That particular conversation, almost more than any other, had stayed with Tom ever since.
He reached the eighth floor. A small huddle of youths sat on the landing, smoking weed. Tom sidestepped them, keeping his gaze straight ahead, and made it out onto the adjunct corridor.
Tom shivered as he searched for Dolly’s front door. He hated flats like these, even the refurbished ones—which this wasn’t—that had been sold to the private sector. Built in the sixties during the capital’s “streets in the sky” craze, they were freezing cold and ugly as sin, a thought that distracted Tom until he found himself in front of a shiny, reinforced front door that stood out in the bleak corridor.
Tom allowed himself a small smile as he remembered Cass and Dolly squabbling over the colour. Dolly had won, of course, but Cass had gladly painted the door bright red. Knowing his precious nana was safe in her home had been more than enough for him. He’d given Dolly the money to buy her flat from the council a year or so before she’d started to lose her marbles. It lay empty now, untouched since the day Tom had moved her into the nursing home on Cass’s behalf.
He took a deep breath, slid the key into the lock, and nudged the door open. It took him a moment to look up, afraid of what he’d find, but at first glance he saw nothing untoward or out of place in the cold, dark flat. Nothing to make him believe Cass was or had been there.
Then his gaze fell on a crumpled cigarette packet—the brand Cass smoked when he slipped up and let his workday habit follow him out of the kitchen.
Tom’s heart skipped a beat. The musty smell of Dolly’s flat was testament of her forty-a-day habit, but Tom smelled fresh smoke. Someone was here.
He shut the door with a quiet click and poked his head into the living room. It was empty, the kitchen too. The next stop was Cass’s childhood bedroom, and there Tom found him at the window, blowing smoke to the moon.
Cass let out a sigh that was barely audible. “I don’t like you being in a place like this.”
“So why did you come?” Tom countered. He fished his phone from his pocket and fired a text to Jake, but remained in the doorway, waiting on a sign that Cass wanted him close. “You knew I’d follow you.”
“I didn’t know I was coming until I got here.”
Tom let that hang a moment. “Where’s your car?”
“Brixton.”
“Brixton? Why?”
Tom tried to keep the tension from his voice, but Cass heard it anyway, and finally turned and met Tom’s gaze. “A cold-case detective asked me to meet her at Brixton cop shop. She wanted to show me some photos. I didn’t feel like driving when I got out, so I left it there.”
Tom took a hesitant step forwards. He wanted to go to Cass and hold him, but he knew what would happen if he did. Cass would lean on him, say he was sorry, and Tom would let it all go until the next time. And this wasn’t like all the other times Cass had gone AWOL. This wasn’t a fight, or the clash of their conflicting backgrounds. Something tangible had happened, something huge, and they needed to talk about it. And, more than anything, Tom needed to know that Cass was okay. That he hadn’t done something that was going to come back on all of them. “Where’ve you been all night?”
“I told you. Brixton.”
“Brixton.” Tom nodded slowly. “To the police station? You didn’t go anywhere else?”
Cass stared at him before comprehension flickered over his features. He laughed, tired and bitter. “Where would I go? I don’t know this place anymore. My face doesn’t fit. And no, before you ask, I didn’t nick any bloody cars. You’re going to hold that against me forever, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never held it against you.”
“Liar.”
Silence. Tom counted to ten in his head. They were getting nowhere, and all the while ignoring the elephant in the room. Perhaps Cass’s intention all along. He didn’t want to talk about whatever had driven him to this lifeless flat in the arsehole of London, and Tom had long ago given up trying to make him talk about anything.
Something on the dust sheet–covered bed caught Tom’s attention. One of Dolly’s picture frames. He crossed the small room with a single step and picked it up. Took in the image of Dolly and a kindly old man holding a baby Tom was pretty sure was Cass. “I’ve never seen this before. Is this your granddad?”
“Yeah.” Cass flicked his cigarette out of the window. “He died a month later. Keeled over with the teapot still in his hand.”
Tom recalled the story, but he’d never seen any photographs of old man Ken. Dolly didn’t like to see photos of the dead. Said they haunted her dreams. Tom sat down. It was two o’clock in the morning, and he was flagging. “Cass, I can’t do this with you again. I need you to tell me what’s happened. You can’t shut me out anymore. I can’t bloody stand it.”
His voice cracked and caught him by surprise. Perhaps it was exhaustion, but all at once he wanted to weep for Cass, for Dolly, and for Jake, home alone with just the cat to guide him through this bloody shitstorm.
Cass moved away from the window and slid down the wall to sit opposite Tom. “I can’t. I can’t talk to you about this. I look at you, and I don’t want you to know shit like this happens.”
“Damn it, Cass. I’m not naïve, and I’m not a child. You can’t protect me from the world any more than I can you.”
“I know that.”
“So tell me.” Tom leaned forwards. Cass was half a foot away. He stretched and touched his knee. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”
The silence seemed to go on forever before Cass closed his eyes and banged his head against the wall. “A detective from the cold-case squad called me this afternoon. They’ve been trying to reach me for a few days. Some builders unearthed the remains on a site in Lambeth. They cross-referenced it with the missing persons’ database and Faye’s name came up. They found some stuff with the . . . remains too. The detective wanted to show me some photos. She said it could wait until tomorrow, but . . .”
Tom felt sick. Faye had been gone for fourteen years. He could only imagine what was left of her. “What kind of photos?”
Cass opened his eyes and winced. “Not what you think. The remains were just some bones and a few teeth. They didn’t make me look at those. The photos were of some items they found close to the site. Most of it was bullshit, but there was a bracelet. I stared at it for ages before I recognised it.”
“Was it Faye’s?”
“No.” Cass got up and pried the picture frame from Tom’s hands. “It was Dolly’s. Look. My granddad bought it in Switzerland for her on his way home from Japan.”
“When he was a POW?”
Cass nodded. Tom stared at the photo and took in the silver chain around Dolly’s wrist. The piece was distinctive. “Why would Faye have it?”
“She stole it every bloody chance she got. I lost count of the number of times me and Dolly went down the pawn shop to buy it back.”
“So, Faye could’ve sold it on to anyone, right? This, uh, body, might not be her?”
Cass shrugged. “That’s what the detective said, but they’ll know soon enough. They have my DNA, remember? They’re going to call me in the morning.”
DNA. Bloody hell. Tom remembered Cass recounting what a big deal it had been for him to hand his DNA over to the police at the tender age of sixteen. It went against everything he’d ever feared, but at the time he would’ve done anything to end Dolly’s pain. She’d never got over not knowing the fate of her daughter. “Where’s your phone?”
“In my pocket.”
“Is it on? We’ve been calling you all night.”
“I didn’t even notice.” Cass pulled it out. The screen was blank. “What time is it?”
“Just after three. We should get a night bus to Hampstead and get some sleep.”
Cass turned his phone on. “You go. I’m going to stay here until they call me. Doesn’t feel right being anywhere else.”
Tom didn’t understand, but he was coming
to the conclusion that he probably never would. He swiped at his stinging eyes. “I’m not leaving you, but I need to call Jake. He’s worried. We both bailed on him.”
Jake’s name seemed to bring Cass back to life. “How much does he know?”
“Nowhere near enough. You garbled some shit at me, and ran off, then I pretty much did the same to him.”
Cass swore. “I’m sorry I ran out on you. I always figured I’d be ready for that call, but maybe I didn’t believe it would ever come.”
“Do they, um . . .” Tom measured his words. “Whoever this, uh, person is. Do they know how they died?”
“No, but they were wrapped in an industrial-grade bin liner and stuffed in a bag, so I’m guessing it wasn’t a pretty end.”
Tom retrieved his own phone with shaking hands. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a cold-hearted bastard, because I know you’re not.”
“Aren’t I? Why are you looking at me like I killed your dog, then?”
Cass turned his attention back to the window. Tom wanted to shake him.
“Stop it,” he said. “Whatever bullshit you’re throwing my way to shut me down, forget it, okay? I’m not doing this with you again. It’s not just about you and me anymore. What about Jake? We made him promises, and yet here we are, without him, making a fucking mess of it.”
Cass made a sound. It could’ve been a grunt of disagreement, but Tom’s phone rang in his hand before he could figure it out.
Jake.
Tom connected the call. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Where was he?”
Tom winced; Jake sounded exhausted. “Exactly where you said he’d be.”
“I didn’t say he’d be anywhere. Is he okay?”
“Ask him yourself.” Tom activated the speakerphone and held it out.
Cass glared, but then Jake called his name and everything changed. Cass changed. The hard-faced cockney boy faded away and his eyes filled with tears. “Jake?”
Jake muttered something unintelligible. “Where’ve you been? You drove off like a right wanker. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Just a rough day.”
This time, there was no mistaking Jake’s growl. “A rough fucking day? Jesus, Cass. Who do you think you’re fooling?”
Cass took the phone from Tom’s hand and turned off the speakerphone. “I’m not trying to fool anyone. There’s just so much you—”
Jake snapped something. Cass smiled. “Are you doing that thing you do with your thumbs when you’re really pissed off?”
Silence. Cass’s faint grin evaporated. He ducked his head and brought his hand to his face. “I know, mate. I know. I will, I promise, but I’ve got a lot to tell you first. Make yourself comfortable.”
Tom fell asleep listening to Cass tell Jake his life story, and he awoke slouched down on the plastic-wrapped bed with a crick in his neck. He got up, stretched, and glanced at his phone. Nine o’clock. Bloody hell. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept that late. Perhaps going to bed at 5 a.m. was the answer.
He searched out Cass and found him sitting on the living room floor, smoking again, and flicking through some dusty photo albums. Tom paused in the doorway. He was two years older than Cass, but he’d had a good life, a safe life. He’d only seen the dark parts of the world through Cass’s eyes. And at twenty-eight, Cass had seen far too much, so why did he look so young right now?
Cass stubbed out his cigarette. He stood, and for a moment, they stared at each other, then Tom crossed the room and folded Cass into his arms. He buried his face in Cass’s hair. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve done this last night.”
“Don’t be sorry, Tom.” Cass trembled. Tom hugged him tighter until Cass pulled away. “It’s not like I haven’t fucked you over before.”
Tom shook his head and kept Cass close. “This isn’t your fault, Cass. None of it is, and I’m sorry I got angry, okay? I was worried and—”
“Scared?” Cass let Tom draw him to the couch and sit them both down. “I was scared too. I didn’t want . . . I’ve never wanted this anywhere near you, but Jake . . .” Cass blew out a breath. “I didn’t want him to see this either, but I talked to him for a long time while you were asleep, and he chewed my fucking ear off. And yeah, maybe it wasn’t my decision to make. I get that now . . . maybe. Thanks to Jake.”
Tom smiled a little, though it didn’t feel quite right in their bleak surroundings. “He’s like that. I worried for ages that he let this . . . thing develop between us because he had nothing else, but I see the way he looks at you now, and I know he loves you.”
Cass snorted. “And there’s never been any doubt he loves you. Poor kid was head over heels from day one.”
Tom let his smile widen, then he sobered. “Was he okay? He doesn’t do so well when he’s tired.”
“He didn’t sound great, but I got him to promise he’d sleep all day until we came home. Figured that was the best I could do.”
“Have you slept?”
Cass shook his head and glanced at his phone lying dormant on the coffee table. “I will, but I need to know first. I feel like I’m in some weird vortex.”
Tom let him have that, and got up to find something to drink. He washed out two dusty glasses and filled them with water. Cass had his nose in another photo album when he came back. Tom gave him some space, but eventually the silence began to grate, and he felt the need to break it, fill it, anything to stop it choking him. “I’m trying to picture you going willingly to a police station. I can’t do it.”
Cass kept his gaze on the album. “It wasn’t easy. I’ve been dragged into Brixton before, kicking and screaming, but they’ve done it up. Hardly recognised the place.”
“That’s good, right? Maybe you’ve moved on.”
Cass chuckled, though it held little humour. “I still hate cop shops, Tom. I threw up as soon as I got out. Felt like I’d escaped a bloody apocalypse.”
A cacophony of images flickered through Tom’s mind, none of them pleasant, of Cass so distressed and alone he’d made himself sick. Perhaps silence was better after all.
Tom reclaimed his space on the couch. He put his arm around Cass and peered over his shoulder for a while, but when he saw Cass begin to lose his battle with fatigue, he gently took the album away and persuaded Cass to lean on him. He held him for a long time, and Cass grew so quiet and still he was almost convinced he’d dozed off.
Then Cass’s phone rang, and they both jumped out of their skins.
Cass lunged for the phone. Tom caught him before he fell off the couch and kept him upright as he connected the call.
Cass listened. His face became a study in impassivity, and Tom strained to hear both sides of the conversation, anything to clue him in to what would come next. For endless minutes, his world narrowed to the frustrating mix of Cass’s one-word answers and inscrutable frown.
Then Cass hung up. He set his phone on the arm of the couch with undue care. “It’s her.”
Nausea burned in Tom’s stomach. He thought of his own mother, like he had so many times before, and tried to imagine she’d been left to rot in a bin liner for fourteen years. His stomach turned over again. He made a clumsy grab for Cass’s hand. “Shit.”
Cass nodded. He looked as stunned as Tom felt, but his reaction seemed muted, like he’d exhausted himself worrying and the end result was an anticlimax.
Tom didn’t know what to say. Cass got up and walked to the window. He stared out over one of London’s most deprived boroughs and shook his head. “The detective said they’ve got a few vague leads for how she died, but I feel like it doesn’t matter, like I don’t really care, even if we never find out. That’s weird, right?”
“I don’t know.” And, really, who did? There was nothing normal about the situation they’d found themselves in. “Are you . . . Do you need anything?”
Cass shook his head again and reached for the pack of cigarette
s he’d stuffed in his pocket. Tom waited for him to shake one out and light it, but he didn’t. He dumped them on the windowsill and turned his back on them. “Can we go to Clapham? I need to see Dolly.”
They went to Brixton first and retrieved Cass’s car. Dolly’s nursing home wasn’t far away, but despite his eerie composure, Cass wasn’t happy leaving his car in the car park of a police station.
Tom drove them back to the East End. Cass said little for much of the journey, and the silence got under Tom’s skin again. The round-trip, though short in distance, took an hour in the city traffic, and he felt ready to combust by the time they reached the nursing home.
Cass got out of the car and glanced around. He’d only visited Dolly here once, a long time ago, and the converted factory had changed a lot since then. A recent refurbishment had transformed the exterior of the home, and perhaps Cass was looking at the landscaped car park and swish revolving doors and thinking they’d come to the wrong place.
Tom took his arm. “Come on.”
He led the way into the spotless reception area. The woman behind the desk smiled, handed him the visitor’s book and cast a curious gaze over Cass. Tom filled out the visitor form and took his sticker from the receptionist. Cass did the same, but seemed lost.
Tom squeezed his hand. “Her room’s this way. She used to have pottery in the mornings, but she likes to take a nap now.”
That was putting it kindly. Dolly hadn’t taken to any of the therapeutic treatments the home offered as part of its dementia care package. Music, art, and exercise: she’d shunned them all, preferring to scream rude things at her fellow patients and throw her belongings at the staff. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction, according to the nice nurse who’d once mistaken Tom for Cass, but it meant Dolly spent much of her time alone in her room, a far cry from her days as a trader on the rowdy East End markets.
Dolly’s room was on the first floor. They found the door open. Tom half expected Cass to freeze up in the corridor, but he didn’t, and if he was shocked by the wizened creature dozing in the rocking chair, Tom couldn’t tell. Cass walked into the room like he’d done it a hundred times.
Misfits Page 20
