Girl Seven

by Hanna Jameson

  A dark laugh. ‘Fine, but if you have any reservations about what I’m doing, I’d really like you to tell me. It’s your job, not mine.’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  I thought about asking him about the Russians. He did work for some, after all. But I was still too shaken by the day’s events to talk about them. If I told him about the Russians Mark might find himself with a conflict of interest and decide to pull out.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Call me tomorrow if you end up going to the prison.’

  ‘Have you ever been to a prison before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fascinating places, from a strictly anthropological point of view. Brings out the base instincts in people. I’ve heard prison guards take bets on arranged fights and then “accidentally” fail to lock up certain cells. Something about uniforms, or cramped hierarchical environments.’ A pause. ‘I’ve never been asked to go after someone inside a prison before, but sometimes I plan how it might go... for the challenge.’

  ‘Mark... It’s three in the morning.’

  ‘Sorry. Point taken.’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ he said, before hanging up.

  I was alone in the room again.

  There was no point staying awake all night chewing my lips to shreds so after a while I turned the light out and went to sleep.

  I couldn’t help wondering if the Russians had planted something in the flat to watch me. It seemed plausible: plausible enough an idea for me to torture myself with. But at that moment I couldn’t be fucked to look.

  I wasn’t sure that I loved Noel, not properly. Not in the way that people were meant to love and care about each other, but the one time I thought I might have done was when he took me to the art gallery.

  It was the National Portrait Gallery. Lucian Freud. He walked me around, not because he particularly liked art, but because he knew I did. It was the only time he ever really deviated from his routine for me.

  ‘Had an eye for the larger lady,’ he remarked.

  ‘He liked the way they moved.’ I tried to put it in a way that he would understand. ‘Look at the skin; there’s so much texture in the different shapes, so much shade. It’s much more interesting than a skinny human body. It’s like a landscape.’

  He pulled a face. ‘I know you’re into this kind of thing, love, but you know... this guy was almost certainly a massive raging sex offender.’

  I snorted. ‘Well, yeah. Maybe.’

  ‘I mean, that one of his kid on the floor.’ Noel shook his head. ‘Not right. Not right in the head. If I had a daughter I wouldn’t... Fuck, I’d take the face off any guy who looked at her like that. It’s all... urgh, look at it, it’s all sexual and wrong.’

  It was the first time I’d heard him talk about kids. He was godfather to both of Ronnie’s but he’d never shown much interest in having children himself. I was dying to know if he’d ever talked about it before. Had he wanted them? Did Caroline want them? I wanted to know everything about Caroline. Sometimes I thought that I was more fascinated by her than I was by Noel. I wanted to know what it was that made him love.

  I nudged him. ‘Are you trying to say I’m not right in the head for liking this?’

  ‘You... You’re not right in the head, no, but that’s fine because I fucking love your head, it’s beautiful.’ He kissed my hair. ‘I’m your head’s biggest fan. I’d go see your head headline Wembley.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘You see what I did there? Headline?’

  ‘Get off.’

  But I loved it when he spoke to me like that. I just wasn’t able to do it back.

  We walked around and around for something like four hours.

  Noel stopped in front of one painting, perturbed.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked, stopping beside him and slinging an arm over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s freaky.’

  I read the title: Man with a Feather. It was a self-portrait, but the colours were flat and the arms were too long. Behind the man stretched a body of dark water, with stepping stones, and a house. The house should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t, because the windows were full of the same dark water. In one was the silhouette of a crude bird. In the man’s hand was a feather.

  ‘I don’t know, it’s probably the least rapey thing in here.’

  He couldn’t help smirking. We loved the word ‘rapey’. Daisy used it a lot. Everything to Daisy was ‘a bit rapey’.

  ‘Yeah but... he’s just stuck out there, isn’t he, and those things are in his house. Those things are all in his house.’

  He stayed in the same spot for a long time, looking at that painting, but that wasn’t what scared me. What scared me were the painted women: textured and trapped inside the frames, beneath the ominous shadow of the painter. The longer I looked at these women, the more I thought about my own situation. It was then that I decided I’d never be owned by somebody, because to be owned just put you in a painting. It trapped you for the rest of your life, looking out at the world with dull eyes.

  That night Noel offered to pay for a flat for me, a flat of my own. I turned him down, and I turned him down every night he offered after that. I barely so much as let him buy me a drink.

  He pretended to be exasperated by it but I knew that he wasn’t. He liked it.

  It was only now that I realized it was because it reminded him of Caroline.

  13

  I met up with Mark late in the morning and he was shaking his head by way of greeting. He’d requested that we meet at a nearby library, which I found odd. But then Mark was so thoroughly odd sometimes that I felt able to dismiss it. The outside was grand and stone, with something Latin written across the entrance. There were a couple of alcoholics sitting on the steps outside.

  ‘No prison visit then?’ I asked.

  ‘No name yet,’ he replied, stopping to finish off a cigarette. ‘But I wanted to ask you a few more questions and... this might seem unorthodox, but I wanted to try something. An experiment of sorts, if you’ve got a good enough memory for it.’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good memory. What did you have in mind? Anything to do with why we’re here?’ I gestured up at the library.

  ‘Yes, actually. I need quiet. Come on, let’s go inside and wait in the café. I could kill someone for a soy latte. Not literally but... Well, maybe literally.’ He smiled.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Someone who may be able to help. He won’t know anything about you or this job. It’s all completely confidential.’

  ‘How can he help then?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He threw away the cigarette and indicated for me to precede him inside the building. ‘How’s Noel?’

  ‘He’s... I haven’t seen him in a while.’

  Mark walked us both into the bright library café and bought me a green tea with a knowing smile on his face. He sipped his latte and let out an orgasmic sigh of satisfaction. Behind him, a bespectacled student obscured by an Apple Mac watched us disapprovingly.

  As we sat down he took a breath and said, ‘You and Noel are more than friends, aren’t you?’

  ‘Noel’s not friends with any of us, he’s our boss.’

  ‘Your mouth moves differently when you talk about him. This side kinda goes up... It’s like a twitch, you probably don’t even realize you do it.’ He spread his hands. ‘Look, I don’t care and I’m not trying to be smart or sound like your therapist. I just noticed. It’s my job to notice things like that.’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. It was hard not to fidget and keep adding to his visual cues but the chairs were so damn hard...

  ‘Do you want cake?’ he asked, unable to hide the curious glance he shot down at my scratched palms.

  ‘No,’ I said a little too quickly, before I laughed at myself. ‘Sorry, it’s just a weird subject for me to be talking about like this. Why do you care what Noel does with his spare time anyway?’

 
‘I don’t, I just love gossip. I like knowing things, even if it’s just trivial stuff. Knowledge is power and all that.’

  His tone was reassuring.

  He took another sip of his coffee. ‘But is he good in bed? Because I’ve always been quite curious about that.’

  I grinned and gave him the finger.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, but I won’t hold out for any details. I’ve always had him down as a strong but tender kinda guy.’

  I looked over his shoulder at the entrance, stifling the urge to laugh.

  No one was making their way in our direction yet.

  ‘Who is your friend that’s coming and what does he do?’ I asked, anxious to discuss something other than Noel.

  ‘He’s my roommate actually; we share a flat. He’s one of my best friends and he has a real talent for drawing. Much like you, he’s an artist, but he’s best at portraiture. He can really capture a person.’

  I frowned. ‘And you want him to... what?’

  ‘I want you to describe the man who spoke to you. The man you couldn’t name who was dressed normally. My friend can draw him so I have someone to look out for. While we don’t have a name, it may be the best we can do. Do you think you can do that?’

  There wasn’t a single detail I couldn’t recall about that man’s face. I’d never thought about drawing him myself. My talent had never been for replicating people. People weren’t abstract enough for me.

  ‘Yeah, I can do it. When is he coming?’

  ‘In a moment. He’s coming from north of the river. Can I ask, did you ever meet another officer in charge of the investigation into the deaths?’

  I racked my brains. ‘No, never.’

  ‘No one ever introduced themselves as such?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I’m having some trouble getting hold of the case files and I’ve... It’s peculiar. I’ve never had this problem before. Everywhere my informants look they can’t seem to find it. No reports, photos, no evidence logged. Quite a lot of it seems to have been moved. Can you think why this might be? Maybe the Japanese authorities wanted to look into it because a Japanese citizen had been murdered?’

  ‘Maybe. I never spoke to anyone from Japan either.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that, it’s just... It’s not what I expected. It’s usually the simplest stage of looking into any case. They’re all usually just there. Accessible, you know.’

  I stiffened even more in the chair. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. It might just be a miscommunication.’ He gazed outwards, to the shelves and shelves of books. ‘Reminds me of this other job... No, it’s nothing. Reminds me of nothing. Don’t worry about it.’

  I saw a man enter the café, search the place until he saw Mark and walk towards us. He wasn’t as tall as Mark, with tanned skin and a face that I couldn’t define as attractive or not. I recognized him, but I wasn’t sure where from.

  Mark turned and stood up to hug him. ‘Hey, Nic, thanks for coming.’

  Nic...

  Nic hugged Mark without taking his eyes off me. They were shockingly blue and hidden partially by his fringe and wayward hair. I went to shake his hand and as I did it dawned on me where I’d seen him before.

  ‘Oh, you’re Daisy’s...? Sorry, you know Daisy, right? I work with her. I think I’ve seen you pick her up a few times.’

  Nic stared at me uncomfortably as I stammered out my greeting, but then smiled and let go of my hand. He had a Roman nose and sharp canines not dissimilar to Mark’s.

  ‘Yeah, I’m Daisy’s... I know Daisy. And you’re called...’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Yeah, you heard it right. Like the number.’

  ‘Right.’

  We shook hands and Mark looked between us as Nic sat down.

  ‘I didn’t know you two knew each other?’ he said, looking amused.

  ‘We don’t,’ I replied. ‘I work with his... girlfriend. Daisy. You probably know her if you guys live together. Obviously you must know her, I guess.’

  Fuck, I thought. If only I could find a way to be present at a dinner chat between these two. I’d have to ask Daisy about it the first chance I got.

  ‘You wanted me to draw something?’ Nic said quietly, sounding keen to move the conversation on to something else. He reached down into the bag he had dropped beside his chair and started to take out a notepad and some sharpened pencils.

  Mark sat forwards. ‘Yes. If Seven describes someone to you, do you think you can draw something close to what she can remember?’

  ‘Um, yeah.’ Nic looked at me. ‘Only you will be able to tell if it’s accurate or not, but yeah, I can certainly give it a go. You’d have to remember the face in some detail – will that be OK?’

  ‘Yeah. How long do you think it will take?’ I asked.

  ‘As long as it takes. I guess. I’ve got most of the afternoon if it takes ages.’ He smoothed his hand over the paper a few times, as if soothed by it.

  Nic seemed nice, I thought. Nic Caruana. But I couldn’t imagine him and Daisy together. Unless he had a zany and talkative hidden alter ego that came out when he was drunk, he seemed too humourless and awkward for her to be able to cope with.

  ‘I can write down build and stuff,’ Mark said. ‘Just try and remember the face, that’s what I need in detail. Sorry, Nic, do you want anything?’

  ‘I’m good to go.’ Nic smiled at me, pencil in hand. ‘This is the nicest thing you’ve called me to help with in years.’

  I realized that everyone was waiting for me to say something, so I thought back to the Relatives’ Room and conjured the scene again. The yellow foam, the dripping from the teaspoon, the way the officers left...

  ‘He has a wide face... with slight jowls. Not really any chin. He’s about fortyish, maybe. I’m not good with ages. He’s older, anyway. He had a round face with er... not much hair. But the hair he does have is swept into this thin comb-over. It looks really greasy. It was horrible actually. But he might not have any hair now, I suppose.’

  ‘Like this?’

  I watched the blank page as Nic’s pencil swept across it, creating shape with self-assured speed. Every so often his jaw jutted out a little with concentration.

  ‘Maybe. With the jowls it’s more like a collapsed rectangle. Sunken in at the bottom.’

  Nic nodded and paused. ‘Eyes? It’s easier to work from eyes first for me.’

  ‘Small, dark, almost black, heavily lidded, with more lines underneath. There weren’t that many at the edges.’

  ‘Like this?’

  I took a breath as the eyes formed within minutes, and stared out at me from the table.

  Nic was looking at the piece of paper like a lover, in an almost trance-like state. His eyes were half closed. I was surprised he could work like that but I was impressed; I could kinda see what Daisy saw in him, in this silent humble self-expression.

  ‘Is this OK? Please tell me if it’s shit,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not! No, it’s really not shit.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Mark agreed.

  I noticed that Mark was watching Nic too, with an affectionate yet wistful expression on his face that almost made me feel like I was intruding. No, not wistful. Pained. He probably didn’t realize that he was doing it either...

  ‘I’ll photocopy this when I’m done and leave one for both of you,’ Nic mumbled, shading and shading. ‘You might find it useful; it might... jog your memory more. I don’t know. I hope this is OK.’

  I wasn’t sure how much I enjoyed the idea of having the image floating around the house for me to look at every day, but I could see his point.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what this is about?’ I asked, surprised that he was going to this amount of trouble.

  I expected him to take the bait but Nic smiled.

  ‘No. Really, no.’

  14

  When my grandmother, my mother’s mother, died, my mother refused to le
t me see her on her deathbed.

  It was during our second phase of living in London. I was eleven years old and sitting outside in the hospital corridor with the rest of our family. Everyone was crying but me. Of course I was old enough to understand death by then; I just didn’t care in the same way they did. She’d never given me anything that would cause me to miss her. I was sad because my mother was sad, but I was also aware that it was nothing more than an emotional formality.

  She died of some terminal lung disease, inflated with painkillers and drowning in a combination of her own bodily fluids. The only things I remembered about her later were her poorly-​knitted jumpers, the thread veins in her cheeks that had fascinated me, and what she had said to my mother about me before she died.

  I wasn’t meant to hear it, but oftentimes the only way my parents could communicate anything of worth to me was indirectly. Eavesdropping, they called it. Loitering, hidden by doorways, was the only way I learnt anything worthwhile as a child.

  My parents were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, my father with his back to me. He was pretty useless in situations like these, but occasionally he’d reach over and hold her wrist, like an anchor, just keeping her here.

  I sat on the floor outside the door with a drink, in my pyjamas.

  ‘Why didn’t she want to see Kiyomi?’ my father asked, at some point.

  ‘Oh, you know how she is.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Exactly the same as every other time we tried to make her see her.’

  ‘I always thought that was all just heat of the moment? If she misbehaves, I understand that—’

  ‘She’s a very superstitious woman... Was a very superstitious woman.’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘She was raised very differently to you and me.’

  My father took his hand from her wrist. ‘But no one really believes in that sort of thing nowadays. Not even the lunatic Christians in America really believe in... you know, the Devil and hell, all that stuff. It’s not of this time.’

  ‘She’s not of this time. I mean, she wasn’t of this time. Her father was a vile man, a vicar. A sadist, if I ever met one. I was always amazed she remained as sane as she did. Her own mother didn’t.’