Dangerous

by Jessie Keane

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ he told them.

  ‘Oh, come on . . . ’ said Clara. It was pouring down outside.

  ‘No, lady. Now get out, OK?’

  Sheltering under an umbrella, Clara and Jan hustled on foot along the streets and Clara thought that it was like being fifteen again: the dank air, the rubbish mouldering on the pavements, the unwashed bodies hurrying past, trailing their feral scent of poverty.

  ‘Is it much further?’ asked Clara, teeth chattering, desperate to be gone.

  ‘Not far.’

  ‘Do you live round here too?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Here we are, up in these flats. I live over in the next street. Sal and me, we see each other a lot. It’s not like her to just not turn up.’

  Now Jan was hurrying up stairs to the top floor, going along a rubbish-strewn landing. Lines had been set up and strands of washing flapped tiredly in the faint breeze. They could hear televisions blaring inside the flats; all the paint on the doors was peeling and there was the strong scent of cats in the air up here.

  Shivering with disgust at actually being here again, streets away from where her poor mother had died and where they had lived such desperate and miserable lives, Clara followed, cursing Sal and Jan equally. The sooner they roused Sal from what was probably nothing but a drunken stupor, the sooner they could get out of this filthy hole and back to civilization.

  ‘Here we are . . . ’ Jan stopped outside a door and knocked on it.

  Clara felt sick. She couldn’t believe she’d been dragged here, it felt like a ghastly dream.

  ‘Oh . . . ’ said Jan.

  ‘What?’ asked Clara, through chattering teeth. She looked round, focused on the door. It was ajar. When Jan knocked, it had swung inward.

  Jan was staring too. ‘When I tried last time, it was shut,’ she said.

  ‘Well, let’s get in, at least it’ll be drier inside . . . ’ Clara moved past Jan and the door swung open further. She stepped into a small, semi-dark room. Something jingled under her feet. She looked down. Small change on the floor, and a red purse, open, as if it had been dropped there. Then . . .

  The smell hit her like a blow, straight between the eyes.

  ‘Oh – Jesus!’ shouted Jan.

  Clara reeled back a pace, barrelling into Jan and nearly knocking her flying. ‘What the fu—’ said Clara, her hand clamped over her nose. Oh Jesus, that smell.

  Then Clara became aware of the noise. At first she thought it was the rain hammering on the roof – it was heavier now, and there was dripping, somewhere in this hellhole there was a leak. She heaved sideways, wondering if she was going to be sick, and her foot knocked against tin. A bucket. The roof was leaking water, and Sal had placed a bucket there, to catch it. She reeled over against a small table, and there was Sal’s little black evening bag. Numbly Clara picked it up. And . . . oh Jesus, what was that?

  Things were pitching on her clothes, buzzing against her face. Big black things were crawling over the expensive cream wool of her coat, landing on her neck. With a shuddery cry of disgust she brushed them away.

  Meat flies.

  There was something rotten in here, something festering and dead. Her eyes flickered around the place, the dirt in here, the stench, the . . . oh God, there was a bed in the corner, there was something on the bed, and she didn’t want to look but her eyes were drawn to it, to the image that would haunt her for weeks, months, years to come.

  There was Sal.

  Her face was blue, her bulging brown eyes opaque and staring, her mouth open in a silent scream, and there were – oh God! – maggots writhing and scrambling over the exposed mass of her spilled innards.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Jan.

  Clara elbowed her aside and went out, away from this nightmare, out onto the walkway. Suddenly bile rose in her throat and she was sick, retching violently. Brushing a trembling hand at her mouth, she stumbled back to the steps and halfway down them Jan bustled past her, almost knocking her over in her haste to get away from the horror up the stairs. They were running as if there was a mad man coming behind them.

  Gasping, they reached the bottom of the steps. Clara couldn’t hold herself up any more. She collapsed onto the bottom stair, seeing Sal in her mind’s eye, eviscerated, dead. Big mouthy Sal. Gone.

  ‘I’ll get . . . I’ll get help . . . ’ Jan was saying.

  Shaking, shivering, Clara nodded. Somewhere, she’d dropped her umbrella. The rain was pouring now, drenching her. Jan stumbled away into the gloom, leaving Clara on the step. People were hurrying past, no one taking the slightest notice of the crouching woman there. She had to move, had to get up, had to leave. If only she could gather her strength. But she felt drained, weak as water. Someone bumped against her knee, stumbled; a man.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, and then instead of moving on, without any warning, he grabbed her hand, pulled off her sapphire ring, and the diamond, and the emerald, wrenching at her fingers, hurting her.

  Clara let out a scream. The man shoved her so that she fell back against the steps, and then he ran away. She looked at her hands. The only ring he hadn’t taken was – thank God! – the only one she really cared about. Her mother’s gold band, that was still there. Now there was someone else, coming closer. Clara shrank back, one hand in front of her face, waiting for another attack.

  ‘Clara?’ he said.

  Clara dropped her hand slowly and stared up at the man’s face. There was a lean, hungry look to him. A camera hung on a strap around his neck. It was David, Bernie’s soon-to-be fiancé.

  ‘Oh . . . it’s you,’ she said faintly.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked, staring at her like she’d landed from another world.

  Well, she had. She’d left this place far behind her – and good riddance to it. And now she’d come back to find poor Sal, done to death. Clara opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you somewhere warm and dry.’

  He put a hand under her elbow and helped her to her feet.

  58

  It struck Clara then that David was probably a very nice man. Poor, yes; but caring, pleasant, even handsome in his gangly long-limbed way. He took her to his grubby little studio and she felt a bit faint and had to sit down at his desk while he fetched some water.

  When she’d recovered, he put the CLOSED sign on the door and led the way upstairs to his surprisingly clean but untidy flat. He made her tea, sat her down, gave her a towel to dry her sodden hair. Clara became aware that she still had Sal’s black evening bag on her lap, that she’d carried it with her out of the flat. She saw a portrait of Bernie, smiling shyly at the camera, up on the mantelpiece.

  ‘What the hell were you doing there, of all places?’ he asked, when they were sitting down and he’d switched on a two-bar electric fire. It felt chilly in here; Clara thought that he could probably not afford to run the damned thing, and probably never did, but was doing it because she looked so cold and shaky.

  A nice man.

  Clara sipped her tea, clasping the mug between her hands, feeling the warmth seep into her frozen body. She glanced at her left hand, bereft of rings.

  ‘Someone stole my jewellery, just before you came by,’ she told him.

  ‘Well what were you doing, wearing stuff like that around that area? It’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘One of the poor you have such sympathy with,’ said Clara.

  He shrugged. ‘They’re desperate. You must have looked like easy pickings.’

  Clara didn’t answer that. It had been a terrible day. Finding Sal like that, and then being robbed. She was still shuddering, still seeing that awful scene in her head. She wondered if she would ever forget it. Someone had murdered Sal. Her brain could hardly absorb it; it was too horrible. She had been lying there dead, undiscovered for weeks. Jan had called by, but no one else had knocked at her door. No one else had cared. Suddenly all Clara wanted was to get home, to see Toby,
tell him all about this. She was lucky; she had a husband, a home, a sister, people who cared about her. She could have ended up like poor Sal.

  But . . . hadn’t the rent man called in all that time? And hadn’t Jan said the door was closed last time she’d called, and this time it was open?

  ‘I know you don’t like me,’ said David.

  Clara snapped her wandering attention back to what he was saying.

  ‘And I can understand why,’ he went on. ‘But I love Bernie, and I want to make her happy.’

  ‘But you can’t, can you?’ said Clara. ‘How are you going to earn a living, with a family to support?’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ he said.

  Clara put her empty mug aside. She eyed him cynically. What a pair of dreamers they were, him and Bern. Fortunately she had a clearer view of the situation. She nodded to the photo on the mantle. ‘That’s a lovely photo of her,’ she said.

  ‘She’s very photogenic. Good bones.’

  ‘Does she come up here often to visit you?’

  ‘She does. I suppose you don’t like the idea, but it’s serious, Clara. We’re not just messing around. She sits in that same chair you’re sitting in, every time she comes.’

  ‘Could I have another cup of tea?’

  He smiled and went to fetch it. When she’d finished it, she said: ‘I think I’d like to go home now,’ and stood up.

  ‘You’re sure? You can stay here for a bit, if you’re still shaky. What were you doing over there, anyway? You never said.’

  ‘Visiting a friend,’ said Clara. ‘That’s all.’

  He eyed her with disbelief. ‘can’t imagine you having any friends down there. Still. Not my business.’

  ‘No. It’s not.’

  ‘I’ll get my coat,’ said David, and left the room.

  When he came back, they went down the stairs and out into the street. The rain had nearly stopped and everything looked brighter, raindrops catching on trees and shrubbery and glittering with rainbow shades. People were coming out into the streets again. Life was going on.

  But not for Sal.

  A feeling of deep unease gnawed at Clara. She had seen death close-up today, and it was shattering. And on top of that, she had just done a very wicked thing. Necessary – but wicked.

  59

  At four in the afternoon the cops called in at the Heart of Oak, wanting to speak to all the staff. Jan wasn’t in. Neither was Toby. Clara had got home yesterday to find he wasn’t there. He was obviously off around town with Jasper.

  Now, for the first time, Clara wished for a proper husband, someone who would always be there for her, instead of gallivanting around the gambling dens and nightclubs with his handsome young lover.

  All last night Sal’s tortured face had haunted her dreams, pulled her sweating and half screaming from sleep time after time. To find herself alone. No Toby. No Bernie, either, sleeping in the next room. When Clara checked, she found her bed hadn’t been slept in. She must have stayed over at David’s.

  There was nobody to confide in.

  Well, she was used to that. Carrying all the responsibility. Making all the decisions. But it seemed to be getting harder all the time, and this fresh disaster had made her feel fragile, cast adrift.

  Where the hell was Toby when you needed him?

  And where was Jan?

  She found that out quickly, when a police inspector came up to her office to take her statement and told her: ‘Miss Cutler is taking the day off, trying to get over the shock.’

  Thinking about that hideous scene again, Clara suppressed a shudder. Poor bloody Jan; if she felt anything like she did, she needed a day off. The difference was, she was getting it. Clara couldn’t enjoy such luxury. She had to soldier on.

  ‘It was a particularly vicious crime,’ said the inspector. He was tall, cadaverous, and his pale eyes looked like they had seen far too much. ‘Miss Cutler was very shaken at finding her friend like that, and she was upset you left the scene.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think I just panicked. Do you have any idea who . . . ?’ asked Clara, dry-mouthed.

  ‘Not yet. We’re making inquiries. So Miss Dryden worked here. Would you say she seemed happy?’

  ‘Sal was never happy. She loved to have a moan, it kept her going.’

  ‘Any problems she discussed with you or her workmates? Boyfriends? Anything?’

  Clara thought of Sal’s photos but shook her head. ‘Sal had a bit of an attitude, she was mouthy but we all knew that. You took no notice.’

  ‘Had she upset one of the customers? Anything like that?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  The inspector stood up. ‘I’ll have a talk to the staff.’

  An hour later, he was back in Clara’s office. ‘A couple of your staff have told me that Miss Dryden did some modelling on the side. Under-the-counter stuff, I believe.’ He sniffed. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

  Clara shrugged. ‘She did mention it, in passing.’

  ‘But you didn’t think to mention it to me,’ he said.

  ‘No. Well, it was nothing. It slipped my mind.’

  He was staring at her face. Then he stood up. ‘Well if anything does cross your mind, call me,’ he said, and dropped a card onto the desk.

  When Clara got home later that day, she went straight to Toby. She found him in front of the mirror in his bedroom, holding two silk ties in front of his pale blue Turnbull and Asser shirt, whistling along to Roy Orbison singing ‘Ebony Eyes’ on the radiogram. He smiled when he saw her. ‘Darling, what do you think? Blue or dove grey?’

  ‘The grey,’ said Clara, and went and sat on the bed. ‘Toby, something’s happened. Something awful.’

  Toby put the ties aside and came and sat beside Clara. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Clara took a gulping breath and spilled everything out to Toby, barely keeping the tears at bay.

  ‘Oh, Clara, how fucking awful! Come here, my darling,’ said Toby, hugging her. ‘You poor little mare.’

  ‘The police came into the Oak today, questioned me and all the staff. They’ll probably want to talk to you at some point.’

  ‘Me? How would I know anything about it?’

  ‘You don’t, obviously. I’m only warning you, in case they do.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay home today, have a rest? It must have been horrible for you.’

  It had been. But Clara’s brain was spinning, she couldn’t rest. Her mind kept re-running the events of yesterday and today like some obscene art-house movie stuck on a never-ending loop. Sal’s gaping mouth, her belly slashed open, the coins on the floor, the photos in Sal’s bag . . . yes, the photos. Thinking of them reminded her of what she’d done, and gave her a feeling that was dangerously close to shame.

  No, she’d done what was necessary.

  She had to keep telling herself that.

  And she did – right up until Bernie came home a few nights later, sat down at the kitchen table, and cried her heart out.

  60

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Clara, and she was thinking Oh shit.

  Bernie couldn’t speak; she was crying too hard.

  Clara put an arm around her sister’s shaking shoulders and thought I did this. I am a bad person. A wicked woman.

  ‘Can’t you tell me what’s happened?’ she asked after a while, when Bernie’s sobs had abated enough for her to be able to form a sentence.

  ‘It’s David,’ said Bernie, gasping, looking in her bag for a tissue, blowing her nose loudly.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I found some photographs in his flat.’

  ‘Well, he is a photographer.’

  Bernie was shaking her head. ‘No! These were . . . horrible. Real hard-porn things. Kids and stuff. Disgusting.’

  ‘Then he couldn’t have taken them,’ said Clara. She hated this, seeing the pain in Bernie’s eyes. ‘He does weddings, portraits, innocent stuff like that.’

  ‘I thought that, at first. G
od, I was so shocked when I found them. He was in the kitchenette making tea, and I sat down, and there was something rustling, something papery, and I felt down the side of the cushions and dug out these shots of a girl and a man . . . Well, I won’t tell you what they were doing. And I turned them over, and there was David’s studio stamp, right on the back of them. They’re his photos.’

  ‘Did you confront him about it?’ asked Clara. Her heart was beating fast; she felt nauseous. It had worked, better than she had hoped it would. But now she wished she hadn’t done it. Wished she could have spared Bernie this pain.

  But it’s for her own good. He’s a loser, he’s poor, he’s a nothing.

  ‘I did. Of course he denied it. Said they were nothing to do with him. But I know they are. They were stamped with his own studio mark, how could they not be?’

  That started up a fresh wave of sobs. Clara patted Bernie’s shoulder, soothed her, and felt sick to her stomach now, really churned-up. She thought of Marcus Redmayne’s harsh words to her: gold-digger. Well, that was her, wasn’t it? She was a gold-digger, she’d married twice for money and now she was making damned sure that her sister was going to do the same, live a comfortable life, not one of hardship and desperation, trying to keep the wolf from the door.

  But . . . she felt disgusted with herself.

  Still, she could make this better. She would start introducing Bernie to some more suitable men, now that arty David with his slum-loving ways had been kicked into touch. Clara gritted her teeth and thought It will be OK. Bernie will get through this, and she’ll be happier for it.

  ‘He takes these disgusting shots and I was going to marry him, not even knowing.’

  Clara grasped Bernie’s shoulders hard. ‘At least you found out,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s better that you know. Isn’t it? Before it’s too late?’

  Bernie nodded, her face a picture of misery. ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

  But Bernie didn’t look convinced.

  She looked destroyed.