Thirteen Steps Down (28 page)

adequate, that there was no fire escape from anyof the upper floors, and

no safety measures were in place. But she could go to them. Perhaps

there was no great hurry. Do nothing on impulse, was another of her

rules. Think it through. She began taking the pieces of quartz and lapis

and jade fromtheir velvet bag and examining the cards to make sure they

were suitably arranged.

The client, a new one, very young and obviously overawed by the room,

its ambience, and by Madam Shoshana herself, tapped on the dor and

came in rather fearfully. She crept to the chair that was waiting for her

and lifted her eyes to thesoothsayer's half-veiled face.

"Place your hands on the mandala within the stones, breathedeeply and

I will begin," said Shoshana in the mystical and occult voice she kept for

forecasting the future.

Half a liter of milk, 200 grams of butter, cheese, sliced bread, alamb chop

and a chicken breast, frozen peas, a carton of soup,and a great deal

more. Mix put it away in the now wholesome and inviting fridge. He had

done old Chawcer's shopping mechanically, buying what was on the list

but still hardly noticingwhat he bought, losing the supermarket receipt

so he had noidea what accounts to render to Ma Fordyce. A couple of

gins in KPH had given him courage and a photograph in the Evening

Standard of Nerissa modeling an Alexander McQueen gown cheered him

up. She'd wear something like that at their wedding and carry a huge

bouquet of white orchids.

Ma Fordyce wouldn't come back that afternoon and MaWinthrop wasn't

due till some time tomorrow. It was half-pasttwo. He mustn't wait till

tomorrow, he must get started now. He forced himself to go upstairs,

glad of the bright sunlight penetrating the Isabella window. Because a

little breeze wasblowing, the colors danced like strobe lights. Nothing

there.Everything quiet andstill-and unoccupied. He sighed and let

himself in. Mix had no shoes suitable for heavy digging but he put on his

thick-soled trainers and a pair of old jeans. A faint smell still hung about

his flat and it was stronger in the roomwhere she had been under the

floorboards. That would fade in time. He bolted the front door top and

bottom just in case Ma Winthrop decided to look in, and went outside

into the garden.

The weather was still what people called glorious. He wouldrather it had

been cold and gray, for this warmth and sunshine brought the neighbors

out into their gardens. The people who kept theirs perfect were having a

drink at a white metal tableunder a striped umbrella. Some of them

could easily see whathe was doing from where they sat. He took the

spade and fork from the shed and found a place where the soil showing

between the sturdy weeds looked softer than the rock-hard clayey areas.

Digging was unskilled labor, so anyone could do it, he'd probably find it a

breeze. But at first the spade simply refused to go in. By making an

extreme effort he could just penetratet he top layer of earth down to

about two inches. After thatit might as well be rock he was encountering,

it was so hard and apparently impenetrable. The pick might be the

answer, though he was as wary of using it as he would be of plying a

scythe. He fetched it from the shed, noticing with more misgivings that it

was corroded, eaten into with rust. A patch of rot showed on its handle.

He tried to swing the pick the way he had seen laborers in the road do it

but after three failed attempts was afraid of doing himself an injury. It

came as a surprise to him that you had tobe fitter than he was to use an

instrument like this. Maybe he had been wrong about the quality of the

soil here. He moved farther away from the wall and nearer to the house,

taking thepick and fork with him, his shoulders already stiffening. From

here he could see over the end wall into the garden beyond where,

instead of the guinea fowl, two large Canada geese strutted among the

weeds. In deckchairs, a man in a turban and a woman in a sari sat

reading, he the evening paper, she a magazine. Though he could see

them he couldn't tell if they could see him. Perhaps it wouldn't matter.

The deckchairs were the first he had seen since the one his grandma had

sat in when he was a small boy. But instead of her and her peculiarities,

theybrought to mind Reggie who had furnished his kitchen with such

makeshift chairs after selling his furniture.

Once more he began to dig, but this time using the fork. That was

better. Its prongs were sharp enough to push through the top layer and

gradually he developed a technique of digging the fork in perpendicularly

instead of at an angle and this was more effective. He even learned how

to thrust his tool in lower down and attack the harder level of ground. He

had to.Though despairing of digging down six feet, which he'd heard was

the depth a grave should be, he knew he'd have to manage at least four.

After about an hour he rested. The front of his T-shirt was wet with

sweat. A drink of something was what he needed,even tea, but he was

afraid that if he went indoors he might not bring himself to come out

again. A rather optimistic idea that perseverance might get his muscles

used to the work so that they would stop hurting hadn't been justified.

When he straightened up a burning pain ran down his back and his right

thigh. His shoulders wanted to tense and bunch themselves around his

neck. As he tried circling them in a clockwise and then a

counterclockwise direction, turning his head from left to right and left

again, he saw Otto watching him from his customary seat on the

opposite wall. The cat was as still as a carving in a museum, its round

green eyes fixed on him, its face composed into its usual expression of

malevolent scorn. The Asian couple had gone indoors, leaving their

deckchairs behind.

Mix began digging deeper with the fork but he had startedto understand

he would have to use the spade, however difficultthis might be. He went

back to where he had left itand, picking it up, saw something he hadn't

noticed before, aheap of gray and black speckled feathers. No doubt it

was hisimagination that made him see smug satisfaction in the cat'sface

when he glanced at him again. Still, look what happenedbefore when he

called something his imagination.

Using the spade was heavy work. Each spadeful he dislodged brought

sharp needles digging into the small of his back. You've got to, you've got

to, you've no choice, he muttered to himself as he kept on. He saw that

blisters were coming up on the palms of his hands. Still, he must do at

least half an hour more.

The sun still blazed down, though it was nearly six. A sharpcackle

which sounded as if uttered in his ear made him jump. He looked up,

afraid it was human, and saw the man in the turban throwing handfuls

of corn down for the geese. They jostleda nd shoved each other, making

their harsh cries. To his surprise, the Asian man waved cheerfully at

him, so he had to wave back. He dug for another ten minutes and knew

he'd have to give up for the day. Back again in the morning. Notbad,

anyway. He must have dug down a foot.

The tools put away, he returned by way of the washhouse where he

checked on the copper and its contents. He dragged himself up the

stairs, clinging to the banisters, pausing often .Again, he reminded

himself, he'd forgotten to feed the cat. Still, it looked as if it ate well

enough when left to its own devices.How had Reggie, years older than he

was, managed to dig those graves in his garden? From the pictures he'd

seen, it looked as neglected and overgrown as this one, the soil as

unyielding. Of course, he'd claimed to have a bad back, the reason he'd

given at the trial of Timothy Evans for being incapable of moving Beryl

Evans's body. Perhaps his gravedigging had done him a permanent

injury.

Mix hardly knew how he'd managed to get up the tiledflight. Pain

dispelled all thoughts of the ghost. He staggered into his flat, poured

himself a stiff gin and tonic and fell down on the sofa. Half an hour later

he picked up the remote and put the television on, closing his eyes and

falling immediately asleep in spite of the rock music pounding out of the

set.

A louder noise woke him. The front doorbell was ringing, and someone

was clattering the letterbox and hammering on the front door with their

fists. Mix crept to his door and cameout onto the landing at the top of the

tiled flight. His firstthought was that it was the police. The Asian man

had told them someone was digging a grave in Miss Chawcer's garden

and they had come to check. They had targets to meet thesedays and

they'd jump at the chance of discovering a crime. Mixc ouldn't see the

front garden or the street from his flat. He went down a flight, then

another, into old Chawcer's bedroom and looked out of the window.

By now it was getting dark. By the light of street lamps he saw there

were no police cars, none of that crime tape he hadso much feared

earlier. Abruptly the noise ceased. A beam of light appeared on the path,

followed by Queenie Winthrop holding a flashlight in her hand. Mix

ducked down as shet urned round and looked up at the windows.

Checking up on him, he supposed, making sure he'd done the shopping.

Well, she'd have to remain in ignorance. He wasn't unbolting that front

door for anyone or anything until he'd completed the burial. He began

the weary climb back.

Last night he had seen the ghost up there, in that bedroom, really seen

it. There was no longer any question of its existing only in his

imagination. Steph and Shoshana were right. It wasn't just that he had

been in a bad nervous state, the stresses of the job had got to him, all

the pressures of Ed, his worryover and longing for Nerissa, childhood

memories. He had really seen the ghost.

Chapter 19

The pain in his back kept Mix awake. If he hadn't been so frightened of

Christie's ghost he'd have gone down to old Chawcer's bathroom and

looked to see if she had any sleeping pills. She was bound to, those old

women always did. But the thought of opening his front door and seeing

that sharpfeaturedt hough blank face, those eyes behind the glasses

staring at him, was a dreadful deterrent. He took painkillers instead, the

500 milligram ones the pharmacist said were the strongest you could

buy over the counter. They weren't strongenough and the burning and

stabbing went on. The last time he had known pain like this was when

Javy had beaten him upafter what he said he'd tried to do to Shannon.

At five in the morning, after a cup of coffee and a bit oftoast, he made

himself start again. It was beginning to get light, the sky red and gray

with sunrise, a white frost on the grass but not enough to harden the

ground further. There was nothing, he had discovered, like knowing

you've got to do something, you've no choice, to make you get on and do

it. They surely couldn't bring old Chawcer back home beforemidday,

could they? At any rate, they couldn't get in if they did. He already knew

he was physically incapable of digging to a depth of six feet-inches more

than his own height. It was impossible. Four feet would be enough, it

would have to be enough.

The geese had been shut up for the night but now, when the Indian

man in turban and camelhair dressing-gown opened their door, they

came out, cackling. Mix had seen or read somewhere that geese make

good watchdogs. He didn't want them watching him. Otto was nowhere

to be seen. He dug on, accepting the pain, knowing he must, but still

wondering from time to time if he was permanently injuring his back, if

he was making himself an invalid for life. Again he asked himself how

Reggie had done it, how, come to that, he had stayed so calm and steady,

nerveless, when surprised by people arriving, by questioners, by his own

wife. Maybe he was mad and I'm not, Mix thought. Or maybe I'm mad

and he was sane, a brave strong man. At almost ten, he lifted out the last

spadeful of earth and sat down on the cold damp stony ground to rest.

"I wish to go home," said Gwendolen. "Now."

"I suppose I could get you a taxi."

Queenie Winthrop had been told by the ward sister that an ambulance

would take Gwendolen home at four o'clock thatafternoon. "At the

earliest."

" Taxis are a wicked price," said Gwendolen. "They costmore at

weekends."

"I'll pay for it."

Gwendolen gave the humorless little laugh that was characteristic of

her but which no one had heard for the past few days. "I've never taken

charity from anyone and I'm not goingto start now. Surely you know

someone with a car."

"Olive used to drive, but she's let her license lapse."

"Yes, very useful. What about her niece, Mrs. some-African-name?"

"Oh, I couldn't ask her, Gwendolen."

"Why on earth not? She can only say no, but she'll be veryrude if she

does."

Hazel Akwaa and her daughter were drinking coffee in Hazel's house in

Acton. Or, rather, Hazel was drinking coffee and Nerissa was drinking