Border Crossing Read online

  ‘I didn’t wait to find out. I got off the stop before, you know, waited till the last possible second then made a dash for the door, and then I ran across the bridge, down the other side, and jumped on a train coming back into town.’

  ‘Do you think you lost him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  ‘A reporter. Or somebody who wants to beat the shit out of me, I don’t know. I daren’t go back to the flat.’

  I’ll phone Martha,’ Tom said.

  Martha was on her answering machine. He left a message, remembered the wedding, tried her mobile, left another message. ‘Is there anybody else we can phone?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Martha said you had numbers you could phone.’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re in the flat’

  So much for Martha’s claim to have everything covered. ‘What about the police?’

  ‘No, not yet. They don’t know. Only the chief constable knows. And what am I going to tell them? Somebody followed me? No, it’s best if we wait for Martha. She’s probably at the reception.’

  Tom poured himself and Danny another generous whisky, and threw a log on the fire. There was quite a good blaze going now. It’s a pity we didn’t record our sessions,’ he said. ‘You could’ve burnt the tapes.’

  ‘It’s a gimmick. You know as well as I do things can’t be left behind like that. And anyway, I’d have to burn you too.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Tom said. ‘Was it a coincidence, you jumping in the river like that?’

  ‘A hundred yards away from your house? No, of course it wasn’t. I’d been following you for days.’

  ‘Why?’

  A shrug. ‘Wanted to talk. And every time I didn’t ring the doorbell, I got more and more depressed, and angry, not with you, with myself. It wasn’t…’ He tried again. ‘It wasn’t a great plot. I didn’t think, Oh, if I jump in the river and he comes in after me, we’ll both be drowned and serve him bloody right. I wasn’t thinking like that. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just wanted the pain to stop.’

  Tom was becoming puzzled by Danny’s move-ments, which seemed to be a curious mixture of agitation and paralysis. He was – not twitching, the movements weren’t as rapid as that – but shifting his gaze about the room, glancing over his shoulder, looking from side to side. His glances, his gestures, were considerably more disturbed than his speech.

  ‘What’re you looking at, Danny?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  No eye contact, and then, unnervingly, his eyes focused on something behind, and a little to the right, of Tom’s head.

  ‘Do you ever see her?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No, I’m not quick enough.’

  ‘You mean, she’s been there, but –’

  ‘I’m always just missing her.’

  ‘Does she ever say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how do you know she’s there?’

  ‘Because she leaves things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Hair. There’s always a ball of hair in the bathroom.’

  Tom was thinking that almost certainly this present mood was the closest he would ever get to understanding Danny’s state of mind in the missing five hours he’d spent alone with Lizzie’s corpse. ‘What did you do to her, Danny?’

  His speech was slurred. ‘Made her do things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Things.’

  Again, Toiji saw the photographs: the marks on Lizzie’s ankles, wrists and upper chest, inflicted – so the pathologist had said – after death.

  He played with her.

  No point pressing for more now or, perhaps, ever. Pressing him now might well force him over the edge.

  Silence. Danny’s eyelids looked swollen, he seemed to be drifting off to sleep, but then he said, ‘Do you believe in evil?’

  A perfectly sane question. A lot easier to deal with than balls of hair in the bathroom. Tom, his mind full of alternative ways of getting hold of Martha – would Mike Freeman be likely to know where she was staying? – answered, almost absently: ‘In the metaphysical sense? No, I don’t. But as a word to describe certain kinds of behaviour, I’ve no problems with it. It’s just the word we’ve agreed to use to describe certain kinds of action. And I don’t think it’s an alternative to other ways of describing the same things. There’s no logical reason why “mad” and “bad” should be alternatives.’

  ‘And people? Do you think people can be evil?’

  ‘I suppose if somebody’s entire life is dedicated to performing evil actions, yes. But if you mean yourself… Killing Lizzie was an evil thing to do, but I don’t think you were evil when you did it, and I certainly don’t think you are now.’

  ‘There’s something I’ve never told anybody. Well, actually, I did tell you, but I don’t think you picked up on it. You know when I hid in the wardrobe? It was pitch black in there, there wasn’t a chink of light anywhere.’ He was whispering. ‘But I saw the fox.’

  Tom said carefully, ‘Memory plays all sorts of tricks, Danny. You knew what was in there. You saw it when you opened the door, and then you felt it, you felt it in the dark and you’ve remembered touch as sight.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  He didn’t sound convinced, and Tom was glad when he could turn away and resume his search for numbers. He’d found Mike Freeman’s number, but it was well past midnight now, and what explanation could he give for calling him? Perhaps it would be more sensible to make up a bed for Danny on the sofa, and try to sort things out in the morning.

  He put down the phone book. ‘Look, I think it might be better if we tried to get some sleep. Martha’s obviously not going to ring now, and you need to get some rest.’

  ‘I won’t sleep.’

  ‘Well, at least lie down. I’ll get some pillows.’

  Upstairs in the bathroom, in the act of pulling clean pillow slips out of the airing cupboard, Tom caught sight of himself in the mirror, and was shocked. Sweat, dissolving make-up, bags under his eyes: not a pretty sight. A shower, that’s what he needed, and then bed. Please, God, bed. The adrenalin rush of the TV debate had drained away, and, trailing pillows and sheets downstairs, he felt positively doddery.

  Danny hadn’t moved. ‘Would you like some sleeping pills?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No, I’d better not. I’m trying to get off them.’

  Tom made up a rough bed on the sofa, and went to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.

  When he returned, Danny had switched off the lamp and was lying under a sheet in the firelight. An arm and one side of his face and neck were etched in trembling gold. Poor bloody Angus, Tom thought, looking down at him, you didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, as he prepared to close the door. ‘Don’t worry, there’s a phone in my room, so I’ll hear it all right if Martha calls.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tom lay in the dark, too tired to think, too tired not to. He had all the physical symptoms of fear, and this surprised him, because there was nothing of which he needed to be afraid. He was worried about Danny’s state of mind, but that was a different matter. No point thinking about it now. Resolutely, he turned on his side, and soon after dropped over the edge into sleep.

  His dream-self was not so biddable. He was on a demolition site standing by a fire, and a man whom he did not recognize was walking towards him from the other side of the fire, a dark shape shimmering in the heat. The man, still faceless, came closer and began throwing tapes on to the fire. Not cassettes, but the tape itself, masses of it, brown, shiny coils that lay on the hot timbers, not shrivelling in a single spurt of flame – as, even in the dream, Tom knew that they should – but writhing, in what looked like prolonged agony.

  He woke, sweating, wiping the back of his hand across his neck, convinced he could smell burning, though a second later he identified this as an illusion left over from the dream. Then, as h
e was turning over to try to get back to sleep, he heard Danny moving about downstairs, dragging something heavy across the floor.

  In the context of their last session it was the most horrible sound he could have heard – he played with her.

  Grabbing his dressing gown, Tom went out on to the landing. The hall carpet glowed orange in the flickering light from under the living-room door. There shouldn’t have been as much light as that. He ran downstairs and had just enough presence of mind to put a hand on the door to check that it was not hot, before he burst into the room.

  The fire burnt furiously, piled high with logs. Danny had dragged the log basket on to the hearth rug and was kneeling beside it, a log in each hand, watching the fire burn. Tom went across to him, and saw what until now had been hidden by the basket. A log had toppled out of the grate and fallen on to the hearth rug. Quickly, without thinking, Tom stooped, picked it up and threw it back on to the fire. A second later he was bent double over his burnt hand, stamping on the singed rug with his slippered feet. It hadn’t caught fire, and wouldn’t now. To make doubly sure, he fetched the jug he’d brought up with the whisky and poured water over the blackened patch. There was a nasty smell of singed wool. He tried to straighten up, but the pain forced him down again. It was almost as if he’d been winded rather than burnt. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ he said.

  Danny raised his sleepwalker’s eyes. ‘I must’ve nodded off to sleep.’

  Kneeling on the floor, Tom wanted to say, with two more logs in your hands? But he didn’t say it.

  They stared at each other without speaking. Then: It’s terribly hot in here,’ Tom said, keeping his voice casual. *I don’t think we need any more logs on the fire.’

  He prised Danny’s fingers loose and put the logs back into the basket. Then he said, ‘Shall we pull the chairs further back?’ Keep the speech slow and soft. Don’t crowd him. He was giving Danny lots of room. But the chairs had to be moved. The room was full of the smell of scorched material – a different smell from the singed wool of the rug – and these were old chairs. Whatever stuffing had been used to fill the cushions, it wouldn’t be fire-retardant.

  At last, with sofa and chairs restored to their original positions, the room looked less like a bonfire waiting to be lit. Danny sat at one end of the sofa, hands clasped between his knees, still staring at the fire. He hadn’t spoken or made any move to help Tom with the furniture. He seemed hardly to be aware of his presence.

  Tom opened the window and, still half turned towards Danny, leant out, gulping in cold air. Somewhere out there, invisible, though only a few hundred yards from this hot box with its leaping flames, the river flowed, past rotted jetties and crumbling steps, out towards the sea.

  The room was cooler now. Sitting in the armchair, Tom began to talk, slowly and calmly. The words didn’t matter. At first nothing that he said went in, but then gradually the dazed, swollen look faded from Danny’s face. Once he cleared his throat and seemed about to speak, but no words came out.

  ‘Why don’t you lie down?’ Tom said at last. ‘Even if you can’t sleep, it might help to rest.’

  Danny seemed to understand and stretched out on the sofa. Tom would have liked to dampen down the fire, pile ashes on to the blazing logs, but he didn’t dare risk doing that yet. Danny’s eyes were still fixed unwaveringly on the flames.

  Tom had just brought the footstool closer to his chair, when the front doorbell rang. Who on earth –? It was two o’clock in the morning. Of course it could only be one person. ‘Martha!’ he said, not bothering to disguise his relief, and ran to let her in.

  He opened the door on to a wall of cameras. A storm of blue flashes. Blurred hands, clicks, whirrs, questions, voices calling his name, this way, that way, an outdoor microphone like a dead animal hanging over his head. He slammed the door just before the first foot jammed in the crack, and rattled the chain into the slot.

  Danny had come to the door of the living room. ‘Get back inside,’ Tom said. ‘I’m going to check the back.’

  He ran downstairs and into the kitchen, feeling horribly exposed in the lighted room. But the door was locked, and, as far as he could see, pressing his cheek against the cold glass, there was nobody in the garden or on the riverside path. He drew the curtains, and stood, for a moment, with his eyes closed. The cameras had shaken him. Those whirrs and clicks were like the shards on a beetle’s wings rubbing together. And the lenses. It was like being surrounded by insects. It was easier to believe there was a swarm of killer bees out there, than to believe they were human beings.

  The phone rang. He snatched it up, thinking this must be Martha at last, but instead an unknown man’s voice, wheedling, plausible, asked him to come to the door to be interviewed. He put the phone down without replying, and immediately it rang again. He couldn’t disconnect it because of Martha. Slowly, he went back upstairs, feeling that for the first time in his life he understood what it was to be hunted. He was trying, through the pain in his hand, to keep calm, to think straight. He couldn’t assume they knew Danny was in the house. Obviously they had a pretty good idea, or they wouldn’t be out there, but they might not know. And until he was sure that Danny’s identity as Ian Wilkinson had been blown, he couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. He needed to talk to Martha.

  Danny was standing by the fireplace when he came in.

  ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten, fifteen? I don’t know.’

  Danny managed a smile. ‘I don’t think Ian Wilkinson’s got very long to live, do you?’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  Danny shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. Never liked the guy anyway.’

  He seemed to be pulling out of it. Tom wondered how much – if any of it – he remembered. Til make some coffee,’ he said.

  The phone rang. They looked at each other, waiting for the answering machine to click in.

  As soon as he heard Martha’s voice, Tom snatched the phone up and began gabbling an explanation.

  ‘Why don’t you phone the police?’ she said. ‘There’s no point hiding anything about Danny now. They must be causing an obstruction, and even if they aren’t you can say they are.’ She sounded entirely calm. Til be round as soon as I can.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Twenty minutes.’

  She rang off, leaving Tom feeling that he’d overreacted. He phoned the police and explained the situation to a lethargic desk sergeant, who seemed inclined to take a long statement over the phone. Tom cut him short and put the phone down, with very little hope that any action would be taken. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

  And then, because the feeling of being a rat in a trap was more than he could bear, he went to the other end of the living room and pulled the curtain aside. For a second there was no response, then another explosion of blue flashes. The hell he was overreacting. They were over the railings and into the forecourt now, lenses pressed against the window. He looked at Danny, who’d followed him across the room. ‘Well,’ he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. ‘At least it’s not petrol bombs.’

  Danny had gone white. ‘It will be by the time they’ve finished.’ He caught Tom’s expression. ‘Oh,c’mon, there’s plenty of people hate me enough for that.’

  Martha arrived fifteen minutes later, banging with her clenched fists on the door and shouting her name. She almost fell into the hall,’ then helped Tom to force the door closed behind her. Never had the smell of cigarettes and industrial-strength peppermints been more welcome.

  ‘So what’s all this, then, Danny?’ she demanded.

  Danny’s voice shot up into a pubescent register. ‘It’s not my fault. I was followed. I came back here because I didn’t want to lead them home.’

  ‘Have you told anybody?’

  ‘No.’

  Martha threw down her bag. ‘Well, somebody did.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s just guess work?’ Tom said.

  ‘No. They’re not parked out there on the of
f-chance. They know.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how they found out,’ Danny said. ‘They’re there.’

  ‘It bloody does matter,’ Martha said. ‘Do you know how much work went into supplying you with a new identity?’

  She doesn’t want to lose him, Tom thought. And she knows she has.

  ‘Did you phone the police?’ Martha asked.

  ‘Yes. I told them about Danny. They should be on their way.’

  The next twenty minutes were like saying goodbye on a station platform. A limbo state in which nothing meaningful can be done or said, it’s already too late, and yet the other person’s still there, and one longs for, and dreads, the moment of actual severance. Neither Tom nor Martha could have the conversation with Danny that each of them wanted, and neither, in front of him, could they say anything useful to each other.

  ‘Where will they take me?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Somewhere safe tonight, then probably down south.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ll write to me, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, probably care of your new probation officer. I won’t necessarily know your new name. But you ought to be all right transferring to another university and all that, once they’ve got the papers sorted out.’

  A short silence. ‘Danny, would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with Martha?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Martha looked surprised, but got up immediately and went into the hall. They left the door open.

  ‘Look, Martha, all this stuff about transferring between universities is cloud cuckoo land. He needs to be in hospital.’

  She peered through the open door. ‘He seems all right. Well. In the circumstances.’

  ‘He’s pulling out of it now, but he has been very bad, he shouldn’t be left on his own.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be alone tonight, because I’ll stay with him. And I’ll pass on what you’ve said. I can’t do more than that, and I can’t guarantee anybody’11 listen.’

  ‘That’ll have to do, then. It’s not enough.’

  It wasn’t enough because he hadn’t said enough. He was shielding Danny in ways he had no time to think about.