Suspect (44 page)

Bobby hasn’t looked over his shoulder since the car dropped him at Camley Street behind St. Pancras Station. I know the rhythm of his walk now. He passes the lockkeeper’s cottage and keeps going. The gasworks cast a shadow over the abandoned factories that lie along the south bank. A redevelopment sign announces a new industrial estate.

Four narrow boats are moored against a stone wal on the curve. Three are brightly painted in reds and greens. The fourth has a tug-style bow, with a black hul and a maroon trim to the cabin.

Bobby steps lightly on board and appears to knock on the deck. He waits for several seconds and then unlocks the sliding hatch. He pushes it forward and unlatches the door below. He steps down into the cabin, out of sight. I wait on the edge of the towpath, hidden by a bramble that is trying to swal ow a fence. A woman in a gray overcoat pul s at a dog lead, dragging the animal quickly past me.

Five minutes pass. Bobby emerges and glances in my direction. He slides the hatch closed and steps ashore. Reaching into his pocket, he counts loose change in his hand. Then he sets off along the path. I fol ow at a distance until he climbs a set of steps onto a bridge. He turns south toward a garage.

I return to the boat. I need to see inside. The lacquered door is closed but not locked. The cabin is dark. Curtains are drawn across the window slits and portholes. Two steps lead me down into the gal ey. The stainless steel sink is clean. A lone cup sits draining on a tea towel.

Six steps farther is the saloon. It looks more like a workshop than a living area, with a bench down one side. My eyes adjust to the light and I see a pegboard dotted with tools— chisels, wrenches, spanners, screwdrivers, metal cutters, planes and files. There are boxes of pipes, washers, dril bits and waterproof tape on shelves. The floor is partly covered with drums of paint, rust preventives, epoxy, wax, grease and machine oil. A portable generator squats under the bench. An old radio hangs on a cord from the ceiling. Everything has its proper place.

On the opposite wal there is another pegboard, but this one is clear. The only attachments are four leather cuffs— two near the floor and a matching set near the roof. My eyes are drawn to the floor. I don’t want to look. The bare wood and baseboards are stained by something deeper than the darkness.

Reeling backward, I strike the bulkhead and emerge into a cabin. Everything seems slightly askew. The mattress is too large for the bed. The lamp is too large for the table. The wal s are covered in scraps of paper but it’s too dark for me to see them properly. I turn on a lamp and my eyes take a moment to adjust.

Suddenly I’m sitting down. Newspaper cuttings, photographs, maps, diagrams and drawings cover the wal s. I see images of Charlie on her way to school, playing soccer, singing in the school choir, shopping with her grandmother, on a merry-go-round, feeding the ducks. Others show Julianne at her yoga class, at the supermarket, painting the garden furniture, answering the door… Looking closer, I recognize receipts, ticket stubs, soccer newsletters, business cards, photocopies of bank statements and telephone bil s, a street map, a library card, a reminder for school fees, a parking notice, registration papers for the car…

The smal bedside table is stacked high with ring-bound notebooks. I take the top one and open it. Neat, concise handwriting fil s each page. The left-hand margin logs the time and date. Alongside are details of my movements, including places, meetings, duration, modes of transport, relevance… It is a how-to manual of my life. How to be me!

There is a sound on the deck above my head. Something is being dragged and poured. I switch off the light and sit in darkness, trying to breathe quietly. Someone swings through the hatch into the saloon. He moves through to the gal ey and opens cupboards. I lie on the floor, squeezed between the bulkhead and the end of the bed, feeling my pulse throbbing at the base of my jaw.

The engine starts up. The pistons rise and fal , then settle into a steady rhythm. I see Bobby’s legs through the portholes and feel the boat pitch as he steps along the sides, casting off the lines.

I glance toward the gal ey and saloon. If I move quickly I might be able to get ashore before he comes back to the wheelhouse. I try to stand and knock over a rectangular frame leaning against the wal . As it topples, I manage to catch it with one hand. The painting is frozen momentarily in the light leaking through the curtains: a beach scene, bathing sheds, ice-cream stal s and a Ferris wheel. On the horizon, Charlie’s stout, gray whale.

I fal backward with a groan, unable to make my legs obey me. They belong to someone else.

The narrow boat rocks again as the footsteps return. He has cast off the bowline. The engine is put into gear and we swing away from the mooring. Water slides along the hul . Pul ing myself upward, I ease the curtain open a few inches and lift my face to the porthole. I can only see the treetops.

There is a new sound— a whooshing noise, like a strong wind. Al the oxygen seems to disappear from the air. Fuel runs along the floor and soaks into my trousers. Varnished wood crackles as it burns. Fumes sting my eyes and the back of my throat. On my knees, I crawl down the boat into the gathering smoke.

Pul ing myself through the u-shaped gal ey, I reach the saloon. The engine is close by. I can hear it thudding on the far side of the bulkhead. My head hits the stairs and I climb upward.

The hatchway is locked from the outside. I slam my shoulder against it. Nothing moves. My hand feels heat through the door. I need another way out.

The air feels like molten glass in my lungs. I can’t see a thing, but I can feel my way. On the benches in the workroom my fingers close around a hammer and a sharp, flat chisel. I retreat along the boat, away from the seat of the blaze, ricocheting off wal s and hammering on the portholes with the hammer. The glass is reinforced.

Against the bulkhead in the cabin there is a smal storage door. I squeeze through, flopping like a stranded fish until my legs fol ow me. Oily tarpaulins and ropes snake beneath me. I must be in the bow. I reach above my head and feel the indentation of a hatch. Running my fingers around the edge, I search for a latch, then try wedging the chisel into a corner and swinging the hammer, but the angle is al wrong.

The boat has started to list. Water has invaded the stern. I lie on my back and brace both my feet against the underside of the hatch. Then I kick upward… once, twice, three times. I’m screaming and cursing. The wood splinters and gives way. A square of blinding light fil s the hold. I glance back as the petrol in the cabin ignites and a bal of orange flame erupts toward me. At the same moment, I drag myself upward into daylight, rol ing over and over. Fresh air embraces me for a split second and then water wraps itself around me. I sink slowly, inexorably, screaming inside my head, until I settle in the silt. I don’t think about drowning. I’l just stay down here for a while where it’s cool and dark and green.

When my lungs start to hurt, I reach upward, grasping for handfuls of air. My head breaks the surface and I rol onto my back, sucking greedily. The stern of the boat has slipped under.

Drums in the workroom are exploding like grenades. The engine has stopped, but the boat is turning slowly away from me.

I wade toward the bank, with mud sucking at my shoes and pul myself upward using handfuls of reeds. I ignore the outstretched hand. I just want to lie down and rest. My body twists. My legs bump over the edge of the canal. I am sitting on the deserted towpath. Giant cranes are silhouetted against gray clouds.

I recognize Bobby’s shoes. He reaches under my arms and grabs me around the chest. I’m being lifted. His chin digs into the top of my head as he carries me. I can smel petrol on his clothes or maybe on mine. I don’t cry out. Reality seems far away.

A scarf loops around my neck and is pul ed tight, with a knot pressing into my windpipe. The other end is tied to something above me, forcing me up onto my toes. My legs jerk like a marionette because I can’t get any purchase on the ground to stop myself from choking. I squeeze my fingers inside the scarf and hold it away from my throat.

We are in the courtyard of an abandoned factory. Wooden palettes are stacked against a wal . Sheets of roofing iron have fal en in a storm. Water leaks down the wal s, weaving a tapestry of black-and-green slime. Bobby shifts away from me. His face is damp with sweat.

“I know why you’re doing this,” I say.

He doesn’t answer. He strips off his suit jacket and rol s up the sleeves of his shirt as if there is business to be taken care of. Then he sits on a packing crate and takes out a white handkerchief to clean his glasses. His stil ness is remarkable.

“You won’t get away with kil ing me.”

“What makes you think I want to kil you?” He hooks his glasses over his ears and looks at me. “You’re a wanted man. They’l probably give me a reward.” His voice betrays him. He isn’t sure. In the distance I can hear a siren. The fire brigade is coming.

Bobby wil have read the morning papers. He
knows
why I confessed. The police wil have to reopen every case and examine the details. They wil cross-reference the times, dates and places, putting my name into the equation. And what wil they discover? That I couldn’t have kil ed al of them. Then they’l begin to wonder why I confessed. And maybe— just maybe—

they’l put Bobby’s name into the same equation. How many alibis can he have tucked away? How wel did he cover his tracks?

I have to keep him off-balance. “I visited your mother yesterday. She asked about you.”

Bobby stiffens slightly and the pattern of his breathing quickens.

“I don’t think I’ve met Bridget before, but she must have been very beautiful once. Alcohol and cigarettes aren’t very kind to the skin. I don’t think I met your father either, but I think I would have liked him.”

“You know nothing about him.” He spits the words.

“Not true. I think I have something in common with Lenny… and with you. I need to take things apart— to understand how they work. That’s why I came looking for you. I thought you might help me figure something out.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ve got most of the story now— I know about Erskine and Lucas Dutton, Justice McBride and Mel Cossimo. But what I can’t fathom is why you punished everyone except the person you hate the most.”

Bobby is on his feet, blowing himself up like one of those fish with the poisonous spikes. He shoves his face close to mine. I can see a vein, a faint blue pulsing knot above his left eyelid.

“You can’t even say her name, can you? She says you look like your father but that’s not entirely true. Every time you look in the mirror you must see your mother’s eyes…” A knife is gripped between his fingers. He holds the point of the blade against my bottom lip. If I open my mouth it wil draw blood. I can’t stop now.

“Let me tel you what I’ve worked out so far, Bobby. I see a smal boy, suckled on his father’s dreams, but pol uted by his mother’s violence…” The blade is so sharp I don’t feel a thing.

Blood is leaking down my chin and dripping onto my fingers, stil pressed against my neck. “He blames himself. Most victims of abuse do. He thought of himself as a coward— always running, tripping, mumbling excuses; never good enough, always late, born to disappoint. He thinks he should have been able to save his father, but he didn’t understand what was happening until it was too late.”

“Shut the fuck up! You were one of them.
You
kil ed him! You mind-fucker!”

“I didn’t know him.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You condemned a man you didn’t know. How arbitrary is that? At least I choose. You haven’t got a clue. You haven’t got a heart.” Bobby’s face is stil inches from mine. I see hurt in his eyes and hatred in the curl of his lips.

“So he blames himself, this boy, who is already growing too quickly and becoming awkward and uncoordinated. Tender and shy, angry and bitter— he can’t untangle these feelings. He hasn’t the capacity to forgive. He hates the world, but no more than he hates himself. He cuts his arms to rid himself of the poison. He clings to memories of his father and of how things used to be. Not perfect, but OK. Together.

“So what does he do? He withdraws from his surroundings and becomes isolated, making himself smal er, hoping to be forgotten, living inside his head. Tel me about your fantasy world, Bobby. It must have been nice to have somewhere to go.”

“You’l only try to spoil it.” His face is flushed. He doesn’t want to talk to me, but at the same time he’s proud of his achievements. This is something
he
has made. A part of him does want to draw me into his world— to share his exhilaration.

The blade is stil pressing into my lip. He pul s it away and waves it in front of my eyes. He tries to make it look practiced, but fails. He isn’t comfortable with a knife.

My fingers are growing numb holding the scarf away from my windpipe. And the lactic acid is building in my calves as I balance on my toes. I can’t hold myself up much longer.

“How does it feel to be omnipotent, Bobby? To be judge, jury and executioner, punishing al those who deserve to be punished? You must have spent years rehearsing al of this.

Amazing. But who were you doing it for, exactly?”

Bobby reaches down and picks up a plank. He mumbles at me to shut up.

“Oh, that’s right, your father. A man you can hardly remember. I bet you don’t know his favorite song or what movies he liked or who his heroes were. What did he carry in his pockets?

Was he left- or right-handed? Which side did he part his hair?”

“I told you to SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

The plank swings in a wide arc, striking me across the chest. Air blasts out of my lungs and my body spins, tightening the scarf like a tourniquet. I kick my legs to try to spin back. My mouth is flapping like the gil s of a stranded fish.

Bobby tosses the plank aside and looks at me as if to say, “I told you so.”

My ribs feel broken, but my lungs are working again.

“Just one more question, Bobby. Why are you such a coward? I mean it’s pretty obvious who deserved al this hatred. Look at what she did. She belittled and tormented your dad. She slept with other men and made him a figure of pity, even to his friends. And then, to top it al off, she accused him of abusing his own son…” Bobby has turned away from me, but even the silence is speaking to him.