Dying to Write

by Judith Cutler

  But then my attention surged back to Toad. What was he saying? Something about punishment? His reading had certainly changed – from that awkward monotone to something approaching liveliness. But even as I cursed myself for not concentrating, Matt interrupted: ‘I’m sorry to cut you off there, Garth. But we agreed ten minutes maximum, if you remember, and I’m afraid I’ve let you do nearly twenty already. Thanks. There’s a lot of potential there. Now: Jean?’

  Fifteen minutes of a nice lucid story.

  ‘Thanks, Jean. I’m sure we’ll be hearing that on Radio Four soon. Remind me to give you a list of Short Story producers before we leave tomorrow. Ted?’

  Ted was the sci-fi freak, thin, in John Lennon glasses. From him, read in a series of staccato stutters that made my heart bleed for him, a very short story about the plague striking modern-day Manchester.

  Mr Woodhouse’s sonnet.

  Tabitha’s erotic story, which sounded to me more like an expedition into a particularly foul-mouthed building site.

  A two-hander from the girls – a pilot for a sitcom series. It made everyone laugh, politely.

  Then Gimson: a reminiscence of his childhood, so rich in colour and smell and taste I was jealous. It wasn’t fair that he should write like that when I could offer nothing of my own. After that it would be cheap to read the cooperative curry poem. I caught Matt’s eye and shook my head as unobtrusively as I could. A tiny nod in return – point taken.

  ‘Those that can, do, and those that can’t, teach,’ said Toad with a vicious mixture of accuracy and complacency. ‘You’ll have to stand in the corner, Sophie.’

  ‘Another drink, I should think,’ said Matt, jovial as Falstaff. ‘Come on, Sophie – get busy with that wine!’

  Shazia hunched her shoulder away from Toad as I filled Matt’s glass. ‘I’ll be glad when he’s gone. I reckon it was he who fingered Naukez.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, he threatened to. And …’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘It’s OK; take your time.’

  She straightened her shoulders. ‘It was when I was killing the weeds on the terrace. He said it’d hurt my baby.’ She pressed her hands to her still flat stomach.

  I put my arm round her shoulders and kissed her cheek lightly. ‘He’s lying. Surely he was lying.’

  ‘That’s what my GP said. But he wanted me to believe it, he wanted me to be afraid.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ I said bracingly. ‘What you’ve done today was above and beyond the call of duty. Why don’t you slip away and go and rest – take care of Junior?’

  She looked wistfully at her watch, but shook her head. ‘Like the man says, I’ve started so I’ll finish. Only a few more hours. Come on, Sophie, you too – into battle!’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Four such a small number of people they contrived to make an enormous amount of noise. Reaction, I suppose, like the noise outside the exam hall after the last paper. Even the comments were similar: ‘I never thought I could do it but of course I just had to.’

  Matt and Hugh were mixing conscientiously, making serious and constructive comments on everyone’s efforts. No one would miss me for a few moments.

  Except Hugh. As I slipped past him, he touched the inside of my wrist and slid his finger delicately down into the palm.

  ‘Don’t forget we have a date with a bottle of champagne,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.’

  It turned out to be rather longer than that.

  I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything other than blank disbelief from Ian Dale when I propounded my theory. It sounded hollow enough, in all honesty, but something inside me was nagging viciously. He sat back in his chair in the stables, his shirt wet with sweat, and laughed when I expanded on it.

  ‘Let me get this straight, Sophie. Mr Kerwin has been very nasty to Shazia – which I don’t for a minute condone – and he looked and sounded evil when he was reading his piece tonight. I am therefore required to get a search warrant and do his flat over. Right? Oh, and I am to have him tailed wherever he goes. Unobtrusively. No. And before you ask, I won’t phone Chris and ask him to. And neither will you. He’s got one of his heads. His migraines.’

  ‘But he wanted to get everything tied up for tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘I know you mean well, Sophie. Don’t think I don’t. But you can’t do that sort of thing in the police, any more than you can check on someone’s medical files. He’ll be back on his pins tomorrow, with a bit of luck: leave it till then.’ He gave an indulgent and avuncular smile. ‘Tell you what, Sophie. I’ve been doing a bit of reading, like I promised. You know, the statements. And I’ll tell you something: several people remarked on how deeply they’d slept. There. No –’ he put up a hand to stop me – ‘no, there’s nothing I can do about it tonight. But it’s the first thing Chris’ll see tomorrow when he checks his electronic mail.’

  Ian would expect me to raise an eyebrow at such a sophisticated form of communication, so I did. And I smiled so blithely I hoped to allay any suspicions.

  I formulated my plan as I returned to the lounge. The worst thing about it, apart from its illegality, was that it would involve other people, directly or indirectly. I hoped it would be the latter.

  Everyone was still milling round the drinks table and Hugh, so I managed to winkle Matt out into the corridor. We stood side by side. If anyone had emerged, we’d have been able to shut up at once – my reputation couldn’t, in any case, be any more tarnished.

  ‘Matt, I want you to do something for me. Keep Shazia talking for a moment.’

  ‘With pleasure – but why?’

  I repeated what I’d said to Ian.

  ‘You could be right. He’s weird. But the fuzz’ll sort him out if he is.’

  ‘But not quickly enough. It’s urgent. I’m going to check out his place myself.’

  ‘Break into his house!’ Matt sounded shocked enough, but then smiled. ‘How d’you know where he lives? How will you get there?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I want you to talk to Shazia for five minutes while I get his address from her files. OK?’

  He nodded. ‘Better do that first,’ he said. ‘Or the rest of the mission will have to be aborted. Go on, off you pop.’

  So I trotted off to reception. I’d forgotten there’d be an officer on duty. I didn’t want to push my luck too far. I smiled innocently and reached, not for the course list, which was presumably confidential, but for the Birmingham telephone directory.

  ‘Were you the one the Vietnamese had a go at?’ I asked, while I thumbed through.

  Kerwin, G!

  ‘No. Me Mate Trace,’ she said. ‘Ever so good, she is. Karate and that. Mind you, so were they. Good job she can holler, our Trace.’

  I agreed, of course, and walked off with the phone book to the telephone. I even dialled the number, just in case he didn’t live alone. I let it ring on and on. But there was no reply. I memorised his address and returned the directory.

  Winson Green. He lived in Winson Green. Inner-city Brum. A canal; a railway line; an overcrowded prison; a big mental hospital; pretty new developments alongside the urban decay that reminded you that Handsworth wasn’t far away, nor the Lozells Road, scene of the riots a while back.

  Back in the lounge I managed to speak to Matt again. He scooped me outside, making an inaudible comment to Hugh that everyone would think was ribald. Possibly it was.

  ‘I’m in luck. He lives in Winson Green. It’ll only take me twenty minutes at the outside to get there. What’s the time now? Give me twenty minutes there, twenty back, and twenty searching his house – I should be back before eleven, with a bit of luck.’

  Matt laughed. ‘Great. Only a couple of problems, as I see it. Getting there and getting into the house.’

  ‘Your car. You will lend me your car? I’ll use a credit card to get in. And before you mention fingerprints, Shazia gave me some plastic gloves – I’ll wear tho
se. Hang on.’

  The door was opening. Whoever was coming out would see me and Matt in enthusiastic but spurious embrace.

  It must have been effective as camouflage goes because Hugh didn’t seem very happy. But he listened while Matt outlined my plan. Then Matt made an important amendment. The Fiesta wasn’t up to it, Matt said. It had been stationary so long it wouldn’t start when he’d tried it earlier. He’d have to get the RAC to get him on the road tomorrow.

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t lend me yours,’ I said hopefully to Hugh.

  ‘You suppose right. It’s only insured for me and – named drivers,’ he said. ‘But I could always act as your chauffeur. Provided Matt promises to keep Garth here. Oh, go over his screenplay, for goodness’ sake. And throw in a quick lesson on apostrophes while you’re at it. He uses them like other people use pepper.’

  What had seemed so simple when I was full of adrenalin now seemed a crazy enterprise. How could I imagine that I’d be able to break into a man’s home – me, a more or less respectable college lecturer? It was simply outside my experience, outside my imagination, outside my moral code. Then I thought of Kate, and of Toad’s eyes, and I stiffened whatever resolve I had left.

  Hugh was driving without saying much, but as we reached the outer-circle route I could feel him getting tense.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked.

  ‘Have you noticed all those little knots of youths?’ he said. ‘They look like trouble to me. Have we much further to go?’

  ‘Couple of miles at most. How d’you mean, trouble?’

  ‘Just a feeling. A hot night like this. All these disaffected kids. Can’t wait to get back to Eyre House, to be honest.’

  He flicked the radio on, switching from Radio Four to Radio Three and then off altogether.

  ‘Can you navigate from here? There’s an A-to-Z in the door pocket.’

  So we picked our way through mean streets towards meaner. At traffic lights an XR3 tried to drift us into the kerb. I heard the click of the central locking. Then Hugh shoved the car into gear and flung it forward on to the pavement.

  ‘They got my secretary that way last week. Luffed her into a telegraph pole. Stole her handbag and shoes and make-up. Good shoes, you see – dresses well, Katya. I’ve had her a car phone fitted now. Shutting the stable door, of course.’

  We bumped free on to the road again and set off fast, in the opposite direction to the one we wanted. I waited till he paused for directions to tell him so. And I found a circuitous route back.

  And, all of a sudden, we were there.

  The street was old, full of two-up, two-down houses. There was scaffolding up to some of the roofs: the old slates were being stripped. Skips marked the builders’ progress. There were miniscule front gardens, even smaller than mine, reduced further by tiny bay windows. I’ll swear the odd one still showed off an aspidistra. The front doors were wood, once solid, but now in many cases scuffed and broken. Instead of having an entry for every pair of houses, there was one for every six. There would be a path along the back of all the houses separating them from their gardens, if that wasn’t too grand a word.

  What I prayed now was that Toad didn’t live in the middle of a block but at the end. Householders aren’t supposed to put gates across the back path, but those with dogs or children or even a natural preference for privacy often do. And I didn’t want to meet gates or dogs, whether vociferous or sneaky nippers of ankles.

  Parking was going to be a problem too. No garages, of course, so the only place anyone could park was on the street. Hugh drove slowly, scanning for house numbers. Most front doors were completely bare. And I hardly wanted to burgle the wrong house. But we could find number 7 and number 9, so we could guess Toad’s house with a reasonable degree of accuracy. And although it didn’t have an entry at the side, there would be only one gate or dog to deal with.

  ‘The omens are improving,’ I whispered to Hugh as he squeezed into a space at the kerb about thirty yards from number 11.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said flatly. ‘I think you’re taking too many risks. It’s such a wild shot.’

  If he’d said that before, he might have dissuaded me. I rather wished he had.

  I turned my up collar – I’d changed into a dark shirt – and pulled on the plastic gloves. Then I reached for my torch. My Barclaycard was in my pocket.

  Hugh swore.

  ‘What the hell are you doing with those gloves?’ I demanded.

  ‘Trying to put one on without tearing it.’

  ‘But you’re not coming with me,’ I said.

  ‘Try and stop me. Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘But not in the house. From the car, Hugh. You’re my getaway driver. And if you’re not in the car, how shall we make sure there’s still some wheels left on it?’

  ‘Car alarm,’ he said.

  ‘Some of my students can kill those in twelve seconds. And I want you to start moving towards me as soon as you see me coming. And if the police turn up, just get the hell out of it and leave me –’

  ‘Oh, yes. And have you mugged? Raped? OK, I stay here. And I give you ten minutes. Not a second longer. Not because you’re scared but because I am: right? Here.’

  He kissed me on the lips: brisk, businesslike and tender.

  I could have ben sick as I walked up that entry. As something brushed my legs I had to swallow down the bile. But when I realised it was only a cat I allowed myself to relax, slightly. There was no dog barking at the cat. There was a gate, but it was well oiled. Then the path ran straight through to Toad’s house. His kitchen door had a Yale lock. I’d never actually used a credit card to force a lock. I’d seen it done on TV, of course, and Chris had given me a demonstration. I did what I thought he’d done: slide the card in and jiggle, authoritatively. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. I tried again. Nothing. I could have sworn aloud with frustration. All my precious time oozing away. But then I saw the gods might after all be on my side: one of the windows wasn’t properly shut. It was a narrow one, running at the top of the frame. One of the larger, lower windows might just open too, with a bit of luck. The glass was frosted – presumably it had been cheaper to fit a bathroom into the old scullery than into an upstairs room. At any rate the wood had warped, and I was able to prise it open with a bit of slate someone should have put in a skip.

  I lifted the dustbin – empty and plastic – to where I thought I could reach. Up and in. Nearly. My fingers screamed with the pain from Thursday’s bruises, and I caught my breath.

  If I stood on the windowsill, and if the rotten-looking wood didn’t give way under my feet, I might just be able to reach through the upper window and lift the catch on the lower one. Just. Just!

  I moved the collection of aftershaves and half-squeezed toothpastes and sickly-smelling sponges to one side. Just room for one foot on the sill. And the left knee. I would have to turn and let myself backwards into the bath. Feeling terribly professional, I swilled my muddy footprints down the plughole. Should I leave my shoes on? The thought of fumbling with laces convinced me I should.

  I wouldn’t use the torch in the bathroom. Might have to in the kitchen – there were too many mats and shoes to fall over. What on earth would someone like Toad eat? But I didn’t want to shine the torch much above floor level.

  There were two living rooms. The back one opened directly off the kitchen. There were two doors. One led to a minute corridor and thence to the front room. The front door opened directly onto this. I needed to establish an escape route so I looked quickly at the door – yes, there was only a Yale lock. I turned the knob and the door opened. But if I was in a hurry to escape, I might well fumble. Hadn’t I read somewhere that burglars would leave the door on the latch but held to with a book? I latched it, then wedged it shut with Toad’s telephone directory.

  Right. Upstairs.

  There were two bedrooms. One was just a junk room. Did he never throw anything away? Old clothes. Several picture
s turned to the wall. An ironing board. Nothing obvious.

  His bedroom. It smelled of male sweat. His laundry lay in an unwashed heap.

  Come on, Sophie. Think. Hugh’s sitting out there in a Winson Green crawling with violent youths – more at risk than you. Get a move on.

  Back into the junk room. Piles of magazines. A lot of sickening porn. Two photo albums. Some old records. A music stand. A scrapbook. I opened it at random. Postcards of fluffy kittens. I was about to throw it down when I noticed newspaper cuttings in the back. Some hunt sabbing. The liberation of mink from a fur farm. A whole wad about Patti Hearst. I didn’t throw it down.

  Back to the bedroom, which was at the front. Men’s voices were getting closer.

  The stairs were too steep to run down. I slipped and slid without hurting myself. But I dropped the scrapbook. It skidded under a heavy sideboard. I burrowed, coming up filthy but successful. And there was something else, another pile of magazines. I flicked quickly through: True War Stories, True Crime, Real-Life Crime, A Weekly Encyclopaedia of Crime.

  Halfway down, there it was. Lesley Whittle. The Black Panther.

  And I was on my feet and at the front door.

  I was so busy slipping the catch back and closing it silently behind me, picking up the torch and trying to get my night vision, I didn’t notice the youths. Not at first.

  It wasn’t me they were after. It was Hugh. Whitey in his big flash car.

  Hell and hell and hell!

  Once upon a time, Andy had taught me to whistle through my fingers, very loudly. I could try that. But Hugh’d have the windows shut and mightn’t hear. I could scream. Everyone would hear that. But burglars didn’t want everyone to hear.