out about the portrait, so I rang my darling sister, who immediately looked the flaming thing up online and is still mocking me for it.
“Yeah, yeah.” She scrambles back up the bed and into a sitting position. Our room is a tip.
“What have you been doing to the room? I’ve only been gone five minutes!”
Meghan shrugs. “Fashion show. I figured your wardrobe was fair game, what with you being away from home.”
“What?” Another peal of laughter echoes from the tinny speakers. Wind-up merchant.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be seen dead in your gear. You took all the good stuff.” She sits up straighter. “Actually, have you seen my denim jacket?”
“Er, what was that?” I wobble the phone around, so my face appears as a blur in the corner of the screen.
“Niamh. Have you taken it?”
“Megs, you’re breaking up . . . can’t hear . . . frozen . . . love you, bye!” I disconnect the call and make a mental note not to tag any photos where I’m wearing her jacket.
I swing my legs down off the riverside wall and begin the walk back up to the Globe. I’m not in a rush to get back to the new halls and I’m hoping that I can lose myself in a bit of theatre. A rosy-cheeked lady in a red apron exchanges my crumpled five-pound note for a standing ticket and I follow the crowd into the circular yard of the theatre. It’s magnificent.
The set is minimal, but the actors are wonderful – so good that I’m glad there’s no huge set to distract from them. It’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a play I’m not familiar with, but the actors are masters of timing and the audience are enraptured. Before I can catch my breath, the company leaves the stage and an interval is called. People begin to stream out of the courtyard to my left and right, which is when I spot a familiar figure in the thinning crowd.
“Tommy?”
“Niamh.” For a second a look of shock crosses his features, but it passes quickly and his face breaks into a dimple-licious grin. “Fancy seeing you here.” He’s dressed in jeans and a loose T-shirt, but it doesn’t look quite right on him. Maybe it’s because I first saw him in his museum get-up. Weird, though, how he suited the old-fashioned stuff more. He gestures to the stage. “Enjoying the show?”
“It’s wonderful,” I say enthusiastically. “They’re all so talented! That one guy is playing like three instruments and. . .” I trail off as I realize how uncool I’m being, but Tommy smiles at me. “Yeah, I like it. I mean I’ve never seen anything like it. Well, I have seen plays, just not like this, you know?” Oh God, stop talking, stop talking now.
“So, we can safely say the answer is yes, then?” I nod, pressing my lips together to stop any more word vomit dribbling out. “Good. It’s one of my favourites.”
“It’s cracked,” I blurt, then wince inwardly. Classy. To my surprise, Tommy bursts out laughing.
“You know, I think you’re right.” He leans towards me. “And you know what? It gets crazier.”
*
“So, what did you think?”
Tommy hands me the ice-cream that he insisted on buying and begins to walk towards the railing by the water. I follow him a little awkwardly and busy myself by unravelling the foil and paper wrapper.
“I loved it,” I reply, taking a tiny bite of the ice cream. My teeth burn but I feel all weird licking it in front of him, so I carry on nibbling. “I needed the distraction.”
Tommy turns and fixes me with a serious look. “I heard what happened to the girl in your class. That must be hard.”
“Thanks,” I say. “It was a pretty big shock. I’ve never seen a dead body before – well, not like that.”
“What?”
“Sara, the girl in my halls.” Tommy’s skin has turned a weird ashy grey colour. “She was murdered. Sorry, am I freaking you out? I don’t always talk about murder.”
“A girl was murdered? Where you live?”
“Yeah. Who did you mean?”
He swallows. “The girl who s
hould’ve been at the museum with you. Natasha, I think?”
“Oh, yeah.” My shoulders sag. “Poor Tasha. I’ve not had much luck with friends since coming over here. Or actually, they’ve not had much luck since they met me.”
Tommy surprises me by tucking a finger beneath my chin and lifting my head up. It’s an intimate gesture from someone I hardly know but it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact. “Hey. It’s not your fault.”
“I know.” I don’t even sound convincing to my own ears. “Let’s change the subject, OK?”
“Agreed.” Tommy bites the bottom of his ice-cream cone off and sucks the melted innards out through it before shoving the whole thing in his mouth and grinning at me with chocolatey teeth. “Your turn.”
“What? No, don’t be stupid.” He snatches the cone from my hand but he underestimates my need for ice-cream and I snatch it back from under his nose.
“Nice moves,” he laughs, resting back on the railing. “So, when are you back at the museum? Tomorrow?”
I finish the cone as delicately as I can muster and fold the wrapper in my hand. “Day after. You?”
“I’m always around. What are you doing tomorrow, then?”
“Research, I guess. There’s this scholarship for next year that I need to write an essay for. There’s a lecture tomorrow that should help. I’ll probably go to that then camp out in the library.”
“So, you’re planning on hanging around, then?” Is it just me or does he look the teensiest little bit hopeful?
“Maybe. I do love it here.” As I say it, I realize that I do. Silence stretches between us as the city lights twinkle along the river. A cool breeze tempers the humid air and, despite all that has happened, I know I will do my best to stay.
*
“Are you sure you have to go?”
I glance at my phone, shocked to see it’s almost midnight. I start to make a comment about pumpkins but manage to stop myself just in time.
“Yeah.” I let the word hang in the air as Tommy stuffs his hands further into his pockets. If he wasn’t the prettiest human around, I’d think he was as nervous as me. “I’m up early and it’s pretty late . . . plus I don’t really know the city yet.”
“I suppose. Can I at least walk you to the Tube?”
“Yeah.” I guess I’ll have to brave it at some point. “I mean thanks. I’d like that.”
“Good.”
We continue to walk in silence for a couple of minutes, making our way back along the river, which now seems to have a thousand diamonds sparkling on its surface. I’m not certain where we are exactly, but Tower Bridge winks at me on the horizon, so I know we’re on the right track.
“We’re here.” Tommy stops in front of a darkened coffee shop and points to a sign. “London Bridge Tube. You can get pretty much anywhere from here.”
“Perfect.” I smile. And I keep smiling. Dear Lord, I’ve forgotten how to use my words. I clear my throat and it comes out all horrible and hacking, not the ladylike way I was intending. “That’s great,” I try.
He takes a tiny step closer. I can feel the heat coming from his skin: it’s cool out now, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold, and I can’t stop staring at his strong, sinewy arms. It’s his turn to clear his throat. “So,” he murmurs.
“Yeah. Home time.” I hold my breath, unsure what to do as he inches towards me. His strong hand catches hold of mine and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a whisper of a kiss on to the sensitive skin of my wrist. My insides melt immediately.
“I wish I could walk you home.” He lowers my hand and takes a step back, an unwelcome breeze carving between us and snapping me back to my senses.
“You can, if you like?”
“Oh, it’s not that.” He gestures back the way we came, towards the Tower. “I live over this side, though, so. . .”
“Fair enough.” I can still feel his lips tickling my skin and have to hold back from begging him to do it again. “See you in a couple of days, then.”
“You will.” He smiles. “I had a great time with you tonight, you know.”
“Me too.” I turn towards the Tube station. “Bye, Tommy.”
“Bye, Niamh.”
I practically float to the red-brick entrance, where I pause, glancing back under the guise of rooting for my travelcard, but he’s already gone.
I descend the steps, hot air wafting past me as I leave the street above. It’s eerily empty down here and my footsteps ring on the tiles. I beep my travelcard, feeling very big city, and pass through the barrier. The long, clunking escalator plummets into the depths, below the surface of the earth, where no one will find me. Jesus, I need to stop this, put the brakes on my overactive imagination. I hurry down the gliding steps and realize I’ve underestimated the height of this thing, I can barely see the bottom. I really hope there are other people waiting for trains down there.
I’m halfway down when the lights go out.
My head jerks back as the escalator jolts suddenly, stopping in its tracks. I struggle to see my hand in front of my face until my eyes adjust to the little emergency light, way down at the bottom of the handrail. I try to focus on it, but it’s there one minute and gone the next, replaced with darkness. Or a shadow.
I hear it then, from below me. The scraping of metal on metal. As though someone is dragging something sharp across the sides of the escalator. It’s excruciating. The sound tears through the silence and I could swear it’s getting closer. The darkness is closing in on me and I realize.
Someone is on the escalator with me.
I flash back to every stupid kung fu film my dad has ever made me watch and grip the rubber handrails either side of me, push down on my arms and blindly launch both legs out in front of me.
Nothing. My feet drop, clunking back on to the metal step. I pause, trying to breathe as quietly as I possibly can. The only sound now is my heart beating at my eardrums. Until a long, slow scratch sounds on the metal panel directly in front of me.
Nonononono. I take a deep breath.
Not today, Satan.
I kick out again and this time my feet connect with a body, a gust of breath telling me I’ve hit my target. I throw my body backwards before whoever it is can drag me down with them, my ribs crashing against the step’s sharp edges. There’s a muffled thud below and I begin to run blindly back up to the surface, climbing the steps two at a time until my thighs are screaming at me to stop.
Light sears into my eyes as the escalator moans back to life beneath my feet. It’s undoing all my hard work, carrying me back down towards my would-be attacker. I brace myself, ribs aching but ready for a fight.
Only, there’s no one there.
I allow the escalator to carry me the last few steps, confused. Where did they go? I definitely just booted someone down here, but there’s not a trace of them. My feet follow an empty, curving tunnel, my eyes darting around the dirty tiles. A low, agonized whine starts to burn into my ears.
I stop abruptly, but I can see her around the next turn. A girl huddled into the wall, long, dark hair forming a curtain over her face.
“Hello? Are . . . are you OK?” Of course she’s not OK. The girl doesn’t move so I gently clear my throat to try again. “Do you need help?”
She lifts her head. Ribbons of red streak down her face, a wide, hollow space pouring tears of blood into her hands.
I’m not sure which one of us starts to scream.
I hover my thumb over the screen. Just one click and that’s it, boat booked. I could be back home in less than twenty-four hours.
“Niamh?” A kind voice interrupts my thoughts. “Are you OK, dear?” Ruth walks over to me, leaning heavily on her cane, its rubber tip dragging across the floor. I sigh and put down my phone, almost grateful for the interruption. My thoughts are as tangled as one of those big balls of rubber bands – a mess of a million colours and different directions, each one piling on top of the last.
“I guess.” I don’t
bother to smile. I haven’t got the energy. I can imagine how awful I must look after another sleepless night, but I don’t care. My hair is scragged back into a rough ponytail, and I shoved on the first clothes I found in my bag. I pick at the ragged hem at the knee of my jeans, worrying the fraying edges and making the rip wider.
Ruth lowers herself into the chair across the table and leans forwards. “There is a counselling service here, you know. After everything you’ve been through this week, it might be helpful to talk to someone.”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice vague. I really don’t see how talking to a stranger is going to help me. How could they understand any of this?
Ruth seems to read my mind. “Or you could chat to me?” she says gently.
I glance at her beneath my bare lashes. “Really?”
“Of course.” She taps my phone screen. “If you decide to stay, that is.”
The boat booking page is still up on the screen. I let out a deep breath. “I can’t decide. My parents . . . well, they’re worried. Because those girls were attacked.” I don’t mention that they don’t actually know about Tasha; Derek agreed to keep that one quiet.
“And you don’t want to go?”
I chew at my bottom lip. “I dunno. I think I want to stay.”
Ruth smiles at me, her eyes crinkling up. “I get where they’re coming from, trust me. I have a daughter your age, you know. I’m keeping tabs on her too, believe me. But. . .” She sighs. “But I also know she has her own dreams, has to make her own mistakes.”
“I don’t know if they understand that,” I say.
“Maybe you do need to be careful right now,” says Ruth. “For your sake and theirs.”
I frown. “How do you mean?”
“Two girls were attacked. You need to be sensible. Don’t go out after dark, not too much anyway. Walk with a friend, check in with me every now and then. Tell your parents you’re doing all of that. Reassure them, for goodness’ sake.” She pushes herself up from the table with a groan. “Oof, achy bones.” She smiles. “Now, don’t you have a lecture to be going to?”
I check my watch. She’s right; the lecture starts in ten minutes and I still haven’t decided what to do. She reads my thoughts again.
Last One To Die Page 4
