“Yes.” Susan recognized her now: she lived across the landing—beyond the open door cats slept on faded chairs in front of a gas fire. “I was calling to my friend.”
“You admit it, do you? Well, we’ll have less of it. This is a quiet house.”
“I wasn’t making much noise.”
“The cheek of it.” She turned to her cats and shouted, “Just listen to her, will you. Not much noise, she says.” She swung round to glare at Susan. “I suppose you’d call that singing all day yesterday not much noise, would you?”
Susan stared, forgetting not to be rude. “It couldn’t have been us. I was at school and Mummy was at work.”
“I’ll bet she was. You wouldn’t have been making all that row if she’d been here.” She reached out and thumped the door with her fist, and Susan smelled the cats on her. “Don’t you be saying it wasn’t in here. I stood right here listening and telling you to stop. You’re the only child here, aren’t you? Haven’t got another family hidden in there, I suppose?”
“There’s just me and Mummy,” Susan said, but her thoughts were louder.
“I should think so. No call for us to do it just because the darkeys do. Half of them don’t know what a proper house is for. No wonder, with all that stuff they smoke. Never mind that,” she growled, dragging herself back to the subject. “It was you singing and getting me so I couldn’t hardly think. Don’t you ever do that again or you’ll have something to sing about, I’ll set the truant officer on you.” She was shuffling back to her flat, her slippers clapping under her heels. As she shooed a cat back onto its chair and slammed the door, Susan heard her mutter, “I wouldn’t even call it singing. Raving, more like.”
Susan closed out the dark landing and stood by the door. She didn’t want to think, but she had no choice. Eventually she turned on the gas fire and watched from the window for Mummy. The streetlamps shivered, shadows roamed the street. Eve must have been in here yesterday when she ought to have been at school, however she had got in, but there was more to it than that. Eve had made her dream. That wasn’t the worst problem either, that wasn’t what Susan had to deal with. If Mummy were dreaming, after all that she’d said about dreams—and it was Eve who said she was—then Eve must be doing that, too.
16
MOLLY was almost nodding off when the phone rang.
It was Ben Eccles. So you’ve found out where I live at last, she thought, much good may it do you. “What’s the problem?”
“Martin Wallace.” His voice was savage and something else—triumphant, perhaps. “Is he there?”
“He went back to the States this morning. Why?”
“Because his film that we broadcast tonight is a fake.”
She didn’t quite believe him, not when she disliked him so much, not when it sounded almost as if he were accusing Martin of having faked the film. “Who says so?”
“I’ll tell him, not you. Where is he?”
“I don’t know his number.”
She hoped he would tell her what he wanted to tell Martin, but he only gave her his home number. “You tell him to call me as soon as he gets in touch with you,” he said.
She couldn’t believe him when he had offered no proof. She paced through her flat, past her aimless army of reflections. Even the sounds of the wind chimes above the doors rasped her nerves. When the phone rang again she vowed that she would get some sense from Ben, if there was any to be had. But it was Gould, the head of Staffing. “I understand you may know where we can contact Martin Wallace.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You surprise me. If he contacts you, please ask him to call me at once.”
“Has Ben Eccles been saying things about him?”
“No, the police have. About him and the film he claims was sent to him. The film is bogus. There is no question of that.”
She wrote down his number, which was more than she’d done for Ben Eccles.
She put down the phone and wished she had asked him what proof there was. She was still wondering whether to call Martin when he called her.
She told him everything except Gould’s request. She didn’t want to give him any more to deal with. She could tell that he wanted to stop talking and think, and she said good-bye as soon as she decently could.
Afterward she lay feeling exhausted and wondering what the police had said. Suppose they had faked their proof and the film was real after all? It seemed impossible that Lenny Bennett’s mother could have been fooled, even though by the time you saw the face of the man in the cell it had been beaten almost shapeless. Her thoughts were blurring, she was falling asleep—no wonder after such a night. For a moment, then another, she couldn’t even hear the silence. She was stepping down through the gaps in her consciousness to a place where there might be no anxiety.
But there was. She was watching the film of the cell, though it was in color now instead of black and white, as Inspector Maitland’s voice said, “There, there, there.” He was holding her head still, his hands felt capable of crushing her skull if she didn’t see what he wanted her to notice. She would if she could, there was no need for him to thump on her skull and ring bells in her ears. She woke and felt as if her skull were still caught, more so when she realized that the thumping and the bell were at the front door.
She tied her dressing gown around her as she hurried down the hall. The two blurred figures beyond the frosted glass must be the secretaries from upstairs. This time they’d get what they were asking for. She was past the mirrors so quickly that she didn’t even see herself. She threw open the door and was folding her arms when she saw that the two figures weren’t the secretaries, but police.
One stooped to pick up her bottle of milk. “Molly Wolfe?” his companion said.
“Yes?” She glanced from one to the other of the rigid young helmeted faces and wondered what could have brought them here so early. Had something happened to her parents? “What’s wrong?”
“Inspector Maitland wants a word with you.”
“Why?”
“You know,” the policeman with the bottle said.
She resented having been made needlessly anxious. “Tell him I’ll be in to see him later,” she said, and held out her hand for the milk. “Thank you.”
He moved the bottle out of reach and stared at her. “Inspector Maitland wants to sort this out as soon as possible,” the other policeman said.
A postman whose bag was stuffed with Christmas cards glanced down through the railings and looked hastily away. She was damned if she’d have a row out here over a bottle of milk. “Then you’d better come in while I get dressed.”
She took the milk. One policeman followed her into the kitchen while she stood the bottle in the refrigerator. When he followed her into the hall, she said, “I want to get dressed now.”
“Please don’t mind me,” he said. The other policeman was outside her bedroom window when she picked up her clothes to take into the bathroom. “If you were looking forward to the show you’re out of luck,” she said under her breath, but his expression made her go cold all over. She wondered if he could read lips.
At least his companion didn’t try to make her leave the bathroom door open. She hoped he heard her use the toilet, hoped he was blushing. She took her time in the shower until she wondered what they might do if they thought she was taking too long, and then was toweling herself before she stepped out of the bath. “I won’t be long now,” she called, hating her nervousness.
When she unbolted the door they were both in the hall. One insisted on holding her coat, though she didn’t like turning her back on him. Outside the overcast glowed like a pall of smoke in front of a fire. Her open gate met the open door of the police car, and there was nowhere to go but in.
The police car smelled of seat leather and boot polish. In no time it squealed to a halt in front of the police station.
Christmas cards and holly were taped to the wall behind the desk. She wondered who had sent the cards: gra
teful criminals, victims of crimes? As the policeman with the cheerful eyes tapped on Maitland’s door, she heard church bells far away. “Yes, yes,” Maitland said.
He gazed at her for quite a long time once they were alone. Whatever his smile meant, it made her nervous. Her bladder was aching and she’d had enough of waiting for him to be courteous. She was about to sit down when he said, “You should have let me say no in the first place.” He was shaking his head, with its fluffy gray hair and protruding ears. Part of her wanted to laugh. “You should have looked elsewhere for your typical London police station.”
She felt like a child who’d been found out for lying, and it made her furious. “Don’t look at me like that, miss,” he said. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
Did he think he was speaking to one of his children? “I was doing my job,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the whole truth, but surely that isn’t a crime.”
“Oh, is lying acceptable now? Perhaps in your line of work.” His ears were turning bright red. “In itself it isn’t a crime in law, no. But wasting police time is. and so is behavior likely to cause a breach of the peace. And I hope you realize you could be charged as an accessory to falsifying evidence.”
“You mean the film?” That sounded too much like admitting guilt. “I still don’t know how it was proved to be faked.”
“Which is to say you don’t believe me? I suppose that’s part of your job too.” He stood up and opened the door. “Let’s hope we can convince even you,” he said, ushering her along the corridor, one hand lightly on her elbow, to the cells.
She felt she had to go down or he would be suspicious. The echoes of her footsteps made the pale green corridor seem longer than it looked. He joined her at the foot of the steps, and she smelled his minty breath. “Do you remember which one?” he said.
“That one.”
“Indeed. One can’t fault your powers of observation. A pity that you aren’t with us.” He was selecting the key to the cell. “Out of interest, can you tell if these cells are empty?”
She went quickly from door to door. Each fish-eye peephole contained a distorted bunk and a lavatory. “Yes, they are,” she said.
“Could you have seen that from any of the other cells?”
“Yes, if the cell I was watching was open.” She wondered why she couldn’t just have said no.
“That would certainly be convenient, wouldn’t it?” He was waiting for her to follow him inside the cell he had unlocked. “Now then, just tell me what persuaded you that film was genuine.”
Though the closeness of the pale green walls made her breathless, she moved until she could see the letters under the paint. “The writing on the wall,” she said.
“A pity that you couldn’t read it.” He was smiling at his wit. “Now tell me this. Who do you think scratched those letters there?”
“Lenny Bennett, presumably.”
“We brought him in to beat him up then left him alone to write his name? Or was that while we were taking a break from the good work? Before or after we’re supposed to have smashed his hands?” His shadow blotted out the letters as he stepped between her and the door. “Perhaps we can excuse you for seeing what you wanted to see, but make no mistake, those letters were put there after Bennett’s death.”
“By whom?”
“By one of two demonstrators who picketed us after Bennett died. We locked them up for causing a disturbance and blocking the traffic. If we’d seen which one, we’d have had him for defacing public property. I wouldn’t be surprised if they both did, one hand each. You know what the comrades are like.” He was watching her eyes. “Still don’t believe me? Then believe this. The cell was inspected after Bennett’s death, as soon as the accusations started flying. No evidence of violence and certainly no writing on the wall. That was put there a month later, and it was seen by the painters when they came to smarten up the accommodations.”
Her own breath tasted of mint by now. Her nerves were jerking the walls of the cell, which flickered forward, glaring. She wanted to ask him to let her past, but she heard herself saying, “Who inspected the cell?”
“Dear me, you are difficult to convince. Someone whose word even you would accept, I think.” He wasn’t smiling as he closed the door and leaned against it. “Just take my word for now if you will, to save time. I can understand how you feel, believe it or not. You thought Wallace was justified in what he was doing.”
“I still do. Now can we please go upstairs?”
“Soon, I hope. That’s up to you.” As he folded his arms, they made his shoulders against the door even huger. “You really think that Wallace was justified in falsifying evidence when the event never took place?”
“He didn’t falsify anything. Someone sent him the film and he thought it was genuine.”
“Sent it to himself, did he? And made sure someone saw him receive it, am I right?” He was shaking his head, and looked almost sympathetic. “I realize that your relationship with him isn’t merely professional. It’s for precisely that reason that I think you must have known what he meant to do.”
“He used that film in good faith.” The glare of the walls was making her eyes sting. “Now will you please let me—”
“Listen to me.” The first word was a shout, too big for the cell. “By the time my children get to school on Monday morning, some of their classmates are going to be convinced that I helped murder Bennett. It doesn’t matter that we have proof to the contrary, half of them won’t understand that, too many adults won’t either. Some of them will carry on believing that film.” He was rocking on the balls of his feet as if about to move toward her. “But your testimony might convince them, and it better had. Either you can tell me the truth about Wallace because you see it’s the proper thing to do, or you can tell us because we make you. Your choice. Take your time.”
Her legs were shaking, but she mustn’t sit down, she had to get out of the cell. She seemed to be able to feel all her nerves individually. “I’d rather not say any more until I’ve made a phone call.”
“Picked that up from watching television, did you? Use the phone if you can find one by all means.” He pointed to the seatless lavatory. “Have a look in there.” He opened the door and stood in the doorway until she ran forward, then he put one hand on her breasts and shoved her back. “If I were you I really should decide to talk before we come down to see you.”
The edge of the bunk folded her legs up, the wall thumped her shoulders. She was up and running at the door as the key turned in the lock. A dwarf with Maitland’s face swelled up in the fish-eye, and then there was only the empty section of corridor, the cell door opposite bulging like a barrel, the lingering smell of Maitland’s breath.
She mustn’t lose control. He was trying to scare her into saying what they wanted to hear. They wouldn’t dare touch her, not when she was with MTV, though if they did and she reported them, would she be believed now that the film had been discredited? She mustn’t think that, mustn’t wonder if Maitland had. If he imagined that refusing her a phone call would undermine her, he was wrong, for who could she have called? Leon was in Belfast, her parents were in Devon, and now she felt abandoned, buried in the windowless room where she couldn’t even hear the heavy traffic less than a hundred yards away. That was all the silence was, the soundproofing of the cell; she mustn’t let the silence frighten her, the silence or the pale green walls. She was pacing back and forth to hear her footsteps, though her legs were aching where the bunk had bruised her. The sooner Maitland came down again the better, for she couldn’t be forced to say what she didn’t know. It wasn’t Martin who had faked the film, that was all she knew. It needn’t even have been anyone at MTV.
She halted, not quite knowing why she had thought that, and then she knew. “Oh, good God,” she whispered. Panicky cramps seized her stomach so painfully that she pressed her hands against it. Perhaps she did know who had faked the film, for she’d remembered what she had been
struggling to recall the night before Martin had gone home: Terry Mace had said he’d been locked up here for picketing outside, that films had to be used for change, that if they had performed their street play here, the police would have thought Lenny Bennett had come back to haunt them. How closely did the actor who played Bennett resemble him? She couldn’t be sure, she mustn’t let the police scare her into giving away what she suspected, but now she was concealing information after all. Maitland did have a reason to work on her, even if he didn’t know. The thought cramped her stomach until she had to use the toilet. The porcelain was so cold it seemed to bite into her thighs. She hadn’t finished when the key turned in the lock.
A policeman with close-cropped hair and Maitland stared at her. “Perhaps you could leave me alone until I’ve finished,” she said, shivering with cold, with helpless rage.
“Have you decided to tell us what we need to know?”
“I’ve already told you the truth.” She reached for the toilet paper; let them watch if it turned them on. “If you insist on having me watched.” she said through her stiffening mouth, “you know it ought to be a policewoman.”
“None on duty.” Maitland let the skinhead policeman precede him into the cell, then leaned against the door. “Besides, they don’t like doing what you’re making us do.”
His colleague sat on the bunk and put his legs up. “Get on with it,” he complained, staring at her as he might have stared at an incontinent puppy. “This place stinks.”
She stood up furiously and wiped herself. “Happy now?”
“Looks as if she is,” he said to Maitland. “Likes us watching her, the dirty bitch.”
She almost tore her clothes as she dressed herself. Like her head, her hands felt hot and swollen; rage that was very like panic had clamped her mouth shut. She dragged at the handle of the cistern, tried again, but nothing happened. “Can’t even clean up after herself. We ought to make her clean it out,” the skinhead policeman said.
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