‘Time to go,’ he says. ‘My driver will be waiting for you at the lift door.’
Again she feels a pang of fear. ‘I can easily get a cab,’ she says again. Lights spill away down long roads into nowhere, over desolate flyovers, all the blank spaces that connect London. All the quiet places you can take someone you want to silence.
‘No,’ he says again, inflexibly, taking her elbow and guiding her back into the flat past the steadily recording eye.
‘What happens when you’re not in office any more?’ asks Nadine. ‘Can you get rid of the cameras?’
He brushes off lily pollen from his immaculate suit. ‘Oh no. They’re with me for life, I’m afraid. But, as I said, you get used to it.’
He looks up and smiles and she smiles back. Her fear subsides for a moment, like a wave backwashing to gain power.
‘Your coat,’ he says, placing it delicately on her shoulders. He reaches out and ruffles her hair. ‘You ought to grow your hair,’ he says. ‘Much too disturbing this way. How old are you, Miss Light?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Are you sure? Have you got parents?’
She can deal with this one easily enough as a rule. Explain about Lulu, and most people get deflected. They all have a story about a friend of a friend who’s had a handicapped baby, or a child who’s made miraculous progress through the Peto Institute. It’s just that she’s tired tonight.
‘I don’t see them,’ she says.
‘Really? That seems a pity.’
Nadine’s mouth twists. Stupid weakness.
‘That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?’ he asks. ‘I must be more tired than I thought. Losing my grip. In my job what you don’t say is as important as what you do say. But it’s a pity, all the same. You need someone to keep an eye on you, otherwise you end up with the Tonys and Kais. Someone older.’
Fatherly, protective. What about older people who want you to tie them to their beds with crêpe bandages? ‘Keep an eye.’ At once she sees Enid’s door, half open. Enid watching and listening.
‘I’ve got Enid,’ says Nadine.
‘Enid? Who’s she?’
‘She lives in our house. Right up at the top, like you. But it’s only a little room in the attic. She’ll love a garden like this.’
‘Is she related to you? Your grandmother or something?’
‘No. Enid hasn’t got any children. At least –’ She hesitates. It’s Enid’s story, not hers. But he doesn’t know Enid and he’ll never meet her, so it can’t matter. ‘She did have a baby, but he was adopted. It was ages ago, just after the war. So she hasn’t got anyone.’
His hand, which has been lightly moving in her hair, goes still. ‘What’s her other name?’
‘Shelton. Tony and Kai can’t stand her, but, as she’s a sitting tenant, they can’t get rid of her.’
‘How old is she?’
‘I’m not sure. She lies about her age, but I know she’s over seventy-five.’
‘Over seventy-five.’ There’s a silence. His hand is quite heavy on her hair. She looks up and sees that his eyes look as they did in the bedroom, but it’s nothing to do with her this time. He’s a long way away. Tireder than he knows. Then he snaps back to where they were.
‘She must be a bit of a nuisance, I suppose, this old woman? Would you like to get her out as well?’
‘No. I like Enid. Kai and Tony don’t know her like I do. We have a good time. We talk a lot.’
‘Do you,’ says Paul Parrett. It’s not really a question. His bright eyes are intent again and the force of his attention is on her.
‘What’s she like?’ he asks abruptly.
‘Who, Enid? It’s hard to say. You can’t always tell what’s Enid being Enid, and what’s Enid being old. She gets tired suddenly and it’s like a light switching off. But she’s not like that, really. She loves bright colours. She wears yellow pyjamas, and she’s got a red velvet hat. We go down to the pub in the evenings. She likes that.’
‘It sounds as if you look after her.’
‘No, if I’m making it sound like that, I’m getting it wrong. It’s just as much the other way round. Enid’s got amazing energy. More than me in a way, even now. More than most people ever have. She’s had an interesting life.’
‘Has she? And I suppose Tony and Kai would like to make it more interesting for her, would they?’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t do anything like that. They’ve never harassed her. Kai wouldn’t do that. It’s just that they don’t like her being there, that’s all.’
‘But you do.’
‘Yes. I like her being there, up at the top of the house. She doesn’t go out much. She’s always there when I come back from work. Whatever time it is, she’s awake.’
As soon as she starts talking about Enid she knows she loves her. She wants to go on talking about her. And yet she abandoned her and walked away down the stairs with Kai, with the dress rustling in a carrier-bag beside them. She chose Kai.
Paul Parrett has come alive again. He couldn’t possibly be more interested in her than he is. No wonder he’s gone up through life like a rocket, she thinks, leaving a trail of people behind him dazed and glowing.
‘Nadine, it’s wonderful talking like this, but you ought to go. You look worn out. I’ll call my driver. Where are you going? Not back to the hotel, surely?’
She’s not afraid any more. The sense of threat, whatever it was, has dissolved. ‘No, I’ll go straight to Paddington. I want to get home.’
‘Will Enid still be awake? Will you go and talk to her?’
‘She might be. I’ll probably go up and see. Sometimes she’s awake all night, and Kai’s away.’ He seems fascinated by the idea of Enid, for some reason. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a wallet, extracts a card. It has no name on it, only a telephone number. ‘There. You can reach me on that number, if you give them your name. I’ll get back to you. I want us to keep in touch. Will you do that?’
She slips the card into her handbag.
‘Be careful what you say to Tony,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’ll sort it out with him.’
What a change. Half an hour ago she could have sworn he wanted to rub Tony out like a dirty smudge on paper.
‘You mean, not let him know what’s happened?’
‘Better not, don’t you think? Keep him guessing. It would put you in an impossible position in that house. You need time to think what you’re going to do. When you know, get in touch.’
‘Yes.’
‘You might talk to Enid.’
Nadine thinks of the Manchester Ladies. Yes, she thinks, surprised. Enid is the only person I could talk to about all this. She’ll probably understand.
‘Keep in touch,’ says Paul Parrett.
They stand by the lift, in a space full of white windowless light. There’s a drone behind the wall, from air-conditioning or other machinery. Nadine smells Paul Parrett’s clean skin and cologne. She’s exhausted. She’ll like to lean against his chest and listen to the strong pump of his heart. It seems as if she’s coming closer to him, not going away at all.
Seventeen
London air, bruised by rain, spreads over Nadine’s face. She hesitates, one hand on the car door. The driver waits. His body, packed into dark clothes, is tense and athletic. She pushes the car door slightly but it doesn’t move. It must be bullet-proof, if not bomb-proof.
‘I’ll close it,’ says the driver, and there’s no choice but to get in and let him shut the door on her.
‘It’s a hotel you’re going to, isn’t it?’ asks the driver. ‘Can you give me an address?’
His voice is civilly neutral. There’s no hint of speculation in it, no suggestion that he knows what has just gone on in the fifteenth-floor apartment. He’ll have had the message: ‘No good. She’s coming out now,’ from some bored observer trained to read clues in voice, body posture, speed of movement, flicker of an eye. Or from another observer who only has to play back the tapes of what happened in
the garden, on the sofa, in the bedroom. For she doesn’t believe there’s no camera in the bedroom. There would have to be. How many times has all this happened before? There must have been other times when it didn’t work out. But usually it’ll be OK. He’ll play very safe, with known girls, known agencies, people who understand what’s required. She’s a bit of grit in the machine, but the machine’s designed to override things like that. She’s leaving with more than any of them could guess, thinks Nadine. Her hand is still warm where he held it, and his card is in her bag. There’s another story in it, as well as the one the driver knows. ‘Didn’t Mr Parrett tell you? I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going back to the hotel. Can you take me to Paddington?’
He nods, looks at her, asks, ‘Do you want me to phone through for you? Check the times of your train?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve got a timetable.’ And I don’t want you to know where I’m going. Even though you’re bound to know that the only place I’d take a train to at this time of night is home. Has it been checked already? Has my address come up on the screen, date of birth, place of birth, current residence? Paul Parrett didn’t need to ask me for my address. Foggy ghosts of Kai and Tony and me on computer screens.
The air in the car is conditioned and tastes of nothing. He drives fast and skilfully and Nadine relaxes. In a few minutes she’ll be out again in the anonymity of the station concourse, the long wait, polystyrene cups of late-night coffee and chocolate croissants which taste of metal and fill in a few minutes of boredom. For now she’s safe. Nothing’s going to happen, because this is time out of time. If she’d stayed with him, what would be happening now? She’d be pulled into his story, sucked dry and spat out. Or would she? Wasn’t there something she ought to have risked, if only for the sake of that moment when she walked into his secret garden hung above London? It reminds her of something else she’s heard recently. Another secret door opening. That’s it. Enid and the Manchester Ladies. Thank God for Enid. The one person she’s going to be able to talk to. Funny how he asked about Enid. And he’s not going to tell Tony what happened: that Nadine Light didn’t perform. Tony’s risk didn’t work. Did Kai know? She can’t ask him. If she says a word to Kai that will be the end. The end of the business, the end of the partnership, the end of the house, the end of her own exemption from the harsh laws by which Kai judges everybody else. And if Tony gets his version in first…; Tony’s clever. Nadine knows how a story can be shaped and slanted. How different it can be made to appear if the storyteller starts at an unexpected place on the web and feels his way in along the thread nobody else would have chosen. Tony’s quite capable of that. But he won’t. Tony’ll keep quiet. Whatever he was planning, it’s gone wrong and Tony won’t want to advertise that, not when Paul Parrett is involved. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of a man like him.
Nadine rolls up her coat sleeves and rubs her arms, which are prickling with gooseflesh. He said he’d make it all right with Tony. That means all right with Kai too. The driver glances back and asks, ‘Shall I put the heating on?’
‘No thank you. I’m not cold.’
You’d think that he’d need all his attention for the road, at this speed. She puts up her hand and touches the back of her neck, where Paul Parrett’s fingers brushed and lay for a moment on her skin. The skin is warm. The car swings left, and into the Paddington taxi-rank.
‘This’ll be the best place to drop you,’ says the driver. ‘I could wait while you check that train, if you like.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ He’s terrifyingly professional. He makes her feel as if he’s there to look after her, even though she knows that’s not true. The whole thing has an eerie perfection which she really can’t handle. Imagine having someone like that with you all the time, phoning ahead, checking things, making sure there aren’t any hitches. That’s what it must be like to be Paul Parrett. The driver opens the door for her and she clambers out, twitching her coat over her bare legs.
‘Goodbye. Thank you.’
‘Mind how you go,’ he says, straight-faced. She laughs and waves at him, then hurries away, conscious that he’s watching. Maybe he’s waiting in case she doubles back and leaps into a taxi and he has to follow her. Maybe he’s watching to see if she goes to a telephone. If Enid had a phone she’d ring her, then someone would know that she was on her way home. It feels safer to be expected.
At the front of the concourse she cranes up, scanning the departures. Yes, there’s a train, stopping at every stop, going all the way home. It’s in already, being cleaned on the platform. A big-hosed machine goes from toilet to toilet, sucking them out. It’s late and everything’s closed except the fast-food stalls under the departure board, bright striped and nervy with neon. There’s a party of late theatre-goers waiting. They’ve been on to supper afterwards and now they’re a small bubble of gaiety, watched by a weary Indian family with two sleeping children, by a group of businessmen, by Nadine. They stand in a circle, laughing together, shielding the pleasure of their evening like a cigarette-lighter flame in the wind.
The train rackets through darkness. Going westward, going home. White faces doze opposite her. They are two young men with lager cans close to their sleeping fists. They don’t look as if they belong here in the first class. Opposite, a businessman irritably punches numbers into his calculator, then gives up, leans back, shuts his eyes. The train puts on speed and the businessman’s mouth slowly opens as he’s sucked down into sleep. Far up the carriage there’s the last chink of laughter from the theatre-goers, who have brought wine with them, knowing that the buffet would be closed. The slender threads that bind the passengers snap one by one as they separate into sleep. Nadine can’t sleep. She watches foreheads, lips, eyes. All those lonely things going on inside them. That businessman – what’s he dreaming about? His lips are moving. If the train wasn’t making so much noise she’d hear him talking in his sleep. She wonders if Paul Parrett is asleep now, out on his roof by the maimed Ballerina apple trees, under the jasmine and the rain, trusting himself not to wake and sleepwalk over the edge of the roof so that he wakes for a startled second, then plunges down into London. Are his lips moving too? She wants to lean close and hear the words.
The train cries out, thundering into a tunnel. The ticket-collector walks back up the aisle, having checked all the tickets. He pauses by the two young men, but does not wake them. His eyes meet Nadine’s in the unspoken conspiracy of those still awake among sleepers. He goes on up the train and the automatic doors hiss.
Soon she’ll be home. No Tony, no Kai. Kai’s away overnight, on another business trip. Enid will be alone in the house, and she’ll be lying in bed, listening to the house begin to creak as the wind gets up. Enid’s never liked Tony anyway. She’ll believe anything of him. ‘That one’, she calls him. Once she said she was sure he carried a gun. That’s what you do when you’re alone all the time, you make up stories. On and on goes the train, through darkness, past mooning power-station stacks, past orange lamps and platforms rushing by so fast Nadine can’t read the names. It bucks and sways and Nadine remembers racing the engines round the track on her cousin’s electric train-set, and how the trains flew faster and faster, showering sparks, until they jumped the points or shot into the buffers. They always crashed, no matter how well the train was going, no matter how much she and Rupey hung over the papier mâché tunnels, willing the trains to break their record. They are going so fast that she’ll be there soon. Going westward. Stepping westward. Westward. She loves the word. If only she could go on past her station and sleep a little and wake for a second at Dawlish as the sea rocks up to the train windows like a field of wheat, then sleep again through Launceston and Bodmin and Redruth and Camborne, all the way down as the stations get littler and the stops more frequent until at dawn the train comes to the end of the land and there’s nowhere to go but the sea.
And then what? Bed and breakfast until the money runs out. Sleeping on the beaches, washing out her underwear in the
public toilets and slipping past hotel receptionists to get to the bathrooms for an illicit bath. Eating bread, and bread, and more bread until her stomach is cold and heavy with it. Juggling in bus-shelters while rain lashes the sands. If she’s lucky, a tiny part-time job in a tiny part-time arts centre. Or perhaps she could live with a fisherman. She smiles and her reflected smile leans in to meet her from the train window. She shades her eyes and blots out the reflection. There are lights sprinkled over the big dark Wiltshire Downs, like sweat drops on the flanks of a horse. Business goes on, day and night. Some businesses go on better at night. All the invisible deals going on, like cards falling perfectly into patterns. Used, often-dealt, sweaty cards, tumbling like petals. Tony and Kai work late. Places to go, people to see. How easily the words fall into the rhythm of the train wheels.
Trains are lonely places. It’s all right in daytime when you can catch somebody’s eye as the conductor tells you for the fourth time to place your luggage in the spaces provided, or that a child’s green and black bumbag has been found towards the rear of the train. She hadn’t heard right at first. She’ll thought he said ‘bomb-bag’. A child’s bomb-bag. Somewhere in the world, in some desperate corner where only explosives have a voice, there’ll be a group working in a safe house, making bombs to fit into a child’s small zipped bumbag. And somewhere else, in ventilated underground rooms, Security will be learning to identify them. The information will float up on to one of the screens which hedge Paul Parrett. ‘Child’s bomb-bag, approximately 12 cms by 8 cms, black strap, green and black nylon, no distinguishing marks. Child unidentifiable.’