Authors: Kate Rhodes

Crossbones Yard (6 page)

BOOK: Crossbones Yard

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My fork dropped out of my hand. Suddenly the heap of spaghetti looked disgusting, a splatter of red sauce congealing on the pale strands. I scraped my plate into the bin, then walked out on to the balcony. I couldn’t decide whether to shred the letter or accept that it was like the worst kind of toothache, unlikely to go away.

I chose my clothes carefully the next morning. Normally the weekends are an opportunity to be scruffy, and slouch around in jeans and battered trainers. But that Saturday I picked black, slim-legged trousers, a cashmere cardigan, high-heeled boots, then combed my hair into a ponytail and slipped on my best coat.

Outside there was no sign of Will’s van, but the police car was back, with a new pair of coppers inside. A young woman was sitting in the passenger seat, flirting with the man at the wheel. They were so busy enjoying the chemistry that they didn’t even notice me leave. My walk took me down Tooley Street with my hands buried in my pockets, wishing I had worn gloves. At London Bridge I waited by platform eight for my train, watching people on the concourse. The station changed its identity completely at the weekend. For once you could wander at your own pace, without an army of sharp-suited executives barging you out of the way.

The journey south took less than half an hour, the train skimming across familiar territory: Camberwell’s high-rise flats; the grubby roof of Lewisham shopping precinct; mile upon mile of Victorian redbrick terraces that had seen better days. I arrived in Blackheath just after ten. The grey pound was out in force, walking their well-groomed dogs and window-shopping outside designer kitchen shops. I caught sight of my mother before she spotted me. She was sitting at the table she
always reserved, by the window in her favourite coffee shop. She looked the same as always: immaculate grey hair, elegant, understated clothes.

‘Darling.’ She kissed the air beside my cheek.

‘I hope I’m not late, Mum.’

‘Your poor face,’ she murmured. ‘Whatever happened?’

‘Nothing. Just a slip on an icy pavement.’

She studied my black eye in horror.

‘What are you having?’ I asked.

‘The usual, I think.’

I scanned the menu. ‘Eggs Benedict for me, and granary toast.’

‘At least you’re eating, darling. That’s a good sign.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You mustn’t lose any more weight, Alice. You’re quite thin enough.’

‘I haven’t lost an ounce, Mum. I’m a ten, like I’ve always been.’

‘It was meant as a compliment.’ She raised both hands, like she was calming a dangerous animal. ‘My goodness, you’re snappy. Is work stressful at the moment?’

I counted to ten before answering. ‘It’s great, thanks. In March I get my very own trainee.’

My mother’s pale grey eyes studied me intently. She was wearing the same make-up as always, so subtle you could hardly detect it, blending away every shadow and blemish. She nibbled the corner from her almond croissant.

‘Have you seen your brother?’

‘A couple of times this week. He’s pretty much the same.’

She watched me devour my breakfast. ‘Is he still going to that group of his?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I shrugged. ‘He never tells me anything.’

My mother frowned. Suddenly she looked her age, a network of deep lines appearing around her eyes.

‘Couldn’t he stay with you for a while, Alice?’

‘I’ve told you, it’s not that simple.’

‘He can’t go on for ever in that wretched van. And you’re settled now, in your own flat.’ Her voice was increasingly strident, as if she had forgotten we were in a public place.

‘Or he could live with you, Mum, couldn’t he?’ I kept my voice level. ‘You’ve got a spare room.’

‘That’s below the belt,’ she scowled. ‘You know he doesn’t even return my calls.’

I put down my fork. ‘Let’s drop this, please, before we argue.’

‘All right, subject closed.’ Her pale eyes bored into me. ‘But remember that he’s your brother, Alice. You should be helping him.’

I returned her stare. ‘We should both be helping him, Mum.’

There was no point in explaining how many times I had begged Will to move in. There would only be something else to criticise. The pattern of blame hadn’t shifted much since Dad died. And it was easy to understand why she always deflected any hint of blame. Denial had become a way of life. It was how she held herself together. The house could be falling down around her ears, my father staggering drunk, looking for his next victim. But none of it was ever her fault. So long as the outside world thought we were getting along fine, just like any other respectable middle-class family, she had fulfilled her duty. Maybe it had broken her heart that she couldn’t keep Will and me safe when we were kids, but it was unlikely she would ever talk about it, because that would involve removing her ice queen mask for a minute.

We struggled through our brunch in the usual way. She told me about a party she had attended for fellow retirees from the library, her friend Sheila’s insufferable husband, a sculpture
exhibition she had seen at the Hayward Gallery. And I told her nothing whatsoever.

‘Surely there are some nice men at that hospital of yours, Alice?’

‘I’m not looking.’

‘Maybe you should, darling.’

Her hand hovered above my shoulder when she said goodbye, like she wanted to make contact but didn’t know how. ‘Same time, two weeks today?’

‘Okay, Mum. I’ll call you.’

She belted her charcoal trench-coat and pulled on a pair of suede gloves, which were either perfectly preserved or brand-new. I ordered another espresso and watched her stroll away, jaunty and straight-backed, as if her life had always been trouble-free.

There was time for a walk on the heath before catching the train home. As a child I crossed it every day on the way to school, the sky so empty and blameless that it was comforting. The horizon was more complicated now, tower blocks hovering in the distance. Without them the view from the heath would have been unchanged since the nineteenth century: grand terraces of four-storey Georgian buildings, the open land in front of them criss-crossed by paths so the genteel families could promenade.

The wind cut through me on the way to Morden Road. It was the first time I had gone back to the house since it was sold. But when I got to the junction I nearly chickened out. My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to stand in front of the big Edwardian semi. It looked completely different. The sash windows had been ripped out and replaced by double-glazing, and the tatty picket fence had given way to expensive silver railings. I tried to talk myself through the exercise that works best for patients with phobias. Stay close
to the object you fear, until you learn it can’t hurt you, let the anxiety run its course. The instinct to run was overwhelming, but I made myself wait on the pavement for five minutes, eyes flitting from the gabled roof, over the pale bricks, to the cherry tree my mother planted when I was five years old. Maybe I was expecting someone to run out and drag me back into the past, and hold me prisoner there against my will.

Lola was lounging on the sofa when I got back, watching a black and white film. I flopped down next to her.

‘Perfect, isn’t she?’ Lola sighed. Katharine Hepburn drifted across the screen in a black cocktail dress and opera gloves. ‘It’s the cheekbones.’

I watched the characters argue and make friends again for fifteen minutes, without taking anything in.

‘Where’ve you been, anyway?’ Lola glanced at me.

‘Blackheath.’

‘The old stamping ground.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Do you need a drink?’

‘Gin, please. Don’t worry about the tonic.’

She giggled. ‘As bad as that? Never mind, there’s a party later.’

‘What’s it in aid of?’

‘It’s a party, Al. It doesn’t have to be in aid of anything.’

‘I’m not really in the mood.’

‘You will be. Come on, let’s check out that enormous walk-in wardrobe of yours.’

Lola went through my clothes like a whirlwind.

‘God, Al, you should be an undertaker. You’ve got six black suits.’

‘Maybe I could retrain.’

Lola pulled out a silver mini dress and held it against me.

‘No way,’ I protested. ‘I haven’t worn that for ten years.’

‘Great for dancing.’

‘I probably couldn’t even get into it.’

‘Bollocks.’ Lola gave me her fiercest look. ‘You’re coming out, Al, and that’s that. I’ll perk you up a bit before we go.’

Lola’s idea of perking involved heated rollers, eyelash curlers and half a ton of foundation. When we were ready to get in the taxi, she made me look in the mirror again. The silver dress shimmered in all the right places. Lola towered over me in a short green dress and skin-tight leggings.

‘We look amazing,’ she purred. ‘They’ll be fighting over us.’

Lola’s friends lived near Waterloo in a flat with a tiny living room. The party was well under way by the time we arrived. The air reeked of dope, and the guests must have been actors, because the volume of conversation was twice as loud as normal, a sea of hands gesticulating wildly. Lola did her usual vanishing act as soon as we got through the door.

‘I’d better schmooze, Al. This place is full of casting agents.’

Soon she was leaning against the wall, listening to a short, unattractive man pontificate, like he was the most riveting conversationalist in the world, and I was remembering why I had stopped going to parties. The room was so crammed it was hard to breathe. A blond man with abnormally white teeth grinned at me.

‘I’ve seen you in something,’ he said. ‘Chekhov, wasn’t it, at the Donmar?’

I shook my head.

‘Come on. I’ll get your life story later.’

He grabbed my hand and pulled me through some French doors on to a roof terrace. People were dancing to a mix of Motown and trance, as if two different generations were fighting over every track. The man told me his name, but
the music was too loud to hear. Once we started to dance, I didn’t care. It always took a few drinks to get me on the floor, but once I started, there was no stopping me. It had the same effect as running, a mixture of booze and feel-good chemicals flooding my system. After a few songs everyone looked more attractive and the trip to Blackheath slipped to the back of my mind.

‘Want another drink?’ the blond man yelled in my ear.

When I shook my head he disappeared. He was replaced immediately by a man with beautiful North African features, then a woman with red lipstick and incredibly short hair. And then I was dancing alone, oblivious to the cold, the music carrying me. When the music slowed down I finally gave up and went inside, edging through the crowded kitchen for a glass of water. The man with the immaculate teeth looked straight through me. By now his arm was locked around a girl in gold hot pants, as if he was terrified she might escape. Lola was still listening to the short man holding forth; luckily he hadn’t noticed how despairing she looked. I blew her a kiss on my way out.

Two hours of dancing had done the trick. My body was completely relaxed, sweat still warm between my shoulder blades. Rather than catch cold waiting for a taxi or a night bus, I began to walk down Stamford Street, but within half a mile my shoes were crucifying me. People were still milling around on the South Bank, coming out of a party on the ground floor of the Oxo Tower. By City Hall the booze had almost worn off. Every step hurt, and I was questioning the sanity of women who only wear high heels. Maybe they had discovered a technique for long-distance walking without injuring yourself.

The streets were growing quieter. A handful of tourists lingered by Tower Bridge, waiting for taxis, but after that there
was no one. The boardwalk by China Wharf was deserted. I crossed the wooden bridge between the warehouses that towered above me, at least eight or ten storeys high.

For some reason I felt jittery. I could hear footsteps, but there was no one in sight. Alcohol-induced paranoia probably. When the footsteps drummed closer it was a struggle to stay calm. Maybe it was my heartbeat, or the echo of my ridiculous heels clattering on the walkway. It was a relief to arrive at Providence Square. There was no sign of either the police car or Will’s van.

‘You’re out late,’ a voice came from behind me.

‘Jesus.’ My heart lurched against my ribcage. ‘What are you doing here?’

DS Alvarez stepped out from the alleyway between the flats. ‘I drew the short straw.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s my turn to keep an eye on you.’

I didn’t know how to reply. As usual he was standing too close, wearing his trademark black coat. My eyes were level with his mouth.

‘Where have you been?’

‘A party,’ I snapped. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Is this how you always react to GBH?’ He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘Put your glad rags on and hit the town?’

‘Better than moping at home.’

‘Does anything actually bother you, Dr Quentin?’

‘What do you mean?’