Everything was fine. No one had been here.
She went to the kitchen to make herself some tea and grabbed a KitKat out of the fridge. She had just popped a piece in her mouth when the doorbell rang, followed immediately by a sharp rap.
Chewing, nerves jangling in case this was Ricky, she hurried warily to the front door and peered through the spyhole. A slight, thin-faced man in his early twenties, with short black hair brushed forward, wearing a suit, was standing there.
Who the hell was he? A salesman? A Jehovah’s Witness – but didn’t they normally come in pairs? Or he might be something to do with the fire brigade. Right now, dog tired, very shaken and ravenous, she just wanted to make a cup of tea, have something to eat, then down several glasses of red wine and crash out.
Knowing that the man would have had to pass the caretaker and the firemen to get here eased her fears about him a little. Checking that the two safety chains were properly engaged, she unlocked the door and pushed it open the few inches it would travel.
‘Katherine Jennings?’ he asked in a voice that was sharp and invasive. His breath was warm on her face and smelled of peppermint chewing gum.
Katherine Jennings was the name under which she had rented the flat.
‘Yes?’ she replied.
‘Kevin Spinella from the Argus newspaper. I wonder if you could spare a couple of moments of your time?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and immediately tried to push the door shut. But it was wedged open by his foot.
‘I’d just like a quick quote I could use.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have nothing to say.’
‘So you are not grateful to the fire brigade for rescuing you?’
‘No, I didn’t say-’
Shit. He was now writing that down on his pad.
‘Look, Ms – Mrs Jennings?’
She didn’t rise to the bait.
He went on. ‘I understand you’ve just had quite an ordeal – would it be OK for me to send a photographer round?’
‘No, it would not,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow morning? What time wouldbegood for you?’
‘No, thank you. And please remove your foot.’
‘Did you feel your life was in jeopardy?’
‘I’m very tired,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Right, I understand, you’ve been through a lot. Tell you what, I’ll pop back tomorrow with a photographer. About 10 tomorrow morning suit you? Not too early for you on a Sunday?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t want any publicity.’
‘Good, well, I’ll see you in the morning then.’ He removed his foot.
‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly, then pushed the door shut and locked it very carefully. Shit, that was all she bloody needed, her photo in the paper.
Shaking, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts, she pulled her cigarettes from her bag and lit one. Then she walked through into the kitchen.
A man seated in the rear of an old white van that was parked in the street below also lit a cigarette. Then he popped the tab of a can of Foster’s lager, being careful not to spray the expensive piece of electrical kit he had alongside him, and took a swig. Through the lens inserted in the tiny hole he had drilled in the roof of the van, he normally had a perfect view of her flat, although it was partly obscured at this moment by a parked fire engine blocking the street. Still, he thought, it relieved the monotony of his long vigil.
And he could see to his satisfaction, from the shadow moving back past the window, that she was in there now.
Home sweet home, he thought to himself, and grinned wryly. That was almost funny.
32
Lorraine, still wearing nothing but her bikini bottoms and gold ankle chain, sat on a bar stool in her kitchen, watching the small television mounted above the work surface, waiting for the kettle to boil. The butts from half a dozen cigarettes lay in the ashtray in front of her. She had just lit another and was inhaling deeply as she held the phone to her ear, talking to Sue Klinger, her best friend.
Sue and her husband, Stephen, lived in a house that Lorraine had always coveted, a stunning detached mansion in Tongdean Avenue – considered by many people to be one of the finest residences in Brighton and Hove – with views across the whole city, down to the sea. The Klingers also owned a villa in Portugal. They had four gorgeous children, and, unlike Ronnie, Stephen had the Midas touch. Ronnie had promised Lorraine that if Sue and Stephen ever sold the house, he would find a way to come up with the money to buy it. Yep, sure. In your dreams, my love.
They were replaying the images of the two planes striking the towers again, and then again, over and over. It was as if whoever was producing or directing this programme couldn’t believe it either, and had to keep replaying them to be sure it was real. Or perhaps someone in shock thought that if they repeated these images enough times, eventually the planes would miss the towers and fly past safely, and it would be just a normal Tuesday morning in Manhattan, business as usual. She watched the sudden orange fireball, the dense black clouds, feeling sicker and sicker.
Now they were showing the towers coming down again. First the South, then the North.
The kettle came to the boil but she didn’t move, not wanting to take her eyes off the screen in case she missed Ronnie. Alfie rubbed against her leg, but she ignored him. Sue was saying something to her, but Lorraine didn’t hear because she was peering at the screen intently, scanning every face.
‘Lorraine? Hello? You still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ronnie’s a survivor. He’ll be OK.’
The kettle switched itself off with a click. Survivor. Her sister had used that word as well.
Survivor.
Shit, Ronnie, you’d better be.
A beeping sound told her there was a call waiting. Barely able to contain herself she shouted excitedly, ‘Sue, that might be him! Call you straight back!’
Oh, God, Ronnie, please be on the phone. Please. Please let this be you!
But it was her sister. ‘Lori, I just heard that all flights in the US have been grounded.’ Mo worked as a stewardess for British Airways long-haul.
‘What – what does that mean?’
‘They’re not letting any planes in or out. I was meant to be flying to Washington tomorrow. Everything’s grounded.’
Lorraine felt a new wave of panic. ‘Until when?’
‘I don’t know – until further notice.’
‘Does that mean Ronnie might not get back tomorrow?’
‘I’m afraid so. I’ll find out more later in the day, but they’re making all planes that are heading to the States turn back. Which means the planes will be in the wrong places. It’s going to be chaos.’
‘Great,’ Lorraine said glumly. ‘That’s just bloody great. When do you think he might get back?’
‘I don’t know – I’ll get an update as soon as I can.’
Lorraine heard a child calling, and Mo saying, ‘One minute, darling. Mummy’s on the phone.’
Lorraine crushed out her cigarette. Then she jumped down from the stool, still watching the television screen, pulled out a tea bag and a mug, and poured in the water. Still without taking her eyes from the screen, she stepped back and bumped her hip, painfully, into the corner of the kitchen table.
‘Shit! Fuck!’
She looked down for a moment. Saw the fresh red mark among the uneven line of bruises, some black and fresh, some yellow and almost gone. Ronnie was clever, he always hit her in the body, never her face. Always made bruises she could easily hide.
Always cried and begged forgiveness after one of his – increasingly frequent – drunken rages.
And she always forgave him.
Forgave him because of the deep inadequacy she felt. She knew how badly he wanted the one thing she had not been able, so far, to give him. The child he so desperately wanted.