Nearby, the object of Mona’s thoughts, the theatre owner’s new young wife, was attempting to discuss the earlier performance with Marcus Sigler and Delia Fortess, the show’s two leads.
Marcus was absurdly handsome, and knew it. He had positioned himself opposite a wall mirror, and had trouble avoiding its gaze. The atmosphere between the three of them seemed uncomfortable. Mona assumed this was partly because Judith Kramer had influence over her husband and could impose upon him to get rid of anyone she disliked, and the others knew it. But she suspected it was also because Judith knew absolutely nothing about the stage apart from the shows of Andrew Lloyd Webber, whom she adored, and therefore had nothing to bring to the conversation – not that this stopped her from holding court.
Mona studied the trio more carefully. The leading lady was staring hard into her martini. The leading man was looking at their hostess in ill-disguised pain. Had they all just had an argument?
Mona stepped a little closer and listened.
Judith Kramer had clearly said something that had upset the other two. And in trying to put it right, she had changed the subject by doing something unthinkable: she was discussing Macbeth. You simply didn’t mention the Scottish play in front of the company. Marcus Sigler was looking particularly uncomfortable.
A huge peal of thunder, the loudest yet, made everyone jump. Mona’s glass leapt in her hand and she spilled a little on the pristine white carpet. She glanced guiltily down at the scarlet splash of Rioja and could not help noticing that it looked like blood.
The skin prickled on her bare forearms. It felt like an omen of something terrible about to happen.
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
6
Fracture
Anna Marquand hated the litter-strewn alleyway. It ran behind Jamaica Road to the back of her terrace and was the fastest way to get from Bermondsey tube station to her back door. The problem was that she had to pass the sons and daughters of the Hagans.
The Hagans were a four-generation criminal family who lived in the street’s corner house. They often hung around at the mouth of the alley, watching and waiting for trouble to ignite. Three hard little girls with angry, feral faces and armour-plate attitude, two dim-eyed drug-flensed brothers in baggy bling and a morbidly obese child of indeterminate sex. They lurked in varying combinations depending on the night, as if on sentry duty.
The oldest boy worried Anna the most. His eyes followed her from beneath the arch of his baseball cap, defying her to return his stare. Anna had always presumed herself immune from the attention of men, but Ashley Hagan made a point of noticing her. He licked his lips as she passed.
“Don’t be intimidated,” said her mother. “They’re all bad apples, those Hagans, flashing their drug money around and behaving like they own the street. The old man used to sell stolen goods after the war, and now his greatgrandchildren are still doing it. The police never touched them, not then, not now.” But it was easy for Rose to say; she never went out any more, and waited at the window, watching for her daughter to arrive with the groceries.
Tonight the alley looked grey and empty. Two of the streetlights were out. Anna had a very good reason for not wanting to meet any of the Hagans. A week earlier she had argued with Bunny, the youngest daughter, over the McDonald’s containers that were nightly discarded on her back doorstep. The conversation had quickly escalated into threats from all three sisters, who had warned that they would stab her if she complained again. In one respect Anna’s mother was right: going to the police was likely to exacerbate the problem, so for a week she had avoided the alley.
But now a storm was breaking overhead and she had no umbrella, so she had taken the shortcut.
And someone was walking fast behind her.
She knew that looking back would represent an acknowledgement and continued to face forwards, but increased her pace.
Ahead, an unruly spray of buddleia had sown itself into the masonry in a thicket, the dense panicles of its pink flowers laden with raindrops. As she skirted around it her shoes slipped on the paving stones, nearly tipping her over. It took a concentration of balance to right herself and continue. The sharp footsteps behind briefly stopped, then quickened, closer now.
The Hagan girls always wore grubby pink tracksuits and trainers – a man, then, but which one of them? Someone in shoes, so an older member of the family. Anna told herself this knowledge was a safety mechanism, not paranoia, and that there was no reason to be afraid. As she walked, she located her house keys. She clutched them tightly in her right hand, swinging her shopping in the left.
Nearly home now.
She had reached the back door of number 14 Hadley Street, had unlocked it and dropped the keys in her shopping bag when she felt a sharp tug on the handles. In the four years she had lived with her mother in Bermondsey, she had twice been mugged for her mobile. She wasn’t about to lose another one, so she yanked back hard and felt the plastic bag stretching.
It was like pulling a Christmas cracker and knowing you had the half without the toy inside. She did not want to see into his eyes, in the same way that you would not stare at a dangerous animal. He was just waiting for something to fracture.
This was what life had become for Anna – an endless tug-of-war between her mother, her employers, the government, even strangers in the street. Suddenly sick of it, she let go. Let him keep the damn groceries.
The move caught her mugger by surprise. The bag dropped between them and was quickly snatched up by unseen hands. Anna dared to raise her eyes and look. Through splinters of rain she saw a baseball cap, a black jacket, a pale face lost to shadow.
The neon panel above the back door flicked on, casting a harsh mausoleum light; her mother must have heard the commotion and come into the kitchen. Anna used the moment to throw herself inside the house, locking the door behind her. She stood behind the barred glass and listened, her heart thumping, but heard nothing. Surely he should have run off?
“Call the police,” said her mother, but Anna knew there would be no point. Instead, she instructed Rose to go back to the lounge. She stood in the middle of the kitchen waiting for her pulse rate to drop. Then she did what so many British do after a moment of crisis. She made herself a strong cup of tea.
The rain fell harder, rattling the gutters and spattering the windows. Anna sat in the bright, empty kitchen with her steaming mug and tried not to think about anything. Her doctor had shown her how to do this whenever she was stressed. Now, though, something made her rise – a drop in the wind, a sudden silence – and she needed to see.
Quietly, slowly, she opened the back door and looked out. Her spilled shopping bag was still on the step. Gathering it up, she brought it inside. Her wallet, work folders, shopping – it was all intact.
The only things missing were her mobile phone and her keys.
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
7
Entropy
Gail Strong glanced at her watch. Eight forty-five p.m. It was too early to leave the party. She had no intention of going home yet. Her father was still furious with her for skipping the Irish embassy dinner at Grosvenor House and staying out all night, and the atmosphere in the house was frostbitten. Besides, she wanted to have some fun. She was feeling horny.
She looked around the penthouse lounge for available men and found the pickings pretty slim. It was a theatre crowd; surely they were meant to be attractive?
There were two cute young actors handling the play’s smallest roles, but they were obviously gay, and the only other members of the cast she hadn’t met were women. The stage doorman was ancient, at least forty-five, and the show’s producer looked like a total creep. A group of dull men in off-the-rack suits were clearly bankers. One of the waiters was quite fit but – well, a waiter.
Which just left the lead, Marcus Sigler, who was in his mid-twenties and totally hot. But he was still talking to Delia Fortess, his leading lady, the one with the big sixties-style hair and the false ey
elashes like garden rakes. At least they had managed to ditch the theatre owner’s wife, who was now having one of those don’t-let-every-one-see-we’re-arguing conversations with her husband.
Gail headed across to the windows overlooking the length of Northumberland Avenue and watched the rain coursing down the glass. Marcus was standing directly behind her. She glanced at his reflection and noticed that he was wearing low-cut Dsquared jeans and a River Island khaki T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms. She could price a man’s wardrobe from thirty paces. She wondered if he was screwing someone here – there were quite a few attractive single girls in the room.
Four old guys in D&G suits and patent leather Ferragamo shoes were hanging around by the door, eyeing the ladies lasciviously; they were obviously backers, and had been invited along out of politeness or because the director wanted to squeeze more money out of them. She had seen their type lurking around near her father at official functions so often that she could tell what kind of watches they would be wearing.
She knew she was looking good. She had great legs, and the tight little black skirt always caught men’s eyes. As she adjusted it, she noticed water pooling around the base of the window, coming through a seam in the glass. Moments later it had enveloped the left heel of Marcus’s trainers.
“Oh my God,” she said, touching him on the back, “your shoes are getting wet.”
He turned around, and now she caught the full effect of his eyes, a startling ocean green. He stared at her in surprise and looked down, lifting his feet from the water. “Hey, a bit of a leak. Thanks. I guess it’s hardly surprising with this weather.”
“I’m Gail Strong. I just joined the company.” She shook his hand.
He smiled. “I’m – ”
“I know who you are. I saw you when you took over the role of Emmett in Legally Blonde. You have a great singing voice.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I went twice, actually. Had a bit of a crush on you.”
“Did you now.” Marcus had a soft Irish accent that made her melt. His smile widened. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. Are you having fun?”
“Not really, no. I don’t know anyone.”
“Well, it’s a bit of a meet-and-greet for the investors, but these things have to be done. I guess if you’re here it means that Robert Kramer has just employed you.”
“He’s taking a chance. I’m standing in as ASM.”
They chatted easily for a few minutes. “Actually,” Marcus confided, “I’m dying for a cigarette. It’s because I’ve got a drink in one hand. They go together.”
“God, me too, I’m gagging. I think I saw a fire escape on the way in. I was wondering if it’s protected from the rain. I just had my hair done.”
“Come on then,” he said, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand.
That was when she knew she had him.
They found their way to the back of the room, then out into a corridor that led to the rear exit.
Marcus pushed open the fire escape door and stepped out. Rain sprayed through the diamond grating of the black iron staircase above them. It cascaded down the brickwork, rumbled through pipes, bounced from gutters and thrashed into drains, as if the world had sprung a leak and was subsiding into aquatic depths. The building had once been offices, but had been carved into residential apartments. The dead windows of other offices looked down on them, but everyone had gone home hours ago.
They had slunk from the party like thieves, propping open the door with an empty cigarette carton in case it closed and locked them out. Marcus sat on the stairs and inhaled deeply, funnelling blue smoke up into the damp air. “I love it,” he said. “Anyone who tells you they don’t is a liar. All that attention – of course acting is an ego trip.”
He handed the joint back. Gail had found it in her bag. She had got it from a Spanish waiter at an embassy dinner the week before. Her father would kill her if he thought she was smoking dope, which was why she always asked the waiters where she could score.
“But you’ll be playing a murderer every night. How do you get the audience to like you?”
“That’s an interesting question,” said Marcus. “Of course, every night is different. You never know who you’ll get in. I was in California last summer and I saw this teenage girl being interviewed on television. She had burned down her parents’ house one night because they wouldn’t let her watch her favourite TV programme, something like The X-Factor. They had died of smoke inhalation and she’d been arrested on suspicion of murder. And this is the terrible part – I remember thinking she was really sexy, even though she was probably a killer. It was the way she looked straight into the camera, and I could tell she was enjoying the attention. She’d realized she could become a celebrity. And she did when the interview appeared on YouTube. She got offered all kinds of modelling jobs. That’s the thought I hold onstage. Plus, I keep the top three buttons of my shirt open.”
Gail sucked on the joint, held the searing smoke in her lungs and tried not to cough as she exhaled. “I think you’re a little too pretty to make a convincing real-life murderer,” she said finally. “But you’re very good in the role.”
Marcus reached forward and slipped his hand around her waist. “I think you’re too pretty, too.” A moment later, she moved forward between his jeans-clad legs and kissed him, pressing down hard on his open mouth. Unbuttoning his jeans, she climbed the step and lowered her bare thighs onto his as the rain fell with renewed vigour.
Back at the party, Robert Kramer had noticed the water coming in through the window frame and had snapped at a waiter, ordering him to clear up the mess.
“What’s the problem?” asked Judith, joining him. She looked a little drunk.
“You’re supposed to be the hostess.” Kramer eyed his wife with fresh disappointment. “That means keeping an eye on everything. Christ, it’s not a very difficult job. You should be able to manage that.”
“I thought my job was to look beautiful and encourage those disgusting old men to hand over their cheques,” she bit back. “When can we get rid of them?”
“It’s too early yet. Did you check on Noah?” Their eleven-month-old son had almost taken his first tottering step unaided this week, and was asleep in his cot in the upstairs nursery.
Judith took out her pager and showed Robert the screen. “See for yourself. Not a peep.”
“That’s because it’s not switched on – look.” He turned the pager round and showed her the Inactive symbol.
“Damn. It’s not my fault. It keeps turning itself off in my pocket.”
“The window isn’t open, is it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, there’s a draught coming from somewhere. Go and check on him. You should have made Gloria stay this evening. It’s her job to look after him.”
“I couldn’t, Robert, her mother is dying. She has to get all the way down to Kent. She’ll be back by eleven.”
“Hurry up – I’ll see to this mess.”
Judith pushed away through the crowded room as the waiter came running with a bucket and sponges.
Out on the fire escape, Gail Strong pushed Marcus Sigler back against the metal staircase and licked his lips. They were now both naked below the waist, their clothing shoved down to their calves in a hampering tangle. Rain spattered through the trelliswork of the stairs above, dampening their clothes. Marcus bucked and Gail tightened her hold over him, and the staircase rattled, and something fell or slid – like a can of paint being pushed across a floor – and their bodies shook, and they saw nothing, felt nothing except the core of heat that joined them.
Judith closed the lounge door behind her and climbed the stairs, thankful to be away from the party for a moment. With so much forced laughter and so many guests working their private agendas, it was hard to know if anyone really liked her, or whether they simply saw her as the boss’s wife. And to have all the actors here in the flat, seeing how lavishly they live
d, surely that wasn’t a good idea.
She paused on the stairs and listened – something fell, an odd sort of sound. She stopped before the nursery door, a queer feeling tilting her stomach. Thunder rolled across the rooftops once more and the lights momentarily flickered. She depressed the handle and pushed, but the door refused to move. It wasn’t locked, so what was wrong?
She tried it again. Nothing. She called to the child, but there was no sound inside the room. Total silence. What to do?
She knew she should use her initiative, but her ability to make her own decisions had been excised when she agreed to marry Robert. So she turned and ran back downstairs.
“It’s not possible,” said Robert flatly. “That door is never locked.” His disbelief felt accusing.
“Then try it for yourself.” She grabbed his hand and led him away from the horde of investors.
They returned to the baby’s room and Robert tried the door. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened, hushing Judith. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled finally, straightening. “You left it unlocked?”
“You know I did, Robert. There’s no way of locking it without removing the key from the other side. I kept telling you to sort the door out.”
“Maybe Noah – ”
“For God’s sake, he’s not even able to get out of the cot!”
“Then I’ll have to break the door open. I don’t know what the guests will think.”
“I can’t believe you’re even thinking about them at a time like this – just do it.”
Robert placed his shoulder against the wood and pushed, but the door barely moved. “All right, stand back.” He raised his foot and kicked as hard as he could against the lock. The wood cracked a little but held. His second kick split the frame, and at his third the door popped open, swinging wide.
Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood Page 5
