by Knight, Ali
‘We’ve been here years. Couldn’t possibly afford to buy it now of course.’
He lay back and stared out at a balcony with pot plants and a wooden table and chairs, the lights on the river winking in the tide. How he’d love to light a big fat joint and sit here with CJ watching the boats slide by. ‘It’s gone up about a gazillion times. Darren?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Sorry, am I boring you?’
Darren got off the sofa – fast. ‘It’s amazing. Can I have a look around?’
She smiled and waved at him to go ahead as she pulled glasses from a cupboard and bent down for something. ‘What about a drink?’ she called as he headed for the rooms off the living area. ‘What do you want?’
‘I dunno. Beer?’
Her bedroom had piles of colour-coordinated cushions on a bed shaped like a sleigh and yards of fitted wardrobes with dustless, flat fronts. It was so different from his mum’s junkyard rail where her dresses and blouses and shoes lay piled up and disorganised.
There was an en suite wet room and in another part of the flat a bathroom with a sunken bath with a river view; and next to that the prize – a study. He hunted on the desk for files, but it was all immaculate and ordered. He spotted a filing cabinet.
He came back into the kitchen-cum-living room and took the beer she had poured into a glass for him. ‘Do you like that piece?’ She indicated a large modernist artwork hanging above a fake fire.
Darren felt the burden of having studied art – it meant everyone wanted your opinion on what they had bought, like a French person always being asked to recommend a wine.
‘It’s great,’ he ventured cautiously. To him it was bland, uninteresting work from the 1980s. There was a pause. She was expecting something more incisive than that, he realised. ‘There’s really great movement in it,’ he added, then to stop being asked to comment further he walked over to the window and stared down at the river. ‘Life must seem so different here from what you do at work.’
‘The job’s challenging, that’s for sure.’
‘So what do you do to get away from it all?’
She came towards him, a glass of wine in her hand. ‘I can certainly think of something.’
He grinned at her and she grinned back. ‘Well, this is very Mrs Robinson,’ she said slowly.
‘What?’
She gave a small laugh and sighed, enjoying herself. ‘Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft?’ He frowned and shrugged. But he liked the way she was standing, arm round her stomach. He took a long slug of beer. He wanted to touch her, smell her.
He put her glass of wine down on the floor and reached out and kissed her. She smelled of expensive cream and her hair was glossy and smooth. She was a great kisser.
She broke off, flustered. ‘You seemed so shy and timid when you started at Roehampton, but now I see you’re not at all like that.’
He put his hands under her thighs, carried her across the room and shoved her up against the kitchen island. ‘Hello,’ she said.
He started to pull her shirt over her head, to feel her body. ‘You look great,’ he said, pulling back to appreciate her.
‘I must do more exercise,’ she muttered. He kissed her neck, feeling her skin. His fingers felt nice running over the bumps of the moles and sunspots on her back.
They eventually fell backwards over the corner sofa. She writhed beneath him as she pulled off his T-shirt. ‘God, look at that,’ she giggled as she laid her palms on his abs. Darren looked down, nonplussed. ‘You have no idea how refreshing that is.’ She looked like she was touching something she shouldn’t. She was enjoying herself and he loved her for that and they tussled and play-fought on the sofa and then on the floor as they shed their clothes.
She began giving him a blow job and pleasure exploded across his body. It was true what CJ said about older women: the head they gave was ultimate. The river distorted into a beautiful mirage of lights outside the windows as he gave in to the sensations, but she stopped and grabbed his hand and they staggered through into her bedroom. Her bush was as big as a salad plate. She pulled him into her and soon she was coming, loudly and lustily and without being coy.
Darren lay back, Helen lying in his armpit as he stroked her hair. ‘God, that was great.’
‘I needed that.’ She giggled.
Darren smiled. It was great here with Helen, like he’d been transported to a movie set. He could be someone else, step out of his usual life. He wanted to pull out a joint and smoke it with her, in this ridiculously large and comfy bed. Maybe she’d make him eggs in the morning.
But now she was sitting upright, slapping him on the knee. ‘Chop chop, I have work I need to do.’
‘What, now?’
She stood and stretched, energised and invigorated. ‘Get dressed, you can catch a late bus back south.’
He struggled to his elbows. ‘Can’t I stay here? We can splash in that tub.’
She looked at him indulgently. ‘Fun’s over, for now.’
She headed across the room to the bathroom and he heard the shower start.
A volley of rain hit the plate glass window. He was downcast, his zenned-out mood evaporating. He got up, scratching, his mind beginning to drag itself from pleasure towards why he had come here in the first place. She was a product woman; he’d noticed that the bathroom was loaded with lotions, potions, scrubs and masks. Her shower would take time.
Guilt momentarily rooted him to the spot. He’d had a great night and it felt wrong to be abusing her trust by poking about in her private things; but then he heard his parents shouting at each other, the pain of loss permanently etched on his mum’s face, and he ran through into her office.
Her filing cabinet wasn’t locked. The drawers opened silently and he began to rifle through a series of hanging files. They were labelled: insurance, car, flat, employment, stuff belonging to Joel. It was all in order but it was Helen’s life, not the lives of her patients.
He checked the desk drawers but found nothing useful, hunted for her briefcase, which was sitting on top of the kitchen island, but the brown file he’d seen earlier that day contained only copies of a medical journal. He was frustrated at drawing such a blank. He stepped back into the bedroom and heard the shower go off; he jumped back on to the bed as she came out of the bathroom, a towel with tassels wrapped round her head. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thanks. Come on, clothes on.’
He got up and reluctantly pulled on his pants. ‘What work do you have to do now? Isn’t it all at Roehampton?’
‘There’s simply not enough time to complete everything there, not that the powers that be think that. So I catch up on paperwork here.’
‘Isn’t that a security risk? If the files get lost or something?’
She gave a defensive movement. ‘I keep them in a safe, it’s all strictly controlled, totally above board. Now, run along you little animal.’ She came over and traced her finger down his chest. ‘Gorgeous, simply gorgeous.’ She started tickling him but her nails felt sharp and he didn’t like it.
She saw him out and he took a last lingering look at the view and at her. She kissed him on the cheek and then she shut the door.
It was raining harder by the time he got through the lobby and out into the windswept courtyard. It took him an hour and a half on two night buses to get home.
36
Darren cycled to Roehampton the next morning feeling cloaked in failure. He was getting nowhere fast. His bad mood intensified when Kamal caught sight of him and hustled him into the locker room. When his boss was sure they were alone, he let rip. ‘You, fucker, need to be gone by the end of the week. Resign. The security review they’re doing in the wake of your love-fuck with Duvall makes it too risky for you and for me. Leave, or I’ll make you.’
Darren was exhausted and frustrated by his failure to find anything at Helen’s and was in no mood to be shoved about. ‘I’m a Level Two.’ Darren tapped his chest. ‘I have a sub team to organise.’ This in
reality involved nothing more than ticking a box on a sheet of paper, but that wasn’t going to stop him trying to pull rank on Kamal.
Kamal muttered something in Arabic, then said, ‘You are so out of order—’
‘Don’t hassle me again, I’ll tell the governor I don’t have the correct forms – I’ll be sacked, yeah, but you’ll be on a boat back to Tangiers.’
Kamal narrowed his eyes. Darren sensed that this was war, and there could be no prisoners. ‘You’re on Newman ward,’ Kamal said as he walked away.
Darren’s anger grew. Another day with no opportunity to see Olivia, Helen or the secrets in Helen’s office.
He was buzzed into the facility and began to clean down the long, isolated corridors. He no longer thought about what colours he would paint the walls if he had the chance, he didn’t draw surf on the floor to pass the time. He ran over everything Olivia had ever said to him, schemed about how he could be more proactive, glean more slivers of information. Eventually he was buzzed into the dayroom where he had first met Olivia. There was a group of inmates there but as he feared there was no Olivia, she would be sitting in a locked room somewhere far away from here.
He felt deflated. He knew there was very little chance he would ever see Olivia again. He felt keenly that he hadn’t made enough of the golden opportunity she had handed him just a few days ago. One on one, in a private conversation!
He began to mop the floor, noting that there was an extra member of staff here: the security review was changing practices, he was running out of time and taking a reckless risk of being discovered. Murmured conversation from some of the women filled the room. Others were reading newspapers; a small pile of papers sat on a table by the window. The top page of the paper fluttered slightly as he whisked his mop past it.
He mopped the floor where Linda had been attacked. There was no trace of the incident having ever occurred, except in his memory, but Olivia’s presence was all around him. Her words came back to him: I learned young and hard how a person suffers when power is held by another.
He looked up at the security camera in the corner, his actions being recorded by Sonny and Corey. He would have to try harder. Make more effort to get to the truth. Take more risks.
At the end of his shift Darren was pleased to find that Kamal wasn’t in his office and he was able to slip out of the changing rooms to the exit without having to see him. As he was queuing to leave, Nathan took one look at him and went so far as to put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Mate, you look like death.’
‘Got to get out of this job, man.’
Nathan grinned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve some news though, I’ve got a casting next week.’
‘That’s great.’ He really was happy for Nathan, a nice guy who deserved his break.
‘Cheer up, look, here’s Chloe, the finest-looking girl in Croydon.’
Chloe, in the queue ahead of Darren, turned round to look at Nathan. ‘Hi Nathan.’ She appraised Darren. ‘He looks tired, don’t you think?’ she said to Nathan.
‘He’s lovesick,’ Nathan said. Darren shot him a look. ‘He’s trying to get up the courage to ask you out.’
Chloe smiled, handed Nathan her bag for him to check and passed through the metal detector.
‘You fancy going for a drink with him?’ Nathan pressed.
Chloe was putting her bag strap over her head and across her body as she looked at Darren. He felt the deep blush of complete idiocy travelling up to his face. It was the final humiliation of his whole psychotic experience at Roehampton.
‘Yeah, I’ll go out with him, he’s cute.’ She turned with a flounce, shaking her curly hair, and looked back as she headed for her car.
‘I’ll meet you at Croydon clock tower, seven-thirty Friday,’ he managed to shout.
She held up her hand to wave and didn’t look back again.
Darren grinned, his feelings about the world doing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin.
Nathan gave Darren his catalogue-man smile. ‘See how it all works out?’
Darren gave him a fist-bump. ‘Thanks, Bradley.’
37
Mayfair, Central London
The man walked round the room and listened to the sharp crackle of the tarpaulin beneath his feet. He was naked and could feel its slippery, cool surface under his toes. He had draped it over the few pieces of furniture in the room, including the sofa bed so that its bright blue hues undulated like waves. He adored the sound as he moved as much as he loved this grace and favour flat, a workplace benefit the department had graciously bestowed.
The one-room studio was in a mews with attractive cobbles and tasteful window boxes brimming with summer blooms, but that wasn’t why he loved it. When he had been shown around a few years ago by a departmental secretary she had apologised for its size; bijou, she had muttered, with an embarrassed laugh. He, though, had been astounded at his immense good luck: the flat was on the first floor and had an entrance that led straight up from the back of the garage directly underneath.
That occasional work functions or department dinners kept him in town and meant he had to stay here didn’t bother his wife – she rarely had any desire to leave the vicarage in the country. He alone liked the city and all the distractions it had to offer.
The lights were off and the curtains drawn, his car in the garage below. He stood for a moment by the window, scanning the street, checking methodically for lights in windows or unusual movement. But this was central London at the weekend; it felt like a city subjected to a prolonged bombing campaign that had forced all able-bodied residents to flee for their lives. Nothing stirred. He let the curtain drop and turned back to the bed, careful to step over the rope.
The flat had a tiny kitchen area in one corner with a small fridge and cooker, and a breakfast bar from where one of two tatty kitchen stools had been removed. A tiny, fully tiled bathroom had a toilet and shower. The living area housed a wardrobe in which he had hung his suit and a selection of the blue shirts he always wore. His socks, pants and shoes were also in there on top of a fresh roll of tarpaulin, the door firmly closed. He had once had the problem of disposing of a suit that had got splattered.
He used the toilet, flushed. He would wash his hands later. The windows were firmly shut even though the evening was hot, but he had an air conditioning unit running – it helped with the smells and the whimpering that came from the bed.
One of the stools was jammed between the wardrobe and the window and a length of rope was tied round one of its struts, the other end pulling tight on the thin wrist of the girl on the bed. The old armchair had been pulled to the window and a second rope was secured round one of its legs and the girl’s other wrist.
He heard church bells ringing, mournful in the night-time stillness, and mused that God was the only thing that could help her now. He picked up his phone and took some photos of her. He was careful to include the oversize wellingtons she was still wearing; they made her look younger than she was.
At moments like these every sensation was beautiful to him: the bells outside, the rushing of blood through his head, her wide eyes. He had been livid with Gert Becker earlier in the week for putting a hurdle in the way of his desires, but now he felt generous towards the entire world. He typed Becker’s number, but before he clicked send he paused. Nine hours ago he had wanted to punish Becker for the extra risk he had been exposed to, but now he was feeling sated and generous. He wrote some text before he sent the image. ‘Love tarpaulin.’
He unpacked the video camera.
38
Sonny was two hours into his shift. The morning was hot and only going to get hotter. ‘One day, just one day, me like to push the big red button,’ Sonny said to Corey.
‘When the time comes, fool, my hand’s gonna be slamming the big red button,’ Corey replied.
Sonny shook his head and shifted in his chair. ‘Time come, me race you.’
‘You don’t stand a chance, cuz,’ Corey said, licking his lips.
The big red button was Lockdown, Armageddon, Point Zero, the End of the World. They all sounded like Hollywood films to Sonny. A security breach could mean one of only two things: an escape attempt or, since 2001, a terrorist attack.
The big red button sat high on the wall of the security room behind a thin film of safety glass and connected straight to the local police station. Once the glass was broken and the button pressed, an emergency alarm sounded throughout the hospital. All staff had been drilled in procedures should Sonny’s big hand ever make contact with that red shiny button. All interior and exterior gates and doors would automatically shut. A full police complement would be onsite in seven minutes.
In Sonny’s nineteen years at Roehampton, he had never slammed his palm down on that red button. ‘Me telling you, even if it never happen, when I retire, me still be dreaming ’bout it.’
‘Yo cuz,’ Corey said as Darren came into the room.
‘No nightmares from what happened with Linda I hope?’ Sonny asked.
Darren shook his head.
‘I’m glad to hear it, Darren, really glad to hear it.’
There was a companionable silence as all three of them watched the moving images of the car park on the monitors.
‘So many people drive here,’ Darren said, looking at the rows and rows of vehicles.
‘People like to take the easiest option,’ Sonny replied.
Corey shook his head. ‘People take the stylish option.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘That’s the governor’s Audi.’
‘The man has a nice set of wheels,’ Sonny agreed.
Darren caught Corey looking slyly at Sonny. ‘We could do his car.’
Sonny made a scoffing noise.
‘What are you doing?’ Darren asked, intrigued. He watched the cameras trained on the car park, saw Berenice from the kitchens step out of a white Ford Transit van.
Sonny leaned back, his face full of disapproval. ‘Corey here has a way of finding out things about people that they would prefer to keep private. He’s part of the internet generation, he thinks privacy is outdated.’
