The Detective's Daughter (20 page)

He had since found out the man’s name was Michael Hamilton and he was the practice manager at a local doctor’s surgery. He quickly impressed Jack with his terse efficiency and ruthless disregard for the patients: the perfect Host. Jack had not imagined Michael in a relationship and was appalled to discover that he lived with a solicitor called Ellen. But by then he had adopted Michael as his Host; besides, as the weeks passed Jack found that to all intents and purposes Michael was on his own.

Logically, if he had a mind like Jack’s Michael ought to have been aware of Jack in his house, but he was not. After several weeks of being an invisible guest, curled up in the cosy box room listening to birds squabbling in the gutter outside, faced with facts, Jack had to admit that Michael was not the True Host. By then he had ‘met’ Ellen and had another reason to stay; she made him feel at home.

From downstairs came the Chopin Nocturne, the B-flat minor, Opus 9/1. He knew it well and whispered in time:

‘This is the safety-catch, which is always released

With an easy flick of the thumb.’

Jack’s fluid ten-key-stretch and steady hand-to-eye coordination would have handled any nocturne, but he was tone deaf. Under his touch piano keys remained cold ivory, their action stilted. Yet when he picked out ‘Three Blind Mice’ with one finger on Ellen’s Bechstein Baby Grand and sang haltingly to the laborious tune he could appreciate the lyrics.
See. How they. Run. See. How they. Run
.

In the moonlight Jack examined his hands and fancied, not for the first time, that if he added a lick of nail varnish and with the fine gold band on his finger, his hands might belong to a woman. He could be anyone.

Jack’s associations and memories hung like fine cobwebs in the corners of the room, enhancing the sense it was his home. He kept the light low so that they would not see it under the door if they came upstairs, although they rarely did until bedtime. In his room there was a single bed, a chest of drawers and a built-in wardrobe with louvred doors; all he needed when he visited. There were actual cobwebs which he had missed last week. The couple would never be customers of Clean Slate; they set aside Saturday mornings to clean: Ellen as a penance and Michael to punish Ellen. Jack cleaned his own room, which was on Ellen’s task list, because when she was in here, she texted her lover.

Stella Darnell would applaud their cleaning cupboard packed with instruments for every activity – window-cleaning, shoe-shining, polishing – all in labelled compartments. Ellen did not know he covered for her because she was too overwrought to notice dust. As he had expected, Michael slipped in when she was playing the piano; he sniffed for polish and inspected the carpet. Thanks to Jack’s efforts, he found nothing. Ellen had no idea that Michael tracked everything she did, waiting to catch her out: she owed her life to Jack’s protection.

It was half past eight and they were doing what they did on what they called ‘school nights’. Ellen was in the garden room playing Beethoven and Chopin from memory. Jack now had a key to the garden and the back gate; he came and went as he pleased when they were out.

In the sitting room Michael Hamilton was slumped in his armchair by the fireplace, perfectly still except when he lifted a glass of wine to thin, pursed lips while a loud television programme competed successfully with the piano. Michael did not like Ellen and tried to blot her out.

Jack pulled his
London A–Z Street Atlas
from underneath the mattress and sat up on the bed. The cleaning session was a perfect end to a perfect day. He had worked his way around the dentist’s flat feeling that finally events were going his way.

Tonight, he was not driving a train and according to page sixty-six of the
A–Z
would be in Dagenham. This journey was out of sync. He was much further on in the
A–Z
. Months ago he had accidentally turned two pages at once. The pages had taken him to East London, Barking, Homerton and East Ham. This area was relatively unfamiliar, although of course he had been to East London countless times in his Upminster or Barking train. Jack would have preferred to take the main line to Rainham rather than use the District line to avoid Underground staff recognizing him. But he had no choice; the pen line on the page began at Dagenham East and he was obedient; he was alert for signs. The book, which he had found years ago on a train, was defaced with routes in ballpoint on every page; they were a sign.

The page’s marked-out route formed a loop that took in Ballards Road, Rainham Road and New Road with a tail at one end trailing to down to Rainham station. He fished his laptop out of his satchel and fired up Google Street View. Jack ‘walked’ his journeys online before embarking on them in ‘real life’; his ghost self familiarizing himself with the journey.

He placed the Street View icon – an orange figure – on the Underground station and moments later a picture filled the screen. The sky in the scene was grey, the street shrouded in a premature dusk. As Jack mouse-clicked along the road to the station, the sun came out, heightening the colour of an orange windscreen-repair van – the model identical to the Clean Slate fleet – being tailed by a red lorry which blocked his view of the station. He clicked on down Ballards Road, hoping to see around it, which of course he could not as this was not real life. His street atlas was dated 1995, but on Street View he found office units and streets that in the atlas were depicted as blank space. The A13, which in his book had an estimated completion date of 1996, was finished; his
A–Z
charted the past. When he walked its designated routes he walked in the past; or as far back as 1995. He took scant comfort that sprawling car compounds were still there sixteen years after his map was published. He brought up the satellite version – from the air, the metallic hinterlands of cars and coaches appeared as ploughed fields where once, long before his
A–Z
, there had been marshes.

Sparrows skittered on the sill behind him. Jack told himself that he could lean out and crush them in his fist. The drone of a car engine did not distract him as he clicked the cursor behind a black estate car up Rainham Road. In the next click the car vanished and he had the road to himself. He spotted a police car parked on a grass verge almost concealed by bushes and glimpsed the wrist watch of a phantom officer in the passenger seat raising raised an arm to his face. Tomorrow he must look out for the car and skirt this part of road. He clicked back to the station, the sun disappeared and once more black cloud descended. Outside Dagenham East station, the red lorry was still there. Jack shut the machine and slipped it back in his bag.

Stella Darnell had let Jack work for her; he had jumped the biggest hurdle but it meant he could not justify staying with Ellen and Michael any longer and must prepare his next move. This was sad: he had enjoyed his days here. He had grown to know their habits, their likes and dislikes. When the couple were at work he and the spiteful Burmese cat had the house to themselves.

At night Ellen shut the curtains in the garden room to keep the next day’s light off the piano. Unless Jack was already upstairs, he had to freeze on the patio until they had gone to sleep and he could creep in. Tonight after finishing at the dentist he slipped in only minutes before Michael.

The couple had been together for twenty-two years and their dynamic was set fast; Michael wielded absolute supremacy, forcing Ellen to sneak around the edges for slivers of freedom. Like many couples they could have married, if only to cement the emptiness, yet neither of them had the heart even to do this.

Jack swung open a louvred door and retrieved the tin he kept hidden behind their photograph albums – Michael’s proof of a good life led – and a tower of shoeboxes bulging with tape cassettes rendered defunct as audio technology outpaced them. The other door had jammed shut, which was Jack’s first clue that the house was in limbo. Like Isabel Ramsay’s, the soffits were peeling and cracked; loose drainpipes shivered on gusty days and clogged gutters groaned with the weight of mouldy leaves.

His tin held his trophies: cut-out figures from newspapers, magazines and clothing catalogues, purloined plastic solders, foreign coins, pressed flowers and a spirit level – apparently innocent boyhood treasures. He had added curling passport pictures and photographs prised from albums bound with an elastic band. Some evenings, feeling despondent, he would deal them out in a game of Happy Families. Their faces populated his dreams like the faces on platforms before he took his train into a tunnel and they were snuffed out.

Even a detective would have difficulty drawing a conclusion about Jack from his biscuit-tin collection. A teaspoon – borrowed, he never stole – from a woman who had poisoned her cat. She used it to stir her bedtime cocoa, a ritual she followed regardless of events. She no longer needed it. Nestling in the bowl of the spoon was a springy bundle of hair gathered from a brush. One morning each year he sniffed the brittle clump to strengthen his resolve. He did so now as his courage waned; it was painful to leave his Hosts. He lifted the top from a miniature oak box and counted three milk teeth; relics from a childhood not his own. Jack was their guardian. Every object held a snatch of life. He tilted the box to the light. At the bottom of the tin lay two postcards, one showed Hammersmith Bridge from the Barnes end and the other was a longer shot of the bridge with pontoons and a sailing yacht in the foreground. The address side of the cards were blank; on the left of each, scrawled in swift turquoise italics, were the words ‘11 a.m
.
’

In a matchbox, a cabbage-white butterfly rested on a bed of cotton wool. Jack had
borrowed
the butterfly from Nat, the set designer, whose flat had hung with crucifixes, masks woven of small-boned creatures and the heads of animals hunted by irrepressible Victorians. The man’s collection of medical monstrosities in their stoppered jars had given Jack hope. He had gazed at the cirrhotic liver, the tiny amputated limbs and the pallid foetuses floating in formaldehyde and been sure this was the man with the mind like his own. The flat was kept dark and cold to preserve his Host’s artefacts; his flirtations with mortality a celebration of life.

One night after Nat had gone out – Jack did not like it when his Hosts abandoned him – he found an ornamental cage on the dining-room table. Within its delicate structure were a hundred cabbage whites on white branches or clinging to the bars, their wings folded. Many lay dead on the floor of the cage, a carpet of soft petals. Nat had procured them for an interior scene with no colour meant to depict a lost past. Jack had since seen the film in the cinema. In the film the butterflies were still alive and he had wanted to snatch at the screen – as he had seen old Isabel Ramsay catch dust particles – and save them. He could not tell which butterfly was the one now in his box of trophies.

He had been certain of success when he’d spotted Nat on the Goldhawk Road at two in the morning retrieving a dead cat from the gutter and dropping it into a bag. A few days later Jack came across a poster like a Wild West bill stuck to a lamp-post that appealed for the safe return of a much-loved pet,dead or alive. Jack grew excited about Nat and supposed the feeling – his senses heightened to appreciate beauty in all he saw – was like being in love. He had found a like mind; happily he accepted Nat’s unknowing hospitality.

But, brushing the butterfly’s wing, Jack recalled how after a week he had struck up conversation with Nat in the basement bar he frequented after work. Like himself, Nat had few friends. He ordered the same drink as Nat – people are at ease with those like themselves – and sat nearby. It was Nat who spoke first and soon he was rabbiting on about himself, never noticing that Jack offered nothing in return. Nat had been born in Chiswick, he knew the area well; everything fitted. Jack ordered them both a second glass and raised a toast. When the barman snapped up the empties Jack nodded him a thanks, but Nat ignored him. Jack frowned. Despite it fitting the profile, he disliked impoliteness.

The bar was filling up and they had to shout to be heard. An hour and four drinks later Jack received a blow. Nat had moved to Sydney the day John Lennon was shot in December 1980. The Australian film industry was taking off and he got constant work, only returning to Chiswick when his mother died in 1991. Jack’s mouth filled with sand, and the room spun. Nat had wasted his time. With the flip of a coin, what had passed for love switched to hate and blindly he made his way to the flat and packed up his things. When he shut the front door and set off to look for a new Host Jack’s tin of trophies included the white butterfly.

He regretted that their parting was so abrupt he never said a proper goodbye to his Hosts.

This was three months ago and now Nat’s flat – free of effigies and corpses – was occupied by a new tenant. Jack still had a key, but it was no longer home.

He would despair that the rest of his life might be constructed of blind alleys and false alarms; of treachery and disappointment. Ellen’s piano music drifting up from downstairs had brought him solace and so he had stayed.

He lifted out his latest acquisition: a rounded lump of green glass an inch in diameter, its flawless surface twinkled like a jewel. Minute droplets of air suspended in its centre completed its perfection. Isabel Ramsay had passed it on to him. It was a shame that their time together had been cut short.

The wardrobe contained Ellen’s summer clothes. Stale perfume pricked his nostrils. Maintaining the illusion of one life while leading another was onerous and Ellen was lying to her lover as well as to Michael, citing traffic jams and complex clients as causes of delay; she was a solicitor, so truth was there to be managed not upheld.

Michael had only to cook, clean and garden, book holidays and pour wine to bind Ellen into domestic expectations and stipulations as a spider wraps up a fly. Theirs was a charnel house whose lines and shapes Ellen tried to blur with glasses of red wine and clouds of cigarette smoke before sinking into numbed sleep strictly on her side of the bed. Michael was a shell in which the sound of the sea was revealed as the thud of blood pounding which will one day stop.