Suddenly it occurred to me that Thomas was unlikely to be at home at this time anyway. Wouldn’t he be working at Harry Pool’s? Perhaps Thomas’s student friend would be in on his own. If he could confirm that Thomas was living there, I could report back to Stuart Howdon and leave the friendship thing until I felt better prepared.
This time someone was in. From upstairs came the thud of a bass line, music I didn’t recognize. I pushed the bell and heard it ring faintly above the sound. Still there was no response.
The door of the next house opened and a girl looked out. She was fourteen or fifteen, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt which I took to be school uniform. Beneath the white shirt was the neat dome of a pregnancy. Otherwise she had the figure of a child – very slight and boyish. Her feet were bare and she stood in her own hall and peered round the door at me.
‘They won’t hear,’ she said. ‘They never do.’
‘Are they both in?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Lizzie Bartholomew.’ This time I didn’t show my pass.
‘From the social?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘What, then?’
I only hesitated for a second. ‘Housing officer from the university. I have to check it’s a reasonable place for students to live.’
I know. Unlikely. But the girl bought it anyway. Or she was looking for an excuse not to go straight back to school. ‘Course it is. They’ve done it all out. It’s better than the other houses in the street. Better than in here.’ Her voice was wistful.
‘All the same…’
‘I don’t know who’s in,’ she said. ‘I’ve just come back from the doctor’s. I got caught short on the way back to school. You never stop pissing, do you, when you’re pregnant?’
I banged on the door again to show I was serious about getting in.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘There’s a key. I’ll show you.’ She slipped her feet into black boat-like shoes with big square heels and joined me on the pavement. On the front sill of number 16 was a wooden window-box. There were three clay pots inside. The plants were dead; the student obviously wasn’t into gardening. The girl took one of the pots, knocked out the plant and inside there was a key. She tipped it into her hand, wiped the earth from it on her trousers and gave it to me. I expected her to go home then, or to make her way back to school, but she stood beside me, curious, proprietorial.
‘Go on, then,’ she said.
But when I put in the key it wouldn’t turn. I pressed the handle and the door opened. It was already unlocked.
‘They’re daft, those two,’ the girl said. ‘I’ve told them they should be careful. They’ll get burgled. They’ve got no idea what it’s like round here.’
She pushed ahead of me and charged up the stairs. I shut the door behind me. The music was louder inside. Much, much louder. And weirder, pierced by a sudden shrill high tone. Then the music stopped and the piercing screech continued. It was the girl wailing. The noise came from somewhere in the back of her throat. That was what made it so high-pitched. It must really have hurt her to make it. And even when I was standing right behind her she wouldn’t stop.
She stood in the doorway of a bedroom. I pushed her out of the way and suddenly I’d walked into my own nightmare. It was like reality and flashback had collided with the violence of a nuclear explosion. The result was blood. It was everywhere. Glossy and very red against the monochrome decoration, spreading out from the grey figure curled on the floor.
But where was the knife? In my dream there was always a knife. I scanned the scene but I couldn’t see it. It certainly wasn’t centre-stage, where I’d expected. Then the girl’s screaming got to me. I took her by the shoulders and shook her, forgetting about the baby she was carrying, just wanting the noise to stop. It was like a drill inside my head. It was hurting me, like all that red was hurting my eyes. There was silence. She turned and stared at me, her mouth still open. I touched her shoulders again, this time an apology, a clumsy attempt to comfort.
‘Is there a phone in your house?’ I demanded.
She nodded, still unable to speak.
‘Phone the police. Not from here. From your house. Can you do that?’
She nodded again.
She was halfway down the stairs when I called after her. ‘Who is it? Which one is it?’
Her voice was a croaky whisper, as if she’d regained her powers of speech at last after a lifetime’s silence. ‘Tommy Mariner.’
Of course, I’d known all along that it was Thomas. It was as if I’d been expecting it. As if I’d seen it before in a vision. Since I’d stabbed that boy in Blyth, I’d been waiting for it to happen again.
I began to sob. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘So, so sorry.’ I wasn’t talking to Thomas but to Philip.
Chapter Fourteen
So, I was back in the same room. High walls painted that thick cream gloss that you only ever find in institutions. A high window, slit horizontally like a post box in a door. A graffiti-covered table bolted to the floor, and on the table a fluted foil container which they used as an ashtray but which might once have held a mince pie. It looked as if it had been there since Christmas. Since the last time. Four chairs, moulded plastic. The same policeman asking the questions, and he made the connection too.
‘Another stabbing, Miss Bartholomew.’
He spoke sadly. It was as if I’d let him down. A woman sat beside him. She was only a bit older than me, thin-lipped with blotchy skin. She didn’t speak, didn’t even move. The fourth chair was empty.
The man’s name was Farrier. He was large, a middle-aged schoolboy with a beer belly, curly hair and round specs. Away from work I could imagine he’d be jolly, the life and soul of any party. He wasn’t fit and he wasn’t hungry. He was decent. I’d realized that the first time. The woman was a sergeant called Miles.
‘I didn’t stab Thomas Mariner,’ I said quickly.
He paused. ‘But would you know if you had? Really? That’s what we have to decide.’
There was a moment of panic when I wondered if he was right. I dredged back through my memory for a snapshot picture of Lizzie Bartholomew with her arm raised, a knife in her hand. There was nothing. And I hadn’t seen Thomas before I found his body. I was certain I hadn’t killed him. Almost.
‘There was no knife,’ I said quickly.
‘Not by the time we got there, certainly.’
‘I remembered stabbing the lad in Blyth.’
‘You did,’ he agreed. ‘But it would have been hard not to. All those people pulling you off, the noise, the fuss. Do you remember it now? Properly? Everything that led up to it?’
I shut my eyes and lived through it again.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said as I opened my eyes. ‘I do remember it properly. Everything. Not just stabbing him, but everything that led up to it. And I remember perfectly everything that happened today.’
I hoped he’d take me through it then, so I could get it over with. I could make a statement and get back to Jess. If they’d told her I was here, she’d be waiting outside. As she would if I was one of her junkies being bailed to her care. But Farrier seemed in no hurry to come to that.
‘Remind me what happened in court that time. After you stuck the scissors in that lad from Blyth,’ he said. He would know already, of course. Even if he couldn’t remember, he’d have looked it up.
‘Six months’ probation,’ I told him, playing the game.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘After all, there were extenuating circumstances.’
He was talking about Nicky. My solicitor had made a lot of that. I’d hated it. Not just reliving the experience in court, but hearing myself portrayed as victim.
Farrier looked at me, prompting me to continue.