V for Violet (17 page)

Saturday morning and Joseph is getting ready to leave the house. He’s crouched over in his chair tying up his boot laces. Mum’s out back hanging up the washing and Dad’s in the shop giving the fryers a deep clean. I stand in the doorway and watch as Joseph stands up and shakes down the legs of his jeans. Then he shrugs himself into his donkey jacket and checks through his pockets.

I didn’t think he knew I was watching him, until he calls over his shoulder as he’s walking out the back door. ‘See you later, Violet. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

I scowl at his back. What exactly wouldn’t you do, Joseph? I want to shout at him. What have you done already? What the hell are you hiding?

I wait a couple of minutes before I follow him. Outside the air is damp and the sky is loaded with fat grey clouds. Joseph has made it to the corner of the street. He’s walking fast with his head down and collar up. He’s heading towards the High Street. My blood’s pumping in my throat. It should be easy for me to hide in the Saturday morning crowds. He turns into the newsagent’s, so I hover around outside the greengrocer’s, picking up apples and checking them for bruises. When he comes back outside, he takes a cigarette from a fresh packet and cups his hands around a match to light it. He carries on walking and as I follow close behind I taste the remains of the smoke that he’s blown from his mouth.

It’s only when he stops by the main road and checks the traffic that I realise, with a sickening thud to my stomach, where he’s going. I lag behind and wait for him to cross the road, then I watch the broad sway of his back as he walks through the entrance to Battersea Park.

I hurry across the road. But with every step I take the sicker I feel. Despite the roar of traffic and the distant shouts and chatter of Saturday-morning shoppers, a crashing silence fills my ears. It pounds in my head and I have to stop for a minute and rest my hands on my knees and take a few deep breaths. I look into the entrance of the park and my skin crawls. The trees are like sinister giants, their branches like gnarled fingers clawing at the air. The ground is covered in a mulch of rotted leaves and I imagine I can already smell the sweet smell of death rising from the ground. I feel cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. I don’t want to go in there. It would be like jumping into Jackie’s grave.

But I’ve got no choice. Joseph’s in there. So I need to be in there too.

I clench my fists, grit my teeth and within a few steps I’m in the park and the clammy green air is settling on my skin. There’s a figure to the left of me in the distance, walking on the pathway that leads to the funfair. I recognise the sway of his shoulders. I pad along the path after him, slowly and stealthily. I’m the hunter now. A slinky panther stalking its prey.

Joseph’s way ahead now. But it doesn’t matter. I probably know the park better than he does, so there’s no fear of losing him. What good reason could he have to come here, of all places? Is he meeting someone? Is he meeting Arabella? Will I get to see the face of his mysterious French lover?

Joseph walks further and further away from the path and I follow him, keeping as far back as I dare. At least the ground is wet and the leaves are just squishing softly under my feet instead of crackling loudly like screwed-up newspapers. Suddenly, I see it through the trees, the familiar and looming shape of the pump house. It looks more haunted than ever. I stop behind the last of the trees and peer out from behind its trunk. The ground around the building is trampled flat and there’s a length of plastic tape, blue and white striped, caught up in the ivy that clings to the crumbling walls. I shiver. I see the ghosts of a dozen policemen, searching the ground for clues and I see stretchers, carrying the covered bodies of Joanne Thomas and Pamela Bennett, being loaded on to a waiting ambulance.

Joseph walks the length of the pump house wall, then he stops and runs his hands over the bricks like he’s searching for something. But then his hands drop to his sides and it looks like he’s about to turn around. I quickly dive behind the tree. I hold my breath and wait. I strain my ears for the sound of footsteps. But there’s nothing. Just the faint smell of cigarette smoke. The wind creeps through the branches above me and a couple of leaves fall silently at my feet. I wait. The minutes pass, and I wait some more. I can’t bear it, so with my heart pounding in my throat, I peer around the tree again.

He’s still there. But he’s leaning against the wall of the pump house now, staring up at the sky. I follow his stare, but all I can see between the swollen clouds is a patch of blue sky and the faint remains of an aeroplane trail. I look back at him and he’s checking his watch. He seems to sigh, then he hunches over, puts his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away. I watch him for a few seconds. He drags his feet along the ground like a disappointed kid, like he was expecting to find something, and didn’t.

I watch until he reaches the path on the north side of the pump house, then I quickly run to where he was standing. I run my eyes over the wall, searching the brickwork. I brush my fingers over the dusty surface, but there’s nothing except cracks filled with spiderwebs, loose flakes of brick and the creeping stems of ivy. My hands are shaking and I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. But I know I have to check inside the pump house. What if …? What if Arabella is inside there? As I walk around to the front of the building a sudden breeze lifts the back of my hair and I feel the blood crawling through my veins. I almost turn away. But I think of Joanne and Pamela and Jackie and how alone they must have felt and it’s like invisible hands are pushing me. And then I’m there, in front of the tall wooden doors. Someone has nailed batons across the width of both doors and there’s a large shiny padlock hanging from the lock. I feel dizzy with relief. The police aren’t taking any chances.

I look around. Joseph’s almost out of sight now. He’s walking fast, back towards the park entrance. I wait for a minute and try to make sense of what I’ve just seen. What the hell was that all about? What was he looking for? Who was he waiting for? I try to imagine calling up Detective Inspector Gordon and telling him that because of a few letters written in French and because my brother visited Battersea Park and because I know he lied about where he was on the night Jackie was killed and because of a terrible
feeling
that I have – Joseph White is the man they are looking for.

They’d think I was crazy. They’d think I was off my rocker. They’d think I was just the jealous little sister, sent as mad as a hatter by the death of her best friend. And maybe they’d be right. Maybe I am crazy?

I look up in a panic. He’s out of sight. I’ve let him get too far ahead. I start to run. My feet squelch into the wet mix of grass and leaves as I pound towards the park’s entrance. He definitely went this way, but I still can’t see him. I run faster. My breath is coming quickly, in hot spurts. I cut across the lawns, half expecting to hear Mr Harper yelling at me to keep off the grass. But I’m close now. The trees are thinning out and I catch glimpses of rooftops on the High Street.

Then I see Joseph, the back of him, anyway. He’s only yards away, but he’s out on the High Street before me and just as I think he’s going to turn around and see me, all red-faced and breathless, he breaks into a jog and jumps onto a double decker that looks like it’s about to pull away from the bus stop. I don’t know how I do it, but suddenly I’m flying after the bus with my arm stretched out, my fingers touch the cold metal pole at the entrance, then I’m gripping it hard and pulling myself up on to the platform and I think my chest is actually going to burst open as the conductor shoos me away down the bus to take a seat.

Joseph’s not here. He must have climbed up to the top deck while I was jumping on to the bus. People are staring at me like I’m a freak or something and I realise I must look all wild-eyed and panicked. I quickly sit down, next to a teenage boy with curly copper hair and long arms like a monkey that are folded around a rucksack on his lap.

‘Where’s this bus going?’ I ask him.

He looks at me sideways and clutches his rucksack closer to his chest. ‘Oxford Circus,’ he says. He moves away from me slightly and turns to stare out of the window.

The conductor stands in front of me and rattles his machine. ‘Oxford Circus, please,’ I say. Joseph might get off before then, but at least I’ve paid for the whole journey. I keep my eyes on the stairs as the bus bounces along the road. He doesn’t get off at the first stop. Nor the next nor the next. He must be going up West, to the very end of the line.

Eventually, the bus judders to a halt at Oxford Circus and everyone shuffles along to the exit. I keep to the back of the queue, my eyes still fixed on the stairs. A woman in a black mac and paisley headscarf comes down first, then two small boys shoving each other and giggling. A man in a suit comes next and then a couple wearing matching suede coats. I’m beginning to think I imagined Joseph getting on this bus. I’m beginning to think I followed a ghost.

But then there’s a pair of black boots clumping down the stairs and a pair of blue denim legs and my heart’s thumping ten to the dozen as I follow him off the bus and into the crowds of Oxford Street.

He walks fast and with purpose. He’s not here to browse the shops, that’s for sure. I follow him past Woolworths and Littlewoods and K Shoes. There’s a new record shop called HMV. I peer through the door as I hurry past. It’s packed with girls and fellas, rifling through stacks of glossy albums or with headphones clamped to their heads listening to their favourite sounds. I should be doing that, I think. I should be spending my Saturdays doing all the fun things that young people are supposed to do, not following my brother to God knows where.

Suddenly, Joseph turns down a road. I look up at the street sign. Berwick Street. There’s a busy market up ahead, but before we get to it, he turns down another street, then another and another. I notice how different everyone looks here. The fellas are more like women, with long hair, hipster trousers, and fitted shirts with crisp collars and no ties. It smells different too; of spice and perfume and danger. There’s a boy pushing a barrow loaded with cans of film. There’s coffee bars, jazz bars, record stores and funny little blacked-out shops. There’s narrow doorways everywhere and all of them seem to have a girl sitting on the steps or leaning against the door. They’re all dressed up to the nines, even though it’s not even lunchtime yet. We walk past one door, painted shiny black, and underneath the door knocker is a sign that says,
This is not a brothel. There are no prostitutes at this address.

And suddenly, I know where we are. And I know why my tummy’s been flipping with a weird excitement, and it’s not just because I think my brother might be a killer.

I’m in Soho. Even the name sounds hot and wicked. Everyone knows about Soho. It’s where dirty men go to have sex with prostitutes. It’s a bad place; a filthy place, as Mum would say. And now I know why Joseph’s come here.

He turns down another street. Dean Street. His hands are thrust deep in his pockets and he’s zipping along at a pace. I’m not worried that he’ll catch me following him. He’s too intent on getting to wherever it is he’s going. Any minute now, I expect him to turn into one of the doorways and to disappear inside with one of the prostitutes. How will I warn her about what he might do? How can I stop the very worst thing from happening again?

Across from us, on the corner, is a pub. The doors are painted black and the windows have those little diamond-shaped window panes, like they had back in Tudor times. The name, The Golden Lion, is painted in big gold swirly letters on a sign that stretches the length of the wall. Next door to the pub is another doorway with a girl who looks no older than me, standing there, in a skirt up to her bum and with boobs that would make Dad’s eyes water. Joseph crosses the road. And it looks like the girl has seen him. She starts to smile and push her boobs out even further. That’s where he’s heading. I just know it.

I’m about to shout out. Anything. Something.

But then, Joseph simply opens the door of The Golden Lion and disappears inside. And I’m left on the pavement with my mouth wide open and my brain scrambling to figure out why he’s come all this way just for a pint in a pub.

‘Oi! Violet!’

I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn around and my heart judders. It’s Beau. He’s walking towards me with a bag in his hand and a stupid smile on his face. ‘So …’ he says. ‘This is what you get up to in your spare time, is it? Hanging around street corners. Knew you were a bad girl really.’

I know he’s joking, but I can feel a hotness spreading across my face in a mixture of confusion and shame. Joseph is in the pub across the road and Beau is here. Why is he here too, in a place like this?

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘No need to blush. I was only messing around.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask quickly, my voice shaking. ‘Have you been following me?’

He laughs. ‘Yeah, course I have. I make a habit of following girls around, didn’t you know?’

When I don’t crack a smile, he shoves me playfully on the shoulder.

‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. He holds up his bag. ‘Been to the Soho Record Centre, haven’t I? Got the new Chuck Berry. Look.’ He opens the bag to show me, but I don’t move. He closes the bag and stares at me for a minute. Then he frowns. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Sorry I haven’t been around for a while, but I thought you might need some space after what happened to your friend and that.’ He pauses. ‘Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you, though.’

I want to tell him I missed him too. I want to ask him if he knew Jackie, and I want him to tell me that, no, of course he didn’t. I want to totally trust him. I want to tell him that every bit of me wants to be sitting on the back of his motorcycle with my arms tight around his waist. I can almost feel the wind in my face as I imagine him racing through the streets, and I can almost taste the bitterness of the coffee that he would buy me on Chelsea Bridge. But I can’t speak. It’s all too much. Joseph in the pub across the road, and Beau standing here right next to me.