Shadow Play Page 12

  The sound of his steps fell into her basement, with the loud tread of uncertainty. A car roared off into the distance with a joyous burst of power, not his car, Helen knew the sound, and not a taxi. Someone had given him a lift home. Maybe that little troublemaker, Ryan, who always found her lacking in female duties and judged her accordingly, Helen knew, although their mutual liking was as strong as the disapproval. Bailey hit the French windows at the front of her flat with a stern and well-controlled rap of his knuckles, which she ignored. Sober persons came in through the front door, having rung the bell. To hell with his short cuts. He rapped again. This time she relented and let him in.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he beamed. ‘Or did you get the message? Only we finished mid-afternoon, then we stopped off, you know how it is.’

  She did know how it was, she had done it herself all too often. It was a hazard of both their lives, but she still remained stiff and unyielding in his large embrace. Bailey, who was normally so immaculate without the fastidiousness of perfume smells or perfect creases to his trousers, now smelt a little stale and beery. His hair was messy, his tie crooked from being loosened and hurriedly straightened, then loosened again and she did not want to investigate the source of the other scents he carried about himself, like nicotine, perfume, dog. He looked like a man who had spent a week camping and returned via a brothel, still pleased to see her.

  ‘Did you forget your key?’ she asked by way of a purely neutral greeting.

  ‘Yup. Forgot everything. Shouldn’t have let Ryan drive home either. Back to college! Must go on more courses! Lessons in irresponsibility! I can’t tell you how nice it is, on one level anyway. Everything structured, even get woken up in the morning, good food. No decisions about where to go next, even after lessons, then Ryan makes them. How are you? Oh good, you’ve been shopping, something new. Lovely, I like it.’

  Helen was washed and changed, two glasses of wine away from total sobriety. Part of the spoils of shopping were the tiny earrings which sparkled in her ears, very understated, she resented him noticing. Rose had not approved. ‘You want great big earrings, Aunty, not them mingy little things,’ but Rose had approved the steak and packeted salad, bought on the run with extravagant ease for the West-Bailey supper. ‘More time for real shopping,’ she had added, a distinction which Helen heartily approved.

  Helen returned the pressure of Bailey’s embrace without much of the feeling, deciding he was not really drunk, merely a little under the influence, which was the most he ever got since the stuff seemed to lodge in his bones rather than his brain. It explained the geniality.

  ‘A drink?’ she asked, over brightly. ‘There’s food too, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes. A drink first. Then let’s go out to eat. I don’t take you out enough. Oh my God.’ He sat down suddenly, still in his winter coat, laughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve left my car in Bramshill. Well, that limits any movements, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not driving,’ she added, flourishing the wine bottle and pouring him a glass, thinking of drunk drivers.

  ‘Oh,’ he said without rancour or comprehension. ‘Never mind. Actually, come to think of it, I’m not very hungry.’

  Helen thought of the mountain of food standing by and suppressed the desire to shout at him. ‘I’ll do something anyway,’ she said, keeping her voice level.

  ‘Great,’ he grinned.

  She couldn’t bear to be in the same room so she made herself busy, action being the antidote to irritation, but when she came back to where he was, only minutes later, still ready to shout, Bailey’s wine was drunk and he was fast asleep.

  His coat was on the floor, lying at his feet like a dog. His suit was rumpled. Helen undid the loosened tie, tucked a blanket round him, neatly under his chin so he looked like a baby with an extra-large bib. With that image in mind she finished the bottle of wine and went to bed alone.

  Rose Darvey’s hand inside Michael’s was warm. He was silent which she did not mind, since it was a warm silence and her hand was being held inside his pocket and she was more than glad to chatter. They were walking away from her flat. For the first time ever she was being collected from home by a man she adored to go for a meal out in formal fashion. The relief from the morning’s anxiety and the day which had followed, had both been times of unholy joy, but this was the cream. They were late because they had lingered on this the first time she had ever allowed a friend across the portals of the upstairs rooms. The two other girls had been agog, they had preened before him, and in return he had been his usual, easy, friendly self, crowding in the kitchen with his big male presence, while behind his back they had made exaggerated signs of approval to Rose, thumbs-up gestures accompanied by great rolling of the eyes.

  ‘Did you go for that test?’ one of them hissed as she crossed with Rose coming out of the bathroom door.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rose whispered back. ‘Don’t say nothing. It was negative, false alarm. What d’you think of him, then?’

  The other put her finger on her lips, to promise silence. There was no envy in the gesture, only a gleeful solidarity. ‘He’s OK,’ said Rose’s friend, diffidently.

  That had been the understatement of the year, Rose thought as she walked along with Michael. She was acting like a chattering celebrity, regal and voluble.

  ‘Well,’ she was saying. ‘You’d never guess what happened to me today …’ It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him how the day had started, but then caution prevailed. ‘Well, I had to go up Oxford Street, on a message, and guess what? While I was there, I met that Miss W., you know Helen West, the lawyer in our office I told you about, the one I said was a stuck-up cow, but she isn’t really, not at all. So she buys me a coffee, well six coffees and a sandwich to tell the truth, and the two of us go shopping, just like that! Six hours’ shopping, I ask you! It was easy.’

  ‘Six hours!’ was all he could echo. ‘Six hours! Don’t ask me to go up the West End with you, will you? Six hours! You must be barmy, but then I always knew you were a bit cracked.’ It was said with light teasing and increased pressure on her warm hand, as they reached the car.

  In fact there was little he could say or wanted to say; he felt like someone in an extract from My Fair Lady or Singin’ in the Rain. There should have been a big band playing at the end of the street while he danced down it, singing and swinging on the lamp-posts, throwing his helmet in the air, that kind of thing. A copper in love. The thought was laughable. He felt more disposed to laugh than to sing, and although he had never had difficulty expressing himself to Rose, he was short of words now. Michael was silent because he was entranced by her. She had greeted him at the door (the address, God knows, had taken a fortnight to prise from her), blushing through her make-up, dressed in black leggings and a longline jacket of red wool with a black collar. Her hair was slicked back against her head, and apart from that absurd plait the whole effect was just amazing. He had said so immediately and she had blushed further. There was about her a certain joy, a rich chuckling and the proud embarrassment with which she introduced him to her flat-mates. To know that he was responsible for that gaiety, that swift but steady metamorphosis from the sad and spiky waif he had picked from the damp garden of a damp street, made him giddy. All day he’d been counting the minutes, couldn’t stop thinking of her any more than he could stop looking at her now.

  There was one thing which niggled him, though only for a minute, as he ushered her into his car like a princess. Her bedroom, spring-cleaned, shown with shy pride, was full of traditional chintz, dolls, teddy bears, lace, toys, in so much contrast to the stark provocation of her usual clothes. Michael had seen and noticed the room of a child.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Oh, not far, round about Finsbury Park. I should think you are starved, six hours’ shopping—’

  ‘Not too close to the stadium?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Well no, pr
etty close, but supporters never go there, if that’s what you mean. They only eat hamburgers. Why?’

  ‘Oh I hate football, that’s all. And there’s a match, I know there is. I always read in the papers to see when there’s a match. Anywhere. So I know to stay miles away.’

  ‘Clever you,’ he said admiringly. ‘You should be on duty when they start.’ He could not resist a little boasting. ‘Go mad they do. The noise! We need earplugs, but then we wouldn’t hear them thumping one another. Actually,’ he added, honesty prevailing, ‘it’s not usually that bad. I don’t really mind football duty.’ She was silent: it was his turn to chatter. And the Greek place was dark and cheerful, half full, swagged with rich and tired velour which did not bear close examination, but half covered the windows from prying eyes and gave it a look of expense even before the waiters prostrated themselves for each visitor. Rose was nicely flustered. They sat after the table was adjusted three times, the candle and the flowers slammed back with the efficiency which gave the lie to the humility of the service. Michael held her hand over the darned, pink cloth.

  ‘It’s one of my locals,’ he said simply, not quite explaining the explosion of attention. ‘And I usually come in here by myself or with one of the lads. I just wanted to show you off.’

  Her cup ran over. The waiter cantered across with another flower and a complimentary drink, but all she could do was look at the man who held her small hand in his big, warm one. If this was love, no wonder she had never known. It was almost too much to bear.

  I don’t know what’s happened to me, Michael wanted to say. I just don’t know, but I want it to last.

  ‘Here, this is expensive,’ Rose muttered, looking at the menu. ‘Well quite expensive. You’ve got to let me pay some.’ The challenge was back in her voice.

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘When I take you out, I take you out, right?’ She opened her mouth to protest. Years of fighting for survival had not bred a person of graceful acceptance.

  ‘No, love,’ he warned. ‘Another time. When you haven’t been out buying new gear for six hours at a time. Come on, I know you get paid fuck all.’

  ‘Do you call everyone love?’ she asked pertly.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Only little old ladies. And you. ’Cos I mean it.’

  ‘Why?’ she said seriously, looking down and playing with her flower. ‘Why ever would you mean it?’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t know if anyone ever does know why. I dunno why my mum loves my dad, but she does. You can’t pick and choose. Leastways, I can’t. I feel stuck with it, but it’s a nice way of being stuck.’

  Was it his imagination, or did her eyes fill with tears, either of petulance or sadness? Then she blew her nose, having fumbled in her handbag to look for an over-used scrap of tissue. Sophistication did not spread as far as her handbag. She was not a person to tease, he decided; she was as raw as a peeled onion and not like anyone else. Not at all like anyone else.

  ‘So,’ he said, returning to the topics which had been the staple and ever-effective subjects of their conversations. ‘Tell me about work. When did I see you last? Day before yesterday? Seems ages. Let’s have the meze, shall we, a bit of everything?’

  Rose liked talking about work. He liked a girl who took work seriously and also knew a little about his own, that was a bonus.

  ‘Well, there’s something worrying me there. Can I tell you? Promise you won’t tell anyone else? I wanted to tell Miss W. today, but it sort of never came up. Everything else did though.’

  ‘Go on then,’ he made a face at her. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘We’ve got someone fiddling the books, is what. Only I don’t know who. Oh, not fiddling books for money or anything, just playing around with the computer, wiping off cases. So people don’t know to go to court, and the magistrate chucks it out. We’ve had about ten, only no-one’s said anything yet and no-one listens to me, I’m the only one who seems to have noticed—’

  Michael snorted. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Like I told you before, we got jokes on our relief about why bother going to court at all any more. Just wait for the CPS to lose the papers.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said defensively, her hand still in his. The waiter hovered but Michael dealt with him quickly, the boss without arrogance, smiles exchanged all round. How easy it was to unburden when your hand was held. Perhaps all burdens could be shed this way; she felt the beckoning of freedom. ‘That’s the whole point, don’t you see? You just have to make a mess up with the papers and everyone thinks it is just careless, short staff, whatever …’

  ‘While someone’s taking advantage, and doing it deliberately?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t like to think that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I don’t like to think that anyone in our office would do that. It’s only cases about driving—’

  ‘Why not?’ he interrupted. ‘Look, what’s a licence worth? Hundreds? Thousands if you could get prison. Thousands? And the rest. Depends who you are.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking it was for money,’ she repeated stubbornly. ‘I was thinking it was maybe for spite. But what I was really thinking, was that when they notice, they’re going to think it’s me.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, surprised, although he half knew the answer.

  ‘Because I keep the back-up records and they’ve gone too. And because I’m awkward, can’t help it.’ He nodded. Food arrived in quantity, dish after little dish, some of the plates cracked, but the contents delectable. They abandoned any other dilemma except which dish to attack first, but not before Michael had the last word.

  ‘Well, if they blame you, they’ll find out otherwise. Now you’ve got me, we’ll sort it out. Listen,’ handing her the hot pitta bread, ‘I’m boxing next week. Want to come and see me?’

  She had a mouthful, shook her head. ‘Only if you win. I don’t want to see you being punched.’

  ‘Promise,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be punched, either.’

  It was then that the face pressed itself against the window. A bloated red face with one eye half closed and the colours of tropical sunset beneath nasty, dirty, thinning hair. The figure beneath wore indecipherable clothes, brown, black, damp, funeral clothes and a grubby shirt collar, streaked with blood. A hand sheltered the eyes the better to peer inwards at the diners and their food. The face adjusted itself further to avoid the curtains, then flattened one cheek against the pane, making the expression of it lugubrious and exaggerating the swelling of the skin. Rose and Michael were in the corner window-seat, she had her back to the wall. Michael looked up, his eyes suddenly level with the eyes outside, inches from that terrible face, ghostly in the light from the framed menu outside. The eyes moved sideways, gazed at Rose, and Michael was uncomfortably alarmed, then violently angry. His first reaction was to stand up and bang on the windows, but it was tempered by the desire for peace.

  ‘Here, Rose, love,’ he said equably. ‘You seem to have got a fan out there. Friend of yours?’

  She looked up, he waited for the laugh, watched as the colour of her skin drained to a dull white. Michael had seen the same in people about to faint, but all she did was drop her fork and choke on what she ate. He leapt from his seat, round to her side, patted her back and waited for the coughing to subside. The man outside did not move. For a moment, the two inside stared at him and then, most hideous of all, the face broke into a great, flattened grin, a hand appeared clawing at the glass beside the smile, then sketched a wave as the glass was misted by breath. Michael went outside.

  He pulled the man by the shoulder, feeling the loose fabric slip over a knob of fleshless bone. A ghost. The man was still grinning.

  ‘What’s your game, mister? What’s your bloody game?’ Michael shouted. ‘Fuck off out of it! Go home!’

  Logo appeared to consider. In height, he reached somewhere about the middle of Michael’s chest and he would have known a policeman at fifty yards, even in the fog. Restlessness had driven him back outdoors, bu
t he was in no condition to run, fight, beg or face another arrest. Michael, too, remembered to conciliate.

  ‘You should be at home, old man, not out on a night like this, frightening people. Go on, go home.’ But he could not resist a rough push which sent the other reeling back a few steps, wiping away that smile for three seconds until it reappeared with his balance.

  ‘All right, all right,’ in a wheedling tone which irritated more than any sign of aggression. ‘I was going anyway.’ He turned with dignity and his voice came floating back. ‘Tell her I’ll find her. Tell her I’ll go on looking.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Michael muttered, watching until the man was out of sight. Logo, that’s who it was, seen him before, poor old loony. That was all right: anyone recognised was all right. He shook himself like a dog, tried to get rid of the anger and returned inside.

  The corner-seat where Rose had sat was empty. The waiter hovered, anxiously, with the next course on a large dish.

  ‘Keep it warm a minute, will you? Where’d she go?’

  The waiter shrugged and pointed to the back. He was used to alarms and squabbles and ladies hiding in the lav after too much retsina. Michael forced his way to the back behind the bar. She was standing against the lavatory door, holding the same piece of tissue she had produced before to press against her mouth, as if that talisman alone could stop the trembling.

  ‘Come on, love. It’s all right. Don’t be upset. It’s all right. He’s only an old no-good, lives the other side of the stadium, harmless old fart.’

  She shook her head. He put his arms round her, began to lead her back to their table. She resisted.

  ‘Come on, no damage. Come on, love, we’ve hardly started.’ She mumbled something into the disgusting rag of tissue.

  ‘What? Didn’t hear you. Tell me what’s up. Look, he only likes scaring people, that’s all. I can tell you a tale or two about Logo.’

  She took the tissue away from her face, heaved a large sigh to control the shaking.