The Experimentalist

by Nick Salaman

  He sat for ten minutes, half an hour, then could bear it no longer. Standing up, he hurried out and made a round of all the possible places she might be, even going to the burger bar and the little hotel where she had spent her first night in London, but he found nothing. He hailed a taxi and took it back to the Duckett’s street. The pile of rubble offered no suggestions.

  An old watchman tending a fire of door frames and timbers, greeted him. ‘Looking for something, Mister?’

  ‘Someone who used to live here. A girl.’

  The smoke from the fire billowed for a moment, eddied and vanished.

  ‘Ah, girls. We search for them all our lives. On our deathbeds we’re still patting their bottoms as they take our temperature. And where does it get us? Clinkers … ashes. Don’t look for her here. It’s a dead end, this is, Mister.’

  Ivo mumbled something and turned back to the cab.

  ‘Where to?’

  There was nowhere to go but Time Out of Mind, while the taxi driver told him about his holiday in Bolivia.

  He entered the shop with the faint and (he knew) unreasonable hope that, in his absence, she might have returned; but nothing had changed. A curious enervation possessed him. He felt he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He dragged himself once more around the shop, though again doing no more than looking cursorily over the cupboard at the back. Finally, he went upstairs and lay on the sofa, his mind filled with heavy shapes and wordless clouds, and presently he fell asleep.

  At around two in the morning, a fire started downstairs in the workroom. It was said later to have been caused by faulty wiring. The building was old and the fire burnt merrily. There were few neighbours to raise the alarm so it took some time for the fire brigade to arrive and it was too late to save anything but the adjacent shops.

  Among the casualties were scores of watches and clocks, a number of barometers which were also a speciality and the proprietor. No other body was located.

  Time Out of Mind had many mourners among the horologists of London, but it soon found its place in the disused lumber-room of memory.

  ***

  Marie sat on the bus, oblivious of its stops and starts, careless of its destination. Her mind was in tumult; she had killed a man. No, not just a man, she had killed her guardian. There had to be a legal term for such a crime, common or guardian murder wouldn’t be enough.

  It would be impossible to prove it was self-defence. Why would she wish to defend herself against a man who was an old family friend? If it had been an intruder, it would have been a different matter. But this was a – what did they call it? – an open and shut case. She was glaringly guilty; her father’s daughter. How could she kill a man? She’d had no training. It had to be in the blood. She thought about Ivo. He would return and find the body. He would look for her but in the end he would be bound to tell the police. There would be a search. Everywhere would be watched. Her face would be in the newspapers, on television: MONSTER’S DAUGHTER SLAYS GUARDIAN. She thought about giving herself up but she could not bear the thought of having her baby in prison, midwifed by iron-faced wardresses, shackles round her legs while she laboured.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that it emerged from a dark uniformed arm and she started, but sank back when she realised it was the ticket collector again, a man with a ferrety face and a twitch in his eye to whom she had given all the change she had in her pocket.

  ‘Sorry to disturb,’ he winked, ‘but we’ve come to the end of the road.’

  It seemed an appropriate location. ‘I’ll get off, then,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you was going to fly up to 20,000 feet just then,’ he said, ‘you was so startled. Nervous disposition? Or carrying a dark secret?’

  ‘Both,’ she replied, winking back in spite of herself.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho.’

  ‘Where are we, please?’

  ‘You’re in Barnet,’ he said. ‘Barnet depot. Live round here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where are you going, then?’

  ‘I…’

  She was going to say she didn’t know, but it would look too suspicious. ‘I’m going to my aunt’s.’

  ‘Oh yes? Where does she live, this auntie of yours?’

  ‘Barnet.’

  There used to be a butterfly called a Barnet, she thought, long ago when such things as butterflies had their place in her life. It cheered her momentarily until she remembered it was a Burnet.

  ‘Whereabouts in Barnet?’

  She thought quickly. ‘Burnet – I mean Barnet – High Street.’

  ‘I didn’t know anyone lived in the High Street. It’s all shops.’

  ‘She has a flat.’

  She wanted the man to leave her alone now and got up in a gesture of departure.

  ‘What number in the High Street?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Oh, it is my business. You see, you haven’t paid your full fare. I’m just establishing where you’re going in case of default. Because I happened to see, when you give me that money, you didn’t have no more in your coat. Remember? You were shuffling it around. And as you don’t have a bag, I say to myself “Oh, oh”.’

  ‘“Oh, oh” or “owe, owe”.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How much do I owe, owe?’ The stupid joke made her feel hysterical. She pressed the top of her head down. She thought she was going to cry uncontrollably.

  ‘Ten shillings.’

  ‘I haven’t got ten shillings.’

  ‘I thought not. What number the High Street?’

  ‘A hundred and thirty-one.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘It is.’

  This was mad. It was like school. The man leaned forward. She could smell his bad breath: metallic, cheesy.

  ‘How do I know? ’Cause there isn’t no High Street in Barnet.’

  Was he telling the truth or bluffing? She felt like a trapped animal.

  ‘You’d better come with me to the inspector,’ he said.

  Her experiences at Merrymaids came at last to her rescue.

  ‘You can feel my breasts,’ she said, ‘for ten shillings.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ the man said, looking up and down to see no one was coming. ‘Hand up your skirt as well.’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘You’re young. I haven’t felt a young girl for years. I probably won’t again.’

  ‘That’ll be a pound extra,’ she said. God knew she needed the money. The bus throbbed away. Steam covered the windows. Five minutes later she stumbled off the bus and was sick in a hedge.

  It was dark now. The bus depot was situated in a distant corner of the town. Marie started walking away from it. In the intermittent, edge-of-the world street lights she saw a truck coming towards her. She stuck out her thumb and jumped about in the road. The lorry stopped.

  ‘Did your mither no’ tell ye not tae take lifts from strangers?’ asked a Scots voice, from Glasgow this time.

  ‘I’m past caring,’ she said in her best Fifeshire, ‘and that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘A Scottish lassie, eh? Well, ye’d better hop up. I’m away to Harwich.’

  It was a three-hour drive. On the way, she told him a carefully edited version of her story. He gave her some tea and, when he put her off, he pressed a five pound note into her hand.

  ‘I don’t believe a word o’ it,’ he said, ‘but it passed the time well enough. Good luck tae ye.’

  It was ten o’clock at night. A light rain was falling irregularly, flicked and whisked about by the chilly wind that blew across the harbour. Somewhere a liner hooted, a door clanged, a tarpaulin flapped and rigging tapped its crazy, insistent Morse. She was nearly five months pregnant. She had six pounds in the world. She was hungry and tired. She wanted to die.

  ***

  Marie woke in the darkness to the chink-chink-chink of metal on mast.
She huddled her coat about her in a vain attempt to generate warmth but the wind was everywhere, touching and tweaking her with fingers so cold she’d almost (but not quite) have opted for the old ferret’s paws in the bus.

  She remembered now where she was. She had found a little hut that stood obscurely in a fold of the ground, hidden on every side by great warehouses. It was not a very comfortable little hut. It smelt of bitumen and fish and urine, but it was better than lying out on the dock. She hadn’t bothered to look around it beyond assuring herself it was empty. She had just cast herself on a pile of canvas on the floor and slept.

  Now, however, something had woken her: a faint noise. There it was again: footsteps, and now low voices. They were coming towards her. She shrank back into the darkness. There was a fumbling at the door, the sound of a latch being raised, a swirl of cold wind and a brilliant flashlight beam which held her transfixed as a rabbit.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said a man’s voice. ‘What have we here?’

  Is there anything more loathsome than a man’s voice saying ‘Well, well, well’, she wondered. She felt like Caliban being discovered on Prospero’s island.

  ‘Looks like a girl, Mr Tarber,’ said another voice, in mealy tones.

  The first man sniffed ostentatiously. ‘Pretty kettle of fish,’ he said.

  They had said the same of Caliban.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I … I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘You’re right you’re not doing anything. But what were you thinking of doing?’

  They started to rummage about among the rolls of old canvas.

  ‘I was trying to sleep. Who … who are you?’

  It couldn’t be the police again, bounding out of the dark. They would have said so, wouldn’t they?

  ‘Security,’ said the mealy one called Izzard.

  ‘Oh. I’m not doing anything.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. There’s a lot of funny folks think they can come and go on the docks, but they can’t and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Not while we’re around,’ said Mealy-mouth.

  ‘We’re employed to sniff out vagrants, vandals, riff-raff, smugglers, scrubbers, drug-runners and the like. Which category do you come into?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said bravely, ‘I’m a vandal. Anyone can see that.’

  The man Tarber advanced on her and showed her a ham-like fist. ‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘don’t ever try and be clever with me. See that? What is it?’

  ‘It’s a fist,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right, it’s a fist. Tell her about my fist, Mr Izzard.’

  ‘It’s a fist I wouldn’t tangle with. It’s a fist I’ve seen split a face, like a pumpkin. It’s an ’orrible fist, miss. Better avoided.’ He looked at the fist as if it were a prize boar.

  ‘Right, then. Where’s the package?’ said Tarber.

  ‘What package?’

  ‘I said “don’t”.’ He raised the fist again, surveying it, then nuzzling it against her cheek, where it pricked her with its boarish bristles.

  ‘I don’t know about any package,’ she said. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnancy is not innocence,’ said Izzard, apothegmatically.

  ‘Quite the reverse,’ said Mealy. ‘Pregnancy is experience.’

  However, they seemed a shade less suspicious of her. The fist was withdrawn.

  ‘Running away, is you, then?’ asked Izzard.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve seen them come, I’ve seen them go,’ he sighed.

  ‘Here it is.’ Tarber had located a brown paper parcel about the size of a brick hidden in the corner under a pile of staves.

  ‘Right, you,’ said Tarber to her. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this. Top security, understand? We’re after the big one.’

  Marie had no idea what they were talking about.

  ‘She can’t stop here, though,’ said Mealy.

  ‘Too right she can’t stay here. She’d compromise the whole operation.’

  ‘I’ve nowhere else to go,’ said Marie, sensing an opening.

  ‘Mr Tarber, I been thinking,’ said Mealy.

  ‘Steady, Mr Izzard.’

  ‘No, seriously, she’s pregnant … nowhere to go. There’s a bed at our house. And she could take the package back for Mrs Izzard to deal with. It could be convenient. Mrs Izzard loves a mother-to-be.’

  ‘I think you’ve got something there, Mr Izzard. It would solve many problems. But can she be trusted?’

  ‘Show her your fist again, Mr Izzard.’

  Marie was shivering so much she found it difficult to express any more alarm, but she managed an ‘ugh’, or the equivalent, at the proximity of the enormous knuckle. It seemed to satisfy her captors. She was given strict instructions where to find the house – and lurid details about what they would do if she failed to deliver – and was then directed on what the men described as a ‘security route’ through a little gap in the wires and down a path that wound behind the great sheds out onto an industrial estate. From there it was but a step to number 4 Buddleia Close.

  She had the feeling that she was followed all the way.

  ***

  Mrs Izzard was expecting her.

  ‘Simmy rang,’ she said. ‘He told me to watch out for you. Poor you. You must be all in. I’ll look after the parcel, shall I? There we are.’

  Mrs Izzard was small and plump and fluffy with large blue-tinted spectacles. They made her look like a predatory dormouse. She took Marie’s coat and ushered her into the living room. It was as if she regularly entertained dishevelled mothers-to-be at midnight.

  ‘Sit you down. Put your feet up on the pouffe. You must be all in. Cocoa? I knew you’d like cocoa. Here’s a shawl for your shoulders. That’s better. We don’t want you losing that baby now. Sandwich? I expect you’re famished. Cheese and pickles? Beef and gherkin? Tomato, lettuce and crispy bacon? Good. I knew you’d like a sandwich.’

  Even though Marie was grateful for the warmth and the refreshment, there was something a little oppressive about the softness and comfort of the place; but she was too numbed by her experiences to be able to do more than submit to it.

  She wolfed down her sandwiches (her hostess made her one of each), gulped her hot chocolate and followed meekly as Mrs Izzard led her up to a bedroom. As bedrooms went, it was a boudoir.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Izzard. ‘So pretty. Pink for a girl, blue for a boy. Call me prejudiced but I think pink’s prettier. The toilet’s just through there and the bathroom’s opposite. You’ve got your individual kettle and teabags and a tin of biscuits in case you get peckish. I know you have these little fads when you’re a mother-to-be.’

  ‘I killed my guardian,’ Marie said, suddenly. She had to tell someone.

  ‘I expect so, dear. Never read it myself. Better to cancel. Don’t worry about a thing. You just get a good night’s sleep. It’ll all be better in the morning.’

  Marie slept till ten o’clock and woke feeling wonderful. Then, as memory returned, her optimism clouded over. She would have to go to the police. It was no good. She couldn’t run away. Now Brickville was no longer around she felt better about coming out into the open – even if it just meant being locked up. But was he no longer around? She must have dreamt it, but she was sure he had nightmarishly risen up. Have you got the time? She could sense those spiderish hands clawing at her, the gelid eyes staring, and she burrowed back under the bedclothes with a shudder.

  Mrs Izzard tippety-tapped at the door. ‘It’s only me. Are we awake? Would we like a nice cooked brekky? We have grapefruit, muesli, scrambled eggs, sausage and kippers. Coffee or tea? Brown or white toast? Come down in your dressing-gown. There’s one on the door. I took your things away for a wash and brush-up.’

  Marie followed the smell of cooking down to the kitchen.

  ‘Sit you down,’ said Mrs Izzard. ‘Simmy’s still asleep. Late shift. How’s baby feeling this morning? Who’s a lovely boy, then?’ She made as if to pat Marie�
�s stomach.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ said Marie, edging backwards.

  ‘Mumma says fine but what does baby say? Baby says he’s hungry. Here you are, Mumma. Florida grapefruit, nice and pink. Wolf it down and then let’s see what you can do to a Loch Fyne kipper.’

  ‘Can I have a boiled egg, please?’

  ‘Scrambled eggs and a Loch Fyne kipper. Mustn’t be selfish must we? We have two to feed, you know.’

  Marie tried to protest but it was useless. She pushed the food down with growing impatience. She didn’t want to be rude but the woman was ridiculous. She kept plying Marie with toast and marmalade (‘Rose’s Lime or Dorothy Carter’s Glorious Thick-Cut?’) long after it was perfectly obvious she’d had enough.

  Finally, Marie stood up. ‘Could I have my clothes, please? I really think I ought to go now.’ She wanted to get in touch with Ivo to tell him not to worry, that she was going to the police.

  ‘Go now?’ Mrs Izzard looked dumbfounded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to stay.’

  ‘Oh? What did you come here for, then?’

  ‘I came to … deliver a parcel.’

  ‘What? What parcel? Where?’ Mrs Izzard’s softness, it seemed, had teeth. Her glasses glinted angrily. Her mouth curved down, her nose beaked. ‘Simmy,’ she shouted.