The Insect Farm (22 page)

The hallway was in almost total darkness and immediately I was in a dilemma about whether to push the button which turned on the staircase lights. Even in normal circumstances it was not unusual for the switch to turn itself off before visitors reached the ground, and I did not want to risk having to feel for the next button at the first-floor landing. I stood in my doorway and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust, and decided to risk the darkness. Harriet’s body was bent at her waist and draped over my back in a fireman’s carry, leaving both of my hands free to steady myself on the banisters. I was about to take the first step down when I felt a movement at my feet, and looked down to see Olly the cat brushing past my ankles. I had to restrain myself from swearing out loud. Treading as lightly as I could, I was acutely aware of every tiny creak of the wooden floorboards. At one moment, as I
turned on the next landing, the edge of the rug which was wrapped around Harriet’s body brushed against one of the doors, and I held my breath, remaining still for long enough to be certain that no one had heard. Thankfully I was able to open and close the main door to the street silently.

Had someone stopped me on that short walk to the allotments – had a police car drawn up, or even had a passer-by stopped and looked with curiosity at me – I probably would have given up there and then. As I turned every corner I fully expected to meet whatever would be the instrument of my discovery. The early-morning milkman whose decision to take a short cut would change the course of the rest of my life. The postman who decided to turn right and not left at the junction and bumped into me bearing my load. Like a high-wire artist beginning to wobble and speeding up in order to reach the rope’s end before he falls, I felt myself trying to accelerate as I neared my destination.

I glanced around me as I walked. The streets were lined with rows of Victorian terraced houses, some of two stories and some of three. I looked especially carefully at any window with a light on inside, but at no point did I see anyone looking out, nor any twitch of a curtain or blind.

A few minutes later, astonishingly, I had reached the allotments and had been seen by no one that I was aware of. Of course I could not guarantee that I had not been spotted by someone in the distance; maybe a neighbour heard or saw me go out of the house. Maybe someone made a mental
note which would be recalled only later when the police appealed for witnesses. “Oh, there was that bloke acting oddly in Rosemere Street,” they would remember, and their husband or wife would urge them that their civic duty was to call the police.

The allotments were surrounded by metal railings designed to keep out the vandals, and the gate was locked with a heavy padlock. I had to use both hands and bend my knees to reach it, but even now I cannot say that I was finding my burden unduly awkward or heavy. I was even able to close the gate and replace the padlock before turning inwards and heading towards the shed which housed Roger’s insect farm.

It was another twenty yards from the gate to the shed, and I remember thinking that I was walking on soft earth, and that the patterns on the soles of my shoes would be likely to leave a distinctive print. Probably an expert would be able to tell that the person wearing the shoes was carrying a weight.

I was easily able to open the door and, once inside, I found an open area and gently placed the rug and Harriet’s body onto the floor. It seems ironic now that I took great care that her head should not bump as I settled her. Crazy, of course, but then who could be other than out of his right mind in this situation?

I made certain that every inch of Harriet was covered by the rug, looked around to make certain that there was nothing apparently untoward, opened the door and walked out, being sure to lock the door behind me and to wipe any trace
of blood from the padlock on the outer gate. I knew that I still had to be every bit as careful as I had been on my journey here. It was less likely that anyone would take notice of me now that I was not carrying anything, but all the same, if seen by someone who knew me, I would have little chance of producing a plausible explanation of what I was doing out at 4 a.m. on a winter’s morning. I pulled up my collar and hurried back through the streets, retracing my journey of just a few minutes earlier. At one point I saw a light being turned on in an upstairs window, and could make out the shape of a man wearing a dressing gown coming into the room, scratching his head as he stepped forward to glance out into the street below. I walked just a little faster, keeping my head down and my collar up. I did not think that he had seen me.

Back once again inside the flat, I went immediately to the bathroom with the intention of splashing water on my face, but as soon as I was inside the door I felt an instant rising of nausea and could only just manage to get to the lavatory in time to lift the seat before I retched violently into the bowl. It was that sickness when you have thrown up many times before and there is nothing more inside you to come out, so that all you have is the pain of stomach contractions. As though my being was trying to express the horror of what was going on, trying to expel the monster from inside of me before it could eat me from within.

After a few moments I ran the cold tap and cupped my hands under the flowing water. I was about to put my face
in it when I realized that my skin was still covered in dried blood. I reached for the soap and began turning it relentlessly, and then for a little nail brush that I kept on the sink and I began to scrub until it hurt. Only then did I feel I could rinse my face and, grabbing a towel and burying myself in it, I pressed the tips of my fingers into my eyes, as though to blur out the images that assailed them.

In the mirror, my skin appeared pale and puffy and looked as though someone had shaded large dark semicircles beneath my eyes. My lips seemed to have had the blood drawn from them and had vanished into a thin horizontal slash across my face. For the first time, I felt that I could not recognize the person that looked back at me. It was the face of a murderer.

I had to focus. I needed to set about clearing up the flat, and especially taking care of any of the more obvious signs of dried blood before I would have to wake up Roger. I filled a plastic bucket with hot water and, in the absence of anything more suitable, added a handful of the soap powder I used for washing clothes. Most of the stains from the immediate area had been absorbed by the rug, and so I made a tour of light switches and door handles. I wiped away the smears from the leather sofa, and then saw a splash of deep red just above the skirting board a few feet away. I knew I would have to clean more thoroughly later, but now my most urgent priority would be removing what I could of any sign that Harriet had been here. Even as I did so, I understood that my efforts were almost certainly completely futile. It
seemed inconceivable that no one had noticed her coming to the flat last night; that none of my neighbours had heard her on the stairs, that no one had heard what must have been the crash of breaking glass which killed her. Still, by now it was as though a survival instinct had taken over my actions and I was proceeding on a kind of autopilot.

The way last night had unfolded had given Harriet very little opportunity to unpack the bag she had brought with her. It was a large black canvas holdall with a zip across the length of the top. The zip had been opened and I could see her bathroom bag, T-shirts and underwear. Again I felt the nausea rising in me, but this time was able to control it. I knew that I had to be certain that there was nothing of hers which hadn’t been here before. I checked every surface and could find nothing.

I looked at my watch. Now it was 4.45. Should I take the risk of going out again, and perhaps be spotted carrying a bag through the streets? I glanced out of the window to check whether it was yet becoming light. Beneath the streetlamp I saw the outline of a skip standing at the side of the road. Builders had been renovating the house opposite for some weeks, and I knew that they were close to finishing their work. As I looked more carefully from my window, I could just make out the shape of an interior door from the house, with frosted-glass panelling, on top of the discarded rubbish. I wondered if I dared press my luck, but then realized that I had very little choice. I found a black plastic rubbish bag
under the sink and slid Harriet’s canvas holdall inside. I tied the end of the bag in a knot, and then carried it back downstairs and crossed the road. I reached over into the skip and lifted the edge of the door. I was able to slide the plastic bag just beneath it, so that it was almost completely obscured. I looked about me once again to try to check whether I had been detected, but could see no sign to cause concern.

I would spend the rest of the time available to me before Roger woke up further cleaning and tidying the flat, and meanwhile trying to work out what to say to him. That would depend on what he had seen, on what he remembered, and on whether and how seriously he was traumatized by it all. I had no way to tell, but understood that I would know from the first words he spoke when he opened his eyes this morning whether or not my fate, and his, would be sealed.

Chapter Eighteen

At 7.30 I had a last look around the flat to confirm that there was no obvious trace of Harriet’s recent presence, and then went into Roger’s bedroom to wake him. I spent some moments looking at my brother’s face in the semi-darkness. I have to say that he looked entirely at peace, as if there was nothing and no care in the world to disturb his simple existence. There was nothing in it to suggest that he was anything other than the innocent eight-year-old that he in part was; I don’t think he was actually sucking his thumb, but he might as well have been.

Taking a deep breath, I put my hand on his shoulder and gently shook him.

“Roger. Roger. It’s time to wake up now and to get your breakfast.”

I have mentioned before that Roger always woke from his sleep as though he had been studying a scene from
The Sleeping Beauty
. He opened his eyes and looked around as if curious to know who and what and where he was. I sometimes thought that if he had woken up in the caves of Bora Bora or in a tent in ancient Egypt, he would never react any differently from the way he reacted when he woke in his bedroom in a flat in Clapham. Every day was a new day; every discovery seemed to have no point of reference from the past.

He looked up at me and smiled. I searched his expression for any signs of concern or trauma from the previous night and found none. Would he ask about Harriet? I wasn’t even sure if he had registered that she was expected to be back yesterday, nor did I yet know why or when he had returned to the flat. It was equally possible that he had witnessed everything and knew more than I did about the violence I had inflicted upon Harriet, or that he had arrived back later, gone directly to his room and seen nothing. I waited and wondered.

“What’s for breakfast?” he said.

“I thought that today we might have a thimble of the nectar from the queen of all honey bees, washed down with a mighty bucket full of lark’s vomit,” I said, and instantly Roger dissolved into his familiar fit of giggling, covering his mouth with his hand. I think we each of us loved our routine as much as did the other.

“I think just the toast and Marmite for me please,” he said, “and then maybe a banana?”

“All right then,” I said. “Just this once.”

I brushed away the tear that was forming in the corner of my eye, leaving Roger to get out of bed and to wash and dress as I returned to the kitchen. So much to think about, but probably best to get him off to his day centre before I did so. I had put two slices of bread into the toaster when I heard the telephone ringing.

My instant thought was that it must be the police. Who else would be calling at this time of the morning? I imagined
that a neighbour had heard something alarming and called them; but if so, wouldn’t they more likely be knocking at the door? I tried my best to compose myself before picking up the receiver, but had little faith that I was anything like composed when I spoke. I said our number and waited.

“Hello, Jonathan?” I did not immediately recognize the voice. “It’s Mr Harries. You know, Terry’s father? I was calling to apologize about last night and to make sure that Roger is OK.”

I felt a moment of relief that it was not the police, followed immediately by a new wave of concern at what Mr Harries might have to tell me.

“Oh yes, Mr Harries. Yes, I did wonder what had happened. Roger came in and went straight to bed, so I haven’t had a chance to ask him, but he seems OK this morning. Was everything all right?”

“Oh, that’s a weight off my mind,” he said, and his voice sounded as though it genuinely was. “Everything was fine and there was no sign of a problem. Roger came home and had his tea with us. Beef burgers; he said they were his favourites.” My mind was a whirl of impatience. “But when it was time to go to bed he started to become a bit agitated. He began talking about his farm and the creatures, and worrying about whether they needed him. I tried to reassure him, and for a little while he calmed down again, but then later he got agitated and said he wanted to come home.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Mr Harries,” I said, “you should have just called me. I would have come to collect him.”

“Actually, I did call you. About tenish I think it was, but there was no answer. I assumed you were out, which is why I couldn’t bring Roger over right away.”

“That’s funny. I was here all night,” I said. “I must have fallen asleep and not heard the phone.”

“Then an hour or so later I could see he wouldn’t settle here. He wasn’t overwrought or anything, but he just kept on repeating that he wanted to come home. So I thought I had better bring him. When we got to the flat I could see the lights were on, and Roger insisted that he should come up alone. He didn’t want me to come in with him for some reason. I told him to come straight back down if you were not there, and I waited downstairs for a while to make sure he didn’t, so I assumed that everything was OK. Was he all right when he got there?”