A Killing of Angels (13 page)

‘Not you, pestering me again.’ I could hear him suppressing a laugh, as though I was a constant source of entertainment. ‘You’re coming to the gallery tonight, are you?’

‘Will there be lots of anorexic women in black dresses?’

‘Of course. It’s a private view, what do you expect?’

‘I’ll wear something colourful, then.’

‘Good for you. It’s the weekend, let’s go crazy and break the rules.’

I finished my drink and sauntered home, but by eight o’clock my anxiety levels were rising, and a headache was pulsing behind my left eye. I kept trying to convince myself it wasn’t a date, just a trip to an art gallery with a new friend, but it didn’t work. The mirror in my bedroom showed a scrawny woman in a yellow dress, in dire need of a holiday. I pinned my hair into a chignon and forced myself out of the front door.

The bus delivered me to Cork Street quarter of an hour late. I used to love browsing through the galleries when I first moved into town. They seemed like the height of sophistication. I was convinced that all of the city’s beautiful people inhabited the narrow gap between Bond Street and Soho, spending their days shopping for exquisite clothes on South Molton Street. I saw them differently these days. They were still beautiful, and they haunted the same bars, but they didn’t intimidate me any more.

By now the Bruton Gallery was heaving with patrons. The men looked well fed and prosperous, but the women were taking tiny sips from their wine glasses, monitoring each calorie. Piernan was already there, studying his catalogue, linen suit hanging from his slim frame. He looked relieved to see me, and for a second I thought he might kiss my cheek, but he drew back at the last minute. He was standing so close, I could see the flecks of gold round his pupils.

‘What’s your verdict on the paintings?’ I asked.

‘I haven’t got a clue, to be honest. I only brought you here to impress you with my highbrow interests.’

‘Except you’re not interested, are you?’

His curly hair fell across his forehead as he grinned. ‘I made them do a charity auction recently, so I had to show willing.’

An elderly man bustled over with his hand outstretched, and it was clear from his manner that he was the owner. A pink handkerchief lolled from his top pocket like an extra tongue. ‘You must be the famous Alice − I’ve heard all about you.’ When he finally released my hand, he gave Piernan a knowing smile, then turned away to flatter someone else.

Piernan looked embarrassed. ‘Shall we take a look around, so you can see the extent of my ignorance?’

I admired a brightly coloured butterfly, trapped in a small frame. But a throng had gathered by a line of prints on the opposite wall. Rows of dollars were lying side by side, picked out in neon pink and green.

‘They’re all the same,’ I commented. ‘Are they Warhols?’

He checked his catalogue and nodded. ‘You won’t believe what they’re worth.’

‘How much?’

‘A few hundred thousand each.’

‘That’s obscene.’ My headache stepped up a gear. The wine must have gone to my head, because normally I don’t make judgements about how people choose to spend their money.

‘Is something wrong, Alice?’ Piernan asked.

I turned to him. ‘Where do I start? There’s no money for my anger management groups. Kids in this city are getting rickets from malnourishment, and bankers help no one but themselves. It’s unbelievable that people are blowing that much on a piece of paper.’

Piernan gaped at me. ‘That’s the longest speech I’ve heard you make.’

‘Sorry.’ I gave a shaky laugh. ‘I think the police work’s getting to me.’

‘You’re right about the finance world. It started to sicken me too – that’s why I got out.’

‘You must know people at the Angel Bank, don’t you?’ I asked.

‘Quite a few. I worked there years ago, selling bonds.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

Piernan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I had friends there, but it made me decide to do something different with my life.’

He looked so uncomfortable that I realised he was only giving me a fraction of the story.

‘It’s a conspiracy of silence,’ I said. ‘There’s something wrong with the culture there. It’s driven someone over the edge.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘It must have changed since my day. It was competitive, but people weren’t slitting each other’s throats.’

I wanted to ask more questions, but he steered the conversation to lighter subjects, and after a few minutes he went to get us more wine. Discomfort was still bubbling in my chest. Maybe it was because it was so easy to imagine sleeping with him, after months of waking up alone, because he was so flattering and funny. But what would happen in the morning? The trapped feeling would come back, and I’d wake up gasping for breath. The people around me were starting to blur around the edges, and Piernan had been cornered by the gallery owner, on the far side of the room. The woman beside me was trying to persuade her husband to buy a pair of prints, for their living room. The expression on her face was petulant, like a child demanding more pocket money.

‘One’s enough,’ he replied firmly. ‘They could go down as well as up.’ His mouth twisted into an ugly line as he fought to win the argument.

Everywhere I looked, people were poring over their catalogues, doing mental sums. Things got easier when Piernan came back. We found a quiet corner, and he was so entertaining, it was easy to ignore the frenzy of consumption in the background. The owner was rushing around, sticking red dots onto frames. Piernan asked me about the cuts at work, then he entertained me with stories about a pompous acquaintance of his, who managed to upset everyone he knew. Time passed so quickly that it was midnight by the time I checked my watch.

‘When are we meeting again?’ He gazed down at me.

‘Can I call you?’

‘Of course.’ His mouth twitched with amusement. ‘After you’ve checked your hectic schedule.’

He flagged down a cab for me, and I was about to say goodbye when he passed something through the open window.

‘For you, Alice. A token of my esteem.’ His madcap grin was the last thing I saw as the car pulled away.

When I lifted the brown paper, my breath caught in my throat. The butterfly I’d admired was trapped inside the package. Its wings were a gorgeous, vivid turquoise, and Andy Warhol’s signature was scribbled in the corner of the frame.

17

When I was twelve years old my boyfriend gave me a present. It was Duran Duran’s newest album, and I wanted it with all my heart, but I handed it straight back. Maybe I already knew that gifts can be bribes, or burdens, or apologies. But at least it went to a good home. He gave the CD to Heather Marks from year eight, the same day I chucked him.

I pressed my hands over my eyes, and when I opened them again, the butterfly was still sitting on the hall table. I turned my back on it and hunted for my running shoes.

There was no sign yet of the usual crowd of Sunday dog walkers when I reached Butler’s Wharf. I kept my thoughts to a minimum, watching the sun pooling on the black surface of the river. Sooner or later I would have to confront Piernan, but I was determined not to spoil my run with worrying. I chased along Pickford’s Wharf until my lungs burned. By the time I reached the Tate Modern I had to squat for a few moments, heaving for breath. A few couples were crossing the pedestrian bridge to St Paul’s. It looked too fragile to support them, metal wires stretched taut as a cat’s cradle. I took my time running home, listening to my iPod. Gladys Knight was lamenting that it had been a rainy night in Georgia, but in London the sky was still pure azure. The weather seemed to be stuck in a permanent loop, every morning just as irritatingly perfect as the one before.

Will was in his bedroom when I got back, hurling CDs into a bin bag. The plastic cases shattered loudly as they hit the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Clearing this lot.’ He carried on destroying his music collection, without bothering to look up. ‘I’m taking my junk down to the bins.’

‘Right,’ I tried to speak calmly. ‘Are you keeping anything?’

‘Just the stuff I need.’ He pointed at a small pile of belongings. All I could see was a pair of canvas shoes, a yellow T-shirt with Club Ibiza printed on it, his wallet, a bar of soap, and his passport.

‘Is that all?’

‘The rest’s too heavy to carry.’

‘Okay,’ I replied calmly. ‘Do you want some coffee?’

‘I’ll take another load down first.’

I waited until the door clicked shut, then ran back into his room to hunt for his laptop, and the speakers that had cost him a fortune. They were in a tea crate, heaving with photo albums and his entire vinyl collection. It was the records that upset me most. Ten years ago I’d stood beside him, scouring the stalls at Greenwich Market for vintage David Bowie. I crammed armfuls of his belongings under my bed and in my wardrobe, hoping he wouldn’t notice. When I looked out of the window he was standing on the pavement, calmly abandoning everything he owned. The huge communal bin was already half full of clothes, books and the wooden sculptures he’d shipped back from Bali.

Will looked tired when he came back up the stairs, sweat dripping from his face. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he stuffed the rest of his shirts and jackets into a plastic sack. He was barefoot and his shorts were coming adrift at the seams, legs sliced apart by livid scars. Once the bag was full, he wrenched his T-shirt over his head, used it to wipe his face, then dropped it into the sack. Maybe I should have tried to stop him, but there was no point. He would only yell at me if I got in his way. It was impossible to imagine myself in his place. I’d have fought tooth and nail to rescue my photos and letters if the flat went up in flames.

It was a relief when the doorbell rang. It was bound to be Lola arriving for her weekend coffee. With any luck she could perform her usual magic and calm Will down. But when I opened the door my mother was standing there, wearing her favourite outraged expression and a dark green dress without a single crease.

‘Didn’t you get my messages? I must have left half a dozen.’

‘You should have called my mobile, Mum.’

She pursed her mouth, unwilling to concede the point. I was about to advise her to jump straight back into her lemon-scented Nissan, but it was too late. She barged past me, just as Will emerged from his room. At least I had a ringside seat for the showdown. My brother had avoided her for the last six months. Maybe he listened to my phone messages to find out when she would visit, giving himself time to escape. He was clutching a bin bag against his chest. My mother eyed his bare torso and dirty feet with distaste.

‘There you are, William.’ Her voice was cool enough to refreeze the polar seas. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, ‘just clearing out my stuff.’

Her expression softened. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Always best to be neat and tidy. Let’s see how you’re doing.’

My mother stood in the doorway, scanning the overflowing ashtrays, abandoned clothes and empty wine bottles. She let her mouth hang open for a few seconds, too stunned to speak. It was me she turned to when she finally came round.

‘How did you let this happen, Alice?’

I considered reeling off the history of my efforts to make Will take his lithium and see different doctors, but none of it would have been good enough. She glared at me, as though I’d failed a crucial exam.

‘Leave her alone.’ Will dumped his bin bag on the ground. ‘Al’s been amazing. She’s let me stay here for months.’

My mother shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, darling. Someone should take care of you, because you’re not yourself, are you?’ Her voice had the sing-song tone that people use to placate bad-tempered toddlers. She walked towards him and I held my breath, knowing exactly what would happen next. One more step and he’d throw her across the room.

‘You’re the one who doesn’t get it.’ Will held out the palm of his hand, level with her face. But suddenly his shoulders dropped and his breathing steadied itself. ‘Look through the window, Mum,’ he said calmly. ‘What can you see?’

‘Very little,’ she snapped. ‘A few buildings, and your dreadful van.’

‘You’re not looking hard enough.’ He pointed at the only cloud in the sky, so thin it was almost invisible. ‘What about that?’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ my mother complained. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll watch that cloud, until you understand what it means.’

He backed away and, after a few seconds, the front door slammed shut. I don’t know whether my mother took his advice, because I went into the kitchen to give her a minute alone. When I glanced out of the window, Will was hobbling along the pavement, empty-handed. He would draw plenty of curious stares as he limped through the streets, barefoot and half naked, covered in scars.

It’s possible that my mother shed a tear, because she disappeared into the bathroom. By the time she came out again she’d powdered her nose and fixed the damage to her eye make-up. I poured some coffee and noticed that the usual look of disapproval was missing from her face. Her expression was completely blank.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she murmured. ‘Everything I did was to protect you both.’

‘I know, Mum.’

I gritted my teeth, trying not to remember the sound of my father’s footsteps when he rampaged through the house, looking for someone to hurt. That was the closest I’d come to forgiveness. But afterwards she pretended nothing had happened. She told me about her holiday plans, drank one more Americano, and for the first time in years actually made contact with my cheek when she kissed me goodbye. From the window I watched her gleaming silver car edge past Will’s van, wondering why I never told her anything about my life. Maybe the world wouldn’t end if I opened up to her occasionally. I stared down at my brother’s belongings in the bin, tempted to add the Warhol butterfly to the pile. Part of me envied his ability to scrap everything and start again, no matter how crazy it seemed. My mother used a similar tactic. She battened down the hatches and kept the past rigidly under control. I would have loved to wipe my recent history, but neither technique appealed to me.