Land of the Living

by Nicci French

  She still looked doubtful. More than doubtful. She seemed almost paralysed. Then I remembered Cross. Of all the people who had ejected me back into the world, Cross had looked the most unhappy. He had muttered something about how if there was any help I needed he would do what he could.

  "There's a policeman," I said. "He was in charge of the case. You can check it with him."

  I wrote down the number for her and was immediately worried. If Cross was too co-operative, I might be worse off than before. She frowned at the number and said she would have to talk to the assistant branch manager. He was a balding man in a decidedly smart grey suit and he looked worried as well. I think they would have been relieved if I had got into a temper and stormed out but I didn't give up. They had to let me back into my life.

  It took a long time. There were phone calls. They asked me lots of questions about my life, about my account, bills I'd paid recently, they asked my mother's maiden name. I signed lots of pieces of paper and the woman typed and typed into the computer on her desk. In the end, with obvious reluctance, they gave me two hundred pounds and told me that they would send new credit cards and a cheque book to me within two working days, maybe even the following day if I was very lucky. I suddenly realized that this meant that it would all be sent to Terry's flat. I was going to get them to send it somewhere else, but I thought if I tried to change my address as well, they would probably throw me out on to the street. So I left with the wad of cash stuffed into two trouser pockets. I felt as if I were coming out of a betting shop.

  Robin hugged me hard as soon as she saw me, but if she was concerned she was also wary. I could see why. We looked like members of a different species. She's beautiful, dark-skinned, groomed, be suited I looked like what I was, which was someone with nowhere to live and nowhere particularly urgent to go. She met me outside the travel agent's where she works. She hadn't booked anywhere for us to eat. I said I didn't mind. I didn't mind. We went to an Italian sandwich bar where we sat at a counter. I ordered a large coffee and a sandwich that looked like an entire delicatessen counter between two slices of bread. I felt ravenously hungry. She just had coffee. She started to pay and I didn't stop her. I needed to husband my money carefully for the moment. I didn't know what things I would have to pay for in the vagrant existence I was leading.

  "Sadie called me," she said.

  "Good," I mumbled, my mouth full of sandwich.

  "I can't believe it. We're so appalled for you. If I can do anything, anything at all.. ."

  "What did Sadie say?"

  "Just the bare bones."

  And then Robin gave me a version of my story. It was a relief to be hearing it, rather than telling it.

  "Are you seeing someone?" she asked, when she had finished.

  "You mean a man?" I said.

  "I meant a doctor."

  "I've been in hospital."

  "But Sadie said you had a head injury."

  I'd just taken a large bite of my sandwich and there was a pause in the conversation as I chewed and swallowed.

  "That's part of what I wanted to talk to you about, Robin. As Sadie said, I got this concussion thing, and that was the problem with the doctors and the police. So one of the things I'm trying to do is to reconstruct what happened in the time where my memory is blank. For example, and I feel a bit embarrassed even telling you this, I didn't realize I had walked out on Terry. It's stupid, isn't it? I finally get it together to make one of the best decisions of my life, then forget all about it. So, basically, if I were a policeman and I were missing and I said to you, "When did you last see Abbie Devereaux?" what would you say?"

  "What?"

  "When did you last fucking see me, Robin? That's not such a difficult question."

  "No, that's right." She thought for a moment. "I knew you'd left Terry. We met the next day. Sunday, late morning."

  "Hang on. Sunday January the thirteenth?"

  "Right. We went shopping over on Kensington high street. You must remember that."

  "Not a thing. What did I buy?"

  She looked at me aghast.

  "Is this for real? Well, I bought some fantastic shoes. They were reduced to thirty-five pounds from something ridiculous like a hundred and sixty."

  "But what about me?"

  Robin smiled. "I remember now. We'd talked on the phone the previous evening. You were a bit manic then. But that morning you were fine. Really good. The best I'd seen you in ages. You said you felt really positive and you said you were going to equip yourself for your new life. You bought a lovely short brown dress. Crushed velvet. Some tights and knickers. Shoes to go with the dress. And a spectacular coat. Long, navy blue. You spent a fortune. It was good, though. Money well spent. You were rather giggly about spending so much when you'd just walked out of your job."

  "Oh, God! Don't tell me I've left work as well as Terry!"

  "Yes. Didn't you know? You didn't seem to mind, though."

  "So I don't have a job any more?"

  The ground seemed to sway under my feet. The world appeared changed again. Greyer, colder.

  "Abbie?" Robin looked concerned.

  I fumbled for something to say. "Was that the last you saw of me?"

  "We had lunch and we arranged to meet for a drink. I think it was on the Thursday evening. But the day before you rang and cancelled."

  "Why?"

  "You said something had come up. You were very apologetic'

  "Was it something good? Did I sound upset?"

  "You sounded .. . well, a bit hyper, maybe. It was very brief."

  "And that was it?"

  "Yes." Robin looked at me now, as I finished the last of my sandwich. "This couldn't all have been some sort of misunderstanding?"

  "You mean being captured and held prisoner by someone who said he was going to kill me and that he had already killed other women? You mean that bit?"

  "I don't know."

  "Robin," I said slowly. "You're one of my oldest friends and I want you to be honest with me. Do you believe me?"

  At that, Robin took my head between her slim fingers, kissed me on both cheeks, and then pushed me back and looked at me. "The thing is," she said, 'if it's true, and I'm sure it is, I just can't bear the idea of it."

  "You should try it from where I'm sitting."

  My meeting with Carla consisted of hugs and tears and assurances of friendship but it basically boiled down to the fact that she had been away for those days and all she could say was that I had left a message on her answering-machine asking her to call and when she got back she had left a message on Terry's answering-machine and that was that.

  Sam is another of my oldest friends and I can't believe that the boy I remember with a joint in his hand upstairs at various parties in south London is now a solicitor who wears a suit and a tie and has to impersonate a grown-up between nine and five on weekdays. And yet, at the same time, I had started to see what this rather good-looking, trendy twenty-six-year-old was going to look like when he was forty.

  "Yes, we met," he said. "We had a drink on Sunday evening." He smiled. "I feel a bit pissed off that you don't remember it. You were staying with Sheila and Guy. You talked a bit about Terry. But not that much. I thought that we were meeting so you could sound off about that ungrateful bastard. I mean, ungrateful for living with you. But you seemed excited more than anything else."

  Oh, yes. I remembered. I didn't remember our meeting but I sort of knew what must have happened. Sam and I had always been friends, never been out together. I sometimes wondered if he had regretted that and maybe he might have seen my break-up with Terry as an opportunity. It was something that had crossed my mind too. But clearly the Abbie who had had a drink with him had decided against him. He was better as a friend.

  I took a sip of about the fourth coffee I'd had that afternoon. I was buzzing with caffeine and strangeness. I hadn't learnt much, but maybe that was what was interesting. I now knew that I had chosen not to spend those last days before it happened
with my closest friends. So who had I spent them with? What had I done? Who had I been?

  "What are you going to do?" Sam asked, in his forensic style.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Because if what you say ... I mean, from what you say, he must be out there, and he knows that you're out there, so what are you going to do?"

  I took another sip of coffee. This was the question that my brain had been screaming at me and that I had been trying to ignore.

  "I don't know," I said. "Hide. What else can I do?"

  Five

  I hadn't made an appointment, and they told me that I would have to wait for at least fifty minutes before they could do it, but I didn't mind that. I didn't have anywhere else to be, and it was warm in here. And safe. I sat in an easy chair near the door and leafed through last year's glossy magazines. Penny, the woman who was going to cut my hair, told me to pick out styles that I thought I might like, so I examined film stars and musicians and grinning celebrities and tried to imagine my face under their hair. The trouble was, I'd still look like me.

  It was just beginning to get dark. Outside the window, people trudged by, wrapped in coats and scarves, wincing in the cold. Cars and lorries thundered past, throwing up muddy slush. Inside, it was bright and still and quiet, just the sound of scissors snipping through hair, the swoosh of the broom on the floor, gathering locks up into soft piles, an occasional murmur of conversation. There were six people already having their hair cut, all women. They sat up straight in their chairs, black robes draped around them, or lay back against the sink, having shampoo and conditioner massaged into their scalps. I could smell coconut, apple, camomile. I closed my eyes. I could sit here all day.

  "Have you decided?"

  "Short," I said, snapping open my eyes. She led me to a seat in front of a large mirror and stood behind me, running her hands through my hair, her head to one side speculatively.

  "You're sure about that, are you?"

  "Yes. Really short. Not a bob or anything. You know, cropped. Short, but not too brutal."

  "Choppy, perhaps, mussed up. A bit soft round here, maybe?"

  "Yes. That sounds fine. I'm having a different colour put in first, as well."

  "That'll take a good hour more."

  "That's all right. What colour do you think I should have?"

  "You've got pretty hair as it is."

  "I want a change. I was thinking about red. Bright red."

  "Red?" She lifted my long pale hair and let it fall through her fingers. "Do you think red would suit your colouring? What about something softer a kind of dark caramel colour maybe, with interesting with highlights?"

  "Would it look very different?"

  "Oh, definitely."

  I've never had really short hair. When I was a girl I refused to have it cut at all. I wanted to be like my friend Chen, who could sit on her blue-black hair. She used to wear it in a single plait, fastened at the bottom with a velvet bow. It snaked down her back, thick and gleaming, as if it were alive. I put up a hand and stroked the top of my head, took a last look.

  "OK, then," I said. "Let's go, before I change my mind."

  "I'll be back after the colour's in."

  Another woman dyed my hair. First, she applied a thick, brownish paste that smelt unpleasantly chemical. I sat under a lamp and baked. Then she put some lighter dollops on to slabs of hair and wrapped them with bits of tin-foil. I looked as if I was about to be trussed and put into the oven. I closed my eyes once more. I didn't want to see.

  Fingers combed through my hair, warm water ran over my scalp. Now I smelt of fruit, of humid tropical forests. A towel was wrapped round my head like a turban. Someone put a cup of coffee down in front of me. Outside, more snow started to fall.

  I closed my eyes when Penny began cutting. I heard the scissors crunch and a piece of hair slid down my cheek. The back of my neck felt strangely exposed, my ear-lobes too. Penny sprayed more water on to my head; she cut steadily, not talking except to tell me to sit this way or that; she leant forward and blew away prickles of hair. I opened my eyes and saw in front of me a small, pale, naked face. My nose and mouth looked too big, my neck looked too thin. I closed my eyes again and tried to think about other things. Food,

  for instance. After this I'd go and buy a pastry from the deli I'd spotted down the road, something sweet and spicy. Cinnamon and pear, maybe. Or a slice of carrot cake. Perhaps an apple, big and green and tart.

  "What do you think?"

  I forced myself to look. There were smudges under my eyes and my lips were pale and dry. I put up a hand and touched the soft bristle on top of my head. "Fine," I said. "Great."

  Penny angled the mirror behind me. From the back, I looked like a young boy.

  "What do you think?" I said.

  She looked at me appraisingly. "Very edgy," she said.

  "Just what I wanted."

  A brush was flicked round my neck and over my face, the mirror was tipped so I caught every variation of my new profile, I was handed my jacket and posted into the outside world, where tiny flakes of snow whirled through the gathering darkness. My head felt weirdly light. I kept seeing myself in shop windows and being startled. I bought a giant chocolate-chip cookie and ate it while I made for the shops.

  For the past three years, I've dressed pretty smartly. It was part of the job and I guess I got used to it. Suits. Skirts and jackets and sheer tights, with an extra pair in my bag in case they got snagged. Things that were tailored and trim. So now I used up the rest of the money that Sheila had lent me, and then rather a lot more, on a pair of baggy black trousers, several T-shirts, some leather biker boots, a hooded, fleecy sweatshirt, black as well, a long stripy scarf and a black woollen hat, some warm gloves. I nearly bought a long leather coat, except I didn't have enough money left, which was probably fortunate. But I did have enough money for six pairs of knickers, two bras, several pairs of thick socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and some lipstick, mascara, deodorant and shampoo.

  I stood in front of the long shop mirror. I turned round slowly, looking at myself over my shoulder. I lifted my chin. I was no longer Abbie the businesswoman, hair drawn up in a sleek bun and sensible shoes. I looked thin and almost feral, with sharp

  T2T

  collar-bones. The new black clothes made my face seem paler than ever, though the bruise on my cheek had faded to a jaundiced yellow stain. My hair was spiky and the colour of birch wood I thought I looked a bit like an owl. And about sixteen, a schoolgirl. I smiled at myself, the newness I saw there, and nodded. "Good," I said, aloud. "Perfect."

  Six

  "Christ!" said Sheila, as she opened the door.

  "What do you reckon?"

  "It's certainly a change of image. I hardly recognized you."

  "That's the general idea. Can I come in, then? I'm freezing out here!" Icy flakes were landing on my cheeks and nose, trickling down my neck. My new haircut was flat and wet.

  She stood back and let me into the warmth. "Sure. God, you look.. ."

  "What?"

  "I dunno. Younger."

  "Is that good?"

  "Yes," she said dubiously. "You look littler, too, somehow. Tea? Drink?"

  "Drink. I bought us some beer."

  "Thanks, but you shouldn't have bothered."

  "Don't thank me. It was your money. I'll be able to pay you back soon, though, when my credit card is sent to Terry's, which should be any day."

  "Whenever. That reminds me, Terry rang."

  "Here?"

  "No, Sadie's. He thought you'd be there. So Sadie rang me to say that Terry says can you go and collect this big bag he forgot to give you yesterday, with all your mail and stuff. And the rest of your clothes."

  "Fine. I'll go tomorrow."

  "Or he'll throw it away."

  "Charming. I'll go now."

  "Now? Don't you want something to eat? We're having these friends round. A couple, very nice, he works with Guy and she does something with antiques, I think. No
thing smart, just the four of us. Or five, that is," she said bravely.

  "It's OK, Sheila. Four's a better number. Maybe I'll be back for the cheese course."

  "No cheese. Lemon tart."

  "You made lemon tart?"

  "Yes." She looked self-conscious and virtuous at the same time.

  "Save some for me. Can I use your phone to book a cab?"

  "Of course. You don't have to ask."

  I kissed her on both cheeks. "You're being very nice to me. I promise I won't stay here for long."

  It costs a lot of money to go across London in a taxi, make it wait, then come all the way back again. I watched the meter nervously as it clicked into double figures. I'd had 257 this morning, from Sheila and Guy and from the bank, but after my haircut and shopping spree and various coffees and cabs, it was down to seventy-nine. By the end of the evening I'd have about sixty again.

  The lights were on in our flat. Terry's flat, that is. I rang the bell and waited, then heard footsteps running down the stairs and a light went on in the hall.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Terry."

  "Abbie?" He peered at me. "What have you gone and done to yourself ? Your hair, it's -'

  "Gone. I know. Can I come in and collect my stuff? I'm in a bit of a hurry. A cab's waiting."

  "I'll go and get it. I've put everything in bags. Wait here." He turned and dashed back up the stairs again. But I wasn't going to wait in the freezing cold, so I followed him and we arrived simultaneously. There was a lovely smell coming from the flat, garlicky and pungent. On the table was a bottle of wine, but only half drunk, two glasses, two plates of chicken covered with sprigs of rosemary and whole garlic cloves. That was my recipe, my standby. Candles that I'd bought. A woman was sitting there, twiddling her glass, her long fair hair falling forward and shining in the soft light. She was wearing a charcoal-grey suit and had tiny gold studs in her ears. I stood there in the doorway, in my baggy trousers, with my tufty hair, and stared at her.

  "I'll get all your stuff," said Terry.

  "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

  He muttered something and disappeared.

  "I'm Abbie," I said brightly to the woman.