A Poisoned Mind (19 page)

‘I’ll be back,’ she said, not looking in his direction. She needed time to absorb the implications of what he was telling her. ‘There’s something I have to do.’

Leaving his bedside, she found her way to the bay in which the new arrival lay asleep.

The clipboard at the foot of her bed confirmed the patient was Rosie Smith and gave a date of birth that would make her thirty-six. Even asleep, she looked more like fifty. Maybe it was her injuries, but Trish didn’t think so. The wrinkled bagginess of her skin had a long-term look about it.

The cheapest kind of garage-forecourt flowers sprawled in too big a vase on her locker, but there were no cards or books. A familiar squeak made Trish turn to face a curious nurse, the first she’d seen this evening.

‘Are you family?’ she said in an Australian accent.

‘No. I heard about her from the man I was visiting at the other end of the ward, and—’

‘Sightseeing?’ The nurse, whose name tag announced her as Sheila Jackson, inserted her uniformed body between Trish and the bed. ‘I think you should leave. Now.’

No stranger had spoken so dismissively to Trish for a long time, but she was so glad to see evidence of some patient-protection that she walked meekly away to say goodbye to Antony.

‘You will come back, won’t you?’ he said. ‘When you’ve sorted David and he doesn’t need you so much?’

‘You know I will.’

She walked out of the hospital and headed for the Jubilee Walkway beside the river, registering the full glory of the Thames’s north bank. Extravagantly lit buildings of every period were shining above their reflections in the black water of the Thames, but she couldn’t stop to gaze at them tonight. David was waiting.

There were no smells of cooking at the flat and no sounds, but there was light leaking out from under the front door and around the edges of the blinds that covered the huge windows. She unlocked the door, calling his name.

‘Hi.’ His face was whiter than she’d ever seen it and his hair stood up on end, as though he’d been electrocuted.

‘Where’s George?’

‘Driving round, looking for Jay.’ He rubbed a filthy hand across his eyes. ‘I wanted to go with him, but he said one of us ought to wait here in case Jay came. We couldn’t risk leaving him outside by the bins – or make him run somewhere else.’

To Trish’s eyes, it looked as though David wanted to say something quite different. She unwound her scarf and undid the buttons on her heavy overcoat, draping both over one of the black sofas.

‘Have you heard anything from him?’ she asked casually, with her back to David. ‘Phone or text or email? Anything.’

‘No,’ he said in a kind of whisper that worried her. She turned. ‘Honestly, Trish, I haven’t a clue where he is.’

‘It’s OK, David. I believe you. Try not to worry too much: he’s as old as you and even more street wise; I’m sure he’ll be OK.’

‘But d’you think he did it? D’you think he kicked his mother like that and nearly killed her?’

She took a moment to sort through her ideas. With David in this state, she couldn’t produce either mindless comfort or anything that would sound unfairly critical of his friend.

‘I don’t know. I hope not. But I believe it is true he once attacked her before.’

He shook his head. His face was a mask of obstinate refusal. ‘No. He burned her clothes, but he never hurt
her.’

‘Are you sure? If he set fire to her clothes – which is what I’ve heard too – then they’d both have been extraordinarily lucky if she weren’t burned too.’

‘She was in the kitchen and he burned the clothes in her wardrobe,’ David said, looking at her as though she was a monster of injustice and cruelty. ‘And he was only seven then, and she was flat out drunk on the kitchen floor and he and Kimberley hadn’t had any food for two days and there wasn’t any money for them to get any.’

‘“Set fire to her clothes,”’ Trish quoted. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, David. I misunderstood. Did he tell you about it?’

‘Yeah. He doesn’t often say things about her. But he did tell me that. Trish?’

‘Yes?’

‘When the police asked if he had told me anything about her, I said he hadn’t.’

He looked so anxious she forgot he was fourteen and stroked his hair, as she’d done in their earliest days together. ‘So long as he didn’t tell you anything about what’s happened now, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it. It sounds as though you handled the whole police thing like a pro, like a lawyer. I’m really proud of you, but it must have been pretty upsetting.’

His anxiety broke up in a smile, not his best but still convincing.

‘Now,’ she said, much cheered, ‘did George feed you before he went off?’

David shook his head. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

‘That’s really worrying,’ Trish said lightly, before setting off for the kitchen. She couldn’t help looking back for his reaction and felt her guts clench as he provided another smile, this time less successfully. ‘I’m going to have something. It won’t help Jay or his mother if we starve ourselves. What about another omelette? You could manage that: they don’t take much chewing.’

‘OK.’

‘Great. Come and help me and we can talk. I’m sorry you couldn’t get me on the phone when you needed me today.’

She waited for an answer, but he didn’t produce one. This was going to take some time and a great deal of care. Being interviewed by the police must have been bad enough, but worrying about whether Jay had half-killed his mother was worse.

 

George came back just as they were clearing their plates and she was facing the fact that David was not going to talk about anything that mattered. George’s expression was nearly as troubling. Trish hated the depths of anger and fear she could see in it. She got up from the table and put her arms around him, taking care to smile at the unresponsive David over his shoulder.

‘No sign of Jay?’ she said, as George absent-mindedly patted her head. She might have been a pet dog.

‘No. I drove all round the streets around the estate and went to all the shelters and refuges my criminal-law colleagues told me about, but no one admitted to seeing him. The police had been to most of them, too, so it’s possible
the inhabitants weren’t talking in case I was one of them. I … Oh, hi, David; I didn’t see you. How’re you doing?’

‘Not too good. I’ve texted him and phoned, but there’s no one there. And I don’t even know if his mother’s still alive.’ David’s voice seized up, but this latest fear was more than Trish had got out of him.

She was sure that in his mind he was back in the streets on the night his own mother had been murdered. He’d followed the escape instructions she’d given him as soon as he was old enough to understand, and he’d run through the dark to this flat and the half-sister he’d never met. He’d been eight at the time.

‘She’s definitely still alive,’ Trish said, looking first towards him and then at George. ‘I was at the hospital tonight and I found her bed. She’s regained consciousness, although she slips back at intervals. She was asleep when I was there. And quite safe.’ So long as no one who’s afraid she might identify him realises how few staff there are and has another go at her, she added to herself.

‘George,’ she said casually, trying to make the evening as normal as possible, ‘I’ll do you some eggs. And, David, I don’t suppose you’ve done your homework yet so you’d better get on with it.’

‘I can’t work
now.’

‘The only way to deal with real scary worry is work. Concentrate and you’ll—’

‘Feel as though I’m alone in Piccadilly Circus,’ he said, mocking her with a sharp edge that was new. ‘I know. Work, work, work: it’s your answer to everything.’

’David—

‘It’s OK. I’ll keep out of your way.’

‘David
!
’

This time he didn’t answer and when he shut the door of his bedroom behind him there was more than a suggestion of a slam. Trish thought about following him, but George held her back.

‘Let him go. He’s facing a lot right now. Don’t try to make him be polite about it.’

‘I wasn’t. I wanted to help.’

‘You can’t.’ George seized the open bottle of wine and slopped some into her glass before taking a deep swallow from his own. ‘You can’t mend everything that’s broken. You’ve got to learn that; and so has David.’

‘You were trying tonight,’ she said mildly, going into the kitchen to crack three large eggs into a bowl. She took down a clean pan and melted a large knob of butter in it, hardly noticing the enjoyable sizzle as it turned nut-brown at the edges. Tipping in the beaten eggs, swirling the pan to spread them through the butter, was automatic. All her mind was on George’s struggle.

‘I was only trying to save Jay from getting into worse trouble.’

‘I know. d’you think it could’ve been him?’ She slid a spatula under the semi-cooked egg to let the liquid stuff run underneath to set in the pan’s heat. ‘Who attacked his mother, I mean.’

She turned off the gas, shaved four ultra-thin slices of Parmesan off the block with a potato peeler, laid them on the smooth mass of pale-yellow egg, flipped it over and let it slide on to the waiting plate. There was some fresh chervil in a jar on the windowsill, so she pulled off a couple of sprigs for a garnish.

‘God knows,’ George said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. But it did happen a few yards from where we dropped
him, and I’ve no idea precisely what time it was; something around nine. Which is more or less when she was found.’

He sank his head in his hands, ignoring the omelette cooling in front of him.

‘I keep asking myself why I didn’t leave David in the taxi and at least see Jay to his front door.’

‘Now who’s taking on responsibilities he shouldn’t?’ Trish said gently.

She poured more wine into his glass and pushed it towards him. ‘You’ve never escorted him to the flat before. Why should you have done anything different last night? You didn’t know his drunken mother might be waiting just inside the estate, offering yet more provocation.’

‘True. But he’s had such a raw deal I feel responsible for him.’

‘I know.’

 

George fell asleep at last, one hand still gripping Trish’s wrist. She lay, wakeful and worried, hoping to ease the cramping pain in her back without disturbing him and trying to think how to help Jay.

Much as she liked him when she could stop worrying about the effect he had on David, she thought Jay could be capable of attacking his mother. And if he hadn’t done it, why had he run away?

George snorted suddenly and his grip on her wrist tightened, then relaxed completely. Moving with fanatical care, she eased herself away. He didn’t move again and his breathing sank to a regular rhythm of suck and puff.

That sounds remarkably smutty, Trish told herself, hoping to feel better. It didn’t work.

She knew she wouldn’t sleep for a while so she slid out from under the duvet, grabbed her dressing gown and padded downstairs, knotting the tie around her waist as she went.

There was no line of light under David’s door tonight, and no sound, which suggested he’d managed his feelings well enough to fall asleep. She moved silently on to the kitchen and made herself a cup of camomile tea. Said to be a soporific, it always tasted to her like wet hay, but the suggestion might work to slow her overactive brain.

Lying on one of the black sofas, with her chilly feet under a red cushion, she sipped the boiling brew and enjoyed the quiet and space around her. She’d never want to go back to living entirely alone, but there was pleasure to be had now with both the others asleep and no huge feet or hungry half-buried emotions for her to worry about.

Sounds came from all around her, little clicks and pops from the cooling logs in the great fireplace and creaks from floorboards adjusting to the change in temperature. It was as though the old building was settling itself for the night. Faint buzzing noises from the traffic a hundred yards away on the bridge were almost pleasant. A twanging slap from a wind-driven cable somewhere close by was followed by soft footsteps on the iron staircase.

Fully awake again, Trish leaned sideways to place her hot mug on the floor without making any sound of her own. The footsteps stopped, as though their owner was listening. She waited. On they came again, soft and very slightly squeaky, as though made by rubber. Trainers?

They stopped again. A faint whirr followed, then a familiar metallic shriek as the flap of the letterbox was pushed inwards. There wasn’t much light in the room so the
opening rectangle looked bright from the streetlamps. Trish peered towards it but saw nothing useful.

‘David!’ The whisper was hoarse, urgent. ‘David! David!’

Trish was off the sofa in a second and running to the door. She didn’t want David waking to this.

‘It’s me, Trish,’ she said. ‘I’m unlocking the door, Jay. Just hang on.’

Terrified he would run away, she fumbled for the keys, almost dropping them and catching one fingernail agonisingly in the key ring. The nail bent right back but didn’t break. She couldn’t give it any attention now.

‘It’s OK, Jay. I’ll get the door unlocked in a second. Hang on. Hang on, Jay.’

At last she got the key into the deadlock and turned it. George must have been oiling the wards because they slipped noiselessly round. Pulling open the door, she dreaded the sight of an empty step, but Jay was there, shivering in his crumpled school uniform with David’s trainers clasped to his chest.

He slipped by her without another sound and waited, juddering with cold, while she closed the door again. His tie was pulled down below the open neck of his shirt, and he was very dirty.

‘Come over to the fire,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s still some warmth in it and I’ll put on another log. There’s a rug too, and I can make some tea. Are you hungry?’

‘Yeah.’ He was looking round the room, trying to see through the murk as though she might have hidden enemies there ready to jump him. Both arms were hugging the trainers. He seemed much younger than the tough dangerous teenager she’d first seen.