Sunday Morning Coming Down: A Frieda Klein Novel (7)

by Nicci French

  ‘Josef!’ she called, as she came closer.

  He turned. His face lit up with relief. He was unshaven and filthy. His jacket was torn. His stout boots were muddy with trailing laces. He looked at her with his pleading brown eyes. The boy beside him had the same large brown eyes. Frieda had seen him before in photographs over the years. She bent towards him. His face was thin and grubby, and his eyes frightened. His coat hung off him. His sneakers were worn out.

  ‘Alexei?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re safe now. Here.’

  She slid the key into the lock and opened the door, then gestured for Alexei to enter. He looked up at his father enquiringly. Josef put an arm round his shoulders and said something to him in words Frieda didn’t understand. His voice had a soft, crooning tone that she had never heard before.

  ‘You went back,’ she said to Josef, as she shut the door behind them and turned the lights on. ‘I mean, to Ukraine.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can tell me everything in a minute. First, we’re going to get Alexei into a bath and I’ll make him something to eat. He looks done in.’

  ‘Scared, Frieda. Sad.’

  ‘Tell him I’m running him a bath. I’ll get towels for you both. Have you got clothes in there?’ She gestured to the large case.

  ‘Some.’

  She went up the stairs to run water into the tub that Josef had installed for her, putting out thick white towels, then returned to Josef and his son.

  ‘The bath’s ready. I’ll make coffee for you and hot chocolate for him.’

  She watched Josef lead Alexei up the stairs, a large man and a scrawny boy hand in hand.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  They were in her kitchen and Josef was eating toast and marmalade in enormous crunching mouthfuls, washing it back with gulps of strong coffee. He stank of tobacco and sweat and his grimy face was exhausted.

  ‘Vera die,’ he said, and gave a sudden sob, putting his hand to his eyes for a moment. ‘My wife gone.’

  Frieda touched the back of his hand.

  ‘Very quick. From the blue. Her new man call to say.’ For a moment his face twisted. ‘I was not good husband, Frieda.’ His shoulders slumped and his head lowered. ‘We met when very young. But I did love.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, of course, I must fetch my sons. They need their father. I tell no one but Stefan. Stefan helped.’

  Stefan was Josef’s Russian friend; Frieda had never liked to think how he earned his money.

  ‘But where’s Dima?’

  ‘Dima did not want to come.’

  ‘I suppose Ukraine is his home.’

  Josef nodded. ‘Family there.’

  Frieda wanted to ask about the journey, about how he’d got Alexei back to the UK, but they could hear the water running from the bath. Josef pushed the last of the thick slice of toast into his mouth and stood up. ‘He very shocked, Frieda. No talking, no crying, nothing. Just silent and sad.’

  ‘It will take time.’

  While they were upstairs, she rang Reuben and explained what had happened.‘They can stay here,’ she said.

  ‘Josef’s home is with me,’ said Reuben. ‘You haven’t even got a proper spare room.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s OK?’

  ‘It’ll be good for me.’ Reuben gave a rueful laugh. ‘Maybe it will stop me feeling sorry for myself.’

  She made Alexei scrambled eggs, but he barely touched it. She made him hot chocolate and he sipped at it warily. He’d put on tracksuit trousers that were too short and a long-sleeved red T-shirt that was too large, its sleeves covering his hands. She went into the living room and lifted the cat that was lying neatly curled in an armchair and put it into Alexei’s lap. He stroked it very delicately, his head lowered so that she couldn’t see his expression.

  11

  Half an hour later, when Alexei was sleeping in Frieda’s bed and Josef was smoking in her back yard, her mobile rang.

  ‘Chloë?’

  She heard the sound of breathing, or perhaps it was stifled sobbing. ‘Chloë? What’s up?’ She waited. ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘What? I don’t know. What do you mean? Are you OK?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. I’ll come now. Tell me where you are.’

  ‘Where am I?’ Chloë asked again, in a thick voice.

  ‘Listen, Chloë. You’re not making sense. Are you in your flat? At Olivia’s?’

  ‘I feel bad.’

  ‘You don’t know where you are?’

  There was no answer, just the sound of unsteady breathing.

  ‘Look around you.’ Frieda spoke very loudly and clearly. ‘What can you see?’

  ‘See?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A tree.’

  ‘That’s not enough. Stay awake. What else?’

  ‘Church.’

  ‘You’re near a church. Do you know what it’s called?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you stand up?’

  In answer, Chloë whimpered.

  ‘Can you see anyone?’

  ‘I’m with stones.’

  ‘What do you mean, stones?’

  ‘Gravestones.’

  ‘So you’re near a church?’

  ‘Round the tree. Lots. Pushed together.’

  Suddenly she knew exactly where Chloë was. ‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘I’m coming for you.’

  Gravestones were planted tightly together round the Hardy Tree in St Pancras churchyard. Underneath them were old bones and above them the spreading branches of an ash. Several months ago, Dean had taken away the sketch that Frieda had been working on of the tree, as a sign that he had been in her house. After the Hannah Docherty case was over, Frieda had gone there once more to think about all that had happened; her friends had joined her. Now it seemed that Chloë was there, befuddled, barely able to speak.

  She hailed a cab, but the traffic round King’s Cross was slow, so she jumped out early and ran along Camley Street, the canal on one side of her, then into the small churchyard and towards the tree, which was enclosed by an iron fence.

  At first, she couldn’t see Chloë, but when she walked round to the back she found her, on the other side of the fence. She was sitting propped against an outer gravestone, her legs splayed in front of her, her face pasty and swollen. She had mascara smudged beneath both eyes and her hair was greasy and matted. She was wearing a short grey T-shirt dress and sandals. There was a small canvas bag at her side. As Frieda came closer, she saw that there were scratches on her neck and her bare legs. Chloë’s eyes were open but she stared at Frieda with a dazed expression, as if she wasn’t really seeing her. Frieda put her hand through the fence and placed it on to Chloë’s bare leg; it was cold and clammy.

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘Yes. Wait. I’m coming to get you.’

  She hurried round to the gate, but it was padlocked and she had to climb over the spiked fence. She made her way to her niece, took her hands and held them firmly. ‘Speak to me.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  Now Frieda took the young woman’s shoulders. ‘Look at me, Chloë. It’s Frieda.’

  ‘Frieda.’

  ‘Yes. Do you hurt anywhere?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  Frieda smoothed the hair off Chloë’s forehead. Her niece didn’t smell of alcohol but of sweat, stale and sour. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance and take you to hospital. Do you understand?’

  ‘Where am I?’ Chloë repeated.

  ‘You’re near King’s Cross.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘You’ll be home soon. I’ll stay with you. Can you remember what happened?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She sat beside Chloë and put an arm around her. Chloë
’s head lolled on to her shoulder. ‘Did someone bring you here? Who were you with?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Chloë. Her voice was thick, as though her tongue was too big for her mouth. ‘My head hurts. I’m thirsty. I feel a bit sick.’

  12

  Frieda stayed with Chloë in the ambulance. She seemed semi-conscious. Much of what she said was incoherent, but Frieda recognized her own name. She leaned in. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell Mum.’

  ‘I’ve already phoned her,’ said Frieda.

  Chloë mumbled something and seemed to drift off to sleep. The young paramedic leaned over. She looked at Frieda. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Chloë.’

  ‘Can you hear me, Chloë?’ the paramedic said loudly. No response. She gently slapped Chloë’s cheek. ‘Chloë. Wake up. Talk to me.’

  Chloë murmured a few words but Frieda couldn’t make them out. The paramedic looked at Frieda. ‘Has she been drinking?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you know what she’s taken?’

  ‘I think she should be checked for flunitrazepam.’

  The paramedic pulled a face. She had fierce, flaming red hair, a face full of freckles and looked barely older than Chloë. ‘Date rape? We’ll see.’

  Chloë was wheeled straight from the ambulance along a corridor and into a cubicle, Frieda on one side of the trolley, the paramedic and a doctor on the other. On the way Frieda said everything she knew, which wasn’t very much. Chloë was stripped and dressed in a hospital gown. The doctor asked Frieda if she wanted to step outside during the examination.

  ‘I think I should stay,’ she said.

  She had seen so much worse, but the sight of her niece’s unconscious body being examined, the legs pushed apart, probed, caused a pang of acute distress. It was like the beginnings of a post-mortem.

  When it was done, the doctor stood upright. ‘No bruising,’ he said. ‘No signs of sexual assault.’

  ‘Good,’ said Frieda. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Does she often get drunk?’

  ‘I smelt her breath. I don’t think this is alcohol.’

  The doctor shone a light into Chloë’s eye. ‘I think you’re right.’ He nodded at a nurse who was hovering on one side. ‘Let’s hydrate her.’

  He stepped back and looked at Frieda. He had short grey hair, and his face was pale, with dark rings under the eyes. Probably near the end of his shift. ‘Sometimes we don’t fully hydrate them,’ he said. ‘We like to leave them with a little bit of a hangover. Teach them a lesson.’

  ‘Is that the job of a doctor?’

  ‘You should be here Friday night after Friday night, the same ones coming in time after time.’

  The nurse called the doctor over. She was inserting a line, but now she moved back and the doctor inspected Chloë’s arm. He looked up at Frieda. ‘What relation is she?’

  ‘She’s my niece.’

  ‘Is she in any kind of trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know of any. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know what she took,’ said the doctor, ‘but I know how she took it. Look.’ He pointed at the pale skin of Chloë’s limp left arm. ‘Three, four puncture marks.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Chloë doesn’t inject drugs.’

  The doctor took his glasses off and rubbed his tired eyes. ‘If I think of all the times when parents or relatives or friends have stood where you’re standing and said that their little boy or little girl wouldn’t take drugs.’

  ‘So you’re saying that Chloë went out on a Monday and suddenly decided to inject herself with a sedative.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t do it suddenly. As you can see there are at least four puncture marks. So she overdid it a bit.’

  ‘That’s not Chloë.’

  He spread his arms. ‘I’m not the one you need to convince. I’m just the poor sod in A & E who has to pick up the pieces. We’ve sent the blood off for testing. We’ll know soon enough. And don’t worry: I’m giving her the full hydration.’

  ‘Am I allowed to stay?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the sign on the door? We welcome carers. Except when they’re drunk or fighting or shouting, which they often are. Then they’re a bit less welcome.’

  Frieda sat on a chair in the cubicle and stared in front of her. She’d seen Chloë through troubled times but she’d thought that was all in the past. Was it going to start again? But there was no point in thinking about that yet. She just sat there and watched her unconscious niece, the chest rising and falling. She had just got used to the sounds, the voices from the reception desk, the occasional cry from a patient, the clatter of trolleys, the beeping from the monitors, when she heard a familiar anguished voice. She stood up, pulled the curtain aside and was confronted with the tear-streaked face of Chloë’s mother, Olivia. She rushed forward and hugged Frieda. Frieda could feel the wetness of her cheek, and was enveloped in the fumes of perfume and white wine.

  ‘It took me so long to get here,’ said Olivia. ‘The Tube came to a complete halt. They announced someone was under a train. Why can’t they just do it at home and not cause trouble to other people?’

  ‘Shall we talk about Chloë?’ said Frieda.

  Olivia looked at her daughter and burst into tears. Frieda had to sit Olivia down and fetch her a glass of water. As soon as she could speak, Olivia talked between sobs about her failings as a mother and Chloë’s failings as a daughter.

  ‘I love her, of course,’ she said. ‘She’s all I’ve got. But she never phones me when things are going well. Whenever the phone goes and Chloë’s on the line it’s because something’s wrong.’

  ‘It wasn’t Chloë who rang,’ said Frieda. ‘It was me.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  Gradually the subject shifted from Chloë to a problem Olivia had been having with a man she’d been seeing and from that to some building work that had run into a crisis, and then the curtain was pulled aside by a man holding a clipboard.

  ‘One of you is a doctor,’ he said. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I’m Chloë’s aunt,’ said Frieda. ‘I’m a doctor as well. Is that relevant?’

  ‘You’re the one who said it might be one of the date-rape drugs.’

  ‘I said it was something to check for.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t. And there’s no alcohol in her blood. What there is, is phenobarbital.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Olivia’s question was halfway to a howl.

  ‘It’s used for treating seizures,’ said Frieda. ‘But it’s a powerful sedative.’

  ‘Chloë wouldn’t take that.’ Olivia clutched Frieda’s arm.

  ‘I’ve been saying the same thing.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what they’d take,’ said the doctor. ‘They’ll inject anything.’

  ‘Inject?’ said Olivia in horror, and there was a long, painful conversation, with Olivia struggling to talk between gulps and sobs and a handkerchief clutched to her mouth. At the end of it, it was agreed that Chloë would be discharged the following morning.

  13

  Frieda walked home from the hospital. Josef and Alexei had gone, the only signs that they’d been there a great ring of dirt round the bathtub. She called Reuben, who said they were safely with him and that Alexei had eaten some pasta but had said nothing.

  She slept for a few hours, then lay awake in the early light, thinking, trying not to think, of all the events of the day that were going through her mind. In the morning she met Olivia at the hospital, and after a few hours of waiting for the consultant, then for the discharge papers to be signed, they led Chloë out and took a taxi back to Olivia’s house. Chloë was still dazed. She looked tired, sad, completely washed out. Even when she was back in what had been her childhood home, she seemed barely to recognize the place.

  ‘I want a bath,’ she said.

  ‘Frieda?’ Olivia had the air of slight panic. �
��I think it’s easier if it’s not her mother.’

  Frieda led Chloë up to the bathroom, undressed her and helped her into the bath. It made her think of Alexei.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Chloë, in a little voice.

  Frieda had no intention of going. She ran the water in the bath and washed Chloë, as she might have washed a four-year-old girl. Then she pulled out the plug and helped Chloë dry herself. Olivia brought pyjamas and together they supported Chloë as she stepped into them; Frieda fastened the buttons of the jacket.

  ‘Can she go to her old room?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘I’ve already made up the bed.’

  Frieda was expecting the poignancy of a teenage girl’s bedroom, with its tattered old posters of stars from ten years ago. Instead there was the poignancy of a teenage girl’s bedroom that had been entirely renovated and stripped of every sign that a teenage girl had ever been there. But Chloë didn’t seem to notice and at least there was still a bed. Frieda eased her under the duvet and pulled it right up to her chin.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Normal tea? Camomile?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Which.’

  ‘Either.’

  She was so different from the normal, angry, assertive young woman that Frieda had known for so long. She made two cups of camomile tea and took them upstairs. She held one so that Chloë could sip from it.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Tired,’ said Chloë.

  ‘Do you mind if I talk?’

  Chloë shook her head slowly.

  ‘I’ve said this to you before. Whatever is going on in your life – whatever – you can come to me. Always.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There are so many things I could say about injecting drugs: you don’t know the dose, you don’t know the purity, you don’t know the needle is safe.’

  ‘No,’ said Chloë, as if it took a great effort.

  ‘I’m not judging you.’

  ‘I didn’t.’