Land of the Living

by Nicci French

  I had two hours before he came. Two hours is a long time when you feel ill with dread and loneliness. I poured myself a glass of wine, then poured it down the sink before I could drink it. I made myself a piece of toast and spread it with Marmite. When I'd finished that, I spooned yoghurt into a bowl and stirred in some honey. It was soothing. I finished off with a large cup of tea. I decided to change my clothes. I should wear something understated and respectable something that would make me look rational and sane, not a woman who'd go around making up stories about being grabbed and held underground by a murderer. I picked out some beige trousers and a cashmere V-necked sweater the outfit I used to put on for meetings with the financial department.

  The trouble is, I wasn't the same person any more. My clothes still hung off me, making me look a bit like a child dressing up in adult things. My haircut was emphatically spiky and short, and neither its colour nor its style went with cashmere and smartly creased beige. I stared at myself in the mirror, nervously dissatisfied.

  In the end, I put on an old pair of jeans, with a belt to keep them up, and a red flannel T-shirt that I'd found hanging in the cupboard, though I had no recollection of buying it.

  I wondered about my mobile phone. Should I cancel it, or should I leave it, knowing that perhaps the person who now had it was him? I couldn't decide. In my mind, it was an invisible thread stretching between us. I could snap it or I could try to follow it -but was I following it out of the labyrinth, or back in again?

  I examined the pieces of paper that I had stuck to the wall. At the very earliest, I had been grabbed on Wednesday late afternoon or evening. Where did that get me? Nowhere. I called Sadie, just to say hello, really, just to hear a friendly voice from a life that seemed to have gone, but she was out and I left no message. I thought about calling Sam, or Sheila and Guy, but didn't. Tomorrow; I'd do it tomorrow. I went to the window and stood there for a few minutes, just gazing out idly at the people who walked by. Perhaps he knew where I was, because perhaps this was just where I'd been before. Was I hiding in the only place he knew to look?

  I didn't know what to do with myself until Cross arrived. I needed to keep busy, to keep on the move, to give myself urgent tasks and unmissable deadlines, to persuade myself that I was one step ahead of him. I wandered into Jo's room. It was very well ordered. I opened her chest of drawers and everything was folded neatly. Even her knickers were laid out, one pair on top of another. I opened the square leather box on her chest of drawers and looked at the few pairs of earrings, the thin gold necklace, the brooch in the shape of a fish. There was a square piece of white card as well; when I turned it over it had a four-leafed clover Sellotaped to it. I looked at the books on her bedside table. There was a Thai cookbook, a novel by a man I'd never heard of, and an anthology of 101 Happy Poems.

  There was a video as well, with a blank label. I went back into the living room and inserted it into the video-machine. Nothing, just a blank. I pressed the fast-forward button. A blurred shoulder appeared, then the camera jerked to a leg. It was obviously a home video made by a first-timer. I leant forward and waited.

  I saw Jo's face, half smiling. It gave me the most peculiar sensation. Then the camera moved backwards and she was standing in the kitchen, by the oven, stirring something, looking back at the camera and making a face at whoever was behind it. She was wearing the dressing-gown that was hanging on the back of her bedroom door, and her moccasin slippers. Maybe it was morning, or late in the evening, it wasn't possible to tell. The screen went blank again, then fuzzy. A few lines ran down it, and then, suddenly, I was looking at me. Me before it happened. I was sitting cross-legged on the armchair, and had a glass of wine in my hand. I was in a pair of sweatpants, wearing no makeup, and my hair my old, long hair was piled up on top of my head. I was grinning. I raised my glass in a toast and blew a kiss. The camera moved towards me until my face went out of focus.

  The screen was blank for a few minutes, and then I was watching a black-and-white film, with a woman in a plumed hat riding a horse side-saddle. I reeled fast forward, but the film just went on until the credits. I rewound and stared once more at Jo's smiling face. Then at mine again. I looked happier than I could remember having been for a long time. I put my fingers up to my cheek and found that I was crying.

  I turned off the television, ejected the video, and put it back in Jo's room, on her book of happy poems. I saw that on top of her wardrobe there was a video camera, as well as a pair of binoculars and a tape-recorder. In the living room, the phone rang twice, before it was picked up by the answering-machine. After a pause a voice said, "Hi, Jo, it's me. Just checking about tonight. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume it's still on." He didn't leave a name. Somewhere, someone would be waiting for Jo to turn up; a friend, or a lover. On an impulse, I dialled 1471, but couldn't find out the caller's number. He was probably phoning from an office.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again, and I picked it up at once.

  "Hello?" I said.

  "Jo?" said the voice at the other end. Then, before I had time to answer, it gathered in strength and anger. "Jo, it's Claire Benedict.

  As you probably know, I've left dozens of messages by now and you haven't replied, but'

  "No, it's-'

  You realize that your work should have been sent to the printers by now."

  "Listen, this isn't Jo, it's a friend. Abbie. Sorry."

  "Oh. Can you tell me where Jo is, then? As you probably gathered, I urgently need to contact her."

  "I don't know where she is."

  "Oh. Well, when you see her can you tell her I called? Claire Benedict of ISP. She'll know what it's about."

  "Yes, but that's the thing. She seems to have just disappeared. When was she supposed to have delivered her work?"

  "Disappeared?"

  "Well, maybe."

  "She was due to give us her formatted text by Monday the twenty-first of January, at the latest. She never said she was having a problem finishing it. She just went quiet on us."

  "Was she usually reliable?"

  "Yes. Very. Look, are you serious about her being missing?"

  "I'll let you know what happens, OK? Give me your number."

  I scribbled it down on the back of one of the unopened envelopes, and put the phone down.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  For a startled second, I thought Cross was someone else. I'd only seen him in a suit, with his hair neatly brushed, and an inscrutable air about him. Now he was in worn brown corduroys, a thick jumper, and a padded blue jacket, whose hood was pulled up over his head. He looked as if he should be out in the garden, poking a bonfire. Or playing with his children. Did he have children? But his frown remained the same.

  "Hello," I said. I stood back to let him in. "I appreciate this."

  "Abbie?"

  "My new look. Don't you like it?"

  "It's certainly bold."

  "It's my disguise."

  "I see," he said, looking uncomfortable. "You're looking better anyway. Healthier."

  "Do you want a cup of tea?"

  "All right." He looked around. "This is a nice place you've got yourself."

  "I'm not quite sure how I got it."

  Cross looked puzzled but didn't pursue it. "How have you been?" he asked instead.

  "Scared shitless." I poured water over the tea bags, keeping my back to him. "Among other things, of course. But that's not why I asked to see you. I've got some new information. Do you take sugar?"

  "One, please."

  "I should offer you a biscuit but I don't think there are any. I could make you some toast."

  "I'm fine. Have you remembered something?"

  "It's not that." I handed him the tea and sat down opposite him, in my armchair. "The thing is, well, there are two things, really. First, I think I've just talked to him."

  His expression didn't alter. "Him?" he said politely.

  "The man who grabbed me. Him."

  "You say you talk
ed to him."

  "On the phone."

  "He rang you?"

  "No. I rang him I mean, I rang my mobile phone, because it's gone, and someone answered. I knew at once. And he knew I knew."

  "Let me get this straight. You rang the number of your lost mobile phone, and someone answered and you're now saying that the person who answered is the person who you claim grabbed you."

  "I don't claim," I said.

  Cross sipped his tea. He looked rather tired. "What was his name, the man who answered?"

  "I don't know. I didn't ask well, he wouldn't have told me, and

  I felt all of a sudden so very terrified. I thought I was going to keel over. I asked to speak to myself."

  He rubbed his eyes. "Oh," was all that he managed to say.

  "I didn't want him to know it was me, but I think he did anyway."

  "Abbie, mobile phones get stolen all the time. It's a crime epidemic'

  "And then he asked me who was calling, and I said, "Jo."

  "Jo," he repeated.

  "Yes. You see, this flat belongs to someone called Jo. Josephine Hooper. I must have met her, but I can't remember that. I just know I moved in here when she was here too. In that week, just before I was grabbed and held prisoner." I said this last fiercely. He just nodded and looked into his tea. "And that's the second thing: she's gone missing."

  "Missing."

  "Yes. She's gone missing and I think the police should take it seriously. I think it may have something to do with what happened to me."

  Cross put his mug of tea down on the table between us. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a large white handkerchief. He blew his nose loudly, folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. "You want to report her missing?"

  "She's not here, is she?"

  "You say you can't remember meeting her?"

  "No."

  "Though you're living in her flat."

  "That's right."

  "Presumably this woman has family, friends, work colleagues."

  "People keep ringing up. I've just spoken to someone she was doing a job for. She was some sort of editor, I think."

  "Abbie, Abbie," he said, infuriatingly, as if he were trying to calm me down. "In what sense is this woman missing?"

  "In the sense that she's not here and she should be."

  "Why?"

  "She hasn't paid her bills for a start."

  "If you haven't met her, then how the hell did you come to be here?"

  So I told him. I told him about Terry, and the car in the pound, and the receipt and the key; about the rotting garbage, the dead flowers, the cross publisher shouting down the phone. My story didn't sound as authoritative as I'd expected it to, but I didn't falter. I ended with the video footage of Jo and myself.

  "Perhaps you're flat-sitting for this woman you can't remember," he said.

  "Maybe."

  "Perhaps she asked you to deal with the rubbish and the bills."

  "I have dealt with them."

  "There you are."

  "You don't believe me."

  "What's there to believe?"

  "She's gone missing."

  "Nobody's reported her missing."

  "I'm reporting her missing now."

  "But .. . but.. ." He seemed baffled and unable to find the right word. "Abbie, you can't report someone missing if you don't know anything about who they are or where they're meant to be or anything."

  "I know," I insisted. "I know something is wrong."

  "Abbie," he said gently, and my heart sank. I forced myself to meet his eyes. He didn't look irritated or angry, but grave. "First you reported yourself missing, with no evidence. Now you are reporting Josephine Hooper missing." He paused. "With no evidence. You're not doing yourself any favours, Abbie."

  "So that's it, is it? But what if I'm right and she's in danger, or worse?"

  "I tell you what," he said kindly. "Why don't you let me make a couple of calls to establish if anyone else has expressed concern over her disappearance? All right?"

  "All right."

  "May I use your phone?"

  "Jo's phone. Go ahead."

  I left the room while he was making his calls, went into Jo's bedroom again and sat on her bed. I very badly needed an ally;

  someone who would believe in me. I'd called Cross because I thought in spite of everything that had happened he might be on my side. I couldn't do this on my own.

  I heard him put down the phone and went back to join him. "Well?"

  "Someone has already reported Josephine Hooper missing," he said.

  "See?" I said. "Was it a friend?"

  "It was you."

  "Sorry?"

  "You did. On Thursday January the seventeenth, at eleven thirty in the morning, you rang the Milton Green station."

  "There you are," I said defiantly.

  "Apparently, she hadn't even been gone for a full day then."

  "I see."

  I did see I saw several things at once: that Cross wasn't going to be my ally, however nice he was trying to be to me; that in his eyes, and perhaps in the eyes of the world, I was hysterical and obsessed; and that I had still been free on Thursday, January the seventeenth. Jack Cross was chewing his lip. He looked concerned but I think he was mainly concerned about me.

  "I'd like to help," he said. "But.. . look, she's probably in Ibiza."

  "Yes," I said bitterly. "Thanks."

  "Have you gone back to work?" he asked.

  "Not as such," I said. "It's a bit complicated."

  "You should," he said. "You need some purpose in your life."

  "My purpose is to stay alive."

  He gave a sigh. "Yeah, right. If you come across anything I can really deal with, call me."

  "I'm not mad," I said. "I might seem mad to you, but I'm not."

  "I'm not mad," I said to myself, as I lay in the bath with a flannel over my face. "I'm not mad."

  I put my baggy jeans and red T-shirt back on and wrapped my hair in a towel. I sat cross-legged on the sofa, with the television turned up loud. I hopped through channels. I didn't want silence this evening. I wanted other faces and other voices in the room with me friendly faces and voices, to make me feel I wasn't so all alone.

  Then the doorbell rang again.

  Thirteen

  There was no need to be frightened. Nobody knew I was here except Cross. I opened the door.

  Instantly I knew that I knew him and at the same time I just couldn't think where the hell I'd seen him before.

  "Hi," he said. "Is Jo .. . ?" And then he recognized me and he saw that I recognized him and he looked completely baffled. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  I responded by slamming the door. He made a feeble attempt to push against it but I pushed hard and it clicked shut. There was a shout from the other side. I put the chain across and leant against the door, panting. I remembered where I'd met him now. It was Ben Brody, the designer. How had he tracked me down? They only had my office number and my mobile. I'd told Carol definitely not to give out my address to anyone. Anyway, she didn't have this address. Terry didn't know either. Nobody knew. Could I have been followed? Could I have left something behind that gave a clue? He was knocking at the door. "Abbie," he said. "Open up."

  "Go away," I shouted. "I'm going to call the police."

  "I want to talk to you."

  The chain looked solid enough. What could he do to me through the six-inch-wide gap? He was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and no tie. On top of that was a long grey coat that hung down below his knees.

  "How did you find me?"

  "What do you mean how did I find you? I came to see Jo."

  "Jo?" I said.

  "I'm a friend of hers."

  "She's not here," I said.

  "Where is she?"

  "I don't know."

  He looked more and more confused. "Are you st&ying here?"

  "Obviously."

  "So how come you don't know where
she is?"

  My mouth opened but I couldn't quite think of what to say. Then, "It's a complicated story. You probably wouldn't believe it anyway. Did you have an appointment to meet Jo?"

  He gave a short, snappy laugh, and looked to either side as if he couldn't quite believe that he was having this conversation. "Are you her receptionist? I'm tempted to say that it's none of your business but.. ." He took a deep breath. "A couple of days ago I was due to meet Jo for a drink and she never showed. I left a couple of messages and she never got back to me."

  "Exactly," I said. "That's what I told the police."

  "What?"

  "I tried to report Jo missing but they didn't believe me."

  "What's going on here?"

  "She might be on holiday," I continued incoherently.

  "Look, Abbie, I don't know what it is you think I'm going to do, but could you let me in?"

  "Can't we talk like this?"

  "I suppose we can. But why?"

  "All right," I said. "But we'd better be quick. A detective is coming to see me in a few minutes."

  That was another of my feeble attempts at self-protection.

  "What about?"

  "To take a statement."

  I unfastened the chain and let him in. He seemed remarkably at home in Jo's flat. He took off his coat and tossed it on to a chair. I removed the towel from my head and rubbed my hair with it.

  "Are you and Jo ... you know?" I said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You seem quite at home here," I said.

  "Not as at home as you are."

  "I just need somewhere to perch."

  He looked at me. "Are you all right?"

  I gave an inward silent groan.

  "I know that the all-purpose answer to the question "are you all right?" is "I'm fine". But the short answer is, no, I'm not all right. And the medium-length answer is, it's a long story that you don't want to bother about."

  Ben walked into the kitchen area, filled the kettle and plugged it in. He took two mugs out of the cupboard and placed them on the counter. "I think I deserve to hear the long version," he said.

  "It's really long," I said.