Thirteen Steps Down (17 page)

herself reluctantly on the high stool behind the counter. The first client

to arrive thought he recognized her as the old woman he had once seen

in a Turkish village and from whom he had bought a carpet in the

market square.

It had been the worst night of his life. He had slept fitfully, waking every

hour with a raging thirst. The most horrible thing was opening his eyes

for the final time at nine in the morning and, for a moment, forgetting

entirely what had happened and what he had done. Memory returned

almost at once and he groaned aloud.

There had been dreams and in one of them a creature had come across

the roofs, climbed on drainpipes to his own window, and tried to make

its way in. At first he thought it was ac at, but when he saw its human

face, the staring eyes and the great gash in the forehead, he screamed

aloud. After that he lay trembling, wondering if old Chawcer had heard.

It was only when he finally got up that the drink of the night before hit

him. He poured water down his throat but it seemed to have no effect.

His head felt sore all over as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper and

an ache inside moved about, sometimes over his eyes, sometimes behind

one ear or at the back of his neck. He remembered reading somewhere,

in one of thos einterviews she gave, that Nerissa never drank anything

alcoholic but subsisted on sparkling water and vegetable juices. Having a

bath helped him a little, he felt he wasn't strong enough to face the

challenge of a shower, all that water drummingon to the top of his head.

But he was almost too weak toget out of the bath and when he was

standing on the bathmat,the towel around him, he staggered and almost

fell.

Dressing was a long, slow process because movement made the pain in

his head shift from front to back and ears to eyes. It was the worst

hangover he had ever known. Not a heavydrinker in normal

circumstances, he went straight to alcohol in moments of stress. I'm not

used to it, that's the trouble, he said to himself. People who were always

getting hungover recommended eating, or drinking milk, or the hair of

the dog. The thought of any of it made him retch. Once he had been sick

he felt slightly better, able to stand upright, drink more water, and put

into a carrier bag his blood-stained underpants and her clothes-a black

Wonderbra and the hated tights, black leatherminiskirt and boots,

skimpy pink sweater, and a cream-coloredfaux fur jacket. Cheap stuff,

he judged it, accustomed as he was to the wardrobes of Colette GilbertBamber and her friends, supermarket stuff, not even chain store. Her

mobile was inside her pink plastic handbag along with her purse with

five poundsf ifty in it--he put that in his pocket--a Switch card, a

compact of bronzing powder, a red lipstick, a hairbrush, and her door

keys.

He didn't want to think about what had happened, but h ecouldn't help

it: her blood running down his beautiful portrait, her eyes looking at him.

Well, she had asked for it, she had only got what she asked for, talking

about Nerissa like that, daring to find fault with her skin. Jealous, of

course. Still, she should have known better than to have said those

things to him. She should have recognized him as a dangerous man and

should have ...

His train of thought was abruptly cut off by the sound of the door to the

next room closing. He put a hand up to his chest and clutched at the

fabric of his sweatshirt, bunching it up in his fist, he didn't know why,

perhaps to hold it against hisheart. It was all he could do to stop himself

letting out a moan of fear. Had whoever it was gone into that room or

been in there and come out of it? He heard footsteps cross the floor, a

noiseas if someone had tripped over, and held his breath. A drawer was

opened, then another. The walls must be very thin up here. The old bat it

was, of course. He knew her step, an old person's slow and heavy tread.

But why was she in there? Hecouldn't remember a previous occasion.

She must have heard something in the night, that girl crying out or

falling to the floor or even his own movements with bucket and

scrubbingbrush. Suppose she wanted to come in here and saw that

blood on the wall?

There's nothing for her to see in there, he said to himself, and repeated

it, nothing for her to see, nothing. But he would have to know, he

couldn't just leave it. Very carefully he opened the front door and put his

head round it. The door to the bedroom where she lay under the

floorboards was a little ajar. His head ached all over now, a vicious,

squeezing, throbbing pain. But he came out, wearing his jacket, carrying

the bag with herclothes, the flat key in one pocket, car keys in another.

He must have made some sort of sound, one of those involuntary moans

or sighs he seemed to have been making all night, for suddenly, as he

stood there, Miss Chawcer stumped out of the room and gave him a very

unfriendly look.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Cellini."

Who did you think it was, Christie? He'd have liked to say that but he

was afraid, of her and of the Rillington Place killer too. Of his spirit or

whatever it was he'd imagined haunted this place. She said,

incomprehensibly, "You look as if you have been frightened by a

revenant."

"Pardon?"

"A ghost, Mr. Cellini, a phantom. 'Revenant' means that which has

come back."

He couldn't stop her seeing the shiver that passed through him. Yet he

was furious. Who did she think she was, a bloodys choolteacher and him

in the first form? She gave a merrier laugh than he had ever heard come

from her.

"Don't tell me you're superstitious."

He wasn't going to tell her anything. He wanted to ask her what she had

been into that room for but he couldn't do that. It was her house, the

rooms were all hers. Then he saw she was holding something, an old

calendar, it looked like, and a book. Maybe she'd been in there to find

those things. A load floatedf rom his shoulders, hovered there, lifting the

headache.She took a step back, closed the door behind her. "Someone

should report that Indian man to the-the powers that be."

He stared. "What Indian man?"

"The one in the turban with the chickens or whatever they are." She

crossed ahead of him to the top of the stairs, turnedher head. "Are you

going out?" She made it sound as if he werebreaking the rules.

"After you," he said.

He put the bag of clothes into the boot of the car, drove to a row of bins

and, opening the clothes bank, dropped her skirtonto the tray. The bin

was nearly full and it was with difficulty that he was able to make the

tray swing and deposit its load. It wouldn't take any more. Maybe for the

rest of the clothes he ought to go some distance away. He found himself

drivingtoward Westbourne Grove and, reluctant to pass Shoshana's Spa,

turned down Ladbroke Grove toward the Bayswater Road. Thinking of

the spa brought into his mind something she had said to him he had

forgotten until now. Nerissa wasn't a member. Going there, getting that

contract together, chatting up Danila-all of it had been a waste of time.

She ought tohave told him Nerissa only went there to have her fortune

told weeks before. That had been another nail in her coffin, he thought. If

ever a woman had asked for what she got, she had.

Driving up the Edgware Road, he passed the Age Concern charity shop

but he dared not take clothes in there. Better the bin on the edge of

Maida Vale and the other in St. John'sWood. While there he went down

the steps in Aberdeen Place and making sure there was no one about, no

boat coming, no watcher at one of the overlooking windows, he dropped

her mobile and her keys into the canal. Returning the way he had come,

he went up Campden Hill Square and parked a little way from Nerissa's

house.

Perhaps it was because it comforted him. Just knowing that was her

place and that she lived in it--with all her servants, no doubt, and maybe

a good friend staying--made him feel he had something to look forward

to. He could put the disposal oft hat girl behind him and move on. What

better place to be in than here, thinking of new ways of getting to meet

Nerissa? It was a pretty house with its white paint and blue front door,

some kind of red flowering plant climbing across it. Her newspaper still

lay on the step with a carton of milk beside it. Any minute now a servant

would open the door and take in paperand milk. Nerissa would be still in

bed. Alone, he was sure, for although he believed he had read everything

written about her,there had been very little about boyfriends and no

scandal, no shaming photographs of her behaving vulgarly with some

man in a club. She was chaste and cool, he thought, waiting for the right

man ...

The door opened. It wasn't a servant but she herself. Mix could hardly

believe his luck. Some of his adoration of her would have been lost if she

had been wearing a dressing gown and slippers but she was in a white

tracksuit and white trainers. He thought, what would happen if I went

up to her and asked for her autograph? But he didn't want her

autograph, he wanted her. She went indoors with the milk and the paper

and the door closed.

Satisfied and tranquilized by the sight of her, he drove home, went

upstairs and nailed down the floorboards in the roomwhere he had put

Danila. He'd have a rest and something to eat and then he'd start

painting that wall.

In the head office on Monday morning Ed was waiting for him and Ed

was furious. "I've been bombarded with calls from those two clients all

weekend, I've been persecuted, thanks to you. One of them says she's

buying a new elliptical but she won't get it through us and she'll be going

elsewhere for her servicing. "

"I don't know what you're on about, mate," said Mix.

"Don t you ,mate , me. You never went near either of them,did you? You

couldn't even call them and explain."

Now Mix remembered Ed's Friday night call. It had come just after he

had ... Don't think of that. "I forgot."

"Is that all you've got to say? You forgot? I was very sick, I'l lhave you

know. My temperature was high and my throat was killing me."

"You've recovered very fast," said Mix, unwilling to stand much more of

this. "You're looking pretty fit to me."

"Fuck you," said Ed.

He'd get over it. Things never lasted long with Ed, Mix thought. If only

he could find out when Nerissa was likely to revisit Madam Shoshana. He

was sure that if he met her on the stairs he'd be able to get a date with

her. Driving to his firstcall, a workout fanatic who had five machines in

her privategym in Hampstead, he began a fantasy of that stairs meeting.

He'd tell her he recognized her at once and now he'd met her he wouldn't

go to Madam Shoshana, his fortune and his fate weren't important, but

he had something special he wanted to say to her if she'd let him take

her to a natural juice bar just a few steps down the street. Of course she

would. Women loved that line about something special to tell them and

whereas shewouldn't be interested in clubs or pubs, the idea of a natural

juice bar would appeal to her. She'd be in her white tracksuit and when

they entered the bar all eyes would be on her--and on him. He'd even

drink carrot juice to please her. When they were seated he'd tell her he'd

worshiped her for years, he'd say she was the most beautiful woman in

the world and then he'd ...

Mix found himself in Flask Walk almost before he knew it,and the

exercise junkie waiting with the front door open. She wasn't much to

look at, stringy and with a big nose, but flirtatious and with a lithe and

lively air about her, which led him to think that there might be

something doing. She stayed, watching and admiring, while he adjusted

the belt on the treadmill.

It must be great to be so good with your hands," she gushed.

He stayed much longer than he had expected, missing the call he had

promised to make to a woman in Palmers Green, but she was soft, a

pushover, she wouldn't complain.

It wasn't until she had posted the letter to Dr. Reeves in Woodstock that

a very unpleasant thought came to Gwendolen. Suppose he had truly

loved her and then he heard about her visit to Rillington Place. Not when

she made that visit, of course, because that had taken place before

Christie was even suspected of murdering anyone. Christie wasn't the

infamous, appalling creature he had become when his crimes came to

light and histrial began, but a nobody, an ordinary little man living in an

insalubriousplace. If Stephen Reeves had heard about the visit in those

earlier days it would have had no effect on him.

Yet only suppose he had known of the visit at the time because,while

making house calls, he had seen her go there. After all, on the very day

after she and Bertha had gone to see Christie, she had consulted Dr.

Reeves for the first time, and what more likely than that he had

recognized her as the woman he had seen in Rillington Place the day