The Red Room (31 page)

45

When I was a teenager, my father used to make
me drink a big glass of milk before going out to a
party. He said it lined the stomach. I should have
drunk a glass of milk last night, I thought,
when I woke the next morning. The light shining in
through my half-open curtains hurt my eyes
even before I opened them, and my mouth felt dry.
I squinted at my clock. It was half past
six. I'd give myself five more minutes. Just
five, no more. Never had my pillow felt so
soft or my limbs so heavy or my eyelids so
glued together.
I peered groggily at the clock again, and the
digits clicked round to six thirty-five. Just
a few more minutes. I remembered a time as a child
when I'd been ill, and my aunt had come to stay
with us so my father could still go to work. For those few days,
I pretended to myself that my aunt was my mother--that this
was what it would have been like if she hadn't gone and
died. I'd lain in bed with my comics and a drink of
lemon barley water on the table beside me, and the
curtains half open just as they were now, dust
drifting in the sunbeams. And each time I
surfaced from my feverish dreams, I 547
could hear her downstairs: cupboards being opened and
closed, a vacuum-cleaner purring, the
washing-machine humming, glasses chinking, shoes
clicking across the hallway, murmuring voices
at the front door. I'd felt so safe, under
my covers, knowing she was just a few yards away.
I wished I could give myself a day like that now. I
could lie here until tomorrow morning, slipping in and out
of sleep, drifting between insubstantial dreams and
dozy wakefulness; occasionally padding out to the kitchen
in my dressing-gown to make a cup of tea.
Waiting for a cool hand on my brow.
A violent snore reached me from Julie's
room. I opened one eye. Six forty. Up,
I told myself, and my legs slid round to the
floor. My head pounded as I brought it upright,
then steadied to a mild, manageable throb. Not
too bad after all. I went to the bathroom and
splashed cold water over my face. Then I
dressed as quickly and quietly as I could. Before
leaving, I drank three glasses of water. I
longed for a strong black coffee but I didn't
dare in case I woke Julie. She'd
probably lock the door and throw the key out the
window if she knew where I was going. But I had
it all worked out.
It was a misty morning. The shapes of the houses
at the end of the street were vague, and cars had their
lights on. Later it would probably be bright and
warm, but now it was chilly. I should have brought a
jacket with me, put on a sweater instead of my
thin cotton shirt. There was already a fair amount
of traffic. London is never dark, never
quiet. But I still got there by half past seven.
That was fine; surely theater directors never
got up earlier than eight.
The curtains of the Teales' house were all
closed. No light seemed to be on. Good. I
tried to make myself comfortable in the car seat. I had
no idea how long I would have to sit here: I should
have bought a cup of coffee on my way, at least.
I should have bought something to read. All I had was the
car manual and a ten-day-old newspaper. I
read the paper, all the already forgotten stories about
a fashion model here, and a war there, a dead boy
here and an Internet millionaire there. I
felt cold, stiff, sore. I brushed my
hair and twisted it back. I peered at my
face in the car mirror and winced at my
morning-after pallor. I fidgeted. The 549
Teales' curtains remained closed. I could have
slept longer after all.
At a quarter to nine, a light went on
upstairs. My mouth was dry. Questions pulsed behind
my eyes: Why am I here? What on earth am
I doing?
At five to nine, the curtain was opened andfora
brief moment I saw Gabriel's shape in the
window. I slid lower in my seat and peered at the
house through my gritty eyes. I needed a pee.
A few minutes later, the curtains were opened
downstairs. There were two shapes; they were both
up. I imagined them in their nice kitchen, making
coffee, toasting bread, talking to each other about
their day, kissing each other goodbye. The front
door remained shut. I could go home, I thought.
Drive home and climb back into bed. Julie
was probably still asleep, lying wrapped in her
covers with her arm over her eyes.
At last the door opened and Gabriel
appeared. He stood on the step for a few
seconds, patting his pockets to make sure he
had keys, calling something over his shoulder. He was
dressed in black jeans and a gray woollen
jacket, and he looked like the kind of person I
know; like one of my friends.
I had to wait a bit. I stared at the car
clock. I counted ten minutes, then got out of the
car. It still wasn't too late to change my
mind, even now. It wasn't too late right up
to the moment that I rapped louder than necessary on the
front door and heard footsteps.
"Yes?"
Bryony was in her dressing-gown, holding it
shut at the top in a gesture I recognized from
myself. She was staring at me with dazed eyes, as if
I had got her out of bed. I saw her swallow
hard. "Bryony," I said warmly. "I hope
this is OK. I was passing by on my way to see
a client. I literally saw your road ahead of
me and since I was running ridiculously early,
I popped in on the off-chance."
"Kit?" she murmured.
"And to be honest, I could do with a lavatory and a
cup of coffee before my meeting. I didn't
wake you, did I?"
"No, no, sorry." She made a visible
effort. "I just wasn't expecting--but come in, of
course. I'll put the kettle on. The loo's
down the hall." She gestured with a hand. 551
Newly bitten nails, I noticed. Bitten
like Lianne's nails had been bitten.
"Thanks."
When I came out she was spooning coffee beans
into a grinder. "You look tired," I said. She
looked more than tired. Weight seemed to have
dropped off her, so that her body was slack where it
had been strong. Her collarbones were sharp. Her
face was puffy; her glorious hair was greasy;
she had a faint red rash on her left cheek.
As she lifted the kettle to the coffeemaker, I
saw she had a bracelet of eczema round one
wrist. "Are you all right?"
"I've been a bit under the weather," she said.
"Yes, Gabriel said. Did he tell you
I went to the Sugarhouse the other evening?"
"No, he didn't."
"Is it the worry that made you ill?" I
asked.
"Perhaps," she said slowly. She poured two
cups of coffee and set them down on the table.
"Do you want something to eat--or maybe you're in
a bit of a hurry for your meeting?"
"I've plenty of time," I replied
cheerfully. "But I don't want anything to eat.
This is what I need." I sipped the scalding
coffee. "Have you seen the doctor?"
"What about?"
"About how you feel."
"I'll be fine. After all, everything's all
right now, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"I mean, it's over. The worry." I
looked at her, and she fumbled with her cup.
"That's what the police said."
"I know. The police love things being over, you
see. They love closing a case. Solved.
Big tick. Celebration down the pub. Move
on."
"I don't know anything about that."
"But it's different for you and me, isn't it?"
"Maybe it's time I got dressed." She
stood up, clutching her dressing-gown once more.
"It's getting on. Things to do."
"You're left with what you've suffered, what's
inside your head." She looked at me with
heavy-lidded eyes, as if just keeping awake was a
supreme effort. "And for me there are questions that I
can't stop myself asking. I know it's stupid, but
I can't stop myself. Why would one 553
victim write down the name of another before she
died? How could a killer snatch a woman from a
park, in broad daylight, in front of her child?
Why did a reliable witness think that Michael
Doll was just an innocent bystander?"
"I can't help ..." Bryony's lips were
bloodless. "I don't know."
"Why would a woman let herself be snatched from the
playground without screaming and shouting, and why
didn't the child make a fuss when her mother
disappeared?" I made myself smile. "The
police weren't really interested in any of this.
Especially once Michael Doll had died.
I have a problem with cutting off from things. That's
what people always say about me. Anyway, with this,
I've got all these bits of a story and I've
been trying to fit them together. Do you mind if I
tell it to you?" She didn't react. "There was a
girl called Daisy. Daisy Gill.
Fourteen years old, though she may have looked
older. I never met her. I just saw her
photograph and talked to her friends. She was an
unhappy child, I know that. Parents who abandoned
her, carers who deserted her, or worse. She
badly needed friends. She needed adults she could
trust, who would make the world a little bit safer for
her. It's hard for people like you and me to imagine what
her life must have been like. Often angry and always
lonely and always scared."
There was a scraping noise as Bryony pulled
out her chair and sat down again. She cupped her
chin in her hands and for the first time looked steadily at
me out of her caramel eyes. The color stood out
against her pale skin.
"Daisy had one friend. Lianne. I don't
know Lianne's real name, I don't know where she
came from. But I do know that she, too, was a
broken child. Desperate, even. But at least
Lianne and Daisy had each other. They had
precious little else, but they had that. Perhaps it was
their lifeline. When they were both old enough, they
wanted to live together and run a restaurant,
cooking macaroni cheese. That's what their friends
said."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Daisy killed herself. Hanged herself in her
drab little room in the place she was supposed
to call home. Then a few months later,
Lianne was killed, down by the canal. And then,
shortly after, Philippa Burton was 555
killed by the same person. Philippa knew
Lianne--we have no idea how or why.
Lianne knew Daisy. And the funny thing is that
Daisy worked at the Sugarhouse. So everything is
connected."
"It's not really connected," Bryony said.
"This is a small area. Anyway, I was a
victim as well."
"Michael Doll." For a brief instant, I
remembered my last sights of him. Michael
Doll alive. Michael Doll dead. "He just
blundered into the story. That was all there was to it. He
was just there, by the canal where no one could bother him,
catching his wretched fish then throwing them back into the
water."
"He killed those women." She put her hands
in front of her on the table and sat up
straighter.
"He was a terrible sight," I said. "I saw
his body, you know."
"I always wanted to take photographs,"
Bryony said softly. "Ever since I was nine
years old and my uncle gave me a cheap little
Instamatic for my birthday. It's a curious
thing, how you know suddenly--but I always felt I
could see the world more clearly when I saw it through a
camera lens, like it made sense. Even ugly
things can look beautiful through a lens. Meaningless
things make sense." She glanced up at the
photograph of her little gypsy girl. "And
I'm good at it, you know. Not just at taking the
actual picture, but knowing what I'm looking
for. I can go weeks and nothing happens, then one
day I'll see something. A face. Something
happening. The way the light falls. Like a
click in my mind. And it made me feel I was
doing my bit, being a witness." She licked her
pale lips. "For society, or something, as
well as for me. Like Gabe and his theater. He's
good at what he does too, you know."
"I know," I said. "I saw it." It felt
very quiet in the kitchen, as if the world outside had
stopped.
"We got dragged into the story as well," she
said, with a long sigh. "It doesn't matter
anyway, does it? It's over. The police said
it's over, that I'm safe. That's what you said as
well. I'd feel better eventually. But I'm
so tired. I'm so tired I could sleep for a
hundred years." 557
There was a soft click behind us and a hush fell
on the room. Every object seemed clear and sharp:
the pot plant on the window-sill, the cups
hanging from hooks, the tiny web on the light
bulb, the sun glinting off the copper pans,
making geometric patterns on the wall, my
hands, folded peacefully on my lap. All that
I could hear was myself, breathing calmly, and the faint
tick of my watch. It was twenty-two minutes
past ten. Bryony sat very still.
At last I turned around. Gabriel stood
framed in the doorway. He closed the door with a
second soft click and looked at us; from
Bryony to me, and back again. Nobody said
anything. The sun shone through the window.
I opened my mouth to speak then closed it again.
What was the use? I had nothing more to say. I
put up a finger and traced my scar, from hairline
to jaw. It comforted me, somehow. It reminded me of
who I was.
"I forgot my bag," said Gabriel.
"I'd better go," I said. But I didn't
get up.
"She was just passing," said Bryony at last,
in her new flat voice.
Gabriel nodded.
"I want to go to bed," she muttered, and stood
up unsteadily. "I'm ill."
"It was just a social call," I said. "We
were talking about things. You know."
"What things?" He looked across at his wife.
"She was talking about it all," Bryony said.
"She mentioned a girl. What was her name?"
"Daisy," I said. "Daisy Gill."
"She killed herself. And she was a friend of
Lianne's. And she worked at the Sugarhouse."
"This is so stupid," Gabriel said wearily.
"This was all meant to be over. What do the
police say about this?"
"It's just her," said Bryony, almost
inaudibly. "She's alone."
He came over to me. "What did you want?"
he asked. He bent down and touched my shoulder,
softly at first, then he gripped my shirt and
pulled me to my feet.
"Gabe!" Bryony exclaimed.
I looked into his exhausted face, his
bloodshot eyes. Behind him I saw Bryony's
wan face. Beyond her, a closed door. There was
no escape. 559
"Are you going to kill everybody in the world?" I
said.
His hands were warm when he put them around my
neck. I let myself remember my mother's face
in the photograph I carried with me wherever I
went, as if she could protect me. The way she
smiled and the sunlight stroked her pale skin.
My mother, sitting on the grass. Gabriel's
face was very close to me now, like a lover's, and
I heard him whispering, "We didn't want
this." His face was set in a grimace of
horror. His eyes were half closed, as if he
couldn't bear to see what he was doing. I lashed out
at him, but his body was solid and unyielding, like
a grim tower. So I made myself go slack, and
he began to squeeze. Against every instinct in me,
I let my knees buckle slightly. The world
was red and black and pain, and the sound of someone
crying. And then, with my body as limp as I could
make it, as if I was about to go under, I brought my
right hand up and fast and as hard as I could and I
opened my fingers into a V and jabbed into the
direction of his eyes. I felt a soft wetness,
and I heard a yelp. His fingers loosened for an
instant then tightened once more. I tore my hand
down his cheek, feeling the rip of skin under my
nails, then hooked them into his screaming mouth and
yanked back as hard as I could. His roar filled
my ears; pain was pumping round my head and all that
I could see was red. Blood filled my vision.
I jabbed again and again, hitting something soft, feeling
the stickiness of his blood, the wet of his saliva,
the jelly of his eyes.
"Bryony. Finish it now, for fuck's sake!
Bryony!"
Something black arced through the red fog in front
of me. I closed my eyes at last, but there was
a loud crack, like a gun going off a few inches