Panic Room

by Robert Goddard

  I walk fast to the gate. Or where the gate should be. It’s gone missing since I left. Up the cracked concrete path to the door. As I slide the key into the lock, I see all the pits and scratches in the paintwork around it and I know at once, just by them, that Mum hasn’t changed. She was never going to. She hasn’t got it in her.

  I step into the hall and close the door behind me. It’s twilight inside. There are shadows everywhere. But it’s still and quiet. There’s no one here, thank Christ. Then the smell hits me. I’d forgotten it. Maybe it’s worse. I haven’t been here to open the windows. Cigarettes. Booze. Drugs. Stale takeaway food. That stinking perfume she wears. And something worse I can’t put a name to.

  I shake my head. I push the memories away. I’m here for one thing and one thing only. I take the stairs two at a time.

  I reach the landing. The door to what was Daisy’s bedroom is just a few steps away. It’s closed. I can almost believe she’s in there, listening to music on her headphones. But that’s crazy. I’m not going in. No, no, no. I’m not doing that. I’ll see her again if I do, slumped on the floor, with sick on her chin and her eyes rolled back. I have to concentrate. I have to focus.

  I head for the door into what was my bedroom. I move fast, just fast enough to stay ahead of the past. It’s behind me, dark and heavy. And it’ll overtake me if I let it.

  The room’s a mess. My bed’s still there, but it’s covered with old clothes and collapsed cardboard boxes. Christ knows what they contain. There are more boxes on the floor, half buried in plastic packaging pellets. I shovel several handfuls of pellets out of the way and stoop by the ragged join in the carpet close to the door. There’s a really foul smell in here. When I pull up the edge of the carpet, I see droppings of some kind and the horrible idea occurs to me that mice could actually have eaten my passport.

  I’ve brought a screwdriver with me from Don’s flat. I used to prise up the loose section of floorboard with scissors. But the screwdriver does a much better job. The smell’s even worse. Christ, what a tip this place is. But here’s what I’m after: a small package wrapped in a bin-liner.

  I snap off the rubber bands, unravel the bin-liner and open the envelope. My passport and some old fivers I saved slide out into my hand. I open the passport and hold it up to the light from the window to check it really is mine. There I am, in a laminated photograph from eight years ago. I look nervous. I look frightened.

  I’m nervous now. But frightened? No. Not any more. I’m past being frightened.

  I shove the passport in the pocket of my jeans and jump up.

  I’m out of here.

  ‘Are ya playin’ ’ard to get, darlin’?’

  Bren’s leer as she looked at him was almost more than Don could stomach. He thought of Blake and how badly she would have wanted him never to meet this woman who was her mother.

  ‘I know what you came ’ere for, Don.’

  No. Assuredly, she did not.

  ‘You don’t need to look any further.’

  And, miraculously, that was true. In the distance, Blake appeared, walking fast towards the MG. She glanced in his direction as she reached the car and nodded. Then she jumped in.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Don said hoarsely, smiling awkwardly.

  ‘You only just got ’ere.’

  ‘It was, er … a mistake.’ He set down his half-full glass on the edge of the nearest table.

  Suddenly, he heard the MG’s engine burst into life. Blake must have lost patience, slid across to the driving seat and started her up.

  ‘Sorry,’ Don said in a undertone.

  ‘Sorry?’ Bren scowled at him. ‘Wot’s that supposed to fuckin’ mean?’

  The MG sped to the junction, where Blake paused only briefly before swinging out in a wide arc and skidding to a halt about twenty yards past the pub. Bren paid no attention. The sounds of skidding car tyres meant nothing to her. But she was paying attention to Don.

  ‘’Ad your little thrill, ’ave you?’

  ‘This has all been a … misunderstanding.’ He moved past her. ‘Sorry again.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she called after him. ‘Fuck off, why don’t you?’

  It was all he could do not to break into a run. He marched to the car and climbed in, glancing back just once to check Bren was not following him.

  Blake said nothing. She shoved the car into gear and started away, accelerating hard.

  ‘This is a thirty limit,’ said Don, noticing for the first time how dry his mouth was. He glanced in the wing mirror and saw a figure, dwarfed by distance, turning back towards the door of the pub.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to talk to her,’ said Blake.

  ‘Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘I don’t want to know anything she said.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You didn’t mention me to her, did you, Don?’

  ‘’Course not. D’you think I’m stupid?’

  ‘Sometimes, yeah.’ It did not seem to Don she was joking.

  ‘Did you get your passport?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No. Unless you caused some.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Good. In that case …’ She braked sharply to a halt at the side of the road. The driver behind blared his horn at her and added a middle-finger salute as he pulled out round them. ‘You can drive the rest of the way.’

  Don tried to shape a pacifying smile. ‘OK.’

  Blake looked at him. She did not respond to his smile with much more than a nod, which seemed to be directed more to herself. Then she checked the rear-view mirror and nodded again. ‘OK.’

  Blake did not relax until they were back on the M40, heading south. It was dark now and late and Don was weary, drained by his encounter with Blake’s mother but barred from talking about it. At his insistence, they stopped at Warwick Services, where he drank coffee and they shared a Danish pastry in a sea of empty tables.

  ‘We’ll fly to Zürich tomorrow, right?’ said Blake, the immediate future her only concern now they had left her distant past safely behind.

  ‘If you’re still sure you want to go,’ said Don.

  ‘We’re not going to go through that again, are we, Don?’

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Can I see your passport?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I assume it’ll be me who pays for our flights and hotel rooms at the other end and I’d like to be sure you actually have a valid passport before I start loading up my credit card.’

  ‘It’s valid. And I’ll owe you my share of the cost.’ She looked seriously put out by his remark and he realized just how grievous a thing it was to trample on her feelings. ‘I’m not looking for a handout.’

  ‘You must know I’m not bothered about the money.’

  ‘Aren’t estate agents always bothered about the money?’

  ‘Not this one. Besides, Fran sacked me, if you remember, so technically I’m not an estate agent at the moment. I don’t have any clients.’

  ‘What about friends? Got any of those?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  She reached into her pocket for her passport and laid it on the table. ‘It doesn’t expire until 2020.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I don’t want you to look inside.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ll laugh.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because my first name always makes people laugh. It’s why I never use it.’

  ‘I promise I won’t laugh.’

  ‘I’d rather not take the risk.’

  ‘OK. But when we get back and go online to book a flight, we’ll have to enter the full name that appears on this’ – he tapped the passport – ‘in the system.’

  ‘Fuck.’ She grimaced. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She sighed. ‘Let’s get it over with, then.’ She grabbed the passport and held it
open in front of him. ‘Funny, right?’

  Don kept a solemnly straight face. ‘Not at all. Rather lovely, actually.’

  ‘Lovely?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, don’t get any ideas about using it. We’re going to stick with Blake.’ She snapped the passport shut. ‘OK?’

  He risked a smile. ‘That’s fine by me, Primrose.’

  Don was exhausted by the time they reached Islington. When Blake asked him if he thought he was too old for so much gadding around, he said she was welcome to call in a young, fitter replacement if she had one available. She volunteered to make him some cocoa if he would just get on with booking their flights to Zürich. He opted for whisky instead.

  I would’ve woken early anyway, just not this early. The doorbell’s ringing and, though it’s already light out, it’s still a thin dawn light. The clock says 5.20. No one rings doorbells at 5.20.

  Except the police maybe. I don’t know why I think it actually could be the police, but I jump out of bed, throw on jeans and a top in case Don gets up too – underwear will have to wait – and run to the entryphone by the front door of the flat.

  I pick up the phone and say, ‘Hello?’

  The voice at the other end is male, hoarse and either anxious or angry, or maybe both. ‘Is Don there?’

  ‘Yeah, but … Who wants him?’

  ‘Peter Revell.’

  Peter Revell? I guess he must be Fran’s husband. What the fuck is he doing here? ‘Maybe you could—’

  ‘Who is it?’ Don calls. Looking round, I see him come stumbling out of his room in his pyjamas, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking out at angles. He looks at me like he’s having trouble focusing.

  ‘Peter Revell,’ I tell him.

  ‘Peter? What the hell … Why is he here … at whatever ungodly hour this is?’

  ‘I don’t know, Don.’

  ‘Let me speak to him.’ He takes the phone from me. ‘Peter?’ He’s already frowning and the frown only gets deeper as he listens. ‘I don’t—’ he says at one point, before being interrupted. Then he says, ‘Come up,’ prods the door release and hangs up the phone.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘No idea.’ Don rubs his eyes again and shakes his head. ‘The bloke’s close to hysterical. Apparently …’ He shrugs. ‘Apparently, Fran’s disappeared.’

  I don’t get much time to ask Don what ‘disappeared’ means exactly. Peter Revell must have run up the stairs judging by how quickly he’s through the door Don’s holding open for him. He’s tall, about Don’s age, with centre-parted grey hair, round horn-rimmed glasses and a prominent chin. He looks all over the place, hair and clothes a mess, eyes skittering, hands twitching.

  Don closes the door behind him. ‘What’s going on, Peter?’ he asks, speaking slowly, in an attempt to get through to the guy.

  ‘I don’t—’ Peter begins. Then he looks at me. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I’m Blake,’ I say. ‘A friend.’

  Peter glares at Don. ‘You know what’s happened to Fran, don’t you?’ He stabs with his finger. ‘Is your tart in on it too?’

  ‘Hey, fuck you,’ I say, glaring at him.

  ‘You’re way out of line, Peter,’ says Don.

  ‘Out of line? It’s you who—’ Peter breaks off. He kind of crumples in front of us. He bends over and lets out a terrible sort of despairing moan. He puts a hand to his face. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he whimpers. ‘The police won’t take me seriously. I haven’t told the girls. You’re the only one I can turn to. What in God’s name is going on, Don?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Don. ‘You haven’t told me.’

  ‘Let’s go into the lounge,’ I suggest.

  Don nods. We help the guy up and kind of lead him through to the lounge, where he slumps on the sofa.

  ‘You want something?’ Don asks.

  Peter rubs his eyes. ‘Coffee, maybe.’

  I signal I’ll go and make it. I walk into the kitchen, fill the kettle and set it to boil, then move closer to the doorway to hear what Peter says next.

  Fran went down to Cornwall on the Sunday-night sleeper, apparently, to sort out the sale of Wortalleth West after sacking Don. She saw the house and met Robin Pawley. She told Peter everything was going smoothly. She spent Monday night at the Polurrian Bay Hotel and in a breakfast-time conversation with Peter on Tuesday morning said she’d be catching the 4.40 train from Truro back to London after returning her hire car. That would have got her into Paddington at 9.30.

  ‘She never kept her appointment with Pawley yesterday morning,’ Peter goes on as I make the coffee. ‘He couldn’t get her on her mobile, so eventually he phoned her office to see if they’d heard from her. They hadn’t and they couldn’t get hold of her either. It was only when the hire car agency phoned them to say she hadn’t returned the car on time that they contacted me. I called her. I texted. Nothing. And she wasn’t on that train. Or the one after.’

  I bring in the coffee and sit down. Peter looks exhausted as well as worried sick. I’d feel sorrier for him if he hadn’t been such a prick when he first walked in. But I suppose I can overlook it.

  ‘This is all about Harkness, isn’t it? It’s my fault he’s got his claws into Fran. That’s what makes it so …’ Peter’s voice tails off. He waves his hand, then presses it to his face. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘How’s it your fault, Peter?’ Don asks.

  ‘Does it really matter? I got in over my head. Harkness paid off some debts for me. But he expected Fran to do his bidding in return. She doesn’t know I know that. But I do.’

  ‘What kind of debts?’

  ‘Er …’ Peter rubs his unshaven chin. It makes a rasping sound. ‘Gambling.’

  Don looks at him like his low opinion of the man Fran preferred to him has finally been vindicated. ‘I always knew you—’ I catch his eye and he breaks off. There’s no point going in hard. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I don’t feel good about myself, Don,’ says Peter. ‘Does it satisfy you to hear that?’

  ‘I can’t say it does. But laying into you won’t help Fran. Just as long as you know I could lay into you.’

  ‘What sort of trouble has she got into, Don? You must have some idea.’

  ‘There are people looking for the money Harkness supposedly stole from his American partners. It’s possible she ran into some of them.’ I glance at Don. It’s obvious who he means. But it won’t do anything for Peter’s anxiety levels to hear about French and Zlenko. I can see Don decide to back off a touch. ‘I guess it’s also possible she just reckoned she … needed a break.’

  It’s a wounding remark in its way. But Peter’s already wounded. ‘That’s what the police said. Bastards.’

  ‘Maybe you should wait a bit longer before doing anything,’ I suggest. ‘She’s only been out of touch for twenty-four hours.’

  He stares at me like I’m crazy. Then he sucks in a deep breath and stands up. ‘I’m obviously wasting my time here. It’s what Fran always says about you, Don. Bugger all use in an emergency.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Don protests. ‘I never—’

  ‘Forget it,’ Peter shouts. ‘Just forget it.’ He heads for the door, throwing a parting remark back over his shoulder. ‘I’ll sort this out with no help from you.’

  A second later, the door slams behind him. He’s gone.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Don quietly. He reaches for his coffee and takes a sip. ‘If Fran’s somehow got entangled with French and Zlenko …’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be that bad,’ I reason. But I know I want to believe it doesn’t have to be because, if Don thinks it is, he may convince himself he has to go down to Cornwall and try to rescue Fran from whatever trouble she’s in rather than fly to Switzerland with me.

  ‘Peter might’ve got it all out of proportion,’ Don muses. ‘He’s not the most level-headed of blokes.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Maybe I should phone her myself. See if s
he picks up.’

  ‘It’s not even six o’clock yet, Don. You can’t call her now.’

  ‘OK. I’ll leave it for an hour.’

  There’s the sound from the street below of a car accelerating away. Don hurries to the window and looks out. ‘There he goes. Daft sod. What Fran ever saw in him …’

  ‘She’s not your responsibility,’ I say. It’s true. But it’s self-serving as well. I wonder if he knows that. ‘She divorced you, right? Doesn’t that mean you don’t have to worry about her?’

  ‘It ought to,’ Don replies. But I can see just by the set of his shoulders it doesn’t.

  ‘We are flying to Switzerland this morning, aren’t we, Don?’

  He turns towards me and forces out a reassuring smile. ‘Of course we are.’

  Don had a shower and a shave and some breakfast while he did his best to convince himself Fran was in no danger. Somehow, though, his best was not good enough. Peter was a wash-out. If anyone could help Fran, it was Don – an enduring truth, to his mind, which she had blinded herself to.

  It was just after seven when he called her. There was no answer, which he told Blake did not worry him. He left a call-me-back-as-soon-as-you-can message. Gareth had texted him at some point overnight with the name of his hotel in Zürich: the Marriott. Don texted back that they would contact him there later that day, then went to pack a bag.

  He had done no more than plonk a case on his bed and open it when his phone burbled. To his considerable relief, the caller was Fran.

  Except that it was not. The caller was using Fran’s phone. But the caller was Amos French.

  ‘Hi, Don. You’re quite the early riser.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on? Where’s Fran?’

  ‘Taking some time out. At a location I specially selected for her. I’m there now.’

  ‘If you’ve harmed her in any way …’

  ‘You’re mighty solicitous for an ex-husband, I must say. If someone called me to say they were holding my ex-wife captive, I’d tell ’em to go on holding her until hell froze over.’

  Don instructed himself to stay calm. He turned, phone in hand, and saw Blake standing wide-eyed in the doorway. ‘What do you want, French?’