Coming Down (6 page)

“
I’ll cover us. Let me speak with the Tate and set something up for next Thursday.” He reaches out with jade-stained fingers. “Come on, Beth. Please?”

Next Thursday.
I’m meant to be going out with Simon to a party that night, but it won’t start until nine. I figure I’ll be able to do both—take the kids to the gallery then go to the ball. Niall’s so very irresistible, with those pouty lips and ocean-coloured eyes that in spite of my fears, of my misgivings, I find myself nodding in agreement.

My reward is a squeeze of my wrist and
an excited grin which practically splits his face in two. Like the Niall-addict I used to be, I take it all in and let him set my pulse on fire.

Feel the burn.

I’m still feeling it when we finish for the day. The kids help clear up in their noisy, haphazard way, washing pots in the Belfast sink and managing to spill dirty grey water onto the floor below. It sprays over the white tiles surrounding the sink area.

When they
’re gone I clean up again, wiping down the white porcelain. Niall picks up the paintings and hangs them up on the string I’ve wired across the ceiling for just that purpose, securing them with clothes pegs.

“
I’m sorry if I pushed you into a corner.”

“
What?” An image pops into my head—Niall manhandling me into a wall, pressing his body into mine. I can almost feel the outline of his chest against mine. I shake my head, trying to get it out of my mind.

“
Over the gallery. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” His voice is so soft I have to step closer to hear him. “I feel bad for railroading you.”

“
You didn’t railroad me.” I am lying through my teeth. I don’t want to be the weak one anymore. The girl so easily led astray. “It’ll be great; I’m looking forward to it.”

His smile is confused.
“Okay. Well, thanks for agreeing to it. I owe you one.”

I raise my eyebrows and nod. For a moment I find it easy to
pretend this could work, that we could be two colleagues taking a group of kids on an outing. No issues, no history. Just good, clean friends.

I
’m clearly delusional.

6

Nobody
’s seen Daisy MacArthur for a while. The last time anyone heard from her was almost two weeks ago, when she cancelled her appointment with Lara. Since then I’ve tried calling and messaging her with no response. A lump of lead lies at the bottom of my gut when I think of all the things that could have gone wrong.

Every one
of them comes back to the same root cause: Darren.

Her lowlife scumbag of a boyfriend drifts in and out of her
world like a crisp packet on a breeze. Every time, he wreaks havoc then disappears, leaving Daisy to pick up the pieces of her broken life. It gets harder each time. She thinks they’re star-crossed lovers, destined to be together, torn apart by fate. In her mind, he’s her Byron, her Romeo. Not Darren Tebbit, local drug dealer and all-round asshole.

Daisy
was brought up by a single mother in a council flat not far from here. She watched her mum die a slow, lingering death from lung cancer when Daisy was only twelve. Her next four years were spent in the system, pushed from foster care to group home then back again. No wonder she was seduced by the idea of a white knight riding in to save her.

She
’s never told me who Allegra’s father is—and I’ve never asked. I figure she’ll tell me when she’s ready, or if it’s something important to her. All I know is she had Allegra at the age of sixteen, the right time to score herself a council flat, paid for by social services. The dad could have been another kid at the home or school. Perhaps a teacher or a care worker. I honestly have no idea. She wasn’t the first teenager in the care system to think a baby would solve all her problems.

Even though Simon would kill me if he knew I was here,
I arrive at her block of flats at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. The sun is desperately trying to burn through the grey, high-level clouds that’ve been cloaking the sky for days, lending them a pale lemon hue. It’s so much prettier than the dull slate of the concrete tower block.

Built as part of
a social movement that flushed through Britain in the 1960s, the tower stands as a memorial to over-optimism. Once there were flower pots and plants hanging from the rails that circle the building. Now there are drying clothes. Walkways wrap around the block—envisaged as ‘streets in the sky’—and are best avoided at night. This is where the deals go down, where the gangs fight over territory. This is the Britain we middle-class folk like to forget exists.

I don
’t take the lift up to the fourth floor. It’s out of order, but I’m also scared of getting stuck in there, among the litter and the smell of urine. If I’m truly honest with myself, I don’t want to be trapped in there with another resident, either. They scare the hell out of me. Even dressed down in jeans and a thin jacket, wearing nondescript boots with my hair pulled into a messy bun, it’s clear I don’t belong around here. I don’t think it’s my clothes or make-up as much as the way my face looks. It’s too clear and bright—not marred by a lifetime of poverty and desperation. Coming here makes me realise just how lucky I am, and how far I’ve come.

By the time I reach the f
ourth floor I’m breathless. I have to catch some oxygen before I open the door of the stairwell and walk out onto the long wraparound balcony that leads to all the flats. It’s not quite so scary here during the day, though I’m still wary as I walk past a group of young lads, leaning against the rails and smoking, their dark eyes following me. I glance at them—enough to take in that despite their cigarettes and their bumfluff beards they should all be at school.

Of course, I
’m too chickenshit to say anything.

Daisy lives at 422, about halfway down the block. When I get there, I not
ice the curtains are drawn. The window glass is so grimy that whatever light the thin fabric lets in must be obscured by dirt. Knocking twice on the door makes a few flecks of peeling red paint fall to the concrete floor. After waiting for a minute I knock again, but there’s still no response.

I
vacillate over what to do next. Perhaps I should leave a note, or wait until Daisy comes back, but I’m too scared to hang around here for long. I knock one last time and shout her name this time—making sure there’s nobody outside who can hear me—but I get nothing.

T
hen there’s a loud creak as the door to the next flat opens. A woman peers around the wooden frame, reaching up to wipe a lock of greasy brown hair out of her face. She stares at me through narrowed eyes.

“
You from the council?” she asks suspiciously.

“
No.” I shake my head quickly.

She raises a drawn-on eyebrow.
“The social?”

“
I’m a friend of Daisy’s. Do you know where she is?”

She
’s still staring at me. Her eyes slowly scan downward, taking in my clothes, my shoes, the way I stand. “Yeah.”

We look at each other, and it takes me a minute to reali
se she isn’t going to follow up. “Where?”

“
Who wants to know?”

I take a step toward the woman, then stop as soon as I notice the huge dog standing right be
hind her. I’m not that great with breeds, but it looks like a wolf crossed with a Doberman. “My name’s Beth. I know Daisy and Allegra. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“
They took her kiddie away.”

“
I know. But Daisy, is she okay? Have you seen her?” I don’t know if it’s my persistence, or if my genuine concern shines through, but I notice her expression thaw a little.

“
She hasn’t been out for days. Not since her boyfriend left.”

“
Darren’s gone?”

“
Yeah, and good fucking riddance if you ask me. Coming and going at all hours, bringing bad people back. Fucker.”

I try to smile sympathetically, b
ut my stomach lurches. If this woman is describing Darren’s friends as ‘bad people’, they have to be truly awful. “Are you sure she’s in there?” I incline my head to Daisy’s flat.

The woman shrugs.
“I’m not a nosy neighbour or anything, but I haven’t seen her leave. And she isn’t exactly quiet, if you know what I mean.”

Then she
’s in there. I can tell the woman is
definitely
a nosy neighbour, and she’d know for sure if Daisy had left. I feel panic start to rise in my chest. If Daisy is alone—and has been for days, not answering her phone—then what sort of state is she in?

I pummel on her door, calling out her name.
Feeling stupid and alone—except for the neighbour and her dog—I swallow down my panicked tears.

“
She won’t answer.”

“
What?”

“
She’ll think you’re from the council.”

“
But I need to check on her.”

Cool as a cucumber, the woman walks out of her doorway and over to where I
’m standing. Gently pushing me out of the way, she does something to the lock I can’t quite see. A moment later, the door swings open. A waft of warm, dank air hits my nostrils. My gag reflex comes back stronger than ever.

The neighbour goes back to her flat without a word, pulling her dog with her,
closing her door with a click. Leaving me alone in Daisy’s flat. I start to feel really anxious. What if Darren hasn’t really gone? I’ve only seen him once, when he met Daisy outside the clinic, but there was an air of malevolence in his stare that scared me stupid. I take a deep breath and walk into the living room, trying to ignore the taste of stale air.

The floor and table
are littered with takeaway cartons and beer cans, and there are ashtrays over-spilling with butts of both cigarettes and joints. DVD cases are strewn across the TV stand, and there is a big pile of clothes in the corner.

But no Daisy.
Where is she?

I pull my mobile phone out of my bag and clutch it in my sweaty fingers, holding it like a talisman to ward off evil. Then
I walk out of the lounge and into the next room. One glance tells me it’s empty—from the pink walls and pile of toys I’m guessing this is Allegra’s room. I step back out and head for the third door. When I get closer I start to hear something—more than heavy breath, less than moaning. A couple of coughs that sound way too full of liquid.

“
Daisy?” I push the door tentatively. My whole body is alive with adrenaline. I’m half a sensible thought away from getting the hell out of here. Just when I think there’s going to be no reply, there’s another almost-groan.

Right away, I can tell it
’s her bedroom. Though the curtains are drawn, they’re thin enough to let in the light. She’s lying curled up on the bed, her hands clutching at her stomach. Her right eye is black and swollen—illuminated with a greeny-yellow sheen where the bruise has matured. Right below it, the side of her cheek is enlarged and puffy, almost certainly broken again. A stench of urine and vomit permeates the air. I have to cover my mouth and nose with my free hand, trying not to be sick.

With the other, I dial 999.

* * *

Simon doesn
’t get angry very often. I’m used to his softly spoken, gentle way of communicating. Of course, I’ve seen him in adversarial mode—being a lawyer it’s almost obligatory—though with me he’s always been a man carefully handling a fragile china doll. But ever since he picked me up from the hospital an hour ago, he’s been holding his body like a lion about to pounce.

So many times he
’s told me that working at the clinic is dangerous. He’s asked me to leave before, and I’ve held out, telling him I’m not in harm’s way. Today, we both know that’s a lie.

Maybe that
’s why I’m finding this so hard. Perched on the edge of our leather couch, my fingers clutching the seat cushion, my heart rattles in my chest like an animal in a cage. He paces in front of me, one hand pulling at his white-blond hair, the other balled into a fist.

“
What the hell were you thinking?” He stops in front of me. “Jesus Christ, have you no brain cells in that pretty head of yours?”

“
I’m so sorry. I...”

He continues as if I haven
’t spoken, “When we got married you promised this wouldn’t affect us. You said you’d give up the clinic before it did.”

Did I say that? It
does sound like something I might have said. But my heart falls at his words. I don’t know if he’s being passive aggressive and trying to make me leave the clinic, or if he’s simply thinking things through out loud.

I remain silent.

He starts pacing again. It’s rhythmic; three steps to the right, stop and turn, four steps to the left, then stop.

“
Why didn’t you call somebody? Why did you go there alone? If something had happened to you...”

Tears st
art to pool in my eyes. Even though I swallow hard, they start to overflow, because something
did
happen today. I found my friend lying in a pool of her own vomit and blood, almost dead on her bed. I got to see the bruises and the cuts and the track marks and I can’t get it out of my head. Even thinking about the way she smelled when I got close—a horrific mixture of vomit and excrement—makes me want to hurl.

I start to shiver when I think of another death, so many years ago.
The way Digby collapsed. How we were responsible. It all comes flooding back; the guilt, the memories, the unshakeable pain.

“
Don’t turn on the fucking waterworks with me.”

My eyes widen as I lift my head up to meet his angry stare. Simon
hardly ever swears. I bite my lips in an effort to stifle any sobs. He’s starting to scare me, this angry, shouting Simon. It feels as though my blood is fizzing in my veins, all my muscles slackened and useless. Still the tears flow like hot rivulets down my cheeks; cooling at my chin.

“
Simon, please.”

“
Please what? Please can I go and put my life in danger again? For some bloody junkie who couldn’t give a damn about herself?”

“
Daisy isn’t a junkie.” I know this is a lie. “She’s a friend. Somebody’s mother. She counts.”

She matters, of course she does.
So did Digby. I owe him this.

“
You count more.”

“
I’ve taken drugs as well, you know.” There, I’ve said it. Brought up my own past before he can. I don’t know why I’ve decided to rehash it now.

“
It’s not the same. You weren’t a junkie, you just experimented.” Though his tone is lower, his face is still an angry red. I know that when he’s in control of his words he can out-talk me every time. “I don’t want you seeing her again.”

What?
I feel disbelief wash over me, almost stemming the tears. “You can’t be serious.”

“
I’m completely serious. She put you in danger. I don’t want you anywhere near her.”