She had weighed and chosen her words carefully. She could drive Donovan, be a sounding board for anything that came up. That kind of thing. Her interviews had been done, everything taken care of. Amar was more than capable of running the business, fielding any new offers of work. Finding Jamal, even.
She had put forward a very persuasive argument.
Donovan felt she was keeping something back or not telling him something. But he didn’t feel this extended to a hidden or separate agenda, so he had agreed. Glad of the company but not wanting to admit it.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘But you’ve got to emphasize to Amar that when he finds Jamal he’s got to make him feel safe. Safe. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘That’s the only way we can get him to stay in one place and be settled long enough to talk to us with any degree of recall about what’s on that disc. What was on that disc.’
If Jamal’s still there, thought Donovan. If he can be found.
‘OK.’
Decided.
A car in the middle lane gave a small, vague signal, began to drift to the outside lane. Peta pressed the horn, flashed her lights. The car moved swiftly back, as if jolted awake from a lilting dream. The Saab cannonballed past.
‘Testosterone levels high today?’ asked Donovan.
‘Are cars just for boys, then?’ Peta replied, eyes staying ahead of her.
Donovan said nothing.
‘I’d hate to be thought of as a girlie girl.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
Peta looked briefly at him, smiled. Pushed down harder on the accelerator.
Donovan had always had an ambivalent relationship with cars, taking public transport whenever possible and viewing them only as a necessary evil. Donovan would never have driven like Peta was doing; he was too fearful of crashing. Peta handled the Saab with the skill of a rally driver: a speed junkie but in complete control.
Smoothly guiding the car like a heat-seeking missile.
Donovan shook his head. Resumed his lookout for police.
They reached Crouch End by early dusk.
The flat, wide sterility of the M1 had given way to the choked, claustrophobic North Circular. The road encircled Inner London like a too-tight elastic band round a wrist, keeping it held together but throbbing painfully.
Tree-lined streets and premium-priced flats of unremarkable design gave way to characterless retail parks, floodlit billboards and urban blight. Cars were driven in neo-grid-locked, selfish desperation; traffic moved like one huge, Darwinistic, carbon monoxide-pumping snake.
Even Peta seemed cowed.
‘Don’t know how anyone could live here,’ she said.
‘It’s the place to be,’ said Donovan.
‘You really believe that?’
Donovan looked out of the window. Everything seemed squashed together, crushed down, crowded both in and out. Aggression behind every encounter, easily escalating: accidental pavement collision becoming territorial threat becoming call for retaliation becoming nasty, bloody fight.
Urban paranoia.
London living.
‘Not any more,’ he said.
He directed her off the North Circular, away from urban survivalism through more affluent, leafy areas. Although the houses became bigger, the streets wider, Donovan couldn’t shake the feeling of paranoia, of threat.
Maybe it’s just being out of the city so long, missing its rhythm, its beat, he thought. Maybe it’s me.
Maybe it’s who I’m going to visit.
They drove into the Broadway, the heart of Crouch End. Independent bookshops, exotic restaurants and cafés, gas-tropubs and expensive, exclusive furniture shops. All well-preserved Edwardian and Victorian architecture, huge, mature trees dotted along the streets.
‘This is quite pleasant,’ said Peta.
‘I used to think so.’
And he did. As they drove, his mind slipped back a few years and he could almost glimpse his younger, more confident and idealistic self walking along the pavement. The working-class northern kid with the glittering, award-winning media career ahead of him, the beautiful Scottish wife who directed TV news and current affairs programmes at his side, the young family. A man with no concept of failure, only success.
‘Which way now?’
Donovan blinked. His younger self was gone, dissipated to mist and shadows like a CGI ghost. Never real in the first place, only an artful construct.
‘Next right,’ he said.
Peta followed his instructions.
‘Pull up here,’ he said.
The car stopped on Weston Park. He looked around. Took it all in. At the top of the street he could see his old flat. Just as he had left it. He felt strange; like déjà vu, or re-entering a dream.
It was becoming harder to breathe. His body gave out a difficult sigh.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I doubt we’ll get back to Newcastle tonight. D’you want to ring round, find a hotel for the night?’
‘Sure you don’t want me to come inside with you?’
‘I think it’s better if it’s just me.’
Peta nodded.
Another sharp intake of breath. ‘Right. I’ll go and see if anyone’s in.’
Peta looked at him. ‘Didn’t you phone ahead? Tell your wife you were coming?’
Donovan was pleased his features were obscured by shadow. He shook his head.
‘Why not?’
Donovan looked out of the window. Found himself staring at a brick wall.
‘Thought if she knew I was coming she might not be here.’
Peta sighed. ‘Give her a call. Now. It’ll be an even bigger shock if you just turn up.’
Donovan kept staring at the wall. ‘Look, Peta,’ he said. ‘It’s … there’s something I should tell you.’
Peta placed a hand on his arm. Her voice was soft. ‘I know, Joe. About what happened. Give her a call.’
Donovan looked at her. So this was what she was keeping back, not telling him. He nodded.
‘OK.’
He got out of the car. His legs were less than steady. He closed the door, took out his mobile, dialled a number he had never forgotten.
It took him three attempts, his fingers shook so much.
It rang. He couldn’t breathe. Was answered.
And there was that voice again. The one he used to think he would hear every day for the rest of his life.
Annie. His wife.
‘Hi,’ he said in response to her greeting. ‘It’s me.’ And then, just in case she had forgotten, ‘Joe.’
He heard a gasp at the other end of the line as if she had just taken a physical blow to the stomach.
Then silence.
Donovan heard static. His own breathing.
‘Joe …’
‘Yeah.’
‘What d’you … this is …’
‘I know,’ he said, his voice sounding strange, disembodied. The conversation unreal. He took another deep, difficult breath. ‘Look … I need to … to come to the house. Get something. See you.’
‘When?’
‘Now. I’m standing on the street. Down from the flat.’
He heard footsteps on the line, saw the front bay window curtain twitch.
‘Well …’ Annie sighed. ‘You’d … you’d better come in.’
Donovan sighed, relieved. ‘Thanks.’
He broke the connection. Stood looking at the phone. Then bent down to the car window. Peta lowered it.
‘She’s in,’ he said.
‘Good luck.’
Donovan nodded, already looking at the flat. The front door had opened. He could see a figure standing there, back-lit by the interior glow.
Donovan walked towards that glow.
He felt her eyes on him as he approached. Unwavering. Unflinching. A human CCTV camera. With added judgement.
He reached the gate, faltered. Placed his hand on the bricks to steady himself. His breathing laboured again.
Annie wat
ched him, unmoving.
The path was authentic Edwardian tile, black and white in a repeating pattern. Donovan could remember having it restored. He walked slowly up it.
Reached the door.
And Annie.
She stepped aside, allowed him entry. Didn’t meet his eyes.
He stood inside the hallway, looked around. Everything was familiar, almost as he recalled it, but not quite. Little things: new pictures on the wall, different phone. Newer coats hanging on the rack. Furniture slightly moved. Subtle differences. Like a remembered dream dragged through to daylight.
Annie closed the door behind them. Donovan gave a small jump at the noise.
‘Go through,’ she said. ‘You know where everything is.’
He walked into the living room. The same sensation. Sofa and chairs the same only older, books, CDs and DVDs on the shelves newer. The rug covering the stripped boards unfamiliar. New.
The warmth of the house was still there. Donovan felt it tugging at him, drawing him back. It tempted him with the promise of a comfortable chair, soothing music, a relaxing room. Tempted him to forget. Ignore. Keep the rest of the world beyond the front door, become enwombed.
But he couldn’t. Because what lay beyond the front door had invaded his home. Broken through the illusion of safety. Now he was offered only comfort’s cold shadow. And that knowledge forbade him to ever go home again.
‘Sit down,’ Annie said from behind him. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Donovan couldn’t tell from her flat intonation whether she had intended irony or not. He sat automatically in what used to be his favourite chair and immediately felt like a presumptuous intruder. Annie sat opposite him on the sofa.
Donovan looked at her. Properly, for the first time since he had been there. He felt she was doing the same to him.
Her hair was a different shade from when he had last seen her, red rather than brown. It had been cut and styled differently, too. Her clothes were new to him, her body not. Her face looked the same, eyes perhaps edged by a few more lines.
Then their eyes locked. And in that moment the superficial changes and differences dropped away as a deeper connection was re-established. Donovan felt something long repressed stir within. Like some ancient, clanking, Victorian turbine found to be still working, still capable of producing a spark.
But that spark soon flared and died as he realized that the thing that still emotionally bound them also separated them. Joined their hearts yet broke them.
He sensed Annie felt it, too. Neither could hold on to the other’s gaze. Both looked away.
They sat in uncomfortable silence. The space between them wider than merely physical.
‘So how are you?’ she said, looking at her hands.
Donovan nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said, not altogether convincingly.
‘You’re working again?’
Donovan nodded again. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ Annie nodded. Sat with her feet together, arms hugging herself.
‘How are you?’ Donovan sat forward, back bent, forearms on thighs, fingers, thumbs and palms clasped together between his knees.
Annie gave a slight bob of her head. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well.’
‘Working?’
She nodded. ‘Freelance.’
‘Good. And Abigail?’
A hesitation: mouth open to speak, right words not formed in it. ‘Good,’ she said again. She unfurled her arms, clasped her hands together. ‘Coping. She’s over at a friend’s house.’
Donovan nodded.
More silence. More space between them.
‘So,’ said Annie, body remaining still, only her thumbs moving. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Some old work stuff,’ said Donovan, relieved to be back on relatively sure ground. ‘Files I kept. Notebooks. My old laptop if it’s still here.’
Annie’s posture softened slightly; her body moved marginally forward. ‘What are you working on?’
‘You’ve probably seen it on the news,’ he said and told her about Colin Huntley’s disappearance.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘His daughter’s gone now, too. And …’ Annie’s hand went to her mouth as if in shock. ‘My God. Maria Bennett,’ she said quickly, eyes wide. ‘Did you hear about what happened to her?’
Donovan nodded, eyes on the rug. ‘I was there. Working with her.’
‘Oh my God …’
‘I think there’s a connection between her death and Colin Huntley’s disappearance.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe even a connection with an old story of mine.’
Annie stared at him. ‘And the Herald want you to look into it?’
Donovan gave a small smile. ‘Back on the payroll. For one night only.’
‘And they’re paying you?’
‘More like bribing me.’
‘With what?’
Donovan realized he had said too much. Annie wouldn’t understand. But he had never lied to her. Ever. He had to tell her.
‘Brace yourself,’ he said, aiming for a smile and missing. ‘With … resources. At my disposal.’ He looked at the rug again. Used to be a kelim. Now something abstract and swirly. Ikea. The Pier, perhaps. ‘To find David.’
Annie stiffened. Her face froze. Eyes clouded over. Thunderclouds. She sat still, breathing hard as if struggling to control herself.
Eventually she found her voice.
‘Your old things are in the spare bedroom,’ she said, her voice tight, contained. ‘You know where that is.’
Without another word she stood up, left the room. He heard her walk down the hall, heard the kitchen door slam.
Donovan rubbed his face with his hands. Sighed.
He rose slowly to his feet. Made his hesitant way upstairs.
He stood on the landing, looked around. Saw his old bedroom. Couldn’t resist. A quick check for movement from the stairs, then in.
The walls had been painted, the furniture the same. The bed linen was new, the bed unmade. Donovan smiled. Annie was always up after him and she hated making the bed. Called it a waste of energy. He looked again. Stopped smiling. Both pillows bore head imprints.
Something sank in his stomach. It could be Abigail wanting a morning cuddle. Yeah. That was it.
He left the bedroom, closed the door behind him. Abigail’s bedroom was next, the door firmly closed. Donovan didn’t open it. Didn’t want to have his suspicions confirmed or denied.
He went into the spare bedroom. Piled high with cardboard boxes and bulging black bin bags. Donovan didn’t have a clue where to start. He grabbed the nearest box, pulled it open.
Action Man. Pokemon cards. Diggers and trucks.
David’s things.
He felt like the air had been punched out of him.
Donovan sat down on the floor with a sigh.
He went through virtually every box. Steeled himself. Pulling back every cardboard flap was like pulling the trigger on his Russian roulette revolver; which memory could rip into him hardest, do the most damage.
David’s toys and clothes. Books and keepsakes. Mementos meant to chart his boy’s life, record and celebrate milestones. Left behind, waiting to be resumed, no matter how long the hiatus.
Annie’s hope, he thought, buried and boxed away but not completely discarded.
His own stuff there, too: work files, books, CDs, clothes. Like the detritus of a previous life, not needed any more but nearly impossible to get rid of.
He wondered whether Annie’s boxed hope extended to him.
He found what he was looking for. His box of files and notebooks, his laptop. He looked through the other stuff, too, picked up a couple of CDs, dropped them into the box. Songs listened to by another person in a previous life.
But his eyes kept being drawn back to David’s things. And, like picking at a wound, stopping it healing, he kept looking through those boxes, triggers firing bullets at point-blank range.
‘I miss him too, you know.’
Donovan jumped, turned. He didn�
��t know how long Annie had been standing there. Didn’t know how long he had been sitting there. Lost in time.
Annie’s posture had changed. At first glance Donovan thought she seemed to have relaxed. But looking closer he realized she was just resigned. He stood up.
‘I miss you, too,’ she said quietly. ‘You did your best, Don. You tried to find him, bring him back. You did what anyone would.’
She placed her hand on his forearm. Donovan sighed, looked into her eyes for the second time that day. He could feel her breath on his skin.
‘It’s time to move on,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget him, maybe keep a little flame of hope alive somewhere inside you. A little candle lit …’ She sighed. ‘But get moving again. You can’t bring him back, Don.’
Donovan shook his head, sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This job … it’s giving me a chance. Us. All of us. He might be out there. He might need me.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘I’ve got to try.’
Annie’s hand fell away from his arm. Her body posture became defensive again, arms wrapped round her torso, shielding her body.
‘Come with me,’ she said and walked out of the room.
Donovan followed.
She led him to her bedroom, stood in the doorway looking in. Donovan joined her.
‘See that?’ Annie said, pointing to the bed. ‘We used to share that. See those sheets? Tangled and rumpled like they are? That should be from our bodies, yours and mine.’
She turned to him. Eyes hard and glittering, like semi-liquid diamonds.
‘But you’re dead to me,’ she said, her voice rough and uneven, like it was catching on an old rusty nail, tearing. ‘Dead. And I’ve had to go on living. Find someone else. Who’s living.’
‘Who.’
Annie sighed. ‘His name’s Michael. And he’s very good to me. And Abigail. He cares for another man’s daughter.’
Donovan said nothing.
‘David’s gone,’ she said, staring at the bed, her voice still catching. ‘Gone. From the land of the living. He needed you? Right. So did your wife. So did your daughter.’
She crossed to a bedside table, picked up a framed photo. Thrust it in front of Donovan’s eyes.
‘Recognize her?’ asked Annie. ‘That’s Abigail. Your daughter. Take a good, long look.’
The Mercy Seat Page 24
