by Mark Burnell
It is almost exactly a month since Proctor collected me from Warren Street Underground station. I have lived with him since that night and I have started to change. Giving up cigarettes is a part of that process. A symptom.
I can’t pretend that I am any easier than I ever was but Proctor has earned some trust from me. He has allowed me to stay with him. He has not asked me to contribute to my keep. He has not made a move on me. He has not got angry at my continued reluctance to trace the bomber of flight NE027; he cannot understand my unwillingness, but he accepts that it is a fact. In truth, I cannot fully understand it myself.
I have not seen much of Proctor in the last month and his investigation into the crash has not advanced at all. Being a freelance journalist, he has no organization behind him to help finance his research. Instead, he writes travel articles for newspapers and magazines. At the moment, this is his only source of income. He tends to cram several trips together, if he can, thereby allowing himself uncluttered months in-between. Since I came to stay here, he has been to Israel for a week and to Indonesia for a fortnight. And today, he returns from a long weekend in Miami. He hates the work but he needs the money.
Within this flat—and the immediate area surrounding it—I have learned to feel safe. That is something new. When I stray beyond the confines of the Edgware Road or Lisson Grove, however, I begin to feel anxious. I think of Dean West, of Barry Green. I think of how I was when Proctor walked into my room on Brewer Street and how I regarded him as just another punter prepared to rent me for sex.
Then I think about how I regard him now and I am confused. He has resurrected my family but he has resolved nothing. Perhaps the reasons for my reluctance to seek answers are not so unusual. Perhaps I feel safer with the uncertainty than with the truth. What if the truth is worse than ignorance? I can cope without answers. It is more important to me not to be undermined. I do not want to relapse.
I have taken no drugs since I have been here. I am drinking less, too. I finished Proctor’s spirits within three days and he did not replace them. I could have bought replacements myself but felt too ashamed to. Ashamed. Given all that I have done in the last two years it seems strange to me that I should feel like that. But I did and, consequently, I adapted. Proctor himself rarely drinks and my habits have fallen into line with his. If he has a glass of wine and offers me one, I’ll accept. If he chooses not to, I won’t drink either.
Since I got here, there has been only one serious lapse.
* * *
Stephanie dialled the code and another three numbers before replacing the receiver, replicating the same action for the fourth time in five minutes. Her hand hovered over the phone. She knew she would see it through eventually because, until she did, the matter would continue to haunt her. Half an hour later, she dialed 1–4–1, followed by the entire number, and then pressed the phone to her ear. When it began to ring, she hoped there would be no reply. But there was.
‘Hello?’
Her vocal cords were paralysed.
‘Hello?’
This time, she managed a response. ‘Chris?’
‘Speaking.’
He was waiting for her to introduce herself. His voice had been instantly recognizable to her. If he’d cold-called her, she would have known straight away that it was him. But he had no idea who she was and the significance of that was not lost on her.
‘It’s Steph.’
The pause was as predictable as it was lengthy. ‘Steph?’
‘Yes.’
His voice dropped from a deep boom to a whisper. ‘I don’t believe it. Is it really you?’
‘Yes.’
‘My God. How long’s it been? How are you? Where are you? What are you doing?’
Stephanie closed her eyes and saw him clearly. Six foot two, dark hair that was thinning, unlike his waistline, which was expanding. That was how she remembered him. A sense of dress that followed the seasons without imagination. Today, since it was the weekend and he was home, he would be wearing blue jeans, a check shirt, a thick jersey—probably navy—and a pair of sturdy shoes. She felt the wind clawing at their farmhouse, which overlooked the small Northumbrian village of West Woodburn, not far from where they had all been raised. It was a bleak and beautiful place, sparsely populated. On the lower ground there were farms, while the higher ground was fit for nothing but grazing sheep.
‘Are you okay, Steph?’
‘I’m fine. How about you?’
‘I’m well.’
‘And Jane, how’s she?’
‘She’s well, too.’
‘What about Polly and James?’
Polly was her three-year-old niece. James, her nephew, was fourteen months old. Christopher said, ‘They’re both great. Polly’s been a bit feisty over the last six months, just like Mum always said you were at that age.’
Stephanie was aware of the pounding in her heart. ‘I just wanted to hear how you were, you know?’
‘It’s been a hell of a long time…’
‘I know.’
‘We lost track of you after you left that place in Holborn. What was her name? Smith?’
‘Karen Smith.’
‘That’s it. She said you walked out one day and didn’t leave a number.’
And you didn’t make the effort to look harder. It was a vicious circle. She’d never kept in touch with them so they’d made less and less effort to keep in touch with her. How long had it been since their last acrimonious conversation? Nine months? Ten?
Christopher had been instrumental in helping Proctor to trace Stephanie. Proctor had contacted him late the previous summer and had asked for an interview which had been granted. He’d travelled north to West Woodburn in the autumn and it was during the course of his interview with Christopher that he sensed there might be a story in Stephanie. The two remaining fragments of the family had not clung together for support in the aftermath of the tragedy. Instead, one had tried to cope with it and continue with as normal a life as possible, while the other had disappeared into the ether. Christopher had an old phone number—Karen Smith’s—but had insisted that she’d be unlikely to know where Stephanie was and that even if he found her, she wouldn’t speak to him. When Proctor had asked what Stephanie did, Christopher had been evasive and then dismissive.
‘I have no idea,’ he’d replied. ‘Probably nothing. In fact, probably less than nothing.’
But Proctor was persistent, spurred on by an instinct for a story. He’d contacted Karen Smith who, as predicted, had no idea where Stephanie was. But she knew some names and pointed him in the right direction. Moving from one shady acquaintance to the next, a picture gradually emerged of a girl with a future sliding into nowhere. From promising student to chemically-infested prostitute, she was perfect. Of all those who were connected to the dead of flight NE027, Stephanie’s tragic decline was the worst. And, therefore, the best.
‘What have you been doing?’ Christopher asked her.
‘Bits and pieces. You know…’
‘Like what?’
‘Odd jobs. Anything to help pay the rent.’
‘Where are you living?’
Stephanie felt the onset of panic. The conversation was already drifting the way of so many of its predecessors. She could hear it in Christopher’s tone, which was cooling. It was always the same. Off the top of her head, she said, ‘Wandsworth.’
‘Let me take your number.’
It was slipping from her grasp. All the things she wanted to say were still unsaid and, instead, she was being sucked towards the familiar vortex.
‘Chris, there’s something I have to tell you. About the crash…’
‘Hang on, I can’t find a pen.’
‘You don’t need a pen.’
He wasn’t listening to her. He never did. ‘Okay, what is it? You might as well give me the address, too.’
‘Chris, please!’
‘What?’
Stephanie shook her head. It could not be done over the phone.
The moment was gone and the dark storm clouds were gathering at the horizon. ‘Nothing.’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Do you need money?’
For some reason, that was the question that had always hurt the most. ‘No.’
After a pause, Christopher said, in a fashion that was equally critical and concerned, ‘Steph, you’re not doing anything … stupid, are you?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘Okay, so give me your number and address.’
Stephanie fell silent.
‘Steph?’
The power of speech had abandoned her.
‘Steph?’
* * *
I got drunk that evening. I had plenty of vodka at the Brazen Head, which is at the far end of Bell Street, and then I returned home with two bottles of bad red wine. They slipped down as quickly as they came back up, which was shortly before I passed out. As an attempt to rinse the conversation from my memory, it worked, albeit temporarily. For two days, I felt I had the flu again.
Proctor is a fitness fanatic. He eats healthily and takes exercise, running three or four times a week. He performs a variety of stretches every morning before breakfast. He says stretching is more important than running or weights or any other form of exercise. I have caught him during his routine several times and we have both been embarrassed by it. It is not that I dislike what I see, or that he dislikes being seen. What makes us awkward are the things we think but which we do not articulate. On each occasion, I have noticed what good shape he is in. He is lean. Nearly all the bodies I have seen in the last two years have been flabby.
Although I have no feelings of affection for Proctor, I have wondered what it would be like to have sex with him. I cannot remember what sex was like with real people. For me, Proctor now has a personality—not to mention a genuine name—whereas all my clients were anonymous. They lied about their identities and the sex we had was purely physical. I faked the gasps of pleasure where required. I never felt anything, apart from occasional pain. In the last month, however, as I have gradually learned more about Proctor, I have speculated on how we would be together. Would the fact that I know him affect the way the sex would feel, or have I been permanently numbed to its pleasure?
How would I react?
I know that he has been thinking about it too. I see it in the glances he steals when he thinks that I cannot see him. And perhaps it is this more than anything else that has fostered the new self-consciousness that I feel for my body. As a prostitute, I will strip for anybody if the price is right. Nudity is nothing for me, nor is the exploitation of it by a stranger, as long as I am profiting from it. But Proctor’s gaze—even when I am fully clothed—can make me uncomfortable.
Over the last fortnight, I have started to perform some stretches myself. I have been amazed at how creaky and stiff I am. In general, the last month has been a great boost to my health; I have started to eat healthy food at regular intervals and I am sleeping properly. I have put on some weight and my skin looks less blotchy and grey. The smudges around my eyes are fading. But I am not supple in the way that I was when I was a teenager. I am upset by my physical condition and I am determined to improve it.
Christmas has been and gone. Proctor was in Israel, then. I was here, alone. It was the best Christmas I’ve had since the crash. New Year’s Day has gone, too. For that, he was in Indonesia. Now, we are in January. For everyone else, it is just another year. For me, it is another life. The changes that I have initiated have a momentum of their own and I cannot stop them.
* * *
Proctor was still frowning. Stephanie rolled an inch of ash on to a saucer. It had been less than an hour since he walked through the door, suitcase in hand, fatigue on his face. Now, after a shower and a change of clothes, he looked revitalized.
Stephanie said, ‘How was it?’
‘Terrible. If anybody ever takes you on a holiday to Miami, you can assume they hate you.’
‘So what are you going to say in your article?’
‘That it’s a winter weekend paradise.’ They were in the living room. Proctor was on the sofa, Massive Attack was on the sound-system. Noticing for the first time, he said, ‘New haircut?’
Stephanie ran her hand through it and nodded. ‘Do you like it?’
It was shorter than before, not quite touching the shoulders. The dark roots had been dyed.
‘Sure. It looks good, although I thought you were going to let the blonde grow out.’
She shook her head.
‘I couldn’t do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I always wanted to be blonde. When I was younger, you know…’
‘And now?’
‘It makes it easier to believe I’m someone else.’
‘I thought you were getting past that.’
Stephanie stubbed out her final cigarette. ‘I’m never going to get past that.’
* * *
Later, Stephanie came across Proctor in the bathroom. He was lying on the floor, beneath the sink, unfastening the panel at the end of the bath.
‘Is there a leak?’ she asked him.
He grinned. ‘I certainly hope not. Not after this kind of precaution.’
She saw that there were three computer floppy-disks on the floor beside him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘A bit of home security. This is where I keep the important stuff. The floppy-disks and my lap-top. There’s nothing on my desk-top of any significance—I back up information down a phone-line and then erase it—and I don’t keep any good material on paper. The juicy bits are here.’
‘Isn’t that rather primitive?’
‘Primitive is sometimes best.’
‘Why don’t you just get an alarm or something?’
‘In a place like this? Are you kidding? That’d be an invitation to a burglar.’
He put the three disks in an airtight plastic pouch already containing four. Then he re-sealed the pouch and replaced it, taping it to the underside of the bath. The lap-top, which was in a protective cover, was inserted between two filthy floorboards. Finally, he re-secured the panel with a screwdriver.
* * *
It was a soulless place, catering for the rush-hour trade in Victoria. There were fruit-machines along one wall, Sky Sport on a vast TV suspended over the bar and a sound system that played at a deafening volume. Proctor bought himself half a pint of Guinness and ordered a Coke for Stephanie. They sat at a small circular table with a good view of the bar.
Proctor wriggled out of a leather coat which he folded and placed on the bench beside Stephanie. He wore a denim shirt. The ironing creases were still sharp on the sleeves. Stephanie wore what she wore almost every day; faded jeans and a sweatshirt over a varying number of short-and long-sleeved T-shirts. Her blonde hair was scraped back and gathered by a clasp, which was a new look for her. Before, her face had been too gaunt to justify it. She wore no make-up, which was also a departure for her and one with which she felt increasingly comfortable.
Proctor said, ‘You see the guy on the stool, the one with the half-moon glasses and the charcoal jacket?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s who he’s coming to see. I don’t think Bradfield usually comes here but the man on the stool likes it because it’s crowded and noisy, good for anonymity.’
‘Who is Bradfield?’
Proctor took a sip from his glass and then wiped the thin line of cream from his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘I told you. He’s a document-forger.’
‘I know. But why’s he important?’
‘It’s possible he forged a passport for our man. There’s this guy in Whitechapel—Ismail Qadiq—he’s an Egyptian T-shirt importer. His brothers run the manufacturing end of the business in Cairo and Qadiq brings the product over her
e and sells wholesale. But that’s not the only thing he’s importing. He brings in stolen documents for reprocessing, or brand-new documents, ready for use.’
‘Brand-new?’
Proctor nodded. ‘Genuine passports or driving licences from Syria, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Algeria. Anywhere. They get stolen over there—or bought on the sly—and then they’re distributed all over Europe. There are dozens of ways into this country. Qadiq is just one. The point is, he may have actually seen our man, but he’s not sure. At least, that’s what he says but then he’s a compulsive liar. An intermediary brought a stranger to his Whitechapel warehouse—the place where he stores all his merchandise—and asked Qadiq to help process some documents as quickly as possible, including one Israeli passport and another in the name of Mustafa Sela. Money was no object. Qadiq says he never saw the stranger fully, that he was lurking in the background, but he told me that he organized it for the two men to meet Cyril Bradfield.’
‘So why do we need the man on the stool?’
‘Because Cyril Bradfield’s number isn’t in the phone-book. Because no one seems to be sure what he looks like or where he lives. Because Cyril Bradfield’s name probably isn’t even Cyril Bradfield.’
Stephanie sipped some Coke. ‘And he’s some kind of sympathizer, is he?’
‘Bradfield? No. He’s non-political. He’s not even in it for the money. Apparently, he’s in it for the love of it. For him, it’s art. And a question of quality. So naturally, he draws attention from the worst kind of people.’
‘How does the man at the bar fit into this?’
‘He’s a go-between for some low-life in Birmingham who reprocesses passports for the criminal fraternity and who prefers to have the artwork done down here. The go-between ensures Bradfield and his client never have to meet, which is better for all concerned.’
‘How did you discover this?’
Proctor smiled. ‘Slowly.’ He drained his half-pint glass and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Stephanie thought about Barry Green and his sideline in altering the PIN codes on stolen credit cards. It felt as though she had borrowed the memory from someone else.
‘Straying a little, ain’t you?’
