The Silent Ones (17 page)

He felt deflated. He knew there was very little chance he would ever see Olivia again. He felt keenly that he hadn’t made enough of the golden opportunity she had handed him just a few days ago. One on one, in a private conversation!

He began to mop the floor, noting that there was an extra member of staff here: the security review was changing practices, he was running out of time and taking a reckless risk of being discovered. Murmured conversation from some of the women filled the room. Others were reading newspapers; a small pile of papers sat on a table by the window. The top page of the paper fluttered slightly as he whisked his mop past it.

He mopped the floor where Linda had been attacked. There was no trace of the incident having ever occurred, except in his memory, but Olivia’s presence was all around him. Her words came back to him:
I learned young and hard how a person suffers when power is held by another
.

He looked up at the security camera in the corner, his actions being recorded by Sonny and Corey. He would have to try harder. Make more effort to get to the truth. Take more risks.

At the end of his shift Darren was pleased to find that Kamal wasn’t in his office and he was able to slip out of the changing rooms to the exit without having to see him. As he was queuing to leave, Nathan took one look at him and went so far as to put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Mate, you look like death.’

‘Got to get out of this job, man.’

Nathan grinned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve some news though, I’ve got a casting next week.’

‘That’s great.’ He really was happy for Nathan, a nice guy who deserved his break.

‘Cheer up, look, here’s Chloe, the finest-looking girl in Croydon.’

Chloe, in the queue ahead of Darren, turned round to look at Nathan. ‘Hi Nathan.’ She appraised Darren. ‘He looks tired, don’t you think?’ she said to Nathan.

‘He’s lovesick,’ Nathan said. Darren shot him a look. ‘He’s trying to get up the courage to ask you out.’

Chloe smiled, handed Nathan her bag for him to check and passed through the metal detector.

‘You fancy going for a drink with him?’ Nathan pressed.

Chloe was putting her bag strap over her head and across her body as she looked at Darren. He felt the deep blush of complete idiocy travelling up to his face. It was the final humiliation of his whole psychotic experience at Roehampton.

‘Yeah, I’ll go out with him, he’s cute.’ She turned with a flounce, shaking her curly hair, and looked back as she headed for her car.

‘I’ll meet you at Croydon clock tower, seven-thirty Friday,’ he managed to shout.

She held up her hand to wave and didn’t look back again.

Darren grinned, his feelings about the world doing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin.

Nathan gave Darren his catalogue-man smile. ‘See how it all works out?’

Darren gave him a fist-bump. ‘Thanks, Bradley.’

T
he man walked round the room and listened to the sharp crackle of the tarpaulin beneath his feet. He was naked and could feel its slippery, cool surface under his toes. He had draped it over the few pieces of furniture in the room, including the sofa bed so that its bright blue hues undulated like waves. He adored the sound as he moved as much as he loved this grace and favour flat, a workplace benefit the department had graciously bestowed.

The one-room studio was in a mews with attractive cobbles and tasteful window boxes brimming with summer blooms, but that wasn’t why he loved it. When he had been shown around a few years ago by a departmental secretary she had apologised for its size; bijou, she had muttered, with an embarrassed laugh. He, though, had been astounded at his immense good luck: the flat was on the first floor and had an entrance that led straight up from the back of the garage directly underneath.

That occasional work functions or department dinners kept him in town and meant he had to stay here didn’t bother his wife – she rarely had any desire to leave the vicarage in the country. He alone liked the city and all the distractions it had to offer.

The lights were off and the curtains drawn, his car in the garage below. He stood for a moment by the window, scanning the street, checking methodically for lights in windows or unusual movement. But this was central London at the weekend; it felt like a city subjected to a prolonged bombing campaign that had forced all able-bodied residents to flee for their lives. Nothing stirred. He let the curtain drop and turned back to the bed, careful to step over the rope.

The flat had a tiny kitchen area in one corner with a small fridge and cooker, and a breakfast bar from where one of two tatty kitchen stools had been removed. A tiny, fully tiled bathroom had a toilet and shower. The living area housed a wardrobe in which he had hung his suit and a selection of the blue shirts he always wore. His socks, pants and shoes were also in there on top of a fresh roll of tarpaulin, the door firmly closed. He had once had the problem of disposing of a suit that had got splattered.

He used the toilet, flushed. He would wash his hands later. The windows were firmly shut even though the evening was hot, but he had an air conditioning unit running – it helped with the smells and the whimpering that came from the bed.

One of the stools was jammed between the wardrobe and the window and a length of rope was tied round one of its struts, the other end pulling tight on the thin wrist of the girl on the bed. The old armchair had been pulled to the window and a second rope was secured round one of its legs and the girl’s other wrist.

He heard church bells ringing, mournful in the night-time stillness, and mused that God was the only thing that could help her now. He picked up his phone and took some photos of her. He was careful to include the oversize wellingtons she was still wearing; they made her look younger than she was.

At moments like these every sensation was beautiful to him: the bells outside, the rushing of blood through his head, her wide eyes. He had been livid with Gert Becker earlier in the week for putting a hurdle in the way of his desires, but now he felt generous towards the entire world. He typed Becker’s number, but before he clicked send he paused. Nine hours ago he had wanted to punish Becker for the extra risk he had been exposed to, but now he was feeling sated and generous. He wrote some text before he sent the image. ‘Love tarpaulin.’

He unpacked the video camera.

S
onny was two hours into his shift. The morning was hot and only going to get hotter. ‘One day, just one day, me like to push the big red button,’ Sonny said to Corey.

‘When the time comes, fool,
my
hand’s gonna be slamming the big red button,’ Corey replied.

Sonny shook his head and shifted in his chair. ‘Time come, me race you.’

‘You don’t stand a chance, cuz,’ Corey said, licking his lips.

The big red button was Lockdown, Armageddon, Point Zero, the End of the World. They all sounded like Hollywood films to Sonny. A security breach could mean one of only two things: an escape attempt or, since 2001, a terrorist attack.

The big red button sat high on the wall of the security room behind a thin film of safety glass and connected straight to the local police station. Once the glass was broken and the button pressed, an emergency alarm sounded throughout the hospital. All staff had been drilled in procedures should Sonny’s big hand ever make contact with that red shiny button. All interior and exterior gates and doors would automatically shut. A full police complement would be onsite in seven minutes.

In Sonny’s nineteen years at Roehampton, he had never slammed his palm down on that red button. ‘Me telling you, even if it never happen, when I retire, me still be dreaming ’bout it.’

‘Yo cuz,’ Corey said as Darren came into the room.

‘No nightmares from what happened with Linda I hope?’ Sonny asked.

Darren shook his head.

‘I’m glad to hear it, Darren, really glad to hear it.’

There was a companionable silence as all three of them watched the moving images of the car park on the monitors.

‘So many people drive here,’ Darren said, looking at the rows and rows of vehicles.

‘People like to take the easiest option,’ Sonny replied.

Corey shook his head. ‘People take the stylish option.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘That’s the governor’s Audi.’

‘The man has a nice set of wheels,’ Sonny agreed.

Darren caught Corey looking slyly at Sonny. ‘We could do his car.’

Sonny made a scoffing noise.

‘What are you doing?’ Darren asked, intrigued. He watched the cameras trained on the car park, saw Berenice from the kitchens step out of a white Ford Transit van.

Sonny leaned back, his face full of disapproval. ‘Corey here has a way of finding out things about people that they would prefer to keep private. He’s part of the internet generation, he thinks privacy is outdated.’

‘How so?’

‘Got a cuz at the DVLA.’ Corey looked proud.

‘Jesus, you guys are bored,’ Darren said.

Sonny took exception. ‘I’m never bored. Got my eye on the cameras twenty-four seven.’

‘You could always phone up about my pushbike.’

Sonny and Darren laughed at Corey’s expense, but as Darren looked at the car park on the monitors he remembered that John Sears always drove here to meet Olivia. Could Corey help him find out more about him? Corey was glaring at Darren, miffed that he had been the butt of their joke. Darren realised he had made a mistake laughing at Corey; he had alienated him at just the moment he wanted to ask him for a big favour.

‘I need a leak.’ Sonny got up from his seat, stretched and headed out of the room and down the corridor.

Asking Corey to check the licence plate of a car that parked where he could potentially see it on the cameras was risky, but it was a risk Darren was prepared to take. He wouldn’t be at Roehampton for much longer anyway.

‘What you want, bro?’ Corey was staring at him aggressively.

‘Can you find the details of a licence plate I give you?’

Corey’s lip curled in distaste. ‘Why would I do that for you?’

Why indeed. Darren had to conjure something that Corey cared about, something that would outrage him enough that he would go out of his way to help him. ‘It’s not for me. It’s for my mum.’ Corey didn’t respond. ‘Some toerag dented her car, swore at her, gave her the finger, then drove away. She got the licence plate but she’s hopeless with cars, hasn’t got a clue what make or model it was. Without that info the DVLA won’t help and the insurance people are washing their hands of the whole thing and she’s out of pocket. I want his name and address.’

Corey sat very still for a long moment, his face stony. Darren’s heart sank. He wasn’t going to buy it. Corey liked wielding power; being asked for favours by someone who he didn’t respect didn’t interest him. ‘Gotta get my mum’s back, one way or another, especially when she’s ill.’

Corey raised an eyebrow. ‘You think you gotta get your mum’s back.’

‘Too right. It’s a son’s job, look after your mum. One way or another, gotta put it right.’ At that moment Darren felt like crying as he thought about her and how she was suffering.

Corey began to nod, impressed. ‘You don’t mess, do you?’

Darren shook his head. ‘No. This is the plate, write it down.’

Darren could hear Sonny singing as he made his way back from the toilet. Corey picked up a pen, slowly pulled a scrap of paper towards him. Darren was desperate for him to hurry up. He read out the licence plate of John Sears’ car just before Sonny came back into the room.

Corey became defensive with his boss there. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’m not promising anything.’ He turned away and tuned back in to his job.

‘Yeah, OK,’ Darren said, and left the room to continue cleaning. He moved down the corridor with the hoover and passed Helen’s door, intending to enter the next office, but Helen was there.

‘Come in, Darren.’

‘I can come back later, I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘No no, now is fine.’ She got up and pushed her chair back. He ran the vacuum cleaner quickly under the desk and round the outer edges.

‘Close the door.’

‘What?’

‘Close the door.’

‘The cord on the hoover …’

‘Just do it.’

She went over to the venetian blinds that covered the bank of windows next to the door and slowly tilted them closed.

He shut the door.

She sat on the edge of her desk, her skirt riding high up her thighs as she crossed her legs. ‘I’ve missed you, Darren.’

‘Helen, I don’t think this is a good idea. This is where you work, it’s not—’

‘Let’s do it, Darren, NOW.’

There was a look in her eyes that wasn’t to be ignored. He thought helplessly about Chloe, about how he wanted to have sex with her, not Helen. His evening with Helen in the pub seemed like a lifetime ago. He had already moved on.

‘I don’t have all day.’ She had got off the table and was pulling her black pants off. He could see the pale flesh at the top of her hold-ups under her skirt. ‘Fuck me like you mean it.’

Darren felt himself withering away under his uniform. No one liked to be trapped, and he was beginning to see how fruitless his attempts at using her to get to Olivia had been. She wouldn’t take rejection well.

She pulled him to her and began to kiss him. ‘I put these shoes on hoping I’d see you today. They’re killing me.’

She was grinding against him, getting frustrated. ‘Come on, use the danger, Darren. I want this to be as hard as your pecs.’ She unzipped his trousers, grabbed his dick and held it tight before sliding to her knees.

Darren felt fear and pleasure rolled into one – this brief moment of release could well be the highlight of a tortuous eight-hour cleaning shift, or it could be the end of all his efforts to find Carly if someone opened the door. Helen began to suck and his knees buckled from the sensation. His hands touched the keyboard on the desk behind Helen and the screen jumped to life.