A Place of Safety (25 page)

More shaken than she’d ever felt in her life, hating the avid
and embarrassed faces all round, Trish urged her brother out of the room, keeping her arm round his shoulders. His face was still jammed into her side and she could feel his lips moving, even through her jacket. Hester unlocked the door of a small room, which was furnished simply with a desk and chair and a soft-looking sofa. Trish gently pushed the child down on it.

‘Don’t make me go,’ he was saying with his eyes tightly closed. ‘Don’t make me go. Don’t make me go. Don’t make me go.’

Her heart breaking, Trish put her hands on his head, lifting it so that he could see her face. But he kept his eyes tightly shut. Fat, glistening tears were forced out between his sticky lashes. Making her voice as firm and sure as it had ever been, she said very clearly: ‘I’ll never make you go. You’re safe.’

His eyes flew open. ‘But
you’re
not. He hurt you. And he said he’d do it again, and I can’t stop it, Trish.’ His eyes screwed up and he started sobbing as he panted out his worst fear. ‘I can’t stop him hurting you if you make me go.’

At last she knew exactly where he was now and had been all along. She thought of the old adage that you should beware of what you ask for because you never know in what form it will come. She’d wanted David to shed his shell so that she could get at the hurts and fears she knew he must be hiding. But she’d never wanted it to happen like this, pushing him even further back into a hell in which he felt responsible for his mother’s death.

Kneeling in front of him, she wondered whether any words would reach him, and chose the simplest she could find.

‘David,’ she said very gently at last, ‘I will never send you away. But you don’t have to protect me. There are grown-ups who will do that.’

He was still crying, and Trish could see that all his energies were needed for the fight to control himself. She hoped the gentleness of her voice would have got through to him, even if he hadn’t understood a single word she’d said.

He hiccuped every so often as he battled down the tears. Her attempts to comfort him seemed to be making the process harder, so she kept quiet, waiting for him to open his eyes again.

There was a knock at the door. Trish took her hands from his knees and pushed herself up off the floor. Opening the door, she saw Hester More, holding a tray of tea, milk and miniature doughnuts.

‘There’s no need for either of you to come out until you want to,’ she said in a deliberately ordinary voice. ‘Everyone’s fine out there, and Mr Fullwell has asked me to say that he made a dreadful mistake. He seems to have thought you were someone else, someone who’s been stalking him. He hadn’t realized you are David’s sister and were here only to watch the play. He asked me to pass on his deepest apologies.’

‘Thank you,’ Trish said, opening the door more widely. ‘Did you hear that? Mrs More says it was a case of mistaken identity. Just as I thought. There’s nothing to worry about now.’

David looked up from under his sodden lashes. The tears had glued them into clumps as spiky as her hair had once been. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs More. I didn’t mean to make a scene.’ He sobbed once more, and fought for control as his hands twisted round and round each other. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘That’s fine,’ the Head said casually, as though the episode had been no more important than a lost textbook. ‘Here’s your milk. Have some of that and a doughnut. They’re very good.’

When she had gone, he put down the doughnut he had taken.

‘I can’t eat anything,’ he said as his eyes filled up with tears again. ‘My throat’s shut itself up again at the top.’

‘That’s fine,’ Trish said, finding the description all too recognizable. ‘Don’t worry about it. Would you like to go home now? George has the car outside, so we can nip out as soon as you want.’

‘Can I wash my face first?’

‘Of course. Where’s the nearest loo?’

‘Mrs More has one through there,’ he said, pointing to a door on the other side of the room. ‘She lets us use it if we need to when we’re talking to her.’

‘Fine. I’ll go and find George, and we’ll come back to pick you up.’

He nodded. She went back into the hall, a little self-conscious and very aware of what he would feel when he had to face people again. George was easy to spot, standing with Paddy, apparently chatting happily to a group of parents who were completely unknown to Trish. She was about to join them, when she felt a hand on her arm.

Turning sharply, she saw Margaret Fullwell, who was breathing as though she’d been running. Her eyes had a bruised look about them, and the skin of her lower lip was broken where she’d bitten through it. A crust of dried blood circled the gash.

‘I saw you,’ she said, ‘when I was taking the boys to the car, so I sent them on. I had to come back and make sure you’re all right. You and your brother. I’m sorry about what Toby did. So, so sorry.’

‘Please, Margaret; it’s not your fault.’

‘I thought it was only me Toby was capable of hurting. I never dreamed he’d do it to anyone else. I’m so sorry. I think he really has gone mad, just as his secretary keeps telling me,’ Margaret said, her left hand covering her mouth. Above it, her eyes pleaded with Trish for a moment before she turned away.

David must be ready by now, Trish thought, wishing she’d been able to say something that might have comforted Margaret. She caught George’s eye and beckoned. He said something to the group around him and came over to her.

‘How is he?’

‘Dealing with it. I left in him in the Head’s bathroom, washing
his face. I think we ought to take him home now. Could you collect Nicky and explain to the others? I don’t think this is the moment to introduce Paddy into his life, do you?’

‘No. And Paddy will understand, but I know he wants to say something to you. Why don’t I drive David and Nicky home, and give you a chance to talk?’

Trish nodded and left him, while she went to thank her father for his instinctive help. He kissed her, which was a surprise, and his voice was completely English as he said:

‘I was glad to be here. It was little enough to do for you or the boy. Trish, now’s not the time, but later, when he’s over this, will you let me see him?’

Let you? she thought. When I’ve been trying to persuade you to do just that for nearly a year?

‘You know I will.’

‘OK. On your way now,’ Paddy said. ‘David will need you.’

So something good’s come out of this, she thought, rubbing her sore arm as she went in search of her coat. And maybe now that he’s been forced to let go, he’ll learn to be less frightened by everything he’s been keeping so tightly controlled.

Toby had apologized so much that his throat felt raw. Margaret had told him he’d gone mad. Was she right? Had it happened now, as he’d been afraid it might for so long? It must have. How else could he have mistaken Mer’s friend’s sister for the satanic woman who’d been dogging him wherever he went? Could it be that the relief of being free of his blackmailers had sent him crashing through the last safeguards of sanity?

Trying to believe in the freedom, trying to breathe carefully and remember that he was once more an ordinary, law-abiding member of the civilized classes, Toby made his way through the diminishing crowd of parents. They were probably all sniggering at him. He was tempted to go without waiting to collect his coat, but he couldn’t bear the thought of his own cowardice.

From now on, he would be a different man. He would not give in to pressure from outsiders or his own nightmares. He would remember who he was and behave accordingly. And one day Margaret would come home. He’d show her that he was the same man she had loved when they married and not some mad molester of strange women. He would get her back.

Mrs More came into sight again. Toby tried to smile. She nodded briefly enough to show him that he was of no more importance than a stray woodlouse. He identified his overcoat among all the other good navy wool versions by the scarlet scarf hanging out of the pocket and put on both. It was a struggle
to persuade the young games teacher who was running the cloakroom that he’d also left an umbrella, which must be somewhere behind the counter.

‘It’s an old-fashioned City umbrella,’ he said as patiently as he could. ‘Tightly rolled, black, with a malacca handle and a gold band round it with my initials: TTF.’

‘Oh, that one,’ said the young man, apparently holding down laughter with difficulty. Toby had no idea what was so funny about his umbrella. ‘Why didn’t you say so before? I put it up on this shelf to make sure no one nicked it. Here.’

‘Thank you,’ Toby said, wondering whether he was supposed to tip the teacher as he would a proper cloakroom attendant. Oh, what did it matter? He couldn’t be bothered with anything so trivial.

Outside he was met with a wall of thick, acrid fog, which made him cough. He hadn’t seen anything like it since childhood. A boat hooted on the river, sounding like a wounded animal pleading with its mate to bring it some sustenance. Car engines throbbed much closer, and a man swore viciously as he tripped. All the sounds were exaggerated and distorted, and the street lights turned the filthy fog pale green.

‘Sorry,’ someone muttered ahead of him, then: ‘Sod it.’

Toby almost fell, too, as his foot caught on something. Then he found he couldn’t move forwards. Someone was pulling at his coat. All the rage that had made him hit that boy flooded up again and he flung himself round to confront his attacker. There was no one there. Ghosts of madness danced round him again, until he realized he still couldn’t move forwards. At last he saw that his coat had caught in the wheel of a bicycle chained to one of the lampposts.

‘Irresponsible fool!’ he muttered to the bike’s absent owner, as he bent to free the cloth. It ripped against a broken spoke. Toby nearly cried as he thought of the price of the coat and his pathetic salary, and how unfair it was that he had to pig away on starvation wages when everyone else around him – even
that scrawny woman he’d mistaken for one of Ben’s watchers – looked so sodding rich. He kicked the bicycle and heard it clang down on to the pavement. Serve its irresponsible owner right.

He was alone in the fog, just as he was alone in his misery. Margaret had abandoned him again. Another boat hooted, and a lorry crashed by, two inches from his nose. He might have been killed.

Here was the pedestrian crossing. He pressed the button for the lights to change, hoping that any more lorries would at least be able to see the red globes against the fog, even if they hadn’t seen his red scarf. At last the green man lit up on the far side of the road. If he could see that, the cars must be able to see their traffic lights. He crossed over as fast as he could, huddling his cold chin into the scarf. Margaret had given it to him last Christmas, when she still cared whether he was warm enough or not.

Turning into Baynard Street, which would lead him down to Upper Thames Street and the quickest way home, he thought he heard footsteps behind him. If that bloody woman was after him again, he thought, even if she had nothing to do with Ben, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He stopped to listen more carefully. Yes, there were steps, but they weren’t a woman’s and they weren’t coming from behind him. That was all right. Only in
Alice Through the Looking Glass
could someone follow you from a place you hadn’t yet reached.

Light-headed in relief, he breathed carefully and thought he might, after all, be able to deal with all this. It occurred to him at last that Trish Maguire and his dark-haired Nemesis could be the same woman. If Trish Maguire had been taking her brother to school, there was no reason why she might not have been talking to Margaret, or walking about the streets round here. The stalking might have been no more than a product of his own fears, nothing whatever to do with Ben. What a fool he’d been!

The footsteps were coming closer. They were definitely heavier than any tall thin woman’s would be. Suddenly a new fear rose out
of the swirling fog as a purring, powerful car swished past him. This was just the kind of weather for muggers. He touched the breast of his overcoat, feeling through the soft material to the solidity of his wallet in the inside pocket of his suit.

He could always hand over his mobile if he had to. That was in his right outer pocket. It would be a pain to lose it, but not a disaster. It rang suddenly, betraying its presence and his. He moved back against the high concrete wall, just before the turning into Upper Thames Street.

The fog seemed protective now. No one would be able to see him, pressed against the wall like this. He put the phone to his ear and gave his name as quietly as he could.

The footsteps ahead had stopped, as though their owner was listening. There was a high pile of something covered in thick blue plastic sheeting beside Toby. It looked like a tumulus. He wondered whether anyone had ever dumped a body in a builder’s storage heap.

‘Toby?’ said Ben’s voice over the phone. ‘That is you against the wall, isn’t it? I can’t see properly in all this damn fog.’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Ben, as you very well know.’

Toby peered through the fog and saw a tall shadow materializing as it grew closer, beckoning. This was definitely Mer’s giant and his own nightmare. He didn’t need the phone now and stuffed it back in his pocket as he walked down towards the concrete-lined underpass.

Ben put away his own phone. ‘What are you playing at?’ He sounded colder and more cruel than ever. ‘Did you think you could hide in the school? Or were you trying in your usual pathetic way to protect your sons? You won’t be able to, you know. We can get to them whenever we want.’

‘But you said they’d be safe and I’d be free after I’d bought the painting today. I did it. I did everything you wanted, and I haven’t told anyone. Not even about Mer’s arm.’

‘That’s good. But it’s not enough. You haven’t quite earned your freedom yet.’

‘I am not going to buy any more of your fakes. You can do whatever you want to me, but I’m not going to. And if you hurt one of my boys again, I will kill you myself.’

‘Don’t make me laugh. You couldn’t kill a bluebottle. But don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to buy any more pictures. No one in his right mind would let you do that again after the spectacle you made of yourself today. But there is one more thing you have to do for us.’

‘I can’t do any more for you.’

‘I think you’ll find you can, when you consider the alternative. Mer screaming on the floor as we take a hammer to his knees.’

‘You bastard! I’ve done everything you asked to establish your boss as a serious collector and your fucking fakes as the real thing,’ Toby said, understanding at last that he would never be free. He could see this scene endlessly repeating itself down the years, with Ben promising him freedom after one more small, illegal job.

‘God, you are naïve! And stupid. You haven’t been buying and selling fakes. At least you may have, but that wasn’t the point. You’ve been helping us move our money around so that it’s untraceable. But never mind that now. Your next exercise is to think of someone else like you, with a dirty little secret to protect. That’s how we got on to you, you know. Your mate Peter didn’t want to tell us anything, but in the end even he cracked.’

‘Peter?’

‘Peter Chanting. Your partner in the Clouet scam.’ Ben peered into Toby’s face, as though the fog had thickened so much he couldn’t see what was only centimetres from his eyes. ‘You didn’t know he’d shopped you? How did you think we got on to you?’

‘I—’ Toby began to cry.

‘There’s no need for that. He won’t be troubling you again, after all.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘Of course.’ Ben moved further away from the road, into a doorway plastered with notices. Only as they got close to it, did Toby manage to read the warning not to obstruct it. He hadn’t realized fog could fill up a tunnel like this. He couldn’t see the wall on the far side of the road, and the cars that passed were just vague roaring lumps in the murk. Even their headlights couldn’t penetrate the grey-green blur all round.

‘Why?’

‘He’d started to talk. So take it as a warning of what will happen to you if you ever tell anyone what you’ve done for us.’

‘You bastard!’ The thought of all the weeks he’d spent hating Peter made Toby feel as guilty as if he’d fired the gun himself.

‘There’s no need to be so emotional,’ said Ben. ‘The sooner you give me the information I need, the sooner you’ll be left alone. In your line of work, you must know someone with secrets to hide.’

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘It’s surprising how many influential people have them: it could be a fraud like yours, or some tasty little sexual oddity, or even an unexplained death. An amazing number of people seem to have helped friends or family to die. And euthanasia is still illegal, so that would do as well as anything else. All you’ve got to do is give me the story and the name and address. Once we’ve checked it out and found it works, you’ll be on your own again, free to do whatever you want. Except talk about this, of course. And you know now what’ll happen if you do that.’

Toby felt his mouth opening and closing, but he couldn’t squeeze any sound out of his larynx, until Ben’s laughter freed the blockage.

‘I wouldn’t put my worst enemy through what I’ve had to bear,’ Toby said very clearly.

‘I think you’ll find you can. Your Peter said much the same at the start after we’d leaned on him with his false names and his Shatoosh smuggling and his tax avoidance. But in the end he
was happy enough to hand you over so that he could protect his old father. Think of your sons, Toby. Mer fainted when his arm was broken, you know, so he didn’t feel as much as we’d meant. Next time we’ll bring smelling salts to make sure he’s conscious throughout.’

Toby’s stomach lurched, as though he’d dropped fifty floors in an express lift. The rush-hour cars throbbed on through the fog, their peering drivers unaware that Toby’s whole life was up for grabs.

Ben was laughing again. He came closer and patted Toby’s shoulder.

‘Don’t touch me.’

‘Have it your own way.’ Ben let his hand drop to his side again. ‘But let’s get out of this tunnel. Fog like this could kill us both.’

And the sooner the better, Toby thought as memories of the last few weeks burst into his brain. All that suffering for this shit of a man? All that unjust hatred of his dearest friend?

‘Are you telling me that you’ve done this to lots of people? More than Peter and me? Just so that you can clean up some dirty money? It’s drug money, I suppose. You really are the lowest kind of filth.’

‘Come on, Toby, it’s only business.’

Almost before he’d thought, Toby had reversed the umbrella he’d been holding. He could remember every detail of his father’s stories of the ex-Shanghai policeman who’d once told him how to deal with an attack in the street. His father could have been reciting the instructions into his ear.

‘You just push the ferrule up through the chin. It punctures the soft palate without any great force and destroys the brain. Quickest, easiest way to kill anyone in secret, my boy.’

‘Toby?’ There was surprise in Ben’s confident voice, but no fear. Not yet.

Cars were moving four or five feet behind him, but only their lights were visible, like huge boiled sweets melting into the fog.
Toby knew the two of them must be invisible to everyone in the cars. Ben leaned forwards as though to see Toby more clearly. The position was perfect. His chin was stretched forwards, quite unprotected.

This is for Mer, and Margaret, Toby thought as he shoved the umbrella upwards with all his strength. And for Peter. And this one is for me. He twisted the umbrella.

Ben coughed. Toby twisted the umbrella once more, feeling the power of it under his hands, and then pulled it clear, stepping smartly sideways as blood spurted out from Ben’s punctured chin.

He must be dead by now, Toby thought, watching the body crumple downwards on to its knees, then face forwards into the blood and dirt. Still the cars growled by. No one stopped. There were no cries, no shrieking brakes, no sirens. He waited a little longer, then wiped the ferrule on Ben’s coat so that nothing would drip from it and walked away, looking at his feet in case of any CCTV camera that might just happen to be loaded with film. He didn’t think there were any in this part of the tunnel, although there was one at the Puddle Dock end, but he wasn’t going to look up to check.

There might be one at the Southwark end, too, he thought and wheeled left to walk back up Baynard Street. There definitely wasn’t one there. It meant a slightly longer walk home, but a safer one in the circumstances. And if there were a camera or two in Queen Victoria Street it would be no bad thing to be seen, looking ordinary on his way back home from his sons’ school play.