I’ve attached a small video camera to the front of the bike and as I tail Adam’s car closely up towards West Hampstead I click the setting to on when he slows down outside a block of flats; Waverley Mansions. I park across the road, swivelling the front of the bike outwards at an angle so that the recorder has a clear view of the driver exiting. He waves to someone on the first floor. A woman is standing by the window, expectant. Adam has a bunch of flowers in his hand and as I squint through the black visor, I know the night recorder will have captured the roses. It will also have captured the blurry image of Debbie, the nurse from the hospital, waving down at him.
I feel nauseous, and fear I might throw up. Gut instinct was right. Optimistic logic has been encouraging me to ignore the pessimistic misgivings but I think I’ve known all along. I watch him press a key on the entry pad and can see his smile under the glow of the porch light when he whispers something into the mouthpiece; something familiar. I can also make out that the roses are red. He lets himself in and disappears from view.
It takes me about ten minutes to gather myself, decide what to do. A red-hot anger replaces the shock and a spur-of-the-moment idea springs to mind. I get off the bike and reach for the small toolbox secreted under the black leather seat. I open the tiny metal container and run my fingers along the contents. At one end, between a couple of spanners and some spare valves, is a thin pointed awl with a long metal spike. Perfect.
A black-clad motorcyclist in the night is well-nigh invisible to the naked eye. I’m insignificant and uninteresting. The dull street lights and empty pavements play into my hands and as I scour the street, I’m confident there’s no one about.
I drive the pointed tip firstly into the driver’s side front wheel, plunging it with all my might. It sticks and I have to heave and tug to get it back out. I put my ear close to the rubber and hear a very faint hiss. I work my way round the car and unscrew all the valves before dropping them down a drain.
The awl gets stuck in the fourth tyre and it won’t budge. I bend down and am almost completely underneath the car trying to prise the tool loose, when a young couple pass by. It’s lucky they’re too enrapt to notice me. I lie quietly, hoping that my blackness is fusing with the night and that I won’t be spotted. I breathe more easily when they turn a corner and disappear from view. In a last-ditch attempt to wreak as much havoc as possible, I remember the penknife; a 1960s Boy Scout model with flick blade. Trent had pestered my father to have it since he was a nipper and finally got the prize on his eighteenth birthday by which time such implements had been banned.
I leave the awl in place and scramble back up and head for the toolbox. I was right. The penknife is easy to spot with its white skeleton logo. The blade flicks open, its sharp edge smooth and glistening. I take it back to the car and effortlessly slash all four tyres, watching as the air slowly leaves their fatally wounded forms.
I look up towards the upstairs window before I get back on the bike. The curtains are closed and I can just make out the silhouettes of two people, motionless, behind the flimsy veil. I swallow hard, biting back the bile, and without further delay, strap the helmet on and start up the engine. I need to get back; first to the lock-up to drop the bike off then home to Riverside Close.
Yet as I pull away, I realise that our new house will never be home.
I’m under the duvet with all the lights out when the front door opens. A long way off, I can hear Adam untie his laces and place his shoes by the front door. Of course he’ll not want to wake me, despite the slashed tyres.
He creeps upstairs, undoing his tie with his right hand and taking off his work jacket which he slings over his left arm. I know he’s doing this because this is what he does every Friday night when he gets back after midnight. He’ll be wondering why I’m not calling out to say ‘is that you?’ It’s later than usual so he’ll assume I’m asleep. He will be exhausted, angry and exasperated.
I glance at the clock. Three o’clock. As I close my eyes in feigned slumber, I wonder if he’ll tell me, in the morning, why he had to get a taxi back and where his car tyres got slashed.
6
Olive
I’m sitting at the window, staring out across the cul-de-sac. To the outside world I’m not sure if it is my age or appearance that renders me invisible. Hunched down by the window, the net curtains afford me a flimsy screen that keeps me hidden from neighbourly glances. Bob has slotted into old age with surprising ease. His irritating habits are driving me ever more insane. He reluctantly agreed to go and hit some golf balls with an old friend this morning, insisting that he would be back in time for lunch. He doesn’t like to leave me on my own but I find myself wondering why. I shout at him incessantly, carping at his petty-mindedness and lack of ambition. This drives me madder than it does him. His ambition disintegrated in his early forties after he left the army. He was never the same after the stints in Northern Ireland; post-traumatic stress is now the label attached to his disturbing war experiences. Counselling wasn’t for him though. He decided to take up painting and decorating instead. He has been under my feet ever since.
I get up and wander towards the kitchen. I feel like twenty-one inside, but as I peer into the hall mirror, I see that wrinkles line my face like a map of the world. The thickly etched furrows are like isobars of discontent. I’m not sure where they’ve all come from as I’m religious in avoiding the sun. Our last overseas holiday was in 1990 when Bob surprised me with cheap flights to Malaga.
I put the kettle on and listen to the silence. If Bob wasn’t around or dropped down dead on the golf course, I do realise that the silence wouldn’t be so welcoming. Everything forbidden has its appeal and I smile at the thought. Those were the days.
I take my tea and biscuits over to the window, relishing the warmth reflecting off the glass panes, and pull back the curtains slightly before I settle back into my seat. I like sitting by the window, watching the world go by. I can only do it when Bob’s out of the way, which is rarely. The cul-de-sac has seen plenty of comings and goings over the years. The average age of the inhabitants has dropped significantly as money comes earlier to the young.
I dunk the ginger snap in the hot milky liquid and suck up the softened sugary mess. That Susan Harper has started coming and going more regularly, dressed up smartly rather than in her leisure gear. I watch her lock up, scan the driveway and get into her car. It is mid-morning and I think she must be going out for lunch; somewhere posh no doubt. She only ever offers up a cursory remark in my direction when she unwillingly has to communicate about some neighbourhood concern or the weather. She’s not interested in Bob or me. We are too old with nothing to offer in the way of status or excitement. Perhaps she has to suffer her own elderly parents and has no spare charitable time.
I sip my tea, musing that I could offer her a lot in the way of advice and experience. I do wonder who her mystery lunch date might be though. She would have no interest in my affair all those years ago as she would see that as a totally different matter. What would I know about love and excitement? I’m nearly eighty years of age with knowledge limited to knitting, baking and the odd spot of gardening.
I peer round to the left, hoisting myself slightly out of my seat, and watch Alexis Morley leave the house. She waves at Susan. Alexis is a pretty little thing, tomboyish with short blonde wavy hair and reminds me of my younger self. She notices me and waves with a natural trill of her fingers. She walks down her short driveway and moseys up mine and rings the bell.
I set my cup down and lever myself up out of the chair using one of its arms for support. Alexis has her finger poised by the buzzer ready to press it again when I finally manage to reach the front door.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi Olive. I’m off to the supermarket and wondered if you needed anything from the shops.’
‘That’s very sweet of you.’ I smile. Perhaps she can see past the wrinkles but I’m not sure. She has only moved in recently. ‘I’d be very grateful if you would pick
me up a newspaper. The Telegraph please. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’ I overturn the glass jar sitting on the hall table by the door and scrape together the money. I put the coins in one of the plastic bank bags which Bob keeps in the drawer for collating the different denominations.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, knowing that she won’t stop. No one has time for anything these days and sitting by the window in a lifeless cul-de-sac with an old woman is not a young person’s idea of fun. Alexis has started going out every morning, in casual dress, around the same time. I think she leaves the close about eleven but I can jot the time down later.
‘That’s very kind, Olive, but I need to get going. I’ve a lot to do.’ She smiles. Her teeth are small and straight and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she takes the plastic bag. I become aware of my veined hands with their arthritic claw-like spindles next to her smooth delicate fingers. My circulation is not good; it’s the Raynaud’s that stops the blood circulating. Alexis walks back down the path, promising to push the paper through the door when she gets back. I suspect this will be her good deed for the day.
It’s around midday when Bob phones to say that he’ll be stopping off for a pint with his friend at the golf club. He hopes I don’t mind. I’m delighted. I have one more hour of peace and quiet.
I get out my small diary and jot down a few notes. It’s my favourite pastime, a hobby to keep me busy and my brain alert. Every day I note down small insignificant events that have taken place in Riverside Close. I log Susan Harper’s departure, Alexis’ visit, and am about to put my diary back in the drawer when I notice a large car cruise up and into the empty drive opposite; the drive at number four Riverside Close. It is Mr Herriott the estate agent. He’ll soon be launching into his slick sales patter with an eager potential purchaser. He humours me when the client arrives and I hobble across the road, pretending that his smarmy charm is inherent. I know otherwise.
I’ll potter over again this morning and annoy him with my weak neighbourly winsome smiles. I do wonder at my venom, and as I pull on my tweed coat and woollen hat, I am amused by the subterfuge so easily provided by old age. I’ll smile like the little old lady I have become and try to block his sale yet again. What fun.
7
Alexis
I arrive late for the seminar. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, a last-minute enrolment.
Rewinding through the grainy images of the cheap red roses fuelled the determination to pursue my new career with increased vigour.
The back streets of Luton snarl in one-way traps through the concrete jungles. The flyover takes me the wrong way as my satnav leads me in the opposite direction. My Mini speeds back round the roundabout, slithering over the damp surface, until I finally spot Dean Street on the left, neatly tucked away between a kebab shop and a Romanian food store. There’s nowhere to park and by the time I manage to cram my car between two white vans half a mile down the road, I’m sweating and agitated.
The office block is the only four-storey building on Dean Street which appears to accommodate mainly eating establishments and tattoo parlours. I race up the concrete stairwell, two at a time, until I reach the fourth floor. Breathing heavily, I sidle through a set of bulky swing doors situated at the end of the landing and find myself transported back in time to school assemblies. At the front of the hall, the speaker, a smart Asian gentleman whom I assume to be Mr Kabal, the programme organiser, is in full flow, enunciating loudly from behind a wooden lectern. When he spots me, he halts mid-sentence.
‘Please, take a seat. We’ve only just started.’ He beams.
The heat in the room is suffocating as I take my place in the first vacant slot. I scrabble for my notepad and pen when a young suited teenager taps me on the shoulder from behind and hands me a printout of the day’s itinerary. I nod a silent thank you as I take off my leather jacket and swing it over the back of my chair and prepare to become immersed in the event.
We cover everything from listening devices, live-action surveillance and vehicle tracking to twenty-four-hour monitoring. For a moment I close my eyes, visualising Adam and Debbie. I can still see her long bleached-blonde hair hanging loose and dishevelled as she drew the curtains closed. It’s hard to forget. I imagine the ‘live action’ which took place and my resolve hardens. He’ll pay, arrogant cheating bastard. I reopen my eyes and scan the room, wondering how many of the attendees want to set up round-the-clock monitoring on their own partners. I can’t imagine all the attendees have ambitions to become private detectives.
‘Our methods guarantee results,’ rounds off Mr Kabal, smiling broadly at his rapt audience.
At the coffee break I pop outside to check my phone. Adam is staying away tonight; Milton Keynes on a neurological conference. That’s what he’s telling me. He’s left a message saying he’ll phone when he gets to the hotel. The message will make him feel better. Lies will offer a temporary balm and he’ll then be able to enjoy himself, convinced I’m at home devoid of suspicion.
‘Hi. I haven’t seen you before.’ The young man who offered me his printout when I arrived, smiles. ‘I’m Gary.’ He extends a sweaty palm by way of introduction. He tries to deepen his high-pitched voice while proffering a timid handshake. He’s only now becoming an adult.
‘Alexis. Alexis Morley. Yes, this is the first time I’ve been to one of these things,’ I say. He hands me a watery coffee in a plastic cup, which I can’t hold for the heat. He laughs when I jiggle the receptacle from one hand to the other before setting it down on the windowsill.
We chat about the latest snooping equipment and devices, and swap phone numbers. I don’t take his card but tap his details into my phone, under a fictitious name. I’m learning new skills quickly. No paper trails. Adam thinks I’m catching the train up to London to meet a friend for lunch and then taking in a show. As far as he’s concerned, I’ll be sleepily exiting the theatre around the time he’s likely to be bedding Debbie in Milton Keynes.
Gary sits beside me when the lecture resumes. I’m not sure whether he sees me as a mother figure or an attractive older woman, a Mrs Robinson fantasy. He whispers asides to me during the increasingly boring oration which has moved on to mobile phone and computer forensics. He makes me laugh with perky little quips from behind his hand. His levity is helping to lift me out of my stubborn gloom.
I soon find myself realising that with the need for at least two people on twenty-four-hour surveillance operations, Gary and I might be able to link up. He’s starting to look like a possible answer to my more pressing requirements. He also assures me he’s great with a camera.
I’m glad to get out from the hot sweaty atmosphere and am soon waving Gary off as he disappears into a neighbouring kebab shop. It’s almost dark and the parked cars, jammed cheek by jowl on the pavement, are slowly being kick-started into life in preparation for the rush-hour journey home. As I set off to find my car, I stop and peer through the window of a darkened tattoo parlour situated next to the office block. Inside are two leather-clad men with straggly beards hovering over a young teenage girl, who’s probably in her early teens. She has a myriad of metal studs protruding from her left ear and her pink hair is gelled into spikes with a purple streak running through the middle. Her appearance screams rebellion. She’s angry. As I ease the door open, I decide to join her. I’m angry too. The knowledge that Adam will so totally disapprove spurs me on. I can hear him justifying his distaste by using medical terminology to describe the more severe, potentially life-threatening, side effects of my actions.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’ One of the bearded artisans smiles at me. ‘Perhaps you’d like to have a look through our catalogue.’ He points with his whirring metal etcher towards a pile of magazines on the table, talking in a deceptively sing-song effeminate voice. Looks can be deceiving. The girl stares in my direction without emotion, maintaining a carefully controlled and threatening façade.
‘Thanks.’ It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m loo
king for. It stares back at me from the page: a tiny image of a detective hiding behind a huge magnifying glass. It’s perfect. A red rose or tiny heart might once have caught my eye. Now the single word ‘Adam’ with a blood-smeared knife superimposed through the characters entices me with a graphic savage appeal. I decide on the subtler detective image; it signifies a future. Adam is my past and I’ll try to wipe all traces of him from my memory.
The small tattoo sits proudly above my coccyx. Adam no longer follows my naked body with his eyes and I wear shorts and T-shirts in bed. However, I decide that before I confront him with all the evidence I’ll reveal the tattoo, do a twirl, and tell him when the sculpting took place.
8
Susan
I’m feeling self-conscious sitting in the stuffy tube carriage wearing an above-the-knee leather skirt with my bony knees peeking out over the top of the leather boots. I try to relax, keeping my eyes peeled straight ahead. There’s a man sitting opposite, about my age, early forties, his hair with a hint of grey at the temples. He’s engrossed in a tablet, his fingers sliding slickly back and forth across the screen when he suddenly looks up and catches my eye. He looks away hastily. A wry smile crosses his lips and suggests amusement, or perhaps pity, thinking mutton dressed as lamb. I close my eyes to block him out.
I pull my coat more tightly round me although I have to loosen my scarf. Sweat is starting to play havoc with my make-up. I extract a small A to Z and recheck the location of the champagne bar. Vince contacted me, delighted he had found someone other than himself who was interested in wild exotic animals. That was only five days after I’d enrolled.
4 Riverside Close Page 4
