The Memory of Blood (7 page)

Tonight the alley looked grey and empty. Two of the streetlights were out. Anna had a very good reason for not wanting to meet any of the Hagans. A week earlier she had argued with Bunny, the youngest daughter, over the McDonald’s containers that were nightly discarded on her back doorstep. The conversation had quickly escalated into threats from all three sisters, who had warned that they would stab her if she complained again. In one respect Anna’s mother was right: Going to the police was likely to exacerbate the problem, so for a week she had avoided the alley.

But now a storm was breaking overhead and she had no umbrella, so she had taken the shortcut.

And someone was walking fast behind her.

She knew that looking back would represent an acknowledgement, and continued to face forward, but increased her pace.

Ahead, an unruly spray of buddleia had sown itself into the masonry in a thicket, the dense panicles of its pink flowers laden with raindrops. As she skirted around it her shoes slipped on the cobbles, nearly tipping her over. It took a concentration of balance to right herself and continue. The footsteps behind briefly stopped, then quickened, closer now.

The Hagan girls always wore grubby pink tracksuits and trainers—a man, then, but which one of them? Someone in shoes, so an older member of the family. Anna told herself that this knowledge was a safety mechanism, not paranoia, and that
there was no reason to be afraid. As she walked, she located her house keys. She clutched them tightly in her right hand, swinging her shopping in the left.

Nearly home now.

She reached the back door of number 14 Hadley Street, had unlocked it and dropped the keys in her bag when she felt a sharp tug on the handles. In the four years she had lived with her mother in Bermondsey, she had twice been mugged for her cell phone. She wasn’t about to lose another one, so she yanked back hard and felt the plastic bag stretching.

It was like pulling a Christmas cracker and knowing that you had the half without the toy inside. She did not want to see into his eyes, in the same way that you would not stare at a dangerous animal. He was just waiting for something to fracture.

This was what life had become for Anna—an endless tug-of-war between her mother, her employers, the government, even strangers in the street. Suddenly sick of it, she let go. Let him keep the damn groceries.

The move caught her mugger by surprise. The bag dropped and was quickly snatched up once more by unseen hands. Anna dared to raise her eyes and look. Through splinters of rain she saw a baseball cap, a black jacket, a pale face lost to shadow.

The neon panel above the back door had flicked on, casting a harsh mausoleum light; her mother must have heard the commotion and come into the kitchen. Anna used the moment to throw herself inside the house, locking the door behind her. She stood behind the barred glass and listened, her heart thumping, but heard nothing. Surely he should have run off?

‘Call the police,’ said her mother, but Anna knew there would be no point. Instead, she instructed Rose to go back to the lounge. She stood in the middle of the kitchen waiting for her pulse rate to drop. Then she did what so many Londoners did after a moment of crisis. She made herself a strong cup of tea.

The rain fell harder, rattling the gutters and spattering the windows. Anna sat in the bright, empty kitchen with her steaming mug, and tried not to think about anything. Her doctor had shown her how to do this whenever she was stressed. Now, though, something made her rise—a drop in the wind, a sudden silence—and she needed to see.

Quietly, slowly, she opened the back door and looked out. Her spilled shopping bag was still on the step. Gathering it up, she brought it inside. Her wallet, work folders, shopping—it was all intact.

The only things missing were her cell phone and her keys.

G
ail Strong glanced at her watch. Nearly nine
P.M
.

It was too early to leave the party. She had no intention of going home yet. Her father was still furious with her for skipping the Irish embassy dinner at Grosvenor House and staying out all night, and the atmosphere in the house was frostbitten. Besides, she wanted to have some fun. She was feeling horny.

She looked around the penthouse lounge for available men and found the pickings pretty slim. It was a theatre crowd; surely they were meant to be attractive?

There were two cute young actors handling the play’s smallest roles, but they were obviously gay, and the only other members of the cast she hadn’t met were women. The stage doorman was ancient, at least forty-five, and the show’s producer looked like a total creep. A group of dull men in off-the-rack suits were clearly bankers. One of the waiters was quite fit but—well, a waiter.

Which just left the lead, Marcus Sigler, who was in his mid-twenties and totally hot. But he was still talking to Della Fortess,
his leading lady, the one with the big sixties-style hair and the false eyelashes like garden rakes. At least they had managed to ditch the theatre owner’s wife, who was now having one of those don’t-let-everyone-see-we’re-arguing conversations with her husband.

Gail headed across to the windows overlooking the length of Northumberland Avenue and watched the rain coursing down the glass. Marcus was standing directly behind her. She glanced at his reflection and noticed that he was wearing low-cut Dsquared jeans and a River Island khaki T-shirt that showed off his muscular arms. She could price a man’s wardrobe from thirty paces. She wondered if he was screwing someone here—there were quite a few attractive single girls in the room.

Four old guys in D&G suits and patent leather Ferragamo shoes were hanging around by the door, eyeing the ladies lasciviously; they were obviously backers, and had been invited along out of politeness, or because the director wanted to squeeze more money out of them. She had seen their type lurking around her father at official functions so often that she could tell what kind of watches they would be wearing.

She knew she was looking good. She had great legs, and the tight little black skirt always caught men’s eyes. As she adjusted it, she noticed water pooling around the base of the window, coming through a seam in the glass. Moments later it had enveloped the left heel of Marcus’s trainers.

‘Oh, my God,’ she said, touching him on the back, ‘your shoes are getting wet.’

He turned around, and now she caught the full effect of his eyes, a startling ocean green. He stared at her in surprise and looked down, lifting his feet from the water. ‘Hey, a bit of a leak. Thanks. I guess it’s hardly surprising with this weather.’

‘I’m Gail Strong. I just joined the company.’ She shook his hand.

He smiled. ‘I’m—’

‘I know who you are. I saw you when you took over the role of Emmett in
Legally Blonde
. You have a great singing voice.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘I went twice, actually. Had a bit of a crush on you.’

‘Did you now.’ Marcus had a soft Irish accent that made her melt. His smile widened. ‘I’m glad you could make it tonight. Are you having fun?’

‘Not really, no. I don’t know anyone.’

‘Well, it’s a bit of a meet-and-greet for the investors, but these things have to be done. I guess if you’re here it means that Robert Kramer has just employed you.’

‘He’s taking a chance. I’m standing in as ASM.’

They chatted easily for a few minutes. ‘Actually,’ Marcus confided, ‘I’m dying for a cigarette. It’s because I’ve got a drink in one hand. They go together.’

‘God, me too, I’m gagging. I think I saw a fire escape on the way in. I was wondering if it’s protected from the rain. I just had my hair done.’

‘Come on, then,’ he said, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand.

That’s when she knew she had him.

They found their way to the back of the room, then out into a corridor that led to the rear exit.

Marcus pushed open the fire escape door and stepped out. Rain sprayed through the diamond grating of the black iron staircase above them. It cascaded down the brickwork, rumbled through pipes, bounced from gutters and thrashed into drains, as if the world had sprung a leak and was subsiding into aquatic depths. The building had once been offices, but had been carved into residential apartments. The dead windows of other offices looked down on them, but everyone had gone home hours ago.

They had slunk from the party like thieves, wedging the door
with an empty cigarette carton in case it closed and locked them out. Marcus sat on the stairs and inhaled deeply, funneling blue smoke up into the damp air. ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘Anyone who tells you they don’t is a liar. All that attention, of course acting is an ego trip.’

He handed the joint back. Gail had found it in her purse. She had got it from a Spanish waiter at an embassy dinner the week before. Her father would kill her if he thought she was smoking dope, which was why she always asked the waiters where she could score.

‘But you play a murderer every night. How do you get the audience to like you?’

‘That’s an interesting question,’ said Marcus. ‘Of course, every night is different. You never know who you’ll get in.’ He accepted the joint back. ‘I was in California last summer, and I saw this teenaged girl being interviewed on television. She had burned down her parents’ house one night because they wouldn’t let her watch her favourite TV programme, something like
The X Factor
. They had died of smoke inhalation, and she’d been arrested on suspicion of murder. And this is the terrible part—I remember thinking she was really sexy, even though she was probably a killer. It was the way she looked straight into the camera, and I could tell she was enjoying the attention. She’d realised she could become a celebrity. And she did when the interview appeared on YouTube. She got offered all kinds of modelling jobs. That’s the thought I hold onstage. Plus, I keep the top three buttons of my shirt open.’

Gail sucked on the joint, held the searing smoke in her lungs and tried not to cough as she exhaled. ‘I think you’re a little too pretty to make a convincing real-life murderer,’ she said finally. ‘But you’re very good in the role.’

Marcus reached forward and slipped his hand around her waist. ‘I think you’re too pretty, too.’ A moment later, she moved
forward between his jean-clad legs and kissed him, pressing down hard on his open mouth. Unbuttoning his jeans, she climbed the step and lowered her bare thighs onto his as the rain fell with renewed vigour.

Back at the party, Robert Kramer had noticed the water coming in through the window frame and had snapped at a waiter, ordering him to clear up the mess.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Judith, joining him. She looked a little drunk.

‘You’re supposed to be the hostess.’ Kramer eyed his wife with fresh disappointment. ‘That means keeping an eye on everything. Christ, it’s not a very difficult job. You should be able to manage that.’

‘I thought my job was to look beautiful and encourage those disgusting old men to hand over their cheques,’ she bit back. ‘When can we get rid of them?’

‘It’s too early yet. Did you check on Noah?’ Their eleven-month-old son had almost taken his first tottering step unaided this week, and was asleep in his cot in the upstairs nursery.

Judith took out her pager and showed Robert the screen. ‘Half an hour ago. See for yourself. Not a peep.’

‘That’s because it’s not switched on—look.’ He turned the pager around and showed her the
Inactive
symbol.

‘Damn. It’s not my fault. It keeps turning itself off in my pocket.’

‘The window isn’t open, is it?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, there’s a draught coming from somewhere. Go and check on him. You should have made Gloria stay this evening. It’s her job to look after him.’

‘I couldn’t, Robert, her mother is dying. She has to get all the way down to Kent. She’ll be back by eleven.’

‘Hurry up—I’ll see to this mess.’

Judith pushed away through the crowded room as the waiter came running with a bucket and sponges.

Out on the fire escape, Gail Strong pushed Marcus Sigler back against the metal staircase and licked his lips. They were now both naked below the waist, their clothing shoved down to their calves in a hampering tangle. Rain spattered through the trelliswork of the stairs above, dampening their clothes. Marcus bucked and Gail tightened her hold over him, and the staircase rattled, and something fell or slid—like a can of paint being pushed across a floor—and their bodies shook, and they saw nothing, felt nothing except the core of heat that joined them.

Judith closed the lounge door behind her and climbed the stairs, thankful to be away from the party for a moment. With so much forced laughter and so many guests working their private agendas, it was hard to know if anyone really liked her, or whether they simply saw her as the boss’s wife. And to have all the actors here in the flat, seeing how lavishly they lived, surely that wasn’t a good idea.

She paused on the stair and listened—something fell, an odd sort of a sound. She stopped before the nursery door, a queer feeling tilting her stomach. Thunder rolled across the rooftops once more, and the lights momentarily flickered. She depressed the handle and pushed, but the door refused to move. It wasn’t locked, so what was wrong?