Dead Time (2 page)

Up above, on the bridge, the walkway lights were on. The usual dodgy one was flickering on and off. It looked quaint, like something from a film that was set in the past. During the day there were always people going back and forth across the walkway. Now it was empty. It was almost quarter to eight. It wasn't cold but there was something in the air that suggested autumn. A whiff of burning fires, a hint of sulphur from a match, the damp smell of leaves that had been trodden into a pulp.

Ricky Harris's voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘Change of plans. Got to meet someone,' he called.

She tried to keep a straight face. It was a relief that he wasn't coming on the train with her. He began to walk off. After a few moments he shouted, ‘Here's your train, posh bird.'

She leant forward and looked up the line. She saw the lights of a train. She allowed herself to move back along the platform and watched him disappear up the stairwell. She felt herself relaxing. He was a hateful character and she'd just have to try harder to avoid him. All that stuff about her mum. How could he ask that? How could he intrude into her deepest, saddest places?

The train was coming nearer so she stepped towards the edge of the platform. It wouldn't be long until she was meeting Joshua. A tingle of pain from her arm made her clasp it gently. What would he think of her butterfly tattoo? What would he think of
her
, Rose Smith, seventeen years old, his stepsister, who he hadn't seen for five years?

‘See you later, posh bird!'

Ricky Harris's voice came from above and she looked up to see him walk on to the bridge. There was someone coming from the other end. A man in a hoodie striding out, rushing probably, so as not to miss the train. She glanced down at the track and saw the engine slowing, then her eyes travelled back up to the bridge.

Ricky Harris was talking to the man in the hooded top.

She stared, puzzled.

There was a row, loud voices which she couldn't make out because of the sound of the approaching train. She glanced down at the track and then back up at the bridge; once, twice, three times. There was a tussle of some sort; tugging, pushing, pulling.

But it stopped suddenly.

The hooded man turned and walked away, jauntily as if his shoes were on springs. She saw the back of his hood disappear across the bridge. She strained her eyes to see if she could glimpse Ricky Harris's head above the side of the bridge.

Had he been knocked out?

She huffed. Why should she care?

The train pulled up in front of her. A noise like a long sigh emanated from it and inside a man in a black overcoat got up from a seat and walked towards the door. Rose looked up at the bridge again. There was still no sign of movement.

What did it matter?

The carriage doors were about to open. Rose could see the man inside waiting patiently, looking at his mobile. There were only a couple of other people on the train, both reading newspapers.

She stepped back and looked up. Had she somehow
missed
Ricky Harris getting up, stumbling off towards
the ticket office, following the other man out of the station?

The doors of the train stayed shut. The man inside was looking puzzled, his finger poised to press the
Open Doors
button again.

She was only a few metres from the stairs. She took a quick decision and walked towards the stairwell. Then she ran up the stairs, her violin case bumping at her back as she went. At the top she stopped to get her breath. When she looked along the walkway she saw Ricky Harris lying face down about halfway across. Above him the dodgy light flickered on and off, stuttering against the night sky.

She heard the sound of the train doors opening down below.

‘You all right?' she called.

She turned back, looking down the stairwell. She needed to catch that train

‘Are you OK?' she said, louder.

He didn't move. She could hear footsteps on the stairs behind her. More than one person. She hesitated. She had to catch that train. She turned to go but something caught her eye.

A glint of red. It was by Ricky Harris's waist, on the walkway. Rose stared at it. Then she heard the doors of the train shutting below.

It was too late for her to catch it now.

There was blood on the walkway coming from underneath Ricky Harris. It seeped out from beneath his jacket, dark red. She stood perfectly still. The blood glinted under the flickering light like liquid jewels. She didn't move. She
couldn't
move.

The station was closed. Trains were going straight through without stopping. Rose could feel the floorboards vibrating in the ticket office. The passengers who had come up the stairs behind her had already given their names and addresses and been allowed to go home. Rose was sitting on a chair behind the ticket machines. The door was open and she could see out into the public area. There were a number of police going to and fro, a lot of talking and the sound of radios. On the desk in front of her sat her violin case. She found herself tapping it lightly. Inside the case was her laptop. She had an urge to get it out, to switch it on, so that she could do something with her fingers. Her mobile was right next to her. She'd already sent a text to Joshua to say that she couldn't come. The message was short and didn't explain a thing.
Can't make it. Will call you. Rose.
She hadn't bothered to contact Anna. Anna wouldn't miss her yet.

She felt odd. As if she should be crying. Someone had died metres away from her and yet she felt completely cold about it.

A man in a tracksuit had his back to her. He was fiddling with a kettle and cups. A young policeman stood near to him. He had bicycle clips on and his hair stood up at the front. Up against the wall outside was a police bicycle, a safety helmet hanging from one of the handlebars.

Rose shivered.

‘Are you cold?' the young policeman said.

‘No.'

‘It could be shock. The tea will be ready in a moment,' he said and turning to the man in the tracksuit he added, ‘Put two sugars in, will you?'

‘I don't take sugar,' Rose said.

‘It's good for shock.'

‘Who is that?'

Rose pointed at the man in the tracksuit. He turned round at that moment.

‘Area Manager. On call,' the man said and pointed to a beeper attached to a belt on his waist. ‘I was running nearby when I got the call. There's an official response to an incident like this and I'm part of it.'

He pushed a steaming mug at her and she took it.

‘Drink the tea, Rose, and I'll be back soon,' the policeman said.

He left and the Area Manager turned back to a computer and started to tap at the keys. Rose sipped the sweet hot tea. She grimaced at the syrupy taste. The clock on the wall showed that it was 8.35; forty-five minutes since she had seen Ricky Harris on the bridge, his blood spreading on to the walkway.

Four passengers had come up the stairs behind her. One of them, a bald man in overalls, had pushed past them and squatted down next to Ricky Harris. He'd used his two fingers to feel for a pulse but quickly began to shake his head. Then Rose and the others had edged along the bridge past the body. When they came to the blood Rose had looked upwards as though she was on a tightrope. She had taken one narrow step after another and could hear the voice of the man in the dark overcoat behind her calling the police. By the time they got to the other side she thought she could hear sirens but it probably wasn't anything to do with them because no one came for what seemed like a long time. Then everyone, the ambulance and the police and the man from the railway, turned up at once.

Some frantic questions followed. Had anyone seen anything? Rose was the only one to say that she had. The others were allowed to go but her policeman, the one on the bike, took charge and guided her into the ticket office and wrote down everything she said.

She put the half-drunk mug of tea down.

Any contact with the police made her feel uncomfortable. There'd been a lot of police around during those first weeks when her mum and Brendan, her partner, had disappeared. Smart-looking men and women in uniform with long faces and no answers. Rose had often felt distracted during the times when they were giving her and Joshua information. She'd stare at their hats, their earpieces, their flak jackets, their belts that seemed to hold everything; baton, gloves, flashlight, knife. Sometimes there was even a stun gun. The police it seemed were ready for every eventuality.

Except when her mum and Brendan vanished. They were not ready for that.

Her shoulders softened and she felt the old grief sweep across her chest like the brush of a feather. It hurt less now, a distant reminder of those deep dark days when the loss was angry and raw. She crossed her arms so it looked as though she was hugging herself.

Her mum and Brendan. She hadn't seen or spoken to them for over five years. The police thought they were dead. She half believed it herself. She had pictured a hundred different places they might be but always, in the end, she came back to believing that they were gone. Now she'd seen this boy face down dead on the ground. Was that what had happened to her mum? To Brendan? The notion made her rock back and forward. The man in the tracksuit looked round. He seemed startled so she
made herself slow down, keep calm. She counted her breaths. She tried to hold herself still and firm. She didn't want her emotions tumbling out like tangled-up fabrics bursting out of an old clothes box. She had to hold them in. She'd
managed
to hold them in for five years.

‘You all right, Rose?'

The young policeman's hand was on her shoulder. His hair looked untidy but stiff as if he gelled it.

‘Can I go now?' she said, standing up, patting down her clothes, picking up her violin case.

‘I've managed to bag a car so I can take you home.'

‘I can walk from here,' she said.

He shook his head decisively.

‘You've had a shock. I want to see you safely home.'

‘I'm all right,' she said. ‘I didn't see the actual – you know –
stabbing
. I didn't even know the guy well. I didn't even like him. The truth is I couldn't stand him, you know, so it's not like I'm upset.'

But her voice was rising and had in it a hint of hysteria.

‘Come on, someone's died. Anyone would be upset.'

He looked disappointed with her. He expected her to be sad but it wasn't his fault because he didn't know about her life. She had no sorrow to spare.

But she realised there was no point in trying to be huffy with him. She followed him out of the ticket office, past the other police officers. They stepped over
the crime-scene tape and pushed their way through some young kids who were watching the drama.

‘The car's over here,' he said, peeling away from her across the empty road.

She followed him in silence. As they drove away from the station she spoke, her voice sounding scratchy.

‘You can just leave me at the top of my street.'

‘No, right to the door, I think,' he said, giving her a sideways smile.

Squeaky voices were spilling out of the radio. The roads were busy and the car had to stop several times at crossings and traffic lights. She noticed that the policeman still had his bicycle clips on. She stared at them.

‘My name's Henry Thompson,' he said.

She looked away and stared out of the window. As they got further from the station the streets became darker and emptier, the houses bigger and the roads more leafy.

‘Your mum and dad must have a few bob. These are posh houses.'

She didn't answer. She hated the word
posh
. She thought of Ricky Harris and his nasty comments to her. Now he was dead. She concentrated for a moment to see if she felt anything
now
but nothing came. Was she that cold?

‘I live with my grandmother.'

‘I'll come in if you like and fill her in on what's happened.'

‘I can do it myself. I'm not a child,' she said.

‘Sorry! You're right. But you've witnessed a terrible thing.'

‘I'll tell my grandmother myself. I'm seventeen. I don't need anyone to hold my hand.'

‘Are you always this challenging?'

‘Yes.'

‘Here we are,' he said.

The car pulled up outside a detached house. Rose had the car door open and was out in a second. The front of the house was lit up, as it usually was.

‘Thanks for the lift,' she said, moving away from the car.

‘I'll contact you tomorrow, about making a statement down at the police station,' he called.

‘Mm …' she said, turning away, pushing at the gate.

She walked quickly up the path. Looking round she could see that the police car was still there waiting for her to go inside. She huffed, opened the door and felt the familiar feeling of gloom that settled on her whenever she went into Anna's house. She could hear music playing from inside: orchestral, Schubert perhaps. It sounded sombre and yet racy at the same time. It fitted her mood.

She closed the door behind her and stood for a moment in the hallway and looked around. She wondered what the policeman would have thought of this house. It was the kind of place you might see in a magazine. She had
certainly never been inside a house like this until she'd come to live here. The hallway was as wide as a room and the parquet floor was glowing with polish and had oriental rugs dotted here and there. A huge hallstand with a large vase of flowers on it stood to one side. The stairs swept upwards in an ‘L' shape and were carpeted in royal blue.

Rose took her jacket off. She let it lie over her arm. There were no hooks for her to hang it on.
Take your clothes up to your rooms, dear
. Anna wanted no sign of Rose in the common areas of the house. All her things had to stay in her rooms. Rose's bag never hung over the banister, her iPod never sat on the coffee table, her school things never lay on the kitchen worktop.