Authors: Clare Curzon

The Glass Wall (4 page)

BOOK: The Glass Wall

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The buzzer stung her awake and she started up, couldn't grasp where she was. In her dream she'd been back home in the kitchen. Ma had been rowing with her over something and Uncle Chaz had stuck his oar in. Only Chaz had been dead a couple of years, lungs rotted away with those filthy old fags he never stopped smoking. She'd offered him a spliff once but he wasn't for changing. One of them was worth twenty of the stenchy stuff he used to roll himself.

She turned over, put both hands to her aching head, then heard it again. RamÃ³n, she remembered. She hadn't meant to drop right off like that. Now she'd look a mess and â¦

She bundled the robe round her, retied the sash and ran to activate the door release and let the man in below. Would he remember it was the seventh floor? She didn't want anyone to see him on the way up. God, it was nearly four o'clock: she'd been out to the wide and felt all the worse for it. She stared in the hall mirror, pinched her cheeks to bring back some colour, and tugged at her hair. She heard the lift arrive and the soft susurration of the doors opening. The doorbell shrilled.

He had brought her flowers. They weren't much: a small bunch of those screwed-up, dark anemone buds that you could never be sure would open properly. Still, it was something, and she hadn't expected them. He was as deadpan as ever, but she'd admit he did seem curious, wanting to see everything, Emily's room included.

She left him in there while she went to fill the cafetiÃ¨re and could hear him opening cupboards and moving things about.

Still barely emerging from a dream, Emily came half-awake, impatient, consumed with longing for something indefinable, out of reach. It was like being young again and knowing a terrible need
while unable to tell what it was her heart cried out for. If only she could see it, remember. She needed, needed â¦wanted so much. What?

To be free.

And then, in an instant, she was. As in a trance state, suddenly nothing was impossible. With no limits, no restraints, she was running through sparse autumn woodland, her face turned up to drink in the gentle rain; yet she had no face, no limbs, no body. Despite that she could feel it all. And it was wonderful. Such energy, such passion, such an overwhelming urge towards â¦

There was no future, no past, now was eternal, with the need to be running, to feel the cool fingers of rain stroking and tickling; to be at one with it and the woodland which now seemed familiar. And in a clearing ahead there was the ghost of a swing that hung on long chains from a tree, still gently swaying as if a child had just jumped off. Herself perhaps.

She looked down for her winged, shimmering feet, silver in the rain but immaterial. She was totally invisible. Just spirit.

A soul? No she mustn't believe in souls, the religious sort. It would be too awful if they were real and all that business about hellfire punishment.

Then, âI am Emily,' she croaked defiantly, claiming what she suddenly knew was true. âI am almost ninety-four years old.'

And the magic dissolved. She was back again in barely damped-down pain, frustrated. Trapped in a diseased body. In a square room with walls she couldn't see through.

Someone had come into the room and stood looking down on her. It was a man, a stranger, wearing a white jacket. She was suddenly afraid, closed her eyes, but could hear him moving about, opening and shutting drawers. She called for someone to come, to get her out of here. No matter who. Any of them.

She ran through their names but couldn't recall their faces. âMartin, Dolly!' And there was another, but it had vanished from her mind. She opened her eyes. And the man had gone silently away.

RamÃ³n joined Sheena in the kitchen, where he'd shed his parka on arriving, and carried the tray through to the front window, just
like a waiter in a grand hotel. He looked like it too, still in his white tunic with the coloured epaulettes.

âSo whatcha think?' Sheena demanded, offering him the snow-scene panorama with a sweep of one arm. He leaned forward to look down on the circulating traffic, then straightened to take his bearings from the perspective of distant hills.

âYou can't see the pub,' she warned. âIt's behind that corner with the Natwest Bank on. That's the college opposite, and the hospital. Fire station's over there. You can't see much of the river. It's best at night. There's a patch of dark where the lights aren't.'

He nodded. âAnd right below, at this side? A low building.'

âThat's Elston's, a stationery and office warehouse. You wouldn' t have seen it from the road because there's a high wall all round, except for the side opening on Carlisle Street. The council have been trying to buy them out and build there, but they won't have it.'

âWise,' he said. âWorth a lot to keep.'

âI bet somebody'll have enough money for it some day.' Casually she lit up a spliff, acting sophisticated, but he scarcely noticed.

âIt has a big car park,' he said. âEmpty, almost.'

âThat's because they keep it clear for goods coming in. The delivery trucks are huge; come from all over Europe. So if other people leave their cars there they could get clamped. You often see a row going on down there with drivers who think they can sneak in and park for free. That's just in the daytime, though.'

But RamÃ³n appeared to have lost interest. Sheena swirled the robe's overlong skirt off her feet and sat opposite him, offering a sight of chubby knee. She crossed one leg over the other to reveal a stretch of thigh, then discovered she couldn't pour coffee in that position.

âI do that,' RamÃ³n offered. âMore my job.' He twisted the tray towards him on the low coffee table. âYou say how you like.'

âHot and strong,' she told him, in time stopping herself uttering the trite old âjust like my men.' Something told her it would have been a mistake. âYou don't have to work overtime,' she said instead.

âIs no hard work here for you,' he observed, gazing around. âThe old lady call for other people. Not you.'

âWell, I'm all she's got here right now. Was she awake then?'

âNo. I think she dream.'

âAbout dead people. All her lot are dead but her. She's as old as the hills.'

âShe has no family?'

âMiss
Withers. She never married. There are some great-nephews and nieces, I think. But nobody's bothered about her. None of them ever come to visit. Still, she's not that interesting. Tell me about you.'

That'll get him, she thought. There's nothing puffs any man up like talking about himself.

If anything, his face became more closed.

Chapter Five

RamÃ³n drank up his coffee.

âThat was good.' Which was true. Even this unappetizing woman couldn't ruin the superior Italian blend. He drew its aroma in through narrowed nostrils, to drown out the stench of her reefer.

She grinned smugly back at him. âNice place, innit?'

âThat is good too.'

He was no conversationalist but she still had hopes of him. She'd leave him to make the first move. Maybe he was shy, strictly brought up. They were Catholics out in the Philippines, weren't they? And except for the blagging Irish sort, she'd always thought RCs a bit tied down by their images and rule books. Actually he was staring at her legs now. She swished the skirts of the silk kimono coyly back over her ankles.

And at that point the apartment doorbell shrilled. Not the buzzer from downstairs, so it had to be the doctor. He was the only one told the code for the electronic entry. But he'd never called out of the blue before. Always phoned ahead.

âOh my God,' she blurted, âit's the doc. âHe can't find us like this. You'll hafta hide somewhere.'

The Filipino gave her his deadpan stare. âI talk to him. You go dress.'

âYou can't â¦' But then why not? His uniform jacket was quite like one of the male care assistants at Alyson's hospital. Maybe he'd pass as one moonlighting.

The bell sounded again, with shrill persistence. RamÃ³n reached up to slide open a panel in the glass wall and the wind rushed in. Sheena grabbed the tray and fled to the kitchen. With the door open a crack she could hear talking as RamÃ³n let the visitor in.

It was a woman.

The voices were low, words indistinguishable. The woman was introducing herself, excusing her unexpected visit. âOn a sudden whim,' she said more loudly as they passed from the hall towards Emily's room.

Alyson hadn't mentioned any Health Visitor calling. She saw
to all that herself. And why let the woman know the street-door code? It was out of order. Sheena stood tense, gripping the edge of the door. They were in Emily's bedroom now and their voices no more than a murmur.

A few minutes passed and then there were footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Sheena shrank back in the space behind the door. But it was only RamÃ³n.

âShe smell the coffee. I make her some.' He started rinsing the used cafetiÃ¨re and resetting the tray.

âBut who is she? What does she want?'

âTo see Emily. Her grandmother, she say.'

âIt can't be. Emily hasn't any family.' But hadn't she? There were great-nieces and great-nephews who never bothered to visit. RamÃ³n could have got it wrong, no good at English, mixed up the relations. But not a granddaughter; couldn't be.
Miss
Withers after all. With a bastard child her generation, so namby-pamby, would have covered up with calling herself
Mrs.

âThat is what the lady say. Out the way, please. I need cup and saucer.'

She let him complete his preparations, smooth and professional. Waiter, barman or stand-in nurse. The woman, whoever she was, had accepted him without question.

Rachel Howard stared down at the old, old woman and felt nothing. It hadn't been like that as she'd entered the hall. Then so much emotion had flooded her that afterwards there was a void left. It was because of the carving, still around after so many years; still able to transport her instantly back into childhood, to all its lost glories and agonies.

She went back and picked it up, felt its weight and the hard, irregular outlines. The intricate carving, in dark, polished wood, was thought to be Chinese. As long as Rachel remembered, it had lived in the hall on the occasional table where Grandmother used to sort the post: three wizened little monkeys squatting in a row. One had its paws over its eyes, the second over its ears and the third over its mouth.

Since long before she learned that the three represented See No Evil, Hear No Evil and Speak No Evil, Rachel had seen the
carving as a lucky mascot and never missed touching it as she went out of the house. At sixteen she had still done it, still smiled recalling Martin's corny reaction to the description âoccasional' for the piece of furniture it stood on: âWhat's it do when it isn't a table, then?' he'd demanded.

That first time, a Saturday, it had amused them all the long walk to the library, making up stories of wild adventures that the thing got up to when it wasn't on duty in her grandmother's Victorian hall.

That last, awful morning she had missed touching it, passing at speed because she was late and it wouldn't be Bert that day on the school bus. When Bert drove he understood how she was held back by Dolly at the breakfast-room window until the tea cup was drained, even as she watched the bus turn in at Dimarco's corner stop. Then he'd pull away and dawdle while she raced out and ahead, scarf and school bag flying, to the bit where Kilmarnie Lane narrowed with trade vans parked, and she could swing on board as he footled through at five miles an hour.

Once seated, though, she was different, sophisticated, wordly-wise, casual about the admiration of the giggling little third-formers. She never finished homework on the journey, while they swapped answers to Algebra or cribbed others' Latin translations. Hers was all done properly at home, and most of it, she knew, would be correct.

She felt bile rise in her throat, thrust the wretched object back between a small brass gong and the framed photograph of Arthur's Seat. The thing's power had run out that day when both parents were killed in the light aircraft crashing on the Pentlands. And Emily had taken over her life.

RamÃ³n carried out the reset tray and found the woman in the vast livingroom admiring the paintings. Sheena slipped out of the kitchen, back to retrieve her clothes and sit waiting impatiently on the side of the rumpled bed for sounds of the visitor's departure.

She had given RamÃ³n her card, as a sort of justification for barging in: Rachel Howard, with an address at some gallery in Edinburgh.

âScottish?' Sheena insisted when he showed it to her later. But RamÃ³n knew nothing of British geography or accents. The only snatch of conversation Sheena had caught just sounded snooty Anything else was left for Alyson to work out.

âWhat did she look like?' Sheena demanded. She'd need to describe the woman, as if she'd been there herself to let her in.

He said simply, âTall lady, very fine.'

âYou mean well-dressed?'

âThat, yes, too. Thin, very straight.'

âHow old would you say?'

âForty or more. Forty-five, but well â¦'

âWell preserved? Good-looking?'

âLike Emily, but black hair, younger.'

Surely that would be enough to satisfy Alyson, unless unluckily she was ever to meet the woman and be told who'd let her in.

âDid she say she'd call again?' For godsake, she was having to drag every stinking word out of the man.

âShe telephone your boss.'

âAlyson Orme? Did she mention her by name?'

âShe call her that, yes. I go now.'

She had overdone the inquisition and he was turning resentful. Well, let him. She'd wasted enough time on him already and she had to set the place straight again and get the old girl seen to. Just one more question, though, to be on the safe side. âDid she say anything special?'

He paused, pulling on his parka, and thought. âShe is pleased with open window. Better than air condition. Good for invalid.'

âShe actually said that? There was half a blizzard blowing in!'

âBut it clean the air. I open it to kill smell of marijuana.' He treated her again to his blank stare and then took his leave.

âKill old Emily, more like,' Sheena said aloud. Maybe that was what the family wanted. Rich old doll. She was making them wait too long for reading her will.

Alyson had lumbered herself with an umbrella. As she halted to open it outside the supermarket, a spike caught in the loop of the carrier over her arm and the handle tore, spilling out some groceries. She bit back on âSh â' and turned it to âSugar!'. Crouching
to pick up the strays she heard a chuckle of sympathy.

âLet me help you,' said the man, bending to swoop on a packet of frozen duck portions and a box of eggs. His face loomed close to hers, handsome enough; good teeth; dark hair with a streak of silver at the temples. Standing up, he was tall too. All the ingredients for a fairground fortune-teller's extravagant promises.

A pity I've no time for fairy tales, Alyson thought cynically.

He was looking down at his hands. âI'm afraid some of the eggs are rather bent. It seems you're halfway to an omelette. Just get under shelter here and I'll fetch you a fresh carrier.'

Courteous, and practical with it, she noted, thanking him. He strode off, returned happily waving one of the supermarket's tougher bags. She was feeling a fool by then, unused to being at the reception end of heroics.

âThank you. You've been very kind,' she said firmly as he reopened the brolly and offered to carry the transferred packages. âI've no distance to go at all. I can manage now.'

âI'm sure you can.' It was said smiling and, suspecting he was amused by her, she nodded coolly and moved away. She felt his eyes following her until the turn of the street, relieved at the nearness of the hospital. She'd likely not ever see him again.

She left it to Bernice when Keith came in to visit Audrey. He looked terrible, drawn and grey, seeming to have aged overnight.

âHave they been in yet from Psychiatry?' he asked before going to the bedside.

âNo,' Bernice told him. âThey'll leave it until she's up. Luckily we had a free bed, since there's no single room on offer. It would be cruel to send her to an open ward.'

âHello, love,' he said quietly, leaning over his wife. âHow's it going?'

His shoulders blocked out a view of her face. âYou gave us all quite a shock.'

Audrey said nothing. Punishing him still, Alyson thought, trying not to feel anger. There was no further chance to watch events because she was needed at the young OD's bedside to record his BP Still in coma; the stomach pump had taken out almost all that was left of life in the skinny little body.

His name, according to a debit card on him, was Eric Allbright, but she doubted it was his own. More likely stolen. The signature on its reverse had been too adult. Suspecting the same, the police had taken it, but left the one crisp, unused note issued from a cash machine. A beat constable had found him overnight among the dustbins on a rundown housing estate. On the whiteboard the name was recorded with a query.

His heart rate was up a little. Encouraged, she removed the urine bag and labelled it with name and time, for analysis. They might be beating this one after all.

Bernice made instant coffee for Keith. He sat crouched at Audrey's bedside with the polystyrene beaker at his feet, the drink going cold. It wouldn't do much for him, Alyson reflected. Keith's accepted fix was a double espresso, even sometimes at night. He worked hard over long hours, must be dog-tired when he reached home.

Which was possibly at the root of Audrey's complaint. But not my concern, Alyson warned herself, shying away from any image of the Stanfords' intimate moments. She pulled on fresh latex gloves and went to look for the plastic sack containing the young addict's vomit-stained clothing. There was still hope of some clue to his background. If she could trace family or friends, a familiar voice might speed his struggle back to consciousness.

She pulled out the unlovely assortment: string vest, T-shirt, cut-off jeans and a thick, purplish sweater, socks, trainers. Surprisingly good quality, but nothing waterproof, she noticed. Usually derelicts brought in during the winter months had something to keep the weather out. She couldn't believe he had survived sleeping rough with just this lot. So he belonged somewhere indoors; maybe with a group who would wonder what had become of him.

There was a tapping on the glass panel of the ward door. Alyson removed her gloves, slid open the blinds and surveyed the young woman waiting outside. Through the intercom she asked for identification.

In reply a warrant card appeared: Detective Sergeant Rosemary Zyczynski of Thames Valley Police. Pretty and slim, with dark
eyes.

âCome in,' Alyson invited. âYou might be the very person I'm looking for now.'

âWhy? What's up?'

She had a warm smile, brown curls cut close, and a hooded anorak in burnt orange. About my own age, Alyson judged. And a sergeant, so â good at her job.

âHave you come about my mystery young man?'

Zyczynski considered her. âActually, no. My boss asked me to look up Mrs Stanford. He saw her before she was brought in. Took her panic phone call.'

BOOK: The Glass Wall

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