Out of the Dark (8 page)

Lil sat very still. It was the only way she knew to stop the anger eating her up from inside. She’d known since Sunday that trouble was coming, as clearly as if she’d seen the white, blind, nasty look in her old man’s face again.

‘Police?’ she asked.

‘No. She said she was a lawyer, but I don’t know. Why d’you think she was police?’

Because I’ve been waiting for them, she thought, but she wasn’t going to tell Mikey that. There was enough trouble between him and his uncle as it was.

Her younger son had come to the flat with blood all down his trousers in the middle of Sunday night, and a story of a prostitute he’d hit when she got in his way. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but something had made Lil think he was lying.

‘Have you seen your uncle this week, Mikey?’

‘No. Why, d’you want him?

‘He usually comes round on Tuesdays when he’s spent his Giro, wanting money. But he hasn’t been in today.’

‘Maybe he’s sleeping it off.’

‘Maybe.’ She felt sick as a dog, thinking about Jeannie Nest. Could it have been her blood on Gary’s trousers? He’d talked about giving her one often enough. But how would he have found her? ‘What did you say to the woman who was asking questions?’

‘Nothing. What’s the point? I said I didn’t know nothing, but I’d ask around for her if she’d leave me a phone number. She legged it then. But I’ll hear about it if she comes back.’

‘If she wasn’t police, Mikey, could she be from the papers? A reporter maybe who’s heard your uncle banging on in the pub about how he’s going to do Jeannie one of these days.’

He looked like she’d thrown something at him, his head jerking back and shock in his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t as
sharp as she’d hoped. It was the obvious answer, as far as she could see.

‘I never thought of that, Nan. But it’d explain why she went off so quick. She was well scared. The kids helped, of course.’ He laughed, showing off his white teeth and his clean pink tongue. ‘They started throwing stones at her. Got her on the run, like I said. A reporter. Of course.’

 

Trish was standing under the shower, letting the water stream down over her face, washing off everything she’d seen on the Mull Estate. She couldn’t believe that she’d been so scared by a few children under ten. For years she’d argued that anything a child did was forgivable in the context of the way he himself had been treated. She’d ached for even the most violent of them, and blamed their parents for every crime they’d committed.

Now she wondered what it would be like to give birth to a child who stole or bullied or even knifed other children. She didn’t think any baby of hers would have grown up vicious, but she couldn’t be sure. After all, genes will out; and hers weren’t anywhere near perfect. There was her temper for one, which she knew she’d inherited from Paddy, along with a hatred of small, enclosed spaces.

She thought suddenly of George, thrown out of his childhood safety to do battle with boarding school at the age of eight. Was that why he
did
like small, cosy rooms so much and felt threatened by her need for echoing emptiness?

If so, could they ever get it right? She found his kind of safety quite as threatening as he found her need for independence. Was that a product of her genes? Had she inherited her father’s inability to stay with anyone for more than a few years? Could she ever be tempted to hit her way out of a failing relationship? Or abandon her child as Paddy had abandoned her? Maybe that was why she’d had the miscarriage. Had her body known she wasn’t fit to have a child of her own?

The sound of the ringing phone reached her through the storm of questions and the pounding water. She groped for a towel as she emerged from the shower. The answering machine had long since invited the caller to leave a name, number and any message, and Trish waited to hear who might be trying to get hold of her.

‘Trish-love? Are you there? It’s your mother. Nothing urgent, but it would be nice to chat.’

Trish reached the receiver before her mother had rung off.

‘I was in the shower, sorry,’ she said, aware that the last few days had seen her apologising far more often than usual. She had to get a grip soon or she’d fret herself into a frenzy.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, Mum. I’m fine.’

Meg, who had often picked up her only child’s distress from a hundred miles away, left a silence that stretched to half a minute while Trish tried to think of something cheerful to say.

‘You don’t have to tell me anything, but I know you’re not fine, Trish. I’d like to help, if I could. And you know I won’t tell anyone else if it’s something confidential. Is it a case?’

‘No. A miscarriage. I mean, I—’

‘Ah, I’m so sorry.’ As Meg talked gently, sensibly, leaving small gaps for Trish to fill if she wanted, she thought how easily anyone else might have misunderstood and assumed she meant a miscarriage of justice – or pretended to assume that. Meg had always been able to interpret ambiguities the right way. Trish hoped she’d been grateful enough for that, and for everything else Meg had always done for her. She was suddenly afraid she might cry.

‘So, I’ll let you go now,’ her mother was saying. ‘But would you like to come and stay for a bit? I know how awful it feels after losing a baby, and how it saps all your courage and makes you think that nothing’s worth
anything, and that you aren’t worth anything yourself either. But you are worth a lot, Trish. And the work you do is, too.’

‘It’s OK, really,’ Trish said, even more grateful for the stream of words that had given her time to control herself. She did
not
cry. ‘I’ll cope better with it if I’m on my own while it’s as raw as this. But I’d love to come later.’

‘Good. Promise you’ll tell me if you need anything, Trish?’

‘Yes. Thank you. How’s Bernard?’

‘Fine. And we’ve got all sorts of plans. I’m even looking forward to retirement now. See you soon.’

Trish said goodbye, silently blessing her mother for the mixture of protective care and absolute freedom that she’d always offered.

It would have been too easy to take herself to bed and wallow in misery, so Trish put on some particularly well-cut linen trousers and a proper shirt instead of a sloppy T-shirt. Then she went downstairs to cook real food of a kind that would have made even George proud.

After she’d eaten her dinner ceremonially at the table with
Don Giovanni
on the CD player, she phoned Paddy to ask why he hadn’t listed Jeannie Nest on the Leporello envelope. He was out, so she left a message discreet enough to avoid dropping him in it if Bella should happen to hear what she’d said but clear enough to show that she was in earnest.

Having settled that for herself, Trish took
The Predators’ Ball
by Connie Bruck out of her bookshelf to continue her education in the mysteries of junk-bond financing. That should help her feel more like the high-flying, knowledgeable lawyer she was supposed to be.

Just before she went up to bed, she opened up her laptop and wrote a funny, warm email to George about nothing very much. When she sent it, she saw that he’d sent her another one. It described the trip he’d arranged for his
mother to meet some winemakers he knew in Napa Valley, and the extra special wines they’d brought out for her to taste. He added that the winemaking friends all wanted to know what Trish was like and said he must bring her out next time. He hoped her ears weren’t burning too hotly after all his boasting about her, and he also hoped that her work for Antony Shelley was going well.

Trish laughed when she saw that and started making a case on those lines, hearing the emotive phrases she might use to describe Nick Gurles’s pyschology and that of his tormentors. It was a pity she wouldn’t have a jury to persuade this time. Eased by the knowledge that she had George in her life – and that however miserable he might have been as a homesick eight year old, he was securely confident now – she switched off the computer and went to bed.

The sleeping pills were beside her pillow, but she didn’t think she’d need one now and settled down with
The Predators’ Ball
until the words grew fuzzy and her eyelids were too heavy to hold up.

Dave hadn’t arrived by the time Trish reached chambers, so she got to her own desk without having to perform her usual dance around his sensibilities. The grey-and-black files above her desk looked invitingly efficient. There were still about thirty-five to be cross-referenced, but within them she knew she had all the facts about Nick Gurles just where she wanted them.

Except the missing note from 13 March, she reminded herself, surprised that it hadn’t yet arrived from Sprindlers. She went to the clerks’ room to investigate. There were piles of envelopes there, neatly ranged along the table under the tenants’ pigeonholes.

‘Why hasn’t the post been sorted, Kath?’ Trish asked the only inhabitant of the room, a temp who’d become something of a fixture over the last few months.

‘It’s sorted, but Dave doesn’t like it being pidged till he’s had a look.’

Pidged? thought Trish with all the half-joking outrage of a Bateman cartoon character faced with some appalling solecism.
Pidged
, indeed.

She saw her own pile of envelopes and picked them up.

‘Oh, please don’t,’ said Kath, sounding scared. ‘Dave will kill me if he thinks I’ve let you take it before he’s seen it.’

‘Me particularly?’

‘No. Any of you. He has to see it first, so he knows what’s come in and doesn’t shout at solicitors for not sending something that one of you’s had for weeks and lost.’

That was fair enough, Trish thought, so she smiled at Kath, but went on riffling through the pile until she came to an envelope with the Sprindlers logo in the corner.

‘Look, I need this one, so I’ll take it now. You don’t have to tell Dave – I will.’

‘OK. But could you bear to say you took it when I wasn’t in here?’

Trish was about to laugh when she thought of all the cases she’d argued that turned on the cruelty of people who used their superior strength or experience to terrorise their victims.

‘Sure. Don’t worry about it, Kath. I won’t let you suffer. Thanks.’

Trish took the envelope back to her desk, ripping it open as she went. It contained a short typed message from Lucy Ranking:

Smiling at the frightened informality of the covering letter, Trish reached for the relevant file and flipped through until she found the document that had referred to this 13 March note. Then she picked up the photocopy to punch it for filing, unfolded it, and was surprised to see that it was handwritten. She checked to make sure it included the point referred to in her existing files. It did. Then her eye was caught by the final paragraph, and she grabbed the edge of the desk.

Years ago Meg had taken her on a cheap summer holiday in Dorset. Walking along the cliff path between Charmouth and Golden Cap, the nine-year-old Trish had
perched on the cliff edge and felt the turf slipping under her feet. Only Meg’s hand on the back of her jersey had saved her. She felt exactly the same now as she re-read the note in case she’d made a mistake:

‘Oh, shit, shit and double shit,’ Trish said aloud, as she remembered Nick Gurles’s cool question about why she herself would have assumed she’d get back her original investment untouched if she’d put money into his MegaPerformance Bond Fund.

‘It wasn’t a bank account,’ he’d said, sounding almost contemptuous.

But this note made it clear that he’d planned to make people like her react exactly as she had done. If the investors’ lawyers had a copy of this note, there would be no defence case. And they would have to have a copy. It was a discoverable piece of evidence.

The finger-holes in the base of each file looked like eyes now, full of mockery. Maybe Anna Grayling was right. Maybe Nick Gurles
was
a dishonest bastard behind the smooth charm. If so, it would serve him right if his new employers withdrew their support. The turf began to slip under Trish’s feet again as she thought of the implications of that for herself and her career.

Antony was due back on Monday. She couldn’t spoil his last few days in Tuscany with news of this discovery, but she’d have to tell him as soon as he was back in chambers. He might be able to see a way to salvage their case, but just now she couldn’t imagine one herself. All she could think of was George’s teasing about a
case based on Nick Gurles as the bullied victim of his employers.

If you hadn’t been so bloody clever, Trish told herself, you’d never have seen this document and Antony could have carried on with the original plan. What she’d done was almost on a par with a naive pupil asking the client whether he was guilty.

She opened the door and leaned out. Dave’s voice echoed down the passage. It sounded as though he was on the phone. This would be a good moment to get out without having to answer any questions. Trish bagged up her laptop, grabbed her jacket and handbag and whipped out of the building as though she was late for the High Court.

It wasn’t until she was halfway back across the bridge that she remembered an extra twist to the disaster. She was due to have dinner with Antony and his wife on Monday evening. It was the first time she’d been invited to their house and she’d been looking forward to it. Their parties were famous in the Temple for the glory of the amazing house on the edge of Holland Park, the people they knew, and the astonishing food and wine they provided. Now the idea of going there made her wince.

Tempted to force her way into Nick Gurles’s office in the City and demand an explanation, Trish knew she had to resist. Anything she said to Gurles – or anyone else – might cause more trouble.

There was a whole empty day ahead of her. She’d cleared her diary for this, and now there was nothing more she could do until next week. Crawling to Dave would almost certainly produce some poxy little brief that no one else in chambers wanted, but she was far too old and experienced for that. And anyway, she wanted to keep out of sight.

At least it meant that she could do something useful for the other David. She dropped her laptop and briefcase back
at the flat, changed, and walked along the south side of the river to Dowting’s Hospital.

He looked exactly as he had last time, with his eyes closed and his broken leg strung up with weights. All round him in the colourful children’s ward were patients playing with the nurses or visitors, and charging about, some tugging their drips after them. Only David was lying still; and absolutely alone. Trish felt her guts clench, sending bitter fluid into her throat.

His eyelids twitched, as though he had sensed her presence. But when he looked at her, there was no pleasure or even relief in his expression.

‘David, I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday. I was held up until it was too late. How are you?’

‘OK,’ he whispered. Then he shook his head. He blinked fast, but he couldn’t stop the tears.

‘I know it’s hard, David, and I want to help, but it would be so much easier if you could tell me what your surname is.’

‘She said I mustn’t.’

‘Even though she sent you to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘If I said her name, very quietly, could you nod if I’ve got it right or shake your head if I haven’t?’

He thought for a moment then nodded. Trish leaned down and breathed into his ear, ‘Jeannie Nest?’ When she straightened up, she knew she’d wasted yet more time and effort. His face was absolutely blank. It was a nuisance, but there were some consolations, of course. Trish recalled Sylvia Bantell’s perceptive comment about the difficulty of acknowledging a prostitute’s child as one’s half-brother.

‘No,’ David said, in case she’d been too thick to grasp what he meant. ‘Who’s she? I’ve never heard of her. What’s happened to
her
?’

‘I don’t think anything has. She was just somebody I heard about who had a boy your age, and there was a
reason why she might have wanted me to know him. Or I thought there was.’ It was an effort to make herself smile, but Trish managed it.

She hoped she’d get back her usual brains and judgment soon. Otherwise she was going to be washing about in a sea of unnecessary emotion, causing trouble wherever she went. ‘But I’ve obviously been very silly. Look, I’ve brought you some more apple juice. Would you like it?’

He nodded, so she inserted the straw. While he was drinking, she tried out her father’s name and Sylvia Bantell’s, too, just in case David reacted to either of them. But he shook his head at both, looking so relieved – and so tired – when Trish stopped whispering questions that she left him alone.

A male nurse outside the bay gave her a relatively reassuring account of David’s physical condition. He was still in pain, the nurse said, and it would take weeks before he could walk again, but there was no longer any need to fear internal bleeding or any permanent damage.

‘And how far have the police got in identifying him?’

‘Nowhere,’ said the nurse, surprised. ‘All we know is that he had your name and address with him. The police have checked all the agencies that deal with runaways and he doesn’t fit any of their records, but then he’s a bit young to run away. I heard someone say you thought he might be connected with one of your cases.’

‘Yes.’ Trish had been so taken up with the idea that David must be her half-brother that she’d almost forgotten the likelier explanation of his search for her. The woman who looked after him had probably got Trish’s name from the papers after a child-protection case and found out where she lived. It couldn’t be that difficult, whatever Dave had said. There need be no connection with Paddy – or the mysterious Jeannie Nest.

‘Before I go,’ she asked, noticing how much easier her breathing had become, ‘is there anything David needs? I
can’t help feeling responsible for him. He says he likes apple juice and I assume it’s OK to give him that?’

‘Fine.’ The nurse’s face was patterned with lines that made him look much older than his manner suggested, but his lips softened and his voice was warm with compassion as he added, ‘But honestly what he needs most is the comfort of regular visits from you. At the moment you seem to be the only person in the world he trusts. When you’re here he opens his eyes and communicates a little. When you go he watches till you’re out of sight and then shuts down. He barely moves the rest of the time, except occasionally to eat – and that’s not nearly often enough. He won’t talk to any of us.’

‘What about the other children? They all look friendly.’

‘They tried, but he won’t respond, so now they’ve given up. I hope the police find his mother, poor little scrap.’

So long as she’s not the cause of his terror, Trish thought, saying aloud, ‘Or his father.’

‘That’s less likely, as you must know. He hasn’t mentioned any father to you, has he?’

‘No. And I haven’t asked, but perhaps I should.’

‘More important is to get him to eat. Lunch is coming up now. Could you take his tray and see if you can persuade him to have some of it?’

‘Sure. I’ll do my best anyway.’

David was much too old for the aeroplane games Trish had seen her friends play with their babies to encourage them to eat, but she set about distracting him when the nurse pulled his tray table forwards and put the food on it. She tried Harry Potter, which got them past two forks of pasta, laboriously chewed and swallowed, then Pokémon. But he didn’t like Pokémon and had never swapped the cards. She asked if he’d had a scooter, but he hadn’t, and so she tried asking about his friends.

His face brightened then, and he started to tell her about Joe, who had red hair and was always getting into
trouble at school for fighting. Trish watched a little colour warming David’s cheeks and heard his voice quicken. He began to eat more vigorously, talking with his mouth full about Joe’s latest exploits.

‘What’s his other name?’ she asked without thinking and watched everything close down.

All the animation in David’s eyes died and he stopped talking. He let the fork drop back into the half-empty bowl of food and closed his eyes, letting his head drop back against the pillows. Trish put her hand on his shoulder.

‘That was silly of me. I wasn’t trying to trap you into giving anything away, I just liked the sound of your friend. I’m really sorry.’

But it didn’t help. He did open his eyes, but he stared at her with such bleak, resigned disappointment that she hated herself. She stayed with him, sometimes trying to talk, sometimes letting him pretend to sleep, for another half hour. Realising she wasn’t getting anywhere near him, or doing anything to help, she stood up.

‘I’m sorry, David,’ she said again. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, not to ask any questions, just to see how you are and bring you some more apple juice. Is there anything else you’d like? Have you read the latest Harry Potter, or would you like me to get that for you?’

A flicker in his eyes told her he wanted it, but the obstinacy of his lips showed that he wasn’t going to ask. She nodded and smiled again.

‘I’ll bring a copy along with me anyway. Just in case it helps. Bye for now.’

She let her hand rest for a micro-second on his short dark hair and had to force herself to pull back, instead of stroking his head and bending down to kiss it. He looked so small, so lonely, and so brave that she wanted to slay dragons for him.

 

Back in the flat, she phoned chambers to tell Dave she’d be
working at home for the rest of the day and asked whether the police had been in touch with him.