by Neil Rowland
The hours of the working day agonisingly elapsed. Pitt continued to wait, to stake out the building, waiting for movement. He hoped that employees would not be told to stay to work extended hours. That would depend on business. He even felt hungry and considered a dash to an Indian place in Smithfield Street. He had a favourite restaurant around there. But he knew that it could be a mistake to leave. Why spend so much time watching, only to risk missing something?
By this hour the shape of pedestrians formed long shadows. At last people began to emerge from Winchurch HQ; a trickle becoming a tide, as staff headed for home. The majority kept regular hours, although some had a day for night session. Clive picked out a senior analyst by the name of Jane Grant, who often socialised with Pixie Wright. These were the women so disdainfully referred to as “secretaries” by some male employees at the firm.
Pitt realised that there was a risk of being noticed. He was visibly perched behind the glass of the coffee shop. What a shock that would prove for them, but probably bigger for him. Cohen, Spence, Abrams, Bradshaw would be leaving the building soon, as reflections began to shift.
Pitt continued to wait patiently. He had plenty of time for the moment.
12
Jane Grant gestured and smiled to friends, and then set off along the street by herself. Clive thought she might offer information about Pixie. Therefore he dashed out of the café with the idea of following her. Pixie and she had been close in the office; they went regularly to a gym together, and to a specific sushi restaurant at lunch; or it was brought up to them. They had socialised at Inferno in Clapham and were known to frequent Movida, when Jane obtained a suitable inside squeeze.
Pitt trailed on the opposite side of the street, the shadowy side. There was no sign of Miss Wright at this point. His strategy was not to approach Pixie in the street again, because she already knew he was around: she would be nervous and wouldn’t appreciate a second look.
Pitt took advantage of the gathering rush hour crowd; keeping his distance, staying concealed from the young woman. Equally he tried to maintain a view of her, as if finding a spy hole in the moving wall of bodies, buses, taxis and other vehicles.
Even though it was a preoccupied hour, he was getting suspicious looks. The working population was heading underground, on the way back home; in anticipation of families, children, spouses, partners or simply their own company.
Miss Grant vanished into the Underground system. So that Pitt forced his way across the road, going after her, through choking traffic, with a predictably encouraging response from irritated drivers. He was lucky not to be chewed under wheels and axles, but reached the other side and lunged into the station.
There was a contrast in light which forced him to wait and allow his eyes to adjust. His vision was more sensitive than usual, he felt, with that left eye slower to focus and adapt. This small defect must be related to the cicatrize underneath. Somebody had punched him - punched his lights out - wearing a chunky ring, or rings. The wound had healed up, so the blow must have been struck months before; not by that psycho in the lane. From the recent, closer to home, he had sore ribs, an abstract set of bruises and tightness across his shoulders. What sort of vicious, malevolent game was he embroiled in here? It was all because he was trying to prise the candy from their fingers?
When this visual fog began to clear he scanned the vicinity - which was the immediate area of the Underground station. Fortunately he picked out Jane’s trim, flame haired form in the crowd. She moved ahead to join a queue at the turnstile, ready to swipe her pass. Like many other people, she was already mopping her face with a handkerchief. There was a risk she would be swallowed up, while he was snagged at the surface, drawing a blank.
But then, as chance would have it, Clive saw Pixie just metres away from him. She had come into the station, and was positioned, dangerously, uncomfortably close. She would surely recognise him, as he was in a frozen posture in front of her nose. Pitt felt himself bristle like a hedgehog. He didn’t dare to move even a muscle, as if forced into a game of statues.
By some miracle Pixie didn’t notice him, although her eyes passed over him. She was positive and brave in her job. Her cool was legendary. She had exerted a calming influence on him, particularly when he offered criticism of the company. Pitt somehow felt he knew this woman well. So had they been a genuine item? They were probably a harmonious duo, if that was the case, he thought.
At some point he had to speak to her, if he wanted to get the truth. He remembered that she had worked with him, at certain stages. She had been sympathetic to his attitude. But she wouldn’t like to lose her job, would she? Had she been willing to put her neck on the block? Or should he know better?
What if he was wrong to make conclusions about Pixie? If she hadn’t been his confidante and lover, as Doug Breadham and he had speculated? If that theory was right, then why was Pixie still trusted or even employed by Winchurch? Wouldn’t she be sent flying out of the revolving door, even if she had always been the boss’ blue-eyed girl? Although the actual colour of her eyes was green, he recalled. How did he remember that? Her eyes were as green as a healthy English lane in its former summer prime. This was as amazing recollection - perhaps it was wrong - gleaned from their former association?
Either she would have resigned or been fired, if she was implicated with him; or if she was having an affair with Pitt. Or had they really been engaged in collaboration against Winchurch Brothers? Sir Septimus would have discovered such goings on, equipped with a blind-sight, even though he had a soft spot for Pixie, by all accounts.
Only luck saved Pitt from being recognised by Pixie in the station. Somehow she had an inkling that something was amiss, but she couldn’t isolate a particular reason. But she required a little extra time just to compose herself, and remember what she was supposed to be doing. After all she’d already had a recent encounter with Pitt, and like a marked note he was back in circulation. She understood he was back in the game; that it wouldn’t take him long to resolve his focus.
Perplexity rippled her brow. He was glad to find her, because he’d been afraid she was away from work. She might have taken some leave, gone on holiday overseas: perhaps she’d taken up Winchurch’s offer to enjoy his heart-shaped island in the Arabian Gulf. That was the type of value added perk she could draw on, if Sep wanted her out of the way.
On the contrary Pixie wasn’t vacationing; she must have had a busy day at work, very much up to her head and shoulders. It was a big assumption to think that she could trust Pitt again, or that he could trust her, assuming there was any truth in the story as presented so far.
Clive remembered their first introduction. This had occurred during his induction as an intern, when he was shown around and introduced to people. There had been instant mutual warmth between them, as her smile communicated to her other features, justified when they got to know each other. She was two years older than him.
Clive tracked her on a downward escalator. She kept to the right and didn’t run down the left. She had a distinctive hair style, which helped him. There was the regular grind and groan, as trains arrived and departed along tunnels below, like enslaved beasts. Two lines of passing humanity, rising and falling, avoided making eye contact. It looked and sounded like hell, but was merely daily routine. Clive no longer held down a regular job, as far as he gathered, and so he didn’t have normal life to humanise these dreadful places. As ever during a heat wave, the Underground was badly ventilated, offering only a hot, dry, suffocating air. Some girls wore dresses as revealing as negligees. Men might have worn tee-shirts and shorts if they were allowed. Instead they wearily hooked jackets over the shoulder and rolled shirt sleeves over biceps, as if modelling expensive wristwatches.
Pixie reached the bottom and filtered out to the platform. She clutched a Vuitton handbag and gazed nervously about the cavern. Was it merely the heat and atmosphere that had disc
oncerted her? Clive kept his distance, while scanning the environment, maintaining an idea of her whereabouts. She would assume the worst about his motives. When the next tube train arrived, he lost her in the press to embark. For several stops he had to jump in and out, searching different carriages. He didn’t know her whereabouts, or if she was even on board.
Perhaps she had already given him the slip. Maybe she had changed or disembarked, as part of her connections. He almost gave up and felt resigned, as if giving himself up to the darkness. Could he find a hotel for the night and play the same game of catch tomorrow?
He stood about the carriage, trying to think about his next move, hanging disconsolately to the handrail like a condemned prisoner. Where did this leave him? What should he expect from the evening? His palm was sweaty in the leather strap, as he held on for dear life, staring into space, not sure how this was going to turn out.
13
When the train pulled up at a west London station, however, Clive saw Pixie. He spotted her as she went gliding outside, past the train window. He was startled back into movement, before the doors slid against him. In fact he was forced to prize the doors apart. He pushed through the crowd, jostling, looking over the stream of heads in front. Pixie’s elegant heels picked off the Way Out steps. Giving chase to a lady was an uncomfortable role to be cast into. But Pixie was back in his reach, along with the hope she offered, to obtain a full explanation of the lost year - even an escape route.
At the surface she hesitated, as if struggling. She stood about a flower stall, looking around, just as if she was being alerted by an extra sense this evening. Or maybe she was simply recouping energy, considering the best route home, after that steamy tube ride. A tide of humanity and traffic continued to flow around. Pitt came to the top of the stairs and watched her, only fifteen metres away. What was she going to do next? Would she decide to go home, as might reasonably be expected? Or had she already made other plans for the evening? Was she going out to socialise with friends, or even with her boyfriend?
Much to his relief she finally decided and set off purposefully. These spontaneous reflexes could have been fateful for her. What if she was being followed by someone less favourable to her? By the same people who were following him? She touched and considered some bouquets but didn’t buy any.
Had she sensed his presence? However, she hadn’t looked around to find out who might be there; or had been afraid to try. Briefly she seemed to consider taking a bus home. The out of town guys always jumped into their cars, but as a Londoner she preferred public transport. Clive slipped out of view, as far as he was able, even trying to shrink to the shape of a little old man. Fortunately she also dismissed the idea of flagging down a taxi, as with catching a bus. Pixie decided she would like to walk home.
The evening was fine, indeed too fine. Ozone shimmered over surfaces like spirituous fumes. Pixie was ‘wearing’ a delicate white chiffon dress suit, with a subtle blue piping. The garment was as light as tissue paper, showing the frail strapping of her under garments; although she still seemed over dressed for this rare summer. Men too had no qualms about showing their naked bodies, chests and midriffs, like Colombian salsa singers at the beach.
Pixie floated and clipped along the street on long thin heels. She hooked her jacket on a little finger and held it over her shoulder. Clive might have removed his jacket too, but he was too focused on his deeds. He pursued her with scrupulous care, noting the grace of her bared neck and arms.
She was less sun tanned than you’d imagine from this hot summer. Of course she was trapped in that office all day, which explained her paleness. She definitely hadn’t been invited to Sep’s special island that summer. This explained why she chose to walk home, to find some fresh air if it became available. Somehow her physical beauty was exciting and familiar to him - which was really hard to explain. It wasn’t ignorant lust, but a secret knowledge. Her presence gripped his senses and compelled his mind. There was a lovely unique quality to her. Could she describe a missing narrative for him?
Soon Pixie turned off into quieter streets, taking her deepening shadow and Pitt with her. Her pace dropped and she was enjoying her time. The evening was finally beginning to cool and allow human activity; restaurants and bars were becoming busy. If Pixie decided to call in somewhere, it might be easier to approach her and to chat. Instead she kept walking. She reached a set of park gates and decided to cut through. If this was intended as a distraction or just a short cut, Clive couldn’t tell. He followed in her wake, hastening his step.
Clive drew so close behind, he was practically breathing on the back of her neck. Her distinctive white blonde hair had more or less survived and was set into a perfect shape, like a pearl; indeed like a female vocalist from that classic pop period.
Every now and again they came across another person, or group of people, either passing or taking adjacent paths. Fortunately they didn’t give him away, or notice anything particularly suspicious. Pitt was very close to her, but there was nothing menacing about his body language. Sometimes people at a further distance seemed to notice Clive’s tracking figure. From there it may look as if something was threatening about that large young guy trudging behind her. Pixie didn’t notice. She was caught up in her own thoughts.
Traffic noise tended to mask any sounds. Generally the park was empty. Yet he waited for a more sheltered spot.
Pixie scanned the broad sun browned area of the park. At some point she had a sense of the untoward. Perhaps she finally got a sense, a flicker, of someone behind. She kept her cool and attempted to continue as normal. Then, recognising Pitt’s features in a few seconds, her gaze registered shock and terror. She hadn’t actually been terrified when he showed up outside the office. Rather she had been startled. But this was different, as he conjured himself in a menacing light. For Pixie it was like stepping out of the forest and confronting a pouncing bear.
In the first instance he tried to talk; or he opened his mouth. In the next moment she took a deep breath; she prepared to either scream or call for help. She didn’t react calmly to his presence. What could he do? She was about to shout out for rescue, or as a warning. Clive watched her begin this terrified pantomime. It would surely lead to his apprehension. He was forced to reach out and do something to stop her. Even if this was spontaneous, he knew, with the serious allegation against him, that such an aggressive action was dubious - or even incriminating. But he dreaded who would answer her call. His large knobbly hand clamped over her mouth, as her fingers reached up and tried to peel him away.
Nevertheless she attempted to cry out. He felt vibrations against his fingers, like breath going through a reed. She was then grunting and squealing through his hand. He could feel the enamel of her teeth rubbing on his skin, as they attempted to bite but failed to cohere.
She began to jab her stiletto Court shoes into his shins. Sharp pain branched through him. In further struggle they were thrown into a shrubbery of poisonous and spiky plants, which monopolised this section of cracked earth. Nobody wanted to intervene or take any notice of their struggle. Clive was horrified at the turn of events, as he only wanted to communicate with her. But she was perhaps entitled to fear the worst.
She still had a grip on that pricey handbag, and made attempts to strike him around the ears with it. The shape of her hair was disarranged, threads flying in all directions. Her delicate clothes were also a complete mess, fabric torn and smeared. Somehow one of her shoes was dangling from the lower branch of a dead ash tree, like a festive candle holder. Clive needed all his strength and bulk to subdue her, even as these actions made him sick. He was sorry if he’d hurt her in any way, if only her pride. But he was battling to decipher the code that had put him into amnesiac darkness.
“Are you all right Pixie? No intention of harming you,” Clive gasped.
She was gasping. They were both sat exhausted on the dry earth.
“Desperate measures,” he argued. “Really bloody sorry!”
She drew up her knees and tossed back her head. Her deep eyes, a lovely green, Clive thought; as green as the Atlantic off America, rolled backwards, as her lungs still found the atmosphere too thin.
“You can rest easy with me. You can trust me a hundred percent. If you’re not prepared to open up with me... you get me? ...then I am lost. Nobody else can put back the broken pieces inside my head,” he argued.
Pixie was regaining calm, as she didn’t shout for assistance.
They sat on their bottoms, side by side, rubbing cuts and scratches. For ages they were out of breath amidst flattened botanical specimens.
“You opted out as a human being,” she stated.
“How did you make that out?” he complained.
Her face was smudged and hair flew away in every direction, crazy as candy floss pulled out of the drum with a stick.
“Why get me further involved?”
“How can you say that?” Clive objected.
“What were you thinking of?”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he objected.
“You already did. Is this how you treated that girl?” she speculated.
“Don’t believe those slanders,” he replied.
She fixed him in her sights. “How long have you been following me?”
“Since the office,” he admitted, beginning to mop his face with Doug’s silk hanky.
“I knew something was wrong!”
“You did?”
“You creep. You absolute creep. Can’t you leave me alone?” She wiped her face, her neck and hands too. She tried to push her toes into the remaining shoe.
“Here, let me get that other one down for you,” he offered, jumping up.
“Aren’t you satisfied with the damage you caused? To everyone who ever cared about you?” she told him.
