“It doesn’t seem real to you yet, does it?” Lizzie now had quiet tears rolling down her face. “I’ve had three times as long to get used to the idea, but still nothing. It’s fantasy. Can you believe you’re never going to see him again? He’s just away somewhere, he’s popped out, he’s going to come back and smile and everything will be fine.”
“I know,” cried Flower. “I know.”
“Why’d you go, Clay?” asked Lizzie. “Don’t you see none of this would have happened if you didn’t go away? It was you disappearing that made Raymond curious, made him suspect, made him write this book. If you hadn’t gone away, he wouldn’t have written it. If you hadn’t gone away, none of this would have happened. Why did you go away?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was as numb as hers. “I don’t know why, really. I wasn’t enjoying London that much, I guess. It seemed that my relationship with Belinda was falling to shit even though I loved her, and so I suppose I just decided to go. You know, a clean break, forget about her.”
“But you didn’t forget about her,” said Toby. “You sent her postcards. They told us.”
Clay closed his eyes. “I don’t know, I can’t remember. Maybe I sent one or two, I can’t recall. Everything is blurred, everything seems distant today.”
“Why didn’t you let us know where you were?” Flower choked. “Why did you only let her know?”
“I don’t know,” said Clay. “I guess I’m just a big fool for her.”
“Still?”
“No.” Clay stared at them both together, so broken. “Not still.” He wanted to say more, to confess it all, to tell them that he did it. He wanted them to call the police, to be taken away. He didn’t mind if he was beaten up in the cells, he didn’t mind if he got Life. Lizzie was right. It was his fault, after all. If he hadn’t gone away, if he hadn’t left, then Raymond wouldn’t have written the book and none of this would have happened.
His hands did it, so it was probably best if he was behind bars before he fell asleep. He looked at Lizzie and Flower, he glanced at Toby, each wearing their grief in a different way. He deserved punishment, deserved retribution. It didn’t matter that it was Belinda, Abigail and Judy behind it. It was his fault. He went away and started it.
And he was just about to speak, just about to confess everything, when another thought dropped into his mind: “The girl!”
“What?” asked Toby.
“The girl I saw just before Flower rang.”
“I never saw her.”
Clay took a deep breath. “Yesterday, after Nick was murdered, Belinda and I went up there. We were sitting in this café and a girl walked in. She took one look at Belinda and ran out, frightened. I’d maybe think nothing of it, but she followed us. I saw her again in Soho yesterday afternoon, I’m sure I did. And I saw her today, I definitely did. I saw her. She’s following me. What if she knows something? What if she knew Nick and has something to tell us?”
“How are you going to find her?” asked Toby.
“I think she’ll find me.”
“So we just wait for the doorbell to ring?”
Clay stared ahead, desperate for his thoughts to come quicker. “Well, maybe if we head back to Holloway Road. I think that was her patch. She might feel safer up there, more willing to talk.”
“And what happens if she doesn’t?” said Toby. “What then? Door to door enquiries along Holloway Road? That should bring some interesting results.”
“We’ve got to do something!” yelled Clay. “We’ve got to try!”
“Yes,” cried Flower, raising her head from Lizzie’s shoulder. “We have to do something!”
“Do it,” said Lizzie. “We could spent the entire afternoon discussing it. We could cry lots of tears, but they’re going to be meaningless unless you do something. I don’t think I can leave this flat. Having made it here, it now seems too painful to go outside. But I want you to go, I want you to stop them. I don’t want them to take another life apart with their painted claws.”
The murdered faces of Jake Monroe, Nick Turnkey and Raymond Jones flashed through Clay’s mind. He stared up to see if anyone had spotted his guilt.
Maybe Lizzie had, but her face was pale and numb and emotionless. Flower hadn’t; the tears had been unleashed again and she was desperately trying to restore balance to herself. Only Toby stared back at him, only his face showed the hardness of knowledge. It was as if having been his confessor, Toby now had the power to see right inside his head, to be able to glimpse the images Clay saw and feel how repellent they were.
Clay’s gaze spun around the room, taking in every colour, shape, scent and sound. He was stung by Flower’s sobs, by Lizzie’s painful comforting. His stomach turned at that dead unidentifiable smell that always lingers around mourners.
He rose carefully.
“We better go.”
“Yes,” said Toby. “These things happen at night. I’ve always prided myself on knowing nothing of this witchcraft, superstitious rubbish, but – I don’t know – do we think they have more power with the moon?” He glanced at Clay.
Flower slowly uncurled herself from Lizzie. She sat upright and wiped a paper tissue to her eyes, trying to smile, perhaps to ward off the tears. She straightened her black skirt and concentrated on standing. She stared down to her feet and spent thirty seconds willing them. Finally, they moved. She wavered on the way up, her body as if caught in a gale. “I’m coming with you.”
“You sure about that?” asked Toby.
She looked to Lizzie. “Unless you want me to stay...”
Lizzie’s arm had fallen from Flower and was now immobile at her side. She stared at them without even a blink. “With what I’m taking, I get a lot of sleep. It’s not pleasant sleep, it’s not restful sleep, but I am unconscious. What are you going to do when I pass out, Flower? It’s best you try and do something useful.”
Flower bent down and hugged her. Lizzie didn’t hug back.
“I’ve never been so angry,” Lizzie said. “That’s my emotion now. Before I saw you, I was distraught, I was crushed – now I’m angry. I’m enraged that my life was just a toy to these people, that when they didn’t like it, they felt they could just break it. Break them for me, would you? I’d like to see them broken as effectively as they broke Raymond, as they broke me.”
They kissed her, lingering their lips on her cheek, hoping it would somehow make her feel a little better. She barely acknowledged them, not even when Flower wrapped her arms around her neck and sobbed against her again. She just sat there and let herself be kissed and nodded once as they walked away. No one actually said the word ‘goodbye’, no one uttered the sentiment ‘farewell’ – it would be something too final. Lizzie just watched them go.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Where was she?
Clay’s eyes flitted around, trying to spot her in every corner. A ginger girl, scrawny, not that pretty. He was sure he could recognise her again, sure he could pick her out – but beyond those general characteristics, he couldn’t recall a single thing about her.
How tall was she? What had she been wearing this morning? How had her hair been? He didn’t know, he couldn’t remember. The glimpse he’d had was no more than a flash; he couldn’t even stretch it out in his head to make something more substantial of it.
He just had to hope she would come to him.
Eyes hunting the streets, peering into every corner, he scanned around. It was as if she was always there at the periphery, just at the edge of his sight, but no matter which way he turned, he could not bring her into focus. He was trying to watch for her, but then maybe she was trying to watch for him too. Each just needed to step forward to see the other.
Upper Street was busy, lots of people enjoying themselves in the sunshine – lots of girls who might just be her. He could just stand and try to look in the face of every passer-by, but really he knew that they needed a sense of direction. So they boarded a double-decker to Holloway Road.
They sat on the top-de
ck and he stared at every passenger and at every pedestrian walking by. There were other ginger women, of course, and he strained at the window as the bus passed them, and he tried to bring the sketchy image he had in his mind to match the girl outside. It was never her. He may not have had a clear idea what she looked like, but he knew instinctively that he’d recognise her if he saw her. There was something about her he’d know.
The bus stopped just beyond the charred brickwork of Nick’s flat.
Clay could do no more than glance at it, checking that direction in case she was there. However, Toby and Flower took a moment to stare at the scorched walls, the heat-broken windows, the police-tape across the front door, the bobby keeping guard – against what, no one knew. There was now one of those yellow information signs propped up outside, the word ‘MURDER’ in ominous lettering, an appeal for witnesses.
Clay kept his back to it and led them to the café, Flower leaning against Toby.
The sun burnt down, almost tropical now, golden and imperious. None of them really felt it; to them there was only an unshakeable chill in the air.
The bell on the door jangled; the café was empty again, just the good looking Greek bloke behind the counter. Toby and Flower took a seat while Clay asked for three coffees. The bloke checked out Flower as attentively as he had Belinda.
“I was here yesterday,” said Clay.
“Of course you were, sir. I remember you and your lady friend well.”
Clay nodded. “There was a girl who came in. We thought she was a friend of ours, but she disappeared quickly. A thin ginger girl?”
He just stared blankly. “We get a lot of chicks in here.”
Clay thanked him and paid. He carried the drinks to the table.
“Now what?” asked Toby
“We’re on Holloway Road,” said Clay. “We wait.”
They nodded and looked down to their polystyrene cups.
“How do you think they’re doing it?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Toby crinkled his brow. “This is all new to me. Some kind of voodoo perhaps. Maybe they have a doll of the person in question.”
She wiped her eyes. “You sound frightened.”
“Well, yes, I am fucking frightened. Petrified. I never thought I’d be able to take advantage of the undertaker’s three for one offer, but here we are.”
She put her head in her hands and then stroked back through her hair, she lingered over a breath. “I think Jake was going to propose.”
“Really?”
“Yes, just an impression I got. I thought he was building himself up to something. Although the last time I got that idea the bloke was working his way to ditching me, but I don’t think Jake would do that – would he? Did he say anything to you? Did he mention wanting to marry me? Did he mention being sick of me?”
“Not to me,” said Toby.
There were tears in her eyes again. “So what do you think it means?”
“What do I think him not mentioning anything about anything means? I don’t know. That sounds like a woman’s area of expertise.”
She tried to smile but instead choked on sobs. “I wish Raymond hadn’t written that book. I wish if he had written that book he hadn’t told Charles about it. Why did he tell him? Why did they have to find out? Why did any of this have to happen?”
“I’m sorry,” said Clay.
“Stop apologising!” she snapped. “It doesn’t make anything any better, it doesn’t do anyone any good. You’re not the one who needs to apologise!” She reached for another paper tissue. “Oh, I don’t know what to do, I really don’t. What do I do with this? Tragedy used to be something that existed in Shakespeare, but now I have this and it’s real – so horribly real – and I just don’t know what to do with it. I’m so broken up, Toby, so broken up.”
Toby put his arm around her and she leant into him. She let him comfort her for a few minutes, until she determined she had enough strength to sit up by herself and dry her own eyes.
He finally took a sip of coffee and then twisted his lips; it clearly did not meet with his exacting standards. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?”
Flower stared at him. “What?”
“Well, Raymond came up with the theory that Clay here was dead, he actually wrote a book on this theory. At some point he told you and Jake this theory, maybe when the script needed to be written, maybe before – I don’t know. The point is, why did no-one mention anything to me? Why didn’t you tell me about this? I can remember not so long ago sitting in a pub and talking about hiring private detectives; why did you go through that if as far as you were concerned Clay was already dead?”
“I’m sorry,” she reached over and clutched his hand. “It’s what Raymond wanted. After he told Charles...”
“So Charles fucking West knew about that, did he?”
“No, not that part – only that Raymond thought they were witches, only about the book. Not about Clay.”
She looked at Clay, her beautiful eyes wide and tearful with apology.
“So why didn’t Raymond tell me anything?” asked Toby.
“Because – I don’t know – you can talk too much Toby, and this was a subject he didn’t want to talk about at all.” She stared at him as if about to boil over with tears again. “At the beginning, it was just speculation, it was just an idea. He couldn’t even go to the police. How could he go to the police with that? There was barely enough to have Clay declared a missing person. At the start it could have been slander to tell people that. It was terrible rumour-mongering and he had no proof for it. He wasn’t sure how real it was himself. Then after a while he convinced himself and got scared – and once he was scared he didn’t want to tell anybody.”
Toby peered into her eyes and bit his lip in apology.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was more to do with Raymond than you. Maybe he should have told people about the witchcraft, but look – Clay’s alive. How could Raymond have gone around telling people he was dead?”
“There she is!” yelled Clay.
And there she was. Flower and Toby sat with their backs to the window, and on the other side of that plate of glass was the ginger-haired girl.
She stood there, glaring at them. Her hair was lank, her face drawn and hollow, her eyes too deep in her skull, a scared fury twisted into her lips.
Flower and Toby turned round to look at her.
The girl hesitated, her gaze passing over all three of them, as if wanting to communicate – but not knowing how. She stared at them and they stared at her, and then she turned nervously and scurried away.
“I’ll get her!” said Flower, and she dashed to the door. The little bell rang and the door slammed and the café returned to peacefulness.
Clay shivered. He raised the half cup of coffee to his mouth like a soldier with a prayed-for bowl of soup in the trenches. “I should have gone.”
Toby peered over his shoulder and out the window, trying to spot the women. “You looked paralysed, my friend. I don’t think you could have moved anywhere. Besides, Flower’s gentle touch may work better.”
“Who the hell is she?” Clay asked. “Why is she following me? What does she want? What does she know?”
“I’ve no idea.” Toby sounded frightened again. “Look I’m just going to check Flower is okay.”
Clay nodded.
Toby got up slowly, stealthily, and went to the door. He tried to open it without the ring – in case the sound reached the women – but it tinkled out anyway and he cursed. He looked around the corner and then pulled his head back quickly. He sat down and wiped the perspiration from his face.
“Flower has her. They’re at the corner talking. The girl looks mightily upset.”
“Who do you think she is?” asked Clay.
“I don’t know. Girlfriend, maybe.”
“Did he ever mention having a girlfriend?”
“Clay, I don’t know if you picked up on this, but Nick and I were never the clo
sest matches in the box. We didn’t talk much, and when we did I found myself suffering from headaches and nausea. A shame, really, as he clearly had some interesting things to say, but let’s be fair – they were hidden away amongst a cavalcade of incredibly dull things.”
“He still didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“Very few people do.” Toby took an anxious, impatient glance to the door. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sleepy?”
Clay took a long sip of coffee. “I’m awake. Do you think I’m ever likely to sleep again?”
“The body can’t keep going forever.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“What if they have some kind of sleep spell?” asked Toby. “What if they can magic you to sleep?”
Clay nodded. “You’ll be with me, won’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Then kill me.”
Toby stared at him. “I’m really not sure, honestly, that I could actually kill you.”
“Then give me something to kill myself before I drop off. Just don’t let it happen again. Don’t let me harm anybody. Don’t let me hurt you, don’t let me hurt Flower.”
The door opened and Flower stumbled into the café. Toby sprang from his seat and just managed to keep her upright.
She was shaking and tears burned her red cheeks. She staggered and tried to speak, but her words were lost in a mix of trembling and saliva.
“It’s you!” she said finally, smashing her hand against Clay’s shoulder. “It’s you, isn’t it? It’s fucking you!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Flower turned and rushed from the café. They dashed after her. Her mind was clearly reeling, she seemed barely able to control her legs or the swinging of her arms. If she’d been thinking straight, she would have turned right onto Holloway Road, headed back towards Nick’s flat and the bored policeman outside. Instead, she went left, away from that place of death.
Clay grabbed at Flower’s arm and she shoved him off. He persisted and this time held her – or rather he caught her, her legs slipping away in a semi-swoon. She was conscious, but unable to stand. Holding her by her shoulders, Clay peered into her blue eyes. She couldn’t focus. She looked at Clay, looked around him, looked through him.
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