Escape and Evasion
Page 3
9
Pausing before the door, Joseph hears a noise. It sounds like a squeaking wheel. Yes, somebody is pushing a trolley down the corridor. They want to put a bit of WD40 on that. Lovely smell, WD40. He remembers the time he went for a swim in the sea off Morte Point, forgetting his car key was in his pocket, and wanted to blame Naomi because she’d suggested he go in.
‘You were a bit insistent: where was the rush?’
‘Really?’
The RAC man rescued them then by dropping the waterlogged key in a little pot of WD40.
Said squeaking halts for a moment. Then it starts up again, grows louder, and seems to stop just outside his door. Joseph stays very still. Thinks of the farmer, if that’s what he was, taking a piss a few feet beyond the snow-filled ditch. Joseph held his nerve then and holds it now: in time the squeaking moves on. He shuts his eyes and listens to it go. A white dot, shrinking to nothing, like on Dad’s old TV, the one in his study.
Time to leave the capsule if you dare.
He pulls the chest of drawers back into position, careful to align the little feet with their original dents in the carpet, and takes one last look around the room. Nothing to see here. All square. He cracks the door and peers out into the corridor. Again, nothing. Just the sigh of the lift doors shutting. If the lift has gone, it can’t return for a moment or two, meaning now’s the moment. He shoulders his bag and heads for the stars.
Christ: stairs.
Drops down them two at a time, slows before hitting the lobby, cuts across that with his head bent, ready to shift gear if a ‘Can I help you, sir?’ comes from any angle. Which it doesn’t. Because fact is, he’s not the centre of the universe, at least not yet. But boy those lilies still smell wrong. Possibly a heightened slash distorted sense of smell is one of the symptoms. Can he not remember because not remembering stuff is also a free gift, part of the package? He doesn’t know. He slips past the flowers, out into the street, his one eye blinking double time in the sunlight.
10
Joseph cuts south, ducks into a Tube station, Holborn it is, and woah, there’s a bit of a crowd. Something wrong with the line. He waits. Having a driver and car at your disposal twenty-four seven takes the sting out of London. Ah, Cleveland Square, the big silver Merc tight to the kerb. And the espresso machine on the melamine kitchen surface, the Bang & Olufsen entertainment system, the picture of an otter Lara drew at London Zoo, hung in the brushed-steel frame. History. He can’t squeeze on to the first train that arrives, makes the next, and of course it’s rammed. The suits in his walk-in wardrobe have more room.
Christ, Joseph’s chin is pretty much resting on this short bloke’s head.
He grips his holdall tight.
The chap to his right has a magnificent red beard, part pirate, part landscape gardener. Smells of tea tree oil, though. Left-leaning sociologists generally had beards in the 1980s. By contrast, Dad looked like Cary Grant. Though there was the pipe, to be fair, and those little tools for shoving the tobacco into it. All that paraphernalia was more true to academic type. Or was it? Either way, Dad resisted typecasting: when they were packing food parcels for the miners Dad insisted on including those little tins of Gentleman’s Relish.
Joseph ‘excuse me’s onto the platform at Liverpool Street, works his way to a less crammed westbound Circle Line train and surfaces at Baker Street, not far from where he started out. Hide close. Exhaust fumes hang in the canyon of the Marylebone Road; the traffic burbles to itself. He’s headed for Dorset Square. Walks a quick circuit of the nearby streets and chooses a pompous little hotel whose glossy black front door is framed with overstuffed hanging baskets, brass plaques and rating stars.
This’ll do.
The woman behind the desk glances up and clocks his bandaged eye. Does an obvious double take and immediately looks down at her screen. Tiny thing, but still, it suggests what Joseph has long known, or suspected, or at least hoped, namely: most people are in fact nice.
Even the ones who apparently aren’t.
Bankers, say.
Anyway, this woman here, insensitive double take aside, is clearly good at heart. He asks her about room availability and the rate card and she answers in a very bright sorry-about-that-it-won’t-happen-again voice. Even so, she has to look up again sooner or later.
‘I had an accident at work,’ he hears himself say when she does.
‘Oh.’
‘Working a lathe without goggles. A chip of metal hit me in the eye.’
The woman winces and puts her hand to her mouth.
‘It’s not too painful now,’ he reassures her.
Her hand comes away.
‘And anyway, the eye doctor reckons it will mend in time. They have this new procedure.’
‘Ah. Moorfields,’ she says, gesturing with her thumb. Not, in fact, in the direction of the renowned eye hospital, but that doesn’t matter. Seed planted.
‘Yes. I’m up for tests.’
She’s pleased to hear this. Cue big smile. Unprofessional half-stare well behind us now, forgotten. She shows him to his exorbitant little room. Noticing the cost, now, is he? So he should be. It’s not just pricey, this hotel, but shonky, too. They’ve cut the place up with thin partition walls. Later that day a couple check into the room next to his, have farmyard sex, head out, and return an hour and a half later in the middle of an argument. He turns up the television but the chat shows and dance-offs can’t compete with the spite broadcast next door. The man keeps shouting, ‘That’s what you always say!’ and the woman repeats, ‘Because I’m fucking right!’ on a loop.
Naomi: the angrier she got with him the more quietly she spoke. Late home again: murmuring regret. And that time she found out about the intern: woollen violence.
Silence.
Woollen silence.
Not a tactic favoured by this pair. Eventually someone down the corridor bangs on the wall, but that only works to quieten the noise for a few moments and soon one of the hotel staff is appealing to the couple in the hall. What does it matter: attention focused elsewhere has to be a good thing, right? Of course. But his room feels claustrophobic now. That claw-footed bath in the corner on its little island of tiles: it’s an absurd waste of space! He lifts the blind. Dark outside. And still no news on the television – or internet. Making this a miraculous cover-up, spearheaded by Lancaster, no doubt.
Suddenly he’s got to get out.
11
The bandage is in place. It’s his shield. He takes a walk across Regent’s Park, up onto Primrose Hill, nobody paying him any attention at all. Wow, German lager tastes good through one eye. He knocks back a pint in a pub overlooking the park and raises a second to the picture of a fish hung slantwise on the pub wall. We’re relaxed here, the slant says. Any angle is fine picture-wise. He agrees. Possibly he’s not eaten enough today: the beer feels kickingly strong. No! It’s him that’s strong! Big Beast? He is now, for sure! They’ll be chewing each other’s heads off in the bank, even as he considers a final drink. Just in time for last orders. Fair enough. Everybody has to go home some time.
This here bit of the park is nice and dark, though. With the lamp posts all spread out. Look up at the night sky. It’s beautiful. Orange sub-glow aside, those are actual stars. Galaxies of them! All up there, making him feel real, as in … small. Less Big Beast as was, more speck of nothing. Go easy on yourself, man! It’s not just you. We’re all tiny.
What must Lara be thinking now? Does she even know? She will soon. She’s twelve, not four. You can’t just disappear and expect a girl like Lara simply to roll with it. He’s not done this sensibly at all. Why didn’t he explain? Why doesn’t he? He shouldn’t, not now, but yes, he must. He pulls out his new phone and keys in her number.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring.
Crap. She’s not there. But hold on: here she comes. Her own sweet voice. There’s no faking it! ‘Hello it’s me, Lara, or rather my phone so why not leave—’
Jesus! What is he thinking?
He jabs the call dead, stares at the phone a moment.
But the sound of her voice!
He could well be about to cry.
He doesn’t.
Instead he dials again just to hear her sweet mock-worldly voice.
‘Hello it’s me, Lara …’
And again.
‘Hello it’s me.’
Again.
‘Hello.’
And …
Each time he hangs up before leaving a message, and each word, each syllable, even the intake of breath before she speaks, well, it’s like a mini hit of Lara to him. Realistically hit-like, in fact, because as with hits of everything he’s ever tried there’s an immediate and horrible law of diminishing returns at work, with each mini hit somehow less effective than the last even as it makes the next one inevitable.
No!
Be strong.
He stops dialling her number and just stands there looking up. There’s a mineral taste in his mouth and the cold night air is laced with exhaust fumes. Despite the city glow sucking some of the brightness out of the stars he can in fact recognise one or two shapes he knows: Orion’s Belt, the Plough, a smear of Milky Way. They taught him this stuff in the army, but he was never very good at it. Where’s the North Star? No idea. And no moon that he can see, either. He swivels on his heel in search of it, steps backwards into the path and starts as he catches sight of something blinking quickly towards him. A cyclist skids to a halt, blowing hard in his face, a skeleton of luminous strips.
‘Careful, mate!’ the cyclist says.
‘Surry.’
The cyclist blinks at him, comes to some sort of not-worth-it decision, kicks a pedal to the top of its arc, and starts off again, strobing to a dot down the path.
12
Surry?
Sorry.
The guy was right, he should be more careful. Joseph jog-walks back to his hotel, not quite knowing why he’s in such a hurry, not until he finds he’s already there, sitting on the tartan bedspread, with the photographs of the kids in his lap. A different kind of hit. Lovely photos, great kids, so proud, et cetera, but there’s a problem. Something to do with time. Zac kept saying ‘basically’ when this photo was taken, which was what, eight months ago? ‘Basically I’m not a fan of cabbage.’ ‘Arsenal are basically best.’ Yet he’d already stopped saying that the last time Joseph had the kids. A visit to the Tower of London. Two hours was all she allowed. His own fault, of course, but still. Not long enough to do much but notice that Zac’s sweet ‘basically’ tick had gone. Move along, nothing to see here, certainly not ‘basically’ any more. Just a traitorous picture. Because photos are never quite now enough, are they? These ones here don’t even show the up-to-date versions of the kids. Which makes them helpful to look at, yes, but also killingly sad.
He climbs into bed.
In it, with the light out, he pushes the photographs under his pillow, fighting back the sorrow. Time, it’s a funny old bastard. He drifts, thinking: Mum, poor old Mum, and Dad, funny old …
Except when he wasn’t, not always.
There was nothing funny about the stunt he pulled on Joseph’s fifteenth birthday. Or rather, the day they celebrated it. Not his real birthday because his real birthday was at school, worst luck. In school there might be a large thin square cake and ‘Happy Birthday’ sung loudly at dinner time, but the cake would taste of wet paper and the singing always had a sort of grating boom to it that said: actually, we don’t care. In response to which, you had to pretend not to be bothered. At home the real cake plate came out, the same one for every birthday – Charlie, Joseph, Mum and Dad – every year. It had wavy edges.
So what?
So the wavy-edged plate was out, and there was a big slab of fruitcake on it, and Grandma had just arrived, and that was good because they were waiting for her so they could begin. She was taking her scarf off and hugging Charlie, who was what, eight, and pretending he didn’t mind that it wasn’t his birthday (good practice for school later, Charlie, keep it up), but couldn’t hide his delight at being given an un-birthday present anyway, which Joseph didn’t mind because he was now fifteen, not a little kid, and therefore old enough to wait.
All of which was by the by.
Dad had gone to park Grandma’s Toyota Cressida, with the little AA and RAC badges stuck in the grille. One minute he was there in the window frame walking down the drive, the next he was gone, because he’d collapsed in the flowerbed. Half in it, actually. When Joseph got to him his torso was in the lavender bushes and his bottom half was kicking at the flint chips on the drive, as if trying to get free.
Joseph called the ambulance himself. Then helped haul Dad indoors and laid him on the long sofa. He’d come to his senses by then, sort of. ‘I feel find,’ he said. ‘Find? Fine!’ But his eyes rolled back into his head again and his face was the colour of the icing on the big uneaten cake. Mum looked worse. Grandma took her and Charlie into the other room, leaving Joseph to watch Dad blink at the plaster coving and ceiling rose. Held his hand. It was papery, dry to touch. Still, every now and then it squeezed back.
‘I’ll be home later. Save me a piece of cake,’ Dad said.
‘Of course.’
‘It’s just a funny turn.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t look so worried.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Take care of your mum and Charlie, and yourself. If necessary.’
‘What do you mean?’ Joseph said, though he knew exactly.
Dad’s left leg wouldn’t stay still. It seemed a slice of him wanted to tap dance. Joseph fought an urge to pin it down.
When the ambulance finally arrived, Mum rode with Dad in the back, leaving Grandma to look after Joseph and Charlie, who insisted on opening his un-birthday present. Then Grandma suggested Joseph open her gift to him, too. It was a watch, lovely and modern with a metal strap and square face, but sadly schizophrenic: it told the time twice, once with hands sweeping around a pale yellow dial, and once on a little digital screen, and that would have been great, thank you very much, except that Joseph couldn’t make the two times coincide exactly. He lay on his bed trying, but the second hand was always off. The counterpane was a Chinese dragon he’d been given when he was ten. No, no matter how much he fiddled with the little bezel and buttons, he couldn’t synchronise the analogue and digital halves, not exactly. He gave up eventually, just lay with his hands behind his head listening to the ticking. A fragile sound. Just keep going, it said, keep going.
13
Keep going.
That’s what they’re clearly doing at bank HQ, despite him.
It’s impressive, inspiring even, for now.
Joseph wakes thinking of a bull in the ring, kicking up sawdust, big neck full of lances, doomed. The image urges him on. Him, Joseph Ashcroft, matador on the move. Or is he the bull? Either way, he’s incognito. Yes, by eight the following morning he’s up and dressed and bandaged and hovering at his door, intent on getting out. He can’t spend another day watching television, not with this Regency wallpaper pushing in. Puts the essentials in his old satchel just in case, thinking: get out for a walk, man, take some air.
Mistake.
He first notices the man with the pointy shoes while waiting for his coffee to devolve down the chain of command in Starbucks. Joseph is keeping his one eye down. Spots a pair of dun-coloured winklepicker-type shoes, dagger toes spread in a V, and thinks: clown. The tapered trouser bottoms are part of the problem. Sportsman’s stance, though, athletic calves. Joseph can’t help himself, lifts his face to take in the proud owner of this ensemble. Sees the man in profile, sharp jaw, narrowed eyes; he must be what, thirty-five, so he should know better.
Elfin barista: ‘Anything with that, sir?’
Clown: ‘No.’
‘A pastry, something from the—’
‘No.’
The man glances sideways, catches Joseph’s eye, and something flickers in his face as he quickly looks away.
To the barista, more softly: ‘No, thank you.’
Joseph’s flat white is ready. But he’s not. The clown is looking at him again. He can feel it. Thinks about asking the barista to decant his drink into a takeaway cup but resists: don’t do anything out of the ordinary, not now. Fights to keep his hand steady as he picks the coffee up. The clown has taken a step closer. Despite the pervasive coffee, Joseph smells his aftershave, a sort of peppery watermelon. He has ordered a flat white to drink in, too. Takes a seat across from Joseph’s. Not four feet away. And every time Joseph glances up – he can’t help it – the clown seems to do the same.
The coffee tastes metallic.
Should he bolt it down and leave, or wait the guy out?
Opts for the latter.
But …
The clown doesn’t leave. Just sits there pretending to concentrate on his phone screen, pecking at it now and then with his thumbs.
The phone, of course.
What a complete idiot.
Oh Lara, Lara.
It doesn’t matter that he didn’t leave her a message, or that Joseph’s phone is a new one, meaning she won’t recognise the number, or that she hasn’t tried calling back. She doesn’t have to. Lancaster will have done the legwork without her even knowing. He has ways and means. Of course he does. How could Joseph have imagined otherwise? Thinking about it now, he’s sure: Lancaster will have had Naomi tapped; why not Lara too? So he must have traced Joseph’s phone to the hotel, where it sat pulsing ‘I’m here, come and find me!’ on his bedside table all night.