by Ann Troup
Chapter Twenty
Matt didn’t make it to the residential care home. Instead he spent the remainder of his day sitting in a chair by a hospital bed that contained the pale, shocked form of Lena Campion.
She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d found her in a crumpled heap on one of the quiet side streets that led to the square, hadn’t even glanced at him when the paramedics invited him to go with her in the ambulance and hadn’t met his eyes since they’d been confined to a cubicle at the hospital. The only thing she had done was grasp his arm and refuse to let him leave when he had protested to the hospital staff that he was just a neighbour. Lord knows why she wanted him there, but he had stayed.
A machine that variously beeped, bleeped and dinged to indicate the alterations in her body’s function was connected to Lena via a series of clips, wires and stickers. For each ten beeps, Matt tried to ring Sam from Edie’s mobile phone. He got the answering service every time. ‘He’s still not picking up. I’m going to have to give up, the battery is dying.’
Her first words to him since he had found her were, ‘I know how it feels.’
Her voice shocked him, he’d become used to her silence, and was all too familiar with the thinly veiled hostility that had been coming off her in lazy waves all his life. He turned to her, his mouth open in surprise.
‘Don’t look so shocked, boy.’
‘Hard not to Mrs Campion, no disrespect but you’ve treated me like a pariah all my life, so I’m finding it hard to grasp why you want me here.’
‘I’ve things to say, and not much time.’
‘I don’t think the doctors are too worried, a bit of rest and you’ll be right as rain.’
The woman pursed her lips and gave him a grim, determined look. ‘That’s not what I meant. Though who knows what time any of us have left? I have things to say to you that should have been said a long time ago. I’ve done you wrong, and before I start I don’t want your forgiveness or anything like that. I just want peace for myself. I imagine the police will be here soon, so don’t interrupt me when I tell you what I have to say.’
The police? Matt had no idea what the old woman was talking about, but given her predicament he assumed that her ramblings were the result of clinical shock combined with the medication that the drip connected to her hand was infusing. He figured it was best to just let her talk and keep her calm. ‘OK.’
She closed her eyes, and it seemed as though she was replaying some scene behind her eyelids. Matt waited. After a moment of this internal reverie she spoke again, recounting the story that she had told the bemused police officer earlier. She ended her tale with a simple ‘So there you have it, just as you always thought, and your mother always thought. Your father was an innocent man.’
The news had filtered through to Matt’s consciousness in a series of assaults, challenging not just everything that he had thought, but everything that he believed. In a few simple sentences Lena had blown all his theories and made a mockery of his life’s obsession, and there was no doubt that it had been an obsession. Matt could not have stepped away from it if he’d tried. The dispassionate part of him liked the fact that his idea regarding Beattie’s connection had been proved right. The abortions were significant. Sally Pollett had met her death in search of a solution to the thing that she had believed would ruin her life. It made perfect sense and proved his point… but also raised more questions than it answered. ‘So,’ he said cautiously ‘if you and Dolly were responsible for Sally Pollet, who killed the others?’
‘No idea boy, never did. We just copy catted him to cover it up.’ she stated baldly, but didn’t look him in the eyes.
Matt sat back in his chair and looked at the woman who could confess to manslaughter with such detachment. ‘Didn’t you care about what you’d done? Did you not regret her death and sending an innocent man to his?’
Lena laughed but there was no humour in it; the sound was a hollow, cynical thing. ‘Regret? What do you want me to do, boy, give you me Edith Piaf impression? You have no idea what I’ve learned to live with, so don’t you go giving me your regret. It was what it was, we did what we did.’
Matt leaned forward, both fascinated and repelled by the woman. ‘So why tell me, why tell anyone?’
Lena tapped the side of her head. ‘This. Does funny things to you, conjures up your worst nightmares and makes ‘em real. It don’t matter whether you buried the bodies or not boy, they still come back to haunt you.’
Much as he hated to admit it, Matt was glad that she was haunted – he hoped all the ghosts of all the dead would hound her to hell. This woman, for all her frailty now, had robbed him of not just his father, but his mother too – Sheila Bastin had been reduced to a hollowed out shell of a woman by what Lena and the Morrises had done. Lena Campion had stolen Matt’s life by maintaining her lies. ‘I figure you owe me Mrs Campion, you owe me a lot. But I’ll settle for a few more answers.’
Lena shrugged and looked away from him, as if she was familiar with her own ghosts yet apparently unwilling to meet Matt’s eyes and confront his.
‘I found this today, in Edie’s place.’ He pulled out the invoice from the care home and offered it to her, she didn’t take it, or even acknowledge it. ‘It’s an invoice, from a care home. It strongly suggests that Dickie Morris is still alive. Did you know?’
This seemed to catch her attention and she turned her head towards him, eyes narrowed. ‘Dickie is alive?’
‘It looks that way. Did you know?’ He knew that his dislike of her was leaking out in his tone, but had gone past caring how he came across. He had spent years sitting on his feelings for the sake of gathering evidence.
‘No I bloody didn’t! You’re the one who likes to go to all the funerals, didn’t you know?’
‘I was in Afghanistan, Mrs Campion, so I missed that one.’ he said, teeth gritted, jaw twitching.
‘Well so did I. I was laid up, all I knew was that Dickie got carted off in an ambulance. When I was on me feet again and went to Dolly to ask what was wrong, she told me he’d gone and that I was too late. Shut the door in my face and never spoke to me from that day on.’
‘And you never questioned that he’d died?’
‘Why would I, did you?’
Matt had to concede that he hadn’t and had just accepted the general consensus that the man had passed on. He’d been more concerned with his own discharge from the army back then, and the fact that his mother had been ill at the time. Attentions had been diverted to his mother’s rapidly spreading cancer, and the whole thing regarding the Morrises’ involvement with his father’s execution had taken a back seat.
‘People die, boy. People die all the time.’
Matt looked at the monitor that showed that Lena was still very much alive. ‘Yes they do. My mother died that year too. Did you know that? She had cancer, it ate her from the inside out. It was a terrible death, agonising for her, and agonising to watch.’
Lena nodded. ‘I heard. I’m sorry for your loss.’
Matt leaned forward and stared at her. ‘Are you?’
She had the good grace not to answer.
They sat like that for a few minutes, Lena staring at the blank wall to her right, Matt sitting in the chair staring at the monitor and hating himself for wanting the numbers to dip and the green blip to flatline.
‘I’m tired.’ Lena said, breaking the moment. ‘I’d like you to go now. I’ve said what I had to say.’
Matt stood up, happy to be released from his unpleasant vigil. ‘You haven’t said that you’re sorry.’
Lena peered at him. ‘Would it make a difference to a damned thing if I did?’
Matt didn’t need to say anything else; she was right, it wouldn’t, but it would have been gratifying to hear her say it all the same. As he walked away, down the corridor, past the nurses’ station and out into the cool evening air, he wondered at his own lack of reaction to what he’d been told. Surely he should be railing against the injustice, runnin
g to the police station to spill the beans and point the finger, or at least quietly raging. He was surprised to find that he felt nothing; he was numb. The energy to even care any more seemed to have ebbed away as the strangeness of the day turned into twilight and slipped into a bleak and empty night.
As he neared the square it was the smell that reached him first, smoke on the air, wafting along the quiet streets in nonchalant puffs that intensified as he drew closer. It was only when he looked up past the rooftops that he saw the glow, a concentrated pool of orange seeding the darkened sky with sparks. There were sirens in the distance, and within seconds he saw a fire tender whip past the end of the street. Something was happening in the vicinity of the square, and from the look of the sky it seemed that the Great Fire of London was happening all over again. He didn’t know why he started running, it wasn’t as if he wanted to save the contents of his paltry bedsit – since his conversation with Lena everything in it could burn for all he cared. An image of Edie loomed large in his mind as he ran and rounded the corner onto the square, and he hoped against hope that she was still with the police and away from the blaze.
People stood in huddles, kept back by firemen and corralled beyond the garden while someone yelled at them to keep their distance, all whispering to each other and watching the conflagration that appeared to be ravaging the row of houses that stood behind Number 17. Matt turned to the nearest person, an old man leaning on a cane and watching the flames leap as if it were bonfire night. ‘What happened?’ Matt asked.
‘No one knows, one of the houses went up, someone called the brigade and we were all evacuated out here.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘I don’t think so, most of those houses were empty, only the few on the end were still lived in, all cheap flats and bedsits as far as I’m aware. I think everyone got out, but it’s ripping through them – I would say like wildfire, but it would be a pun too far I think.’
Matt cast his eyes around the watching crowd, looking out for Edie, he couldn’t see her, and found himself relieved. She must still be with the police. ‘Are any of the houses on the square itself affected?’ he asked.
‘Again I think not, though I imagine the heat will have scorched a few gates and brought the paint off the backs of them, might even have shattered a few windows. As far as I know everyone was brought out safely. It’ll be the looters they need to worry about, not the fire. It’s Matthew isn’t it? I’m Lionel.’
Matt took the dry, bony hand that he had been offered and was surprised at the strength of the old man’s grip. ‘Yes, but how did you know?’
The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling and reflecting some of the light from the fire. ‘Oh I know all the comings and goings on the square, I make it my business to. May I offer you a cup of tea? I only came out to be nosy, and I’m afraid there’s not much to see from here. No doubt we shall find out more when it’s all under control.’
Matt considered the offer for a moment. ‘Why not? Thank you.’
Lionel smiled again. ‘Might as well eh? This way, Matthew Bastin.’
***
Though Sophie couldn’t smell the fire, she could taste the smoke as it collected in an acrid sting at the back of her throat. Fear and panic weren’t making it easy to be rational, but Edie’s insistence that they go up seemed like a short path to suicide. She hoped that the intention was to leap out of a window and put up the with the prospect of broken limbs rather than risk burning to death trapped and huddled in a smoke-filled room. As they groped their way through the dark and unfamiliar building it appeared that Edie had no such intention, despite Sophie’s protests.
‘Just trust me, this way is our best option.’ Edie insisted, towing Sophie along in her wake. There was no danger of anyone hearing them now; the arsonists were long gone.
There was a landing after the staircase, dark, gloomy and rapidly filling with smoke. Sophie didn’t know whether to choke, cough or pass out and let the fire do its worst. Edie was dragging her along with a stoic determination and leading her up again, another staircase, more sinister empty rooms but less smoke, which was a blessing – but it could only last so long. They reached a final landing and to Sophie’s surprise Edie clambered onto the bannister and pushed at the loft hatch. ‘Whad you doib?’
‘We’re going up here, if I’m right the lofts will connect, we can crawl through to the next house and get out that way.’
‘You fuckid kibbing be? Whad do you bean, ib?’ As the garbled words emerged, Edie’s legs were already disappearing into the loft space. Smoke was starting to billow up the stairs and Sophie could already feel the heat from the fire starting to lap at her skin. There wasn’t time to argue, but she didn’t know if she had the strength to climb up as Edie had, her limbs were still screaming in protest at having been bound and confined for so long. ‘Ebie I cand!’
Edie’s face peered down at her through the hatch, a pale moon in the darkness, starting to reflect an orange glow from the climbing flames ‘Yes you can, you have to, I’ll pull you up.’
Fear spurred her on and she reached up, grasping Edie’s extended hand and forcing her shaking legs and numb feet onto the bannister – she would either fall and break her neck, or make it into the loft. The pain in her arms as Edie hauled on them almost made her not care which it was, a quick death from a broken neck seemed almost preferable to the sense that her bones were going to break and her sinews tear. Edie half dragged her torso into the loft, then hauled the rest of her in by her clothes. Sophie felt like a whale that had been harpooned and landed in a mess of stubborn blubber. Her body just didn’t want to move.
‘We have to be careful, feel for the joists and stay behind me, go as quick as you can.’
Sophie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so fearful at the prospect of their survival. If movement came at all, it was going to be slow, despite the adrenaline that was surging through her and spurring her on. She was equally stultified when Edie put the loft hatch back in place and plunged them into almost complete darkness. ‘Whab dyou dodat bor?’ she said, her voice laden with panic. ‘I cabd zee a blubby ding!’
‘It’ll slow down the spread of the fire, but not for long, now move!’
Sophie did as she was told, too afraid not to as the taste of scorched wood tingled on her tongue and the heat of the blaze below made the joists hot to the touch. The wood bit into her knees as she moved from beam to beam, too afraid to stand as Edie had and feel with her feet lest she should lose her footing and go through the lathe and plaster. Edie was talking, but Sophie wasn’t really taking it in.
‘These old houses connect via the lofts, or at least this type does, it’s where they built the chimney breasts as supporting walls, there should be a small gap either side that we can squeeze through…’
Sophie glanced behind her, noticing that small flames had begun to creep through the loft hatch, within minutes the whole place was going to be a bonfire. Having a gap to crawl through was all very well, and the relief of feeling cool air from it and knowing it was there was immense, but fire thrived on air and when the flames broke through the fire would tear through the roof spaces in an all-consuming rage.
Edie reached the gap, ‘Thank God!’ she cried. Sophie heard her scramble through and caught sight of her foot as the flames began to leap and lick behind her, illuminating the attic with a hellish light. ‘It’s boarded through here Soph, much easier, come on.’
With a surge of energy that seemed to come from nowhere, but was fuelled by sheer terror, Sophie propelled herself forward, ignoring the searing pain in her thin legs from the joists as they ground into her flesh. She could see the gap clearly in the orange glow and went for it like a rat out of a trap, scrambling through, ignoring the rough brick, though it tore at her clothes and scraped her skin and ignoring the jagged wood of the roof frame which clutched at her and left spiteful splinters. If whatever higher power which might exist granted them a tomorrow, Sophie’s was going to hurt like hell.
Light was in short supply, and that which was available came from the most menacing of sources. Sophie cast about for something, anything that might aid them – hoping that serendipity would have left a crowbar lying around. It hadn’t, Sophie was never that lucky, but it had, in the most incongruous way possible, left a fish slice protruding from a long abandoned box of junk. Had time not been so much of the essence the appearance of a fish slice in an otherwise relatively empty space might have had a funny side. In this instance Sophie had never been so grateful to come face to face with an item of kitchen equipment and seized upon it like a stray dog seizing a sausage roll, scooting across the attic and wedging it into the gap. It was a flimsy thing of the cheap and cheerful but wholly useless variety and bent at the slightest pressure, but it raised the hatch enough for Edie’s fingers to slip underneath and haul it out of the way. ‘You first.’ she said to Sophie, who slid to the edge. ‘I’ll lower you down so you don’t fall – turn round and go belly down, it’ll be easier.’ Edie said. Sophie once again did as she was told, slithering through the gap and allowing Edie to hang onto her arms and break her fall. Once safely on the landing below Sophie looked up, waiting to take her turn helping Edie down, but the fire had other plans.
