by Wendy Clarke
‘Hope you’re not a vegetarian.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I was once, but I lapsed.’
A picture comes into my head of Joanna wafting a bacon sandwich under my nose in the kitchen of the flat we shared and how, suddenly, the bowl of muesli I was eating tasted of cardboard in my mouth. It was a week after I’d broken up with someone and was feeling down. She’d cut the sandwich in half to let me share, and I swear nothing had ever tasted so good. I never was good at resisting Joanna. I expect she knew that even then.
‘Good because bacon’s about all we’ve got. Oh, and some tomatoes.’ He places two rashers on a plate, adds the tomatoes and hands it to me. ‘Hope that’s okay. There’s some bread and butter on the table.’
I look at the triangles of neatly buttered bread, then back at Mark. He looks tired, the circles I saw under his eyes last night more pronounced, his skin pale beneath the dark stubble on his chin.
‘Are you all right, Mark?’
He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I just thought you looked…’ I don’t know how to continue without seeming ill-mannered.
‘I didn’t sleep well.’ He puts bacon and tomatoes onto his own plate. ‘I’ve a lot on my mind.’
He seems out of sorts. Swearing under his breath when he realises there’s no tomato sauce left in the bottle. It’s unsettling and, just as I did last night, I feel as though I’m an intruder. My idea of staying a little longer melts away. I wanted to wait to see if Joanna returned today, but now I feel like I should leave.
‘I’ll eat this, then go. Your Sundays must be precious. I’m sure there are things you want to do.’
He looks up sharply. ‘There’s nothing.’
I stand with my plate in my hand, wondering what on earth I’m even doing here. ‘Even so. I’ll leave when I’ve had this.’
‘No, don’t go. Not yet.’ Taking off the apron, he takes his plate to the dining table and places it on the slate mat. I follow him.
I think of the breakfasts Joanna and I used to eat when I stayed with her when we were children. Her mum would be out seeing to the horses and her dad would have long since gone to work, so we had the place to ourselves. Joanna would raid the fridge and the cupboards, placing a random assortment of food on a tray: cold sausages, a carton of yogurt, crisps, leftover apple pie, a slice of Battenberg cake. Then she’d carry it up to her bedroom and place it on the bed where we’d eat the feast with our fingers, Joanna’s duvet bunched up around our chins.
As we chewed on the sausages and dipped our fingers into the white bowl of the yoghurt pot, Joanna would tell me stories of the things she got up to when her parents were out. Stealing cigarettes from her mum’s drawer. Drinking her dad’s whisky straight from the bottle. I, in turn, would confide in her my worries. How Mum always looked tired, the double shifts at the supermarket taking their toll. How Dad had lost yet another job. How, sometimes, my life was unbearable.
She’d put her arm around me, her fingers sticky with cake and whisper in my ear. I know what will cheer you up. Stealing into her parents’ huge bedroom, the thick shag pile carpet warm beneath our bare feet, she’d pick up the receiver of the white telephone beside the bed. Your turn to go first, she’d say. Who shall it be today? Rhona or Charlotte? They both need taking down a peg or two.
Later, as we lay on our backs on her parents’ king-sized bed, we’d not be able to contain our laughter. Joanna always knew how to make me feel better.
‘I thought you might like me to show you around, now you’re here.’ Mark’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
‘Are you sure?’ I take a seat opposite him in the same place as last night, facing the tall windows. As I watch, the clouds roll back, bringing the city across the river into view.
‘Of course. It will give me something to do.’ Cutting his bacon into neat batons, Mark spears them with his fork before putting them into his mouth. ‘In fact, it will take my mind off things.’
‘Then I’d like that. Thank you.’
We eat the rest of our breakfast in silence. When I’ve finished, he waves away my offer of help, carrying the plates to the kitchen and putting them in the dishwasher.
I put on my shoes and fetch my bag from the bedroom, then wait in the corridor as Mark checks all the windows, then locks the front door. Checking once, twice, to make sure it’s secure. Considering the warehouse is practically empty, it seems an unnecessary ritual.
Before Mark can suggest taking the lift, I make for the door that leads to the stairs, surprised when he follows. Six flights later, we’re in the large atrium, and I try to imagine what it would be like if the fountain in the centre was playing. If the reception desk was manned by a beautiful girl or handsome young man in uniform. Instead, it’s empty. Dead. Like a stage set with no actors and no audience.
Mark stops. ‘If you don’t mind waiting here a second, I’m going to pop in and let Derek know you’re here. Just in case he’s wondering.’
‘Derek?’
‘Yes. He’s the guy we employ to make sure the place runs smoothly.’
‘What does he do?’
‘All sorts. Security mainly, but he also organises the cleaning and does some of the maintenance. One of the conditions of sale is that the building is kept in proper order.’ He shakes his head in dismay. ‘Even if there are no damn people living here.’
Striding over to a door near the reception desk, Mark knocks, then opens it. Inside the room is a large desk, on which stands a computer and several black and white monitors. The man sitting at it has his back to us, but as he turns, I take in his thin pale face, narrow shoulders and the freckled nicotine-stained fingers that rest on the mouse pad in front of him.
‘Everything okay?’
Derek nods. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just so you know, I have a friend staying. A friend of Joanna’s to be perfectly accurate. I didn’t want you thinking anything, well—’
‘Of course not.’ The man looks directly at me. The way he stares, reminding me of a doorman at a club. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’
‘Alice’s car is the white Mini that’s parked next to mine. Keep a good eye on it.’
‘Oh, I will, sir.’ He swivels back to face the monitors. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes.’ Mark gives a formal nod. ‘Have a good day, Derek.’
‘You too, sir.’ There’s a hint of obsequiousness in Derek’s tone, but if Mark notices, he doesn’t care. Or at least he doesn’t say anything.
I thank Mark when he lets me go through the door first. ‘How long has Derek worked here?’
The doors slide silently closed behind us.
‘He’s new. The last guy, Saul, left one day without saying why. Can’t say it bothers me, Derek is very thorough. Very reliable.’ He points along the quayside in the opposite direction from which I arrived yesterday. ‘We’ll go this way. It’s more interesting.’
Yesterday, the tide had been high, but today, it’s lower, revealing the weed-covered sides of the dock that would normally be hidden by the waterline. The quayside is overgrown with grass. Keeping to the uneven path, we pass a couple of metal storage units and more empty warehouses, remnants of Black Water’s former glory, and I’m filled with a sadness I can’t explain. There are more derelict buildings, more shells of naked brickwork filled with rusting scrap metal and old roof tiles, and I’m just wondering why Mark has brought me here when he stops suddenly and points.
‘This is it.’ His voice is filled with a passion I haven’t heard before. He’s not looking at me but into the distance. He opens his arms to accommodate the scene. ‘This was my dream.’
From where we stand, the skyscrapers and glass towers of Canary Wharf glitter in the distance, but when I turn and look in the other direction where Mark’s pointing, I can also see Tower Bridge, just beginning to open to let a ship pass through.
‘I thought this was what people wanted. To breathe life into something that’s died. It’s not just the mo
ney, you know.’ He’s staring at me again with those piercing blue eyes behind his glasses. ‘It’s about regeneration for the future. Creating something better… or at least as good.’
His phone rings, and he takes it out of his pocket and looks at it. Without answering it, he shoves it back without a word.
‘Was that Joanna?’
He looks startled. ‘Joanna?’
‘Yes. I thought she might be letting you know when she’d be back.’
‘No. It wasn’t Joanna.’ I think I see his eyes film, but then he blinks and they’re clear again, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
He turns back to the brown river. ‘You know they say this place is haunted?’
‘Really?’ I look around me as though a ghost might suddenly appear.
‘Oh, yes. Two hundred years ago, the Thames was crammed with shipping. Wharves lining both sides of the river from Lambeth to the Tower. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
As he speaks, a couple of barges covered in tarpaulin and a red and white tug slide past. On the other side of the river, I can just make out the commentary from a Thames Clipper as it rumbles by, its decks packed with people.
‘That was until the docks started to close.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They weren’t deep enough for the larger ships.’
I think of the black and white photograph I’d seen. The tall-masted ships, the bustling quayside and compare it to the wasteland I’m standing in. He’s right. It’s hard to imagine it now.
‘See there?’
Mark leads me to the edge of the water. Next to a black bollard a series of stone steps lead down to the water. They’re ancient. Mildewed and slippery where the Thames laps at them. Either side, embedded in the stone, metal rings that would once have been used for mooring boats drip.
‘Sometimes, the past is wiped out but, if you look closely enough, some of it remains. They call them The Devil’s Staircase. Over the centuries, it’s where many people have lost their lives. Accident. Misadventure. Suicide. The locals say a few have come back to settle their scores.’
A dark cloud has rolled over the sun, and I turn away. Wishing he hadn’t shown me. Not wanting to think of the lives lost. The lives wasted. Subconsciously, my hand slides down to my stomach.
‘And further along the river, at Execution Dock, there’s an old scaffold. It was used as an execution site for over four hundred years.’ He points to where the river bends. ‘Mutineers. Murderers. Smugglers. Pirates. Any crime committed at sea. The admiralty made sure the bodies were visible from the waterfront in case anyone was getting an idea to do the same. They were left hanging there until three tides had ebbed and flowed over their heads.’ He runs his hand across his neat dark hair. ‘Brutal.’
The ground tips and sways.
‘Would you mind if we go back? I’m not feeling too good.’
Mark stops talking, his face creased in concern. ‘Yes, of course. You should have said. I have a habit of getting carried away. Ask Joanna…’ He turns away, his lips pinched together. ‘Anyway, we should be getting back. It looks like it’s going to rain.’
We walk back along the quayside and, as New Tobacco Wharf comes back into sight, I wonder whether Joanna ever walks this way. What she makes of this strange place and what her life is really like? I glance back at the steps covered with green mildew. Does she feel the ghosts of those who have lost their lives on the slippery stones as keenly as I do?
As Mark holds the door of the warehouse open for me, I can’t rid myself of the feeling that something’s not right. But, it’s only as I start the climb to the sixth floor having left Mark at the lift, that I realise what it is. It’s as if by taking me to the quayside, he’s been trying to tell me something.
But what that might be, I have no idea.
Thirteen
I’m packing away my wash things in preparation to leave when I hear the sharp buzz of the intercom. Thinking it’s Joanna, I run into the living room to find Mark with his finger on the button. He looks at me and smiles before pressing it.
‘Hey, beautiful. Good course?’
At the thought of seeing Joanna, my heart quickens. ‘She’s back,’ I say, under my breath.
‘No, Mark. It’s not Joanna.’
The voice that fills the room is a woman’s, but it’s not Joanna’s. It belongs to someone older, and although I haven’t seen her in years, I recognise whose it is. It’s Denise, Joanna’s mother.
Mark releases the button as though it’s given him an electric shock, and steps back. ‘Bugger. What do they want?’
‘Mark, what’s wrong?’
He’s gone ashen. He’s massaging his temples with the tips of his first two fingers.
‘Tell me, please.’ I pull at his arm, making him look at me.
‘It’s just not a good time for them to come.’
I look around, thinking it’s because he’s worried he hasn’t had time to tidy up, but the room is immaculate. ‘Then tell them it’s not convenient. Ask if they’ll come another time.’
‘I can’t do that. Fuck.’ He paces, his hands in his pockets. ‘Did you ever meet them?’
‘Yes, a few times, but I haven’t seen them in years.’
‘Then you’ll know how difficult it is to put them off.’
He presses the button on the intercom again. ‘Denise. Gary. How lovely. I’ll put the kettle on. Come on up. There’s someone I want you to meet… or someone you haven’t seen in a while.’
Turning to me, he takes me by the arms. ‘Help me out with them, Alice. You must know what they’re like.’ His worry startles me, but then it’s the same sort of thing Joanna used to say. She always had to live up to their expectations. ‘Alice, I can’t do this on my own. I’ll explain properly later.’
I remember how Denise was when Joanna and I were teenagers. Her narrow face perfectly made up. Her hair expensively highlighted. Gary was just a shadowy figure in a suit. The man who made Joanna cry when he sat her down to discuss her school report, just as he might an underling at work who he was going to fire. I’m intrigued to know what they’re like now.
‘All right.’
He rubs his hands up and down the top of my arms. ‘Thank you. Just follow my cues.’
Before I can ask what he means, there’s a buzz on the door and Mark opens it.
‘Denise. Gary. Good to see you.’
He shakes the man’s hand and kisses the woman’s cheek, then steps back to let them in. ‘You remember Alice?’
I don’t move but wait until they come into the room. It’s Denise who sees me first, quickly hiding her surprise. Composing her voice. ‘Is that really you, Alice? How lovely.’
I nod, becoming again the thirteen-year-old girl who longed to be part of their family. ‘You look well, Mrs Maitland. In fact, you’ve hardly changed.’
She hasn’t. She’s hardly aged at all. Gary, on the other hand, has put on weight, the buttons of his shirt straining against his stomach.
He holds out his hand for me to shake, then turns back to Mark, leaving me wondering if he even remembers who I am.
‘Came over to talk to you about the photographer. There’s a guy in Vauxhall who will do the lot for three thousand. Before, during, after. The works. Taken some society shots. Knows his stuff. Also, the manager of the band we wanted for the evening has said they’ll cancel their other gig to fit us in.’ He rubs finger and thumb together. ‘Didn’t take much persuading.’
Going over to the leather settee, he sits, his legs spread. Denise joins him and, after a moment’s hesitation, I sit opposite on the crushed velvet one, feeling like I’m about to be interviewed.
‘Don’t worry about the kettle,’ Gary shouts over to Mark, who’s filling it from the slim tap. ‘I’ll have a scotch.’
Mark takes a bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘Ladies?’
I shake my head. ‘No, thank you. I’ll be driving.’
‘So, where’s Joanna?’ Gary sounds like a hea
d teacher summoning his pupil.
Mark hands him his scotch. ‘She’s on a course. Sorry, I thought I’d told you. Maybe we should talk about the photographer and the wedding some other time. When she’s here.’
‘Strange. She didn’t say.’ Denise looks at me over her glass as she takes a sip of wine, her red lipstick leaving a crescent on its surface. ‘And you, Alice. I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t realise you and Joanna were still friends.’
The words burst out of me. ‘Of course we are. Joanna wanted me to come here to talk about the wedding.’
Gary’s looking at me now. ‘I don’t recall your name being on the guest list?’
The air in the room seems to contract. Everyone’s eyes are on me. As their faces start to swim before my eyes, I grip the edge of the settee to anchor myself.
How can I tell them? How can I admit that they’re right? I want to feel that Joanna is still my friend, but the truth is very different.
I look behind me, and Mark is busying himself getting glasses out of the cabinet.
The truth is that I haven’t actually seen Joanna in ten years. All I have is the memory of how we used to be and a message on my phone reaching out a hand of friendship.
But they don’t know that.
Inside, I’m squirming with embarrassment, but Mark comes to my rescue. He must have heard what Gary said. ‘There are so many people on it, you probably don’t remember half of them.’
‘You’re right there.’ Gary gives a bark of laughter. ‘The list keeps getting longer.’
I watch the scene play out, feeling more and more awkward. The conversation moves from the photographer, to flowers, to what the ushers will be wearing. I’ve never felt such a spare part. As they talk, I watch the clouds move across the skyline, breaking apart to reveal patches of blue.
Mark’s speaking to me now, but I’ve been so lost in thought that I haven’t been listening. ‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ I say, coming back to the conversation.
Mark fixes his eyes on me. ‘I was saying that you thought so too when you saw Joanna yesterday. That’s right, isn’t it?’
