The Four Last Things Page 29

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘It’s not possible. You have to stay here.’

  He could not risk being seen with her in the street. She stared at him, her lip quivering, but said nothing. She did not ask for reasons. She heard the finality in his voice and accepted it. He stood up and took off his coat.

  ‘You must stay in the shed while I’m gone.’ He made her sit down and wrapped the coat around her.

  ‘And them.’ Lucy held up Jimmy and Mrs Wump.

  Eddie tucked an arm of the coat around the two toys. Lucy lifted them both to her face, pushed two fingers into her mouth and shut her eyes. He picked up Carla’s purse; the phone numbers were there, and also change and even a phone card. ‘I won’t be long – I promise.’ He bent down and kissed the top of her head.

  He left her, small and forlorn, in the shed. His problems began immediately. If he went back through the hole in the fence, there was a danger that Angel might have returned and he would walk into a trap. In any case, he could not use the phone in the house. The police would probably be able to trace the call. The wisest course would be to find another way out of Carver’s and use a public telephone box.

  He moved slowly westwards, keeping the fences of the Rosington Road gardens on his left. It would have been difficult at the best of times. The further into the site, the more overgrown it became. Nature had partly masked the hazards of brick, concrete and rusting iron. Brambles slashed at his clothes and tore the skin on the back of his hands. He missed his coat. It began to rain, fine drops of moisture which drifted like powder from the dense grey sky. As he walked, he searched in vain for a gap in the fence on the left.

  After what seemed like hours he stumbled on the main gates, which were in the south-west corner of the site. They were surprisingly narrow – two sheets of metal mounted on a cast-iron frame, surmounted by rows and rows of barbed wire. On either side were brick pillars topped with spikes. There was a wicket in the left-hand leaf of the gates, secured by bolts and a large padlock.

  Eddie wondered what to do. Nowadays there was no other way into Carver’s. They had torn up the railway tracks inside the works and fenced off the lines to the north. The place was like a fortress or a prison. He ran his eyes along the western boundary of the site: this was a high brick wall, similar to the one that divided the eastern side of the site from the council flats but in less good condition. It might be possible to climb it. But on the other side was a terrace of shops on Bishop’s Road. Presumably there would be yards behind the shops. Even if he managed to get over the wall, he would then have the problem of getting from a yard to the road.

  His eyes on the top of the wall, he stumbled on a loose brick and almost fell. His head swimming, he bent down and worked the brick out of the mud into which it was impacted. There was a colony of woodlice underneath. His skin crawled. He dropped the brick and most of the woodlice clinging to it fell off. He scraped the remainder away with a stick. Perhaps brute force was the answer.

  Eddie carried the brick carefully towards the gates. It felt cold, hard and heavy, and its jagged edges hurt the skin of his hands.

  He stopped beside the wicket. If there was no one on the other side, it might be all right. The sound of banging during the day was not in itself suspicious. He raised the brick in both hands and brought it down on the padlock. There was a dull clang. The brick twisted painfully out of his hands and fell to the ground. Just in time, he jumped backwards before it dropped on his feet. Flecks of blood oozed from a graze on the side of his left thumb. The padlock was hardly marked.

  Steeling himself against the pain, Eddie picked up the brick and tried again, this time more cautiously. The brick did not fall. Once again, the padlock was undamaged. But the rusting staple to which it was attached was now bent at a slight angle. He hit the padlock again and again, building up to a rhythm. Air laboured in and out of his lungs and the pain seared his hands like flames.

  Finally the staple gave way. The padlock fell to the ground; apart from a few scratches, it showed no signs of the ordeal to which it had been subjected. Eddie opened the hasp and then worked the bolts to and fro until they too moved back. He lifted the latch and the wicket gate opened.

  He stepped warily into the alley beyond, half-expecting to find a squad of policemen waiting for him. He closed the wicket behind him and walked away. Both his hands were bleeding now so he stuffed them in his pockets. Brick walls reared up on either side – to the right was the yard belonging to the end shop of the terrace in Bishop’s Road; and to the left was the playground of the infants’ school on the corner of Rosington Road and Bishop’s Road.

  The mouth of the alley was on Bishop’s Road. Eddie hesitated on the corner, feeling extraordinarily conspicuous. The pavement was crowded. Cars, vans and lorries rumbled up and down the road. He feared that everyone was looking at him.

  He took a deep breath and began to hurry along the pavement after the bus. Ahead of him the road rose towards the railway bridge. There were two public telephone boxes beside the bridge. As he walked, Eddie kept his face turned towards the windows of the shops in case Angel passed by in the van. The cold made his eyes water.

  At last he reached the telephone boxes. One was in use but the other was empty. He hurried inside, relieved to have some shelter from the wind, relieved not to be exposed to the curious eyes on the street. The box took phone cards, so he fed Carla’s into the slot. He dialled the Hercules Road number first.

  The phone was answered on the second ring. ‘Hello.’

  Eddie said nothing. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think that the voice belonged to Sally Appleyard: it sounded higher-pitched.

  ‘Hello. Who’s speaking, please?’

  It definitely wasn’t Sally’s. There was a hint of a Welsh accent. He put the phone down hastily. A friend? A police officer? He tapped in the Kensal Vale number.

  ‘St George’s Vicarage. Derek Cutter speaking.’

  Once again, Eddie broke the connection. He felt foolish. Of course Lucy’s mother wouldn’t be at work at a time like this. He wanted to cry. Why were they making it so hard for him to help Lucy? Why was it so difficult to do a kind action? If there were a God, you would think he’d make it easy to be good.

  Slowly he pushed the buttons for the mobile’s number. While it was ringing, he allowed himself to think for the first time what would happen if he could not get through to Sally Appleyard. The problems multiplied. Then the phone was answered.

  ‘Appleyard.’

  Michael Appleyard, not his wife. Eddie said, ‘Is Sally there?’ Panic made his voice sound even higher-pitched than usual. ‘I want to speak to her.’

  ‘I can take a message. Who is this?’

  Suddenly the future seemed inevitable: it swept down on Eddie like a tidal wave. ‘I know where Lucy is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s all a mistake,’ Eddie heard himself saying. ‘Lucy mustn’t be hurt.’

  ‘Why should I believe you? How do I know this isn’t just a hoax?’

  The injustice took Eddie’s breath away for a moment. He was only trying to help. ‘She’s wearing the dark-green quilted coat she was wearing at Carla’s. I found this number in Carla’s purse.’ His voice sounded petulant. ‘Now do you believe me?’

  ‘I believe you. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine, I promise.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Ten minutes ago? Fifteen? I left her playing with a conjuring set.’

  There was a sound on the other end of the line which at first Eddie couldn’t identify; a second later, he wondered if it might have been a sob.

  ‘You can come and get her,’ Eddie said. ‘But don’t tell the police. Don’t bring them. Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘If you do,’ Eddie said as menacingly as he could manage, ‘you’ll regret it. Lucy will regret it. No police. Not if you want to see her alive.’

  ‘All right. But where is she?’
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br />   ‘Do you know Bishop’s Road in Kentish Town?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘There’s a school just south of the railway. Beside the school, there’s a lane leading to an old engineering works. It’s called Carver’s. She’s in there.’

  With a surge of optimism, Eddie slung the handset back on its rest. I’ve done it. Everything’s going to be all right. The phone card emerged like a tongue from its slot. As he pulled it out he noticed that it was smeared with his blood. Whose blood on the moussaka packet? He would walk down to the bus stop, climb on the next bus and let other people sort out the mess that Angel had made. He was sorry that he would never see Lucy again, but this way was best for everyone.

  He pushed open the door of the telephone box. The cold air hit him. With it came the realization that he had miscalculated.

  Eddie ran all the way back to Carver’s. As he ducked into the mouth of the alley, Mr Reynolds’s van passed him, signalling left for the turning beyond the school into Rosington Road.

  He didn’t see me. Please God he didn’t see me.

  Eddie reached Carver’s gates. Relief washed over him as he pulled the wicket closed behind him. Carver’s felt safe. He took a few steps towards the shed and then stopped. He leant against the fence, bent over and retched unproductively. The stitch dug deep into his side. He was panting so hard that for a moment he thought his heart would pack up, just as his mother’s had. The nausea came in waves. His head hurt. Entwined with the physical distress was the urgency of panic. He felt his forehead: so hot you could cook an egg on it.

  He picked his way through the wilderness towards the shed. He hadn’t been thinking straight. He couldn’t walk away from Lucy and leave her in Carver’s: not without the brown bag, not with Lucy just a few yards from the fence leading to 29 Rosington Road, not without his money.

  With luck there should be enough time to do what he needed to do before Michael Appleyard arrived. Eddie planned to take Lucy and the bag away from the shed and lead her by a roundabout route to the gates. He would leave her there, just inside, with Jimmy and the rest of her things. She would come to no harm: her father would soon reach her. There was, of course, the risk that Lucy would be able to lead the police to the back garden of Rosington Road. It was a risk that had to be run. The more he confused her about the geography of Carver’s, the safer he would be. In any case, if the worst came to the worst, and the police raided 29 Rosington Road, then they would find Angel there, Angel and the contents of her freezer. He would be far away. Once he was better, once his temperature was normal and he had regained his strength – that would be the time to consider what to do for the best.

  The journey back seemed shorter than the journey out had been. Eddie saw the silhouette of the shed looming. He glanced upwards, and for a moment he thought he saw movement on the balcony of the Reynoldses’ flat. I’m imagining things. That was the trouble with a fever: the boundary between the world within your head and the world outside was not as effective as usual; it was still there, but it was porous. An event inside could become an event outside, and vice versa. Eddie tripped over a root and fell flat on his face. Must concentrate. Must concentrate.

  Eddie picked himself up and hurried on. He was dimly aware that his clothes were wet and muddy. He wanted someone to look after him. Into his mind flashed a picture: someone large, kind and faceless urging him into a warm bath, making him a drink, slipping a hot-water bottle into a bed with Mrs Wump on the pillow.

  The shed was very close now. Eddie heard a high-pitched wail. For an instant, he thought the wail was inside his mind – a sound of disappointment, because the bath, the hot-water bottle and the bed weren’t real after all.

  Lucy was crying. Eddie put on a spurt of speed. Tripping over tree roots, skidding in the mud, he flung himself towards the shed. The crying continued. The grief of children was unconditional, fuelled by the implicit belief that it would last for ever; for a child, grief was not grief unless it was eternal.

  He stopped in the doorway of the shed. Lucy was sitting where he had left her, clutching herself, hunched over the makeshift table. Her tears fell on the conjuring set. The vase had fallen to the floor. Her face was white, tinged with green. It seemed rounder than usual, the features less well-formed, the eyes smaller. That was another effect of grief on children: it made them a little less human.

  ‘Lucy, darling.’

  He picked her up, sat down on the other cement tin and held her on his lap. Her arms clung to his neck. She rammed her face painfully against his cheek. The sobbing continued, violent surges of emotion that rippled through her whole body. He patted her back and mumbled endearments.

  Gradually the sobbing grew quieter. As the crying diminished, Lucy went through a stage of making mewing noises like a kitten. Then the sounds turned to words.

  ‘Mummy. I want Mummy. Daddy.’

  After a while, Eddie said, ‘I’ve just talked to your daddy on the phone. He’s –’

  ‘You left me alone.’ Lucy let out another wail. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’

  ‘Of course I was coming back.’

  ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’ He had spoken without thinking. Of course he would have to leave her. ‘Your daddy’s coming to collect you. He’ll take you home to Mummy.’

  ‘Don’t leave me.’ Lucy seemed not to have understood what he had said – either that or she had automatically dismissed it as meaningless. ‘I’m cold.’

  Still holding her, Eddie leant forward and picked up his coat, which had fallen on the floor. With his free hand he wrapped it clumsily round her shoulders. Automatically he rocked her to and fro, to and fro. Lucy’s breath was warm on his cheek.

  ‘I must go.’ Eddie felt the arms tighten round his neck. ‘We must go.’

  Lucy shook her head violently. ‘Want a drink.’

  Eddie leant down and picked up the can of Coca-Cola from the floor. Judging by the weight, it was well over half-full. He handed it to her. Leaving one arm round his neck, she pulled away from him a little. She drank greedily, her eyes glancing at him every few seconds, as if she feared he might try to take the can away. He stroked her back.

  Time trickled away. Eddie’s head hurt. Part of his mind rose above the pain and the fear and surveyed his situation from a lordly elevation. Every moment that passed increased the risk he was running. But how could he leave Lucy before she was ready? She needed him. What would it be like if the worst happened and the police arrested him and he was eventually sent to jail? He knew that prisons were foul and overcrowded, and that sex offenders were traditionally picked on by the other prisoners; and that those whose offences had involved children were the most hated of all and were subjected to unimaginable brutalities.

  ‘Eddie?’ Lucy held out the can to him. ‘There’s some for you.’

  He disliked Coca-Cola but on impulse he nodded and took the can from her. She rewarded him with a smile. For an instant the roles were reversed: she was looking after him. He drank, and the fizzy liquid ran down his throat and refreshed him unexpectedly. He lowered the can from his lips.

  ‘Drink,’ Lucy commanded. ‘For you.’

  He smiled at her and obeyed. When the can was empty, he rested it against his cheek and the cool of the metal soothed him. Lucy slithered off his knee and picked up the wand from the conjuring set.

  ‘Let’s do more magic.’

  Eddie stood up suddenly. The dizziness returned. He leant against the wall to support himself. ‘There’s no time. We must go.’

  ‘To Daddy?’

  Eddie nodded. He bent down and pushed their belongings into the bag.

  ‘And Mummy?’

  ‘Yes.’ He straightened up, his head swimming, with the bag in one hand. ‘Come on.’

  Lucy refused to be parted from Jimmy, Mrs Wump and the conjuring set. She clasped them in her arms and allowed him to push her gently towards the doorway. But as she reached it, she gave a
whimper. Instantly she backed away. Eddie heard footsteps among the dead leaves. A branch cracked. Then he saw what she had seen.

  ‘No,’ Lucy whispered, retreating to the corner of the shed furthest from the door. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘We’ll go in a minute,’ Eddie said to her. ‘See if you can find the magic wand and learn another trick.’

  He stood in the doorway. Angel had stopped just outside the shed. She was wearing her long white raincoat with the hood. Her lips were drawn back and her face was lined and old.

  ‘And where are you thinking of going?’ she asked, her voice soft.

  ‘I – I’m taking Lucy away.’ The words came out in a trembling whisper. ‘She’s going home.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Eddie stared at Angel, desperately wishing to do as she wanted. ‘She’s going home. No one need know.’

  ‘About what?’

  Eddie gestured towards the house. ‘About all this.’

  ‘You’re a fool. Mr Reynolds saw you in Bishop’s Road. He said you were coming out of a phone box. Who were you phoning?’

  Eddie felt sweat break out all over his body. ‘No one.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. If you didn’t phone from the house, it means you didn’t want the call traced. So you were phoning the police.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Angel turned her body slightly. The full skirt of her raincoat had concealed her right hand. Now Eddie saw not only the hand but what it was holding: the hatchet, the one that his mother had used on Stanley’s last dolls’ house. He had not seen it for years. Most of the blade was dull and flecked with rust, as it had been before. But not the cutting edge. This was now a streak of silver. He thought of the joints of meat in the freezer and of the three lives, cut into pieces, wrecked beyond repair like the dolls’ house.

  Behind him, Eddie heard Lucy murmur, ‘Abracadabra. Now you’re a prince.’

  ‘What have you told them?’ Angel said, swinging the hatchet to and fro.