‘There’s no one around here,’ Justine said. ‘Here and now is when he’ll strike. This is also our chance to trap him. Once you’ve left me alone on the steps he’ll make his move.’
I now knew what she was wanting me to say.
‘I won’t take my eyes off you,’ I said. ‘I’ll be watching from a distance. But not far enough to let him get away.’
I watched Justine put a hand to the back of her neck. A hot summer wind blew over her, as if an invisible hand was running its fingers through her hair. Reluctantly I stood up and climbed the steps, leaving Justine where I had found her. I had no idea from which position the man was watching, but the fact that Justine and I knew about him but he didn’t know about me, gave us the upper hand. There was a bench, not far away from where Justine was, on the other side of the walkway, half-obscured by a tree. Sitting on it I had a perfect view of Justine. I could even see, where the water was growing rough, the Thames beginning to splash the edge of her dress.
THIRTY-THREE
A young woman and her lover walked past me singing ‘Greensleeves’ in duet. An hour passed. The sun had disappeared and it was growing cold, but still I waited, Justine waited, he waited. The chill and the waiting had built up in me a numb nervous energy which I thought, if I were not careful, could verge on a sort of terror. Big Ben struck seven and the sun came out again.
An old bag lady, part of the detritus of London which kept on rising to the surface, sauntered over to me. The smell of abject poverty struck me first: she stank of urine, stale lager and cheap tobacco. What her eyes had seen had either been so terrible or so banal, it had washed all the colour out of them. She looked like one of the gargoyles from my dreams.
‘Would you mind not staring at me like that?’ I asked.
She laughed to reveal blood-encrusted gums where her teeth should have been. Her grey hair was long and straggly, witch’s hair.
‘I’m not the only one doing the staring now, am I? I imagine you’ve done some staring too, in your time. Not so long ago, either.’ She pointed to where Justine was sitting on the steps. My view of Justine was now obscured by the tattered crone’s body.
‘Pretty, ain’t she? Pretty as a picture. Often see her sitting there, scribbling away in a notebook. But you,’ she said, ‘You…’ She paused and imitated how I had been observing Justine, by sticking out her neck and putting her claw-like hand under her chin. ‘Just like that, you were. The Thinker.’ She laughed again.
I gave her a cigarette.
‘Thank you, Sir. But it doesn’t do to stare like that. It makes your eyes stick out. You look quite off your trolley.’
She ambled off, leaving my view of Justine clear again. The steps were empty. Justine had disappeared. Stricken by horror and disbelief, I stood up as if the action would bring her back. It was not possible in those few minutes, I thought. It was not possible in those few minutes. The seconds that took place between life and death, between swerving right and swerving left.
In desperation I looked around me and saw only the couple who had been singing in duet, now almost out of sight, and the old woman disappearing round a corner in the opposite direction. Hopelessly I ran up to the steps. A stone had been placed on the penultimate step. The stone pinned down a white ribbon that was fluttering in the breeze. He had come, he had stolen her away in broad daylight, all within twenty yards of me.
White clouds scudded across the grey sky. The stone of the steps was blank, unintelligible, even tombstones have writing on them. If I could stare at the steps long enough, I could superimpose her image on to the stone, graft her back on to the present moment with the pitch of my thought. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do. I wish the wind would stop blowing across my face like that, touching me like that.
THIRTY-FOUR
I began to wander down the South Bank, forlornly hoping that I might catch a glimpse of her or find a clue to her whereabouts. The abductor could have taken her anywhere, be keeping her prisoner anywhere. I dreaded to think what was going through his mind. What would he want to do to Justine but try to break her, tame her as if she were a wild horse? Judging by his letter to her his obsession was sexually out of control. He was living in his own private world where the heroine of a woman’s novel had become the lynchpin of his reality.
The police station at Charing Cross was a modern building, concrete and square with brightly lit windows, but no one visible at them. It was as if the building were empty except for the concept of the law that it represented. This was the first time I had visited a police station and when I walked up the steps and entered, I was surprised by the silence, the inactivity, as if the machinery that operated the station was in another place altogether. Directly in front of the entrance was a white formica desk that ran across the length of the room. A solitary uniformed policeman stood behind it. Everywhere I looked was clear-cut and streamlined of complication. I should have foreseen then that they would have wanted a description of Justine, a form of her identity which I could not provide. I should have walked out again when I saw the artless white walls.
The policeman was looking down at his large open ledger. He had soft features, features that could be moulded only by him. It was only when I was standing in front of him, telling him that I wanted to report a missing woman, that he looked up. His eyes were dark liquid.
He printed out in his ledger her name carefully, in strong heavy lettering. I knew that, without appearing to, he had mentally registered my height, the colour of my eyes, my distinguishing features.
‘How long has she been missing?’ he asked.
‘About an hour.’
His lips twitched slightly, to one side, as if an invisible string attached to his mouth had been pulled. I had given him the wrong answer.
‘We normally wait twenty-four hours before reporting a person missing, Sir. She could have just popped out to the shops.’
Normally, I thought, yes in a normal world that would normally make common sense.
‘But she’s been kidnapped. He left a white ribbon behind,’ I said, desperately.
It was beginning to sound like the Scarlet Pimpernel. I could hardly bear to meet his ironic, appraising eyes. It would be impossible to convince him of my story. Its characters were in a plot verging on the ludicrous: twin sisters, the mysterious Jack, a phantom abductor and me in a starring role. What made the portrayal of my character so realistic that he should have to believe in me?
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘It’s too complicated. You wouldn’t understand.’
I walked back out into the evening. But I knew it was more than just a story, I hadn’t made it all up. There were the other characters in the plot to confirm it.
There was a phone box on the other side of the road. Inside, it smelt of urine. An empty crumpled white McDonald’s bag lay in the corner. Cards in primary colours were stuck to the walls, advertising prostitutes. The black silhouettes of cartoon-like images of women were printed on to them. One of the glass panes was smashed, just to the right of my neck, letting the wind blow through. I dialled Juliette’s phone number, trying to breathe more calmly. There was no reply. I let it ring and ring until a robotic voice told me that there was no reply to my call. I heard the chink of the returned money as I put back the receiver.