Summer Lies Bleeding (28 page)

‘Your painting.' Yasmine spits the words out. ‘The bloody painting. You always have to be centre of attention. God forbid we can have one day, just one day, that's not about you and your sodding paintings.'

He shakes his head, feels a rage stirring inside his gut but he has to contain it, if he retaliates then the whole night will be shot to pieces.

‘You're just like your bloody mother,' Yasmine snaps as he walks back to the kitchen where the team are standing by the pass watching the show. ‘Next thing you'll be packing Cosi off to boarding school. Well that's not my world, Seb. You don't mess with my child, nobody does.'

Seb is so angry, he almost rips the suit from his body. He could throw it at her right now, smack her on the back of her sweaty head. How fucking dare she say that about boarding school, after he had told her what happened to him as a child, after he had opened his heart to her, sobbed in her arms. He needs to get out, have a walk, get some air.

‘Fuck you,' he shouts as he storms out, pulling the door so hard it almost comes off its hinges. ‘Fuck it all.'

Mark follows the dark-suited man up the narrow staircase, crouching to avoid banging his head on the low wooden beams. Unlike the hostel, the check-in procedure here had been seamless; a quick glance at the reservation book, a swift handover of a wedge of twenty pound notes, and an offer to be shown to the room; painless, but at two hundred pounds a night, it had almost cleaned him out. Still, thinks Mark as they reach the first floor, he doesn't need money anymore.

The building is old and rickety with uneven floorboards and Mark trips over twice as he follows the concierge along the corridor. It is shabby opulence, the kind that some people would savour, but not Mark. For him it is simply a watchtower, a base to conduct his covert observation. It could be a Travelodge, it could be the Ritz, it makes no difference, it is the position of the hotel that matters. A month ago, when he started to formulate his plan, with the name, address and launch date of the restaurant firmly imprinted in his mind, he had typed
the postcode into Google Maps to see what was near, whether there was a hiding place he could occupy, one where he could make himself invisible and watch the comings and goings of the occupants of The Rose Garden. When he saw there was a hotel directly opposite he could not believe his luck, but then he saw the prices and his heart sank. There was no way he could conduct a three-day reconnaissance at that cost. But one night could be possible; one night was all he needed, to watch and wait for the right moment to strike.

The concierge stops at a low, wooden door.

‘This is your room, Mr Lowe.'

He unlocks the door and pushes its heavy weight with the flat of his hand, holding it open to let Mark enter.

‘If you need anything, please do say.'

He gives a slight nod of the head, a gesture barely perceptible, then lingers, his face expectant. Mark wonders why the man is looking at him like that; then it dawns on him; he rummages in his pocket and hands the man a five-pound note. The man takes it between his thumb and forefinger; nods again, then turns and leaves; his footsteps echoing down the ancient, dark corridor as he goes.

The room looks like a museum display and Mark laughs in bewilderment as he steps inside and closes the door. The walls are painted gold and are covered in oil paintings in dark wooden frames. The bed is draped in a dark-green coverlet edged in silver thread and is framed by a giant mahogany
headboard. Mark shudders. He has never liked old furniture, it gives him the creeps, and the bed looming out of the centre of the room makes him think of those vampire films he used to watch as a kid, where the undead spring out of the shadows, draped in red velvet cloaks. There is a table by the bed with a lamp, a plain, wooden chair and a bookshelf dotted with slim, ancient-looking volumes.

Still, it's good enough for Mr Lowe, Mr Dennis Lowe, the name he booked the room under and as he stands in the doorway, he thinks of the man whose identity he has taken: Denny, a wheeler dealer of the old school, his father's best mate from childhood, he had been like some mythical hero to Mark and his mates when they were growing up. They would see him driving round in his sleek, burgundy Jaguar, a heavy gold Rolex hanging from his wrist, a ruby sovereign ring squeezed onto a chubby little finger, the sun bouncing off his bald head, shiny and tanned from the Marbella sun. Mark and his mates would follow the car on their BMXs, watching as it crawled up the hill and turned right towards upmarket Nunthorpe and Denny's mock Tudor detached house with its white leather sofas and faux Canaletto prints. Sometimes he would see them gathered at the electric gates, peering at him as he stepped out of the car and crunched his Italian loafers across the gravel, and he would beckon to them.

‘Come on lads. Who fancies cleaning the Jag?'

And they would throw their bikes onto the ground and set
to scrubbing and polishing the car until it gleamed like some exotic jewel. Then Denny would reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of tenners. ‘Good work, lads, nice job.' Denny had been part of the furniture when Mark was little; he would come downstairs and see him sitting at the table, the
Evening Gazette
spread out in front of him, cup of tea in one hand, cigarette in the other, charming Mark's mother and regaling Ernie with his latest deal.

Yes, Denny would have suited this place, thinks Mark as he looks around the room, he would have patted Mark on the back and said ‘classy' in his soft, slightly effete Middlesbrough twang. Mark can see him now, standing in the middle of the room, nodding his head and smiling at the opulence oozing from every corner, ‘You've done well, son.'

Denny died of a heart attack in the late nineties, the same week Princess Diana was killed, and while the country mourned, Mark said goodbye to another hero; another man he had looked up to and loved; the Jag was sold, and the fancy house was stripped of its furnishings by Denny's sister and her husband. Over time, he slipped from being a man to being a local legend, Mark had lost count of the number of times he'd heard someone in the pub begin a sentence with some reference to the great Denny Lowe.

So, tonight as far as anybody here is concerned, he is Denny. A nice tribute, thinks Mark as he puts his bags onto the bed and goes across to the window, drawing back the gold damask
curtains that hang heavily down to the floor, a good luck charm, even though he doesn't believe in such things. There is a soft armchair by the window and he sits down and looks out onto the street. He shakes his head and smiles. It couldn't be more perfect: he has a direct view of the restaurant; he can see the waiters milling about in the doorway and a young woman in a black suit stringing red-and-green bunting above the door. He opens the window a fraction and the noise of the street seeps through the tiny space. He slides his hand through the crack in the window and feels the cool afternoon air ripple through his skin like a caress. This is better than he could ever have hoped for. He had asked specifically for a street-facing bedroom when he rang to make the booking, and the woman on the other end of the line asked if he was sure, as it gets very noisy in the evening. But this was what Mark wanted, a view of the restaurant and enough noise to mask the screams. Perfect.

He unfastens the top button of his shirt, takes off his jacket and drapes it across the bed. Then he goes over to the wooden chair that is wedged up by the far wall. He picks it up and takes it to the window, pushing the soft armchair back into the room. He puts the wooden chair by the corner of the window and sits down. It is just the right height for him to get a clear view of the street, but the heavy curtain hangs at such an angle that he can hide behind it and still see out. The chair is hard underneath him, but the discomfort is good, it will keep him alert, keep him sharp, for now he is ready, now
he is in position; now all he has to do is sit tight and wait for the enemy to emerge.

*

Stella's phone vibrates in her coat pocket as she comes through the ticket turnstyles at Leicester Square tube station.

She stops to answer the call as irate commuters rush past her, elbowing her in the ribs and expressing their displeasure in loud tuts. Squeezing herself into the far corner near the ticket machines, she holds the phone to her ear and waits for Paula to answer:

‘Stella, is that you?'

‘Yes. I've just got to Leicester Square. Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine but poor Carole's had the most awful shock.'

‘What's happened?' Stella holds her finger against her ear as she tries to hear Paula's voice above the noise of a train announcement.

‘Well we were just by the borage beds when two police officers arrived. They said they wanted to ask Carole some questions. Anyway, they told her that Clarissa Burton-Lane, one of the patrons of the garden and a dear friend of Carole's has been found dead in her flat, just round the corner from here.'

‘Oh, that's awful,' says Stella. ‘Was she very old?'

‘Yes, in her late eighties I think. But it's worse; according to the police she was murdered. Hit over the head. Poor Carole, I thought she was going to collapse when they told her.'

‘It was probably a break-in,' says Stella. ‘Properties in Chelsea
are a prime target and if she's elderly and lives on her own, she was even more vulnerable, poor lady.'

‘Talking of death. How's your hangover? Did the library help?'

But before Stella can reply she hears another voice in the background.

‘Hang on, Stella, Carole's back … two tics … Carole what did they say?'

‘Paula, should I call you back,' says Stella, as more people push past.

‘No darling, stay on the line … two secs.'

‘She was such a great supporter of the garden.' Carole's voice crackles down the line.

‘I know, Carole.' Paula's voice soft and soothing.

Stella coughs. This is insane, having a three-way conversation with a grief stricken stranger.

‘She even had her own little seat by the … Oh, that wicked, wicked girl.'

‘Girl? Which girl?'

‘… no sign of a forced entry,' Carole's voice fades in and out. ‘… killed by someone who lived in the top floor flat.'

‘My God, Carole.'

‘… young woman … it was the estate agent who found Clarissa in the basement … this woman comes up from the lift just moments before. And now she's gone missing.'

‘But why would she want to kill an old lady?'

‘That's what we shall find out when they catch her. And they
will
catch her … oh this is too much …'

Carole's sobs splutter into Stella's ear.

‘Oh Carole, that's terrible. Hold on I'm just going to speak to Stella then we'll get you home. Stella, darling are you still there?'

‘Paula, what should I do?' asks Stella. ‘Shall I go on ahead and meet you there?'

‘Yes, I think that would be best,' whispers Paula. ‘Carole's in a bad way. I should get her back to her flat, make sure she's okay.'

‘We don't have to go to this launch,' says Stella. Right now the idea of returning to Earls Court and having a good sleep is so appealing. ‘I can head back to the room and we can just have a quiet night if you like?'

‘No,' says Paula. ‘I have to show my face; the jasmine's going to be such a talking point I might get a few orders. And I told Yasmine we'd be there. You just go on ahead and I'll meet you there. I won't be long … an hour max.'

‘Okay,' says Stella, her eyes stinging with fatigue. ‘Text me when you're on your way.'

‘Will do darling. Love you. Bye.'

Stella takes the phone from her ear and looks at the time on the screen: 4:30 p.m. After saying goodbye to Dylan she had gone for a walk through the streets of Bloomsbury; trying to take in the new options that had opened up: a generous salary;
an amazing role with a wish-list syllabus and London opening its arms to her once more. ‘We're going to make this work,' she told herself as she sat on a bench in the British Museum and looked up at the great cranial ceiling. ‘I
am
better now; this just proves it. I'm ready for this.'

She will make Paula listen, she tells herself as she walks towards the exit, she will make her see that they both deserve happiness and if that means returning to London then so be it. She cannot hide away for ever; she can't keep running away from a past that is long dead. She shivers as she thinks of the old lady and the strange girl on the run.

As she walks up the stairs she sees tell-tale signs of the recent Olympics: the iconic posters with their pink and blue neon lettering flutter above the square, faces of athletes bear down from almost every corner and on the hoardings outside the station, an eight-foot painting depicting the stars from the 1908 Olympics competing in a ghostly run-off with the athletes of 2012. Stella walks over to take a closer look at the imposing piece, there is something about it, something about the squiggly line, the hazy colours that resonates with her, it looks like the inside of her head. Up close she can see the lines clearer, they tail off as if unfinished, some of the athletes are only half-complete; the edges of the running track are blurred and sepia-tinted, locked into a freeze-frame that has lasted over a hundred years. She smiles and goes to walk away when she
sees a small plaque just to the right of the painting: ‘Running Out of Time' by Sebastian Bailey, 2012.

She looks again at the name: Sebastian Bailey: then up at the picture. Wow, she whispers, as she looks beyond the picture to the great sprawl of Charing Cross Road. What an achievement. She thinks about the Seb she knew, the slightly dishevelled handsome man, who always shook her hand when they met. It's funny the things one remembers, the silly, incidental things amid all the important, life-changing ones. Wow, she repeats as she turns from the painting and makes her way towards Soho.

She puts her phone back into her pocket and as she turns from the heat and noise of the tube station she steps back; back through time and space. She remembers without even thinking, the little side street on her left, that links Charing Cross Road to Chinatown. She can smell it as she threads her way through the early evening crowds, that unmistakable smell of rotten vegetables, prawn shells and incense; smells that she has never experienced anywhere else. As she walks along the street, past the wok shop and the T-shirt shop, the Chinese medicine store and the window with red, headless ducks, she feels like she is walking against the tide, walking back through time, to a place she has only ever returned to in her dreams, a strange, twilit place where time stops and the air is thinner.

Her head feels empty, her body numb as she follows a route
so familiar she could walk it with her eyes closed. On she goes, past the gold pagoda and the blank, sixties building where Seb used to work. She tries to remember the name of the modelling agency: Honey something or other. As she exits the side street and emerges onto the vast swoop of Shaftesbury Avenue, a chill ripples up her spine. There it is, right in front of her: her old home, the place she had lived and almost died. She waits for a lull in the traffic then half-runs, half-walks until she reaches the other side and stands looking up towards the dirty neon sprawl of Frith Street.