A Bed of Scorpions (9 page)

Despite our forced comedy, work was uppermost on our minds. Just before I’d left the office, I’d emailed Helena. She worked in corporate law, and if one of the conglomerates
was circling, she might hear of it. Even a smaller bite would still need company lawyers. On a more personal level, when I got back after lunch I emailed my boss, David Snaith, and his assistant, sending them the manuscripts of two books I wanted to offer for, to get them listed on the minutes for next week’s acquisitions meeting. I also sent copies to potential allies in sales, marketing and publicity, as well as a couple of editors. The more enthusiasm I could work up in-house for a book, the more likely I would be able to buy it – if I couldn’t persuade my colleagues that it was great, there was little chance that as a publisher we could persuade strangers. I’d done a sales number on Sandra at lunch, and sent her copies too. If we were going to be bought out, I might as well acquire as much as I could while I could.

In the same spirit, I spent the afternoon sorting out my outstanding Frankfurt appointments. Miranda had done the easy ones, where it’s just horse-trading – ‘I’ll give you Sunday at 4.30 on your stand if you give me Monday 9 o’clock on ours’ – but she couldn’t do the ones where the horse-trading had failed, and the person I wanted to meet no longer had any free slots at a time when I had free slots, which meant a meeting couldn’t be fitted into the working day. She couldn’t know who I’d be happy to meet for coffee or a drink, but wouldn’t be able to tolerate for a whole dinner (or, just as likely, who wouldn’t be able to tolerate me for that long), or the people I could tolerate for dinner, but I’d whimper and refuse to get out of bed if I had to see them for a breakfast meeting, before I was properly caffeinated.

I got to the final entry on Miranda’s list and read it
twice before I called through the wall. ‘Did that guy from the small publisher in Oregon really send an appointment request with an urgent flag on it? Urgent, four months ahead of the book fair? From a publisher I’ve never heard of and who …’ I looked a third time ‘who specialises in hiking guides?’

I heard her giggle. ‘Yes! I left him for you because I knew that would be one of your favourite things.’

I was definitely going to have to find her a better job. ‘That was thoughtful, thank you. He’s just been put at the very tail-end of my if-I-have-time-or-when-hell-freezes-over list.’

There was a pause. ‘Who’s at the top of that list?’

‘He is. He is the only person on the list.’

J
AKE HAD TEXTED
first thing to say he was working a late shift, and would go back to Hammersmith after. That was fine by me. I decided to be very un-Sam-like and not worry about it, although I worked around that by spending the time I’d saved by not worrying in worrying that not worrying was really a worrying sign. By the time I’d finished with that, Kay had invited me up for pizza and the new James Bond DVD. The pizza and the company were great, but the only person who understood the movie properly was Bim, although that may have been because he was the only one who was not drinking. But he explained to us the bits we’d missed by chatting through them, and he drew us pictures of the scenes he’d particularly enjoyed, in case I wanted to take them home and study them. It was kind of him, and he definitely had a better grasp of narrative structure than several of my authors.

When I went downstairs, I stuck them up on the fridge so that when he visited he would know I appreciated them. I used the ironic fridge-magnets that were shaped to look like paper clips, which I’d bought at a Roy Lichtenstein exhibition. Then I pulled one of the magnets off the fridge again. On the reverse, sure enough, there was ‘JR Installations’. These were some of the ‘tourist tat’ Jim designed. I thought they were charming and witty, and not tattish at all. I’d probably buy a Stevenson notebook if they’d made those, too. I stared at the magnet for a while, as if it might decide to speak if I left a pause in the conversation, a pause long enough for it to become embarrassed at not contributing. Apparently the magnet was not English, because it seemed unembarrassable.

I stopped being frivolous and thought about Jim, and Frank, and then, feeling like four kinds of fool, I emailed.

And for good measure I added a smiley. Queen of the faux-casual, that’s me.

As I hit Send, I saw an email from Aidan. It was actually from Myra, at the gallery, and was a group email. The police had said the funeral could go ahead, she wrote, and it would be held on the following Wednesday, at a church in Highgate at eleven, and then at Kenwood House, on Hampstead Heath, immediately afterwards.

I put it in my diary, and emailed Helena to see if she wanted to go together. I’d heard from her earlier in the day, when the police had notified Aidan of the date of the inquest, and that no further action would be taken until then. But she hadn’t said anything else, and I guess there was nothing else to be said. I also emailed Myra back, to ask if she knew if we should send flowers. Or was it family only, or would Toby prefer a donation to charity, and if so, did she know which one? This kind of bureaucracy of death, normally so distressing to go through, now seemed comfortable after the previous week.

I hit Send/Receive a few more times, as though that might coax an otherwise shy email to pop into my inbox. For good measure, I checked my phone. Nothing. I hadn’t heard from Jake since his text that morning. In the couple of months we’d been seeing each other, we’d quickly found a routine. We either said if we had other plans for the weekend, or were working, otherwise we just assumed we’d spend the time together. After last night, followed by a day’s silence, that wasn’t an assumption I was making now.

And I went on not making any assumptions the following morning. There was no message from Jake when I woke
up, so I got on with my day. I ran up to see if Mr Rudiger wanted me to pick anything up for him at the market where I did my shopping on Saturdays. And I decided it might be a good time to go and see Toby, as the market was halfway between me and what I still mentally called Frank’s house. If people were still keeping an eye on Toby, disguised as condolence calls, they’d probably be glad of a cake, or fruit, or cheese and biscuits. I could pick up whatever it was at the market and continue on to Frank’s from there. I texted Anna to see if she knew what was needed, and she replied almost immediately with Lucy’s number, saying she was in charge of kitchen supplies.

I stared at the text, as though it had some cryptic message for me. I was going to see Toby and pay a condolence call, I reminded myself. The police had suggested they would be surprised if Frank’s death were anything other than suicide, and I was grateful for that. So why, muttered my subconscious, did you email Jim last night? I have no idea, I told it wearily, and instead texted Lucy about cake. I was better at cake. I had talent there, and years of practice. Since I was being so sensible, I decided I’d better make at least a vague gesture towards maturity in other aspects of my life, and so I texted Jake:
Off to the market, then to Toby for condolence call. Back around noon
. I collected my bike from the hole under the stairs that we dignify by calling a cupboard, and set off.

It’s barely twenty minutes’ walk to the market, but the twenty feels like two hundred once I’m carrying a week’s supply of fruit and veg, so I generally cycle. It’s all quiet back roads, but the quiet roads sometimes feel more lethal than the busy ones. Because there are few cars, people step
out without looking, crossing entirely by sound. And the cars hate the narrow roads where they have to pull over if they meet another car going in the opposite direction, so they rev their engines and spurt past cyclists in some sort of revenge deal. I know, it’s the endless sob story that is the life of the self-righteous cyclist. All I’m saying is, I’m not a boy racer in Lycra, I’m a 43-year-old woman going to a farmer’s market, for the lord’s sake. I’m as careful on the back roads as I am in the centre of town.

Even more so between the market and Frank’s house. I had my own shopping in a pannier on the back, but Lucy had replied that they needed desserts, and so I’d bought a big sheet of brownies, as well as flowers, to take to Toby’s. Those were balanced, just, on my front basket, on top of my handbag, and I was cycling slowly, and looking out for anything where I’d have to brake sharply: not just traffic, but pedestrian crossings, bumps in the road. I heard a car behind me, but I didn’t give it much thought. The road was too narrow for it to pass me, but the driver would be able to see that there was a gap in the parked cars less than twenty metres ahead, where I could pull in and let them pass.

I didn’t get that far. Just as I was thinking that, there was a pinch point in the road, narrowing even further for a zebra crossing. There was no one waiting, so I kept going. The car, however, roared past, pushing me towards the railings that marked the edge of the pedestrian crossing. There was nowhere for me to go. The car was on my right, there was a car illegally parked up against the crossing, and I was going to end up smashed against the iron railings. I had, strangely, time to think of this, even though it could only have taken seconds.

And then a rut in the speed bump that marked off the crossing snatched at my front tyre. God bless our cheeseparing government and its vicious local budget cuts, is all I can say. The road hadn’t been repaired in years, and that pothole definitely saved, if not my life, me from major injury, turning my front wheel away from the railing and pushing me to one side. I still flew off, right over the handlebars, but missed the barrier entirely. And just lay there.

The street, so empty ten seconds before, was now filled with people. I heard them talking over my head, but I’d had the wind knocked out of me, and I couldn’t speak, much less move. Someone was phoning for an ambulance. I thought about protesting, but I knew they were right. I’d landed on my face, and then the rest of my body had continued on over my head. My face had scraped along the pavement, and I’d done something nasty to my shoulder, too.

Several voices were urging me to lie still, which was the impetus I needed to get me upright. I sat up and flapped at them with my good hand, like a cross penguin. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, even as I felt at my face gingerly. Possibly a broken nose? One cheek and my forehead was cut raw by the pavement. And there was blood everywhere. I lowered my head to my knees, feeling queasy and, only now, terrified.

Someone put a hand on my shoulder. I gasped loudly and pulled away. It was an older woman, with frizzy grey hair and worried eyes. The gasp had scared her, but the pulling away had scared me too, producing a great wave of pain. I put my head down again until I was sure I wasn’t going to be sick. Then the worst of it receded, and I heard her talking to me, ‘… do you want us to ring someone?’

I realised she had been trying to tell me she’d found my bag, and was, sensibly, suggesting I arrange for someone to meet me at the hospital. Two other good Samaritans were chasing down the groceries that had rolled out of my pannier.

I pointed one of them to the bike chain which had been thrown across the road. ‘Would you chain my bike up somewhere nearby? I’ll come and collect it when I can.’

He looked at me dubiously. But worrying about my bike, and how I’d get it home, was good displacement. I dabbed angrily at my tears, although I hadn’t realised I was crying, and at more blood. ‘Please,’ I said, and gave him the key from my ring.

The need to make short-term decisions – phone, bike – was taken out of my hands as an ambulance appeared. Two wonderfully cheery men stepped out, and without seeming to do anything at all, managed to reduce the group of milling people to order in seconds. They listened briefly, then one rang the police to report a hit-and-run and failure to stop. My bike was locked up and the key returned to me. My pannier was put in the ambulance, and after a brief check, so was I. The woman who’d spoken to me tried to hand in the flowers I’d bought for Toby, but I asked her to keep them for herself. I hadn’t been able to gather myself enough to say thank you for the help, and it was little enough for scraping me up off the pavement.

The two ambulance men consulted briefly. Then, ‘Do you know what road we’re on, love?’

I laughed, which five seconds before I would have sworn was impossible.

‘We’re from Southend,’ said the larger of the two, who was covered from his neck downwards with tattoos. ‘We’ve
been brought in because of staff shortages. We got here via the satnav, but now it says that this street doesn’t exist.’ He was resigned, but not surprised.

Swings and roundabouts. The government cuts had probably saved my life by preventing the council from repairing the road; the same cuts meant that the patients had to navigate their ambulances to the hospital. The younger, un-tattooed one, in the back with me, had been trying to get me to lie down. Now I brushed him aside so I could look out the front window over the driver’s shoulder.

‘Go to the end of the road and turn left. It’ll take you to the main road, and it’s easier to direct you from there.’ I paused. ‘You are taking me to the Royal Free, aren’t you? I don’t want to go to Essex.’

They laughed. ‘No, we haven’t got time to take you to the seaside.’

That was a mercy. I hadn’t thought to bring my bucket and spade with me to the farmer’s market. Mr Tattoo and I chatted across the back seat as I gave directions. Despite getting me picked up and into the ambulance in record time, he must have spoken to several of the bystanders. ‘No one got a car reg. Any chance you did?’

‘It was too quick.’

He nodded, unsurprised. ‘Maybe the police will get more.’

Un-tattoo took my blood pressure and did a brief cleanup of my face, but there wasn’t much point. My nose was gushing blood, and holding anything against it hurt too much. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, trying not to sound impatient. He couldn’t know it bled regularly, and I was entirely used to looking like a vampire after a particularly juicy meal.

In barely five minutes we had pulled up to the hospital, and they unloaded me – literally, because I wasn’t allowed to walk. I’ve often wondered if hospitals use wheelchairs more for patient control than health. If you’re in a chair, you go where they want you to, not where you want to.

The advantage of the vampire look is that you get seen very quickly. The Saturday-morning rush of small children with park- and football-related injuries was well underway, so A&E was seething with shrieks and scuffles and fights over Lego. And that was only among the parents. The blood on my face got me into a cubicle fast, although after they cleaned me off they realised it wasn’t as bad as it looked. I’d need an x-ray for my shoulder, which was now agony, and my nose would have to be cauterised and – I felt it again – seemed to be lopsided. But I was not, rightly, anyone’s priority. A nurse handed me a pack of swabs for my nose, and I was left to wait my turn.

As soon as she went, I sneaked a quick couple of Nurofen from my bag. I pushed the curtain ajar so that I would be visible, and they wouldn’t forget to take me to x-ray at some point, and then I settled in, content to spend the morning reading on my phone, which is what I often do, wherever I am. Well, not on my phone, and the blood made turning pages messy, but as I say, that wasn’t a novelty to me.

After an hour or so a text appeared:
Might be free around lunchtime. The Indian place in Whitechapel?
I could think of few things that sounded better than the Indian place in Whitechapel, and I reflected sadly on the diminishing odds of cumin-spiced lamb chops for lunch. I replied,
Fell off my bike. Nothing serious, but waiting to see doc
. I didn’t even have
time to flick back to the book app before a
WHERE
was on the screen.
Royal Free. But really, I’m fine
. And then nothing.

Half an hour later, I heard Jake’s voice at the desk, which, if I shuffled down to the bottom of the examining table, I could see from my cubicle. There he was, looking official and – could it be? – showing his warrant card. He was pulling rank to get me seen more quickly? That was a terrible thing to do, and I was so grateful. He headed down the corridor towards me led by an orderly with a wheelchair, and then stood at the end of the bed, face impassive, arms crossed. No How are you feeling, just a nod and ‘You’ll be taken down to x-ray now. I’ll wait for you here.’