Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (7 page)
‘Are you sure?’ said Mrs Dacre, leaning over. ‘Only that’ - she pointed to the new photograph - ‘looks more like him than anybody.’ She pointed to Todd, half-hidden in the captioned picture. ‘And that can’t be right, because he’s called—’
‘Perhaps they made a mistake.’ Hoping that hadn’t sounded too petulant, Todd got up and went over to stand with his back to the fireplace. Things were beginning to get sticky. Why couldn’t the silly bitch leave well alone? Seeing that Mrs Dacre’s attention was now taken up in comparing the two photographs, he bent slightly at the knees and, stretching one arm down, picked the poker off its stand and hid it behind his legs.
‘This can’t be right,’ Mrs Dacre said. ‘I’m sure that was the boy who drowned.’ Todd’s heart skipped a beat. He adjusted his hand to give his sweating palm a better grip on the iron handle. ‘I mean, I don’t remember what he looked like or anything -’ Todd smiled, quizzically - ‘but I’m pretty sure that was his name.’
‘Drowned?’ asked Todd, feeling as if his face had gone numb and the smile was now fixed for ever.
Mrs Dacre nodded. ‘Yes, don’t you remember? On holiday, I think. Very sad. James would have been . . . oh, about twenty, at the time.’
‘Which one does it say he is?’
‘There, look.’ Mrs Dacre leant forward to hand him the photograph. ‘The one you said was you.’ This time, there was no mistaking the accusation in her tone.
Todd stepped forward, the poker still clasped firmly behind his back, and took hold of the cardboard mount with his free hand. He knew his movements must seem awkward but, having come this far, he wasn’t going to take any chances. One, perhaps two, quick smashes - he’d have to get behind her, though, so he couldn’t see her face. He stared at the picture for a moment, then said, ‘That is me, you know, not this other chap. Whoever did the caption got it wrong.’
‘James did them himself.’
‘Well, it’s quite easy to get muddled. Perhaps he just left my name out. That’s probably it.’
‘I suppose he might have done, but if you were such good friends—’
Surreptitiously, Todd tested the weight of the iron in his hand. Why didn’t she just shut up? Why did it matter to her? She couldn’t even remember properly anyway. For God’s sake, he willed her, just take my word for it. Leave the subject alone. Save yourself.
‘It’s very easily done,’ he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘especially if one tries to remember all one’s friends’ names a few years afterwards . . .’ Shame it was the front room of the house, although the net curtains meant that they were unlikely to be seen by anybody across the way. He shifted the poker slightly again, trying to dry his sweating hand on his trousers.
‘I suppose so.’ Mrs Dacre looked at him doubtfully, then, picking up another picture - also not captioned, thank Christ - said in a more definite tone, ‘This one looks more like you. You’re right next to James.’
Todd relaxed fractionally. ‘That’s a relief. I’d hate you to think,’ here he gave her one of his never-fails charming smiles, ‘that I was some sort of imposter.’
‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Dacre laughed - but she was blushing, too. ‘What a ridiculous idea!’
Having got her on the back foot, Todd judged it safe to relinquish the poker, which he did with a little bob downwards while she refilled the tea cups. ‘Oops,’ he said, as the clang of metal on metal made her look up. ‘Clumsy of me. Tripped on the fender.’
‘That’s all right.’ She handed him a cup of tea. ‘Here you are.’
He rejoined her, leaning towards her once more. ‘Heavens,’ he said, gazing at the photograph on her lap - it was too soon to reestablish trust by any sort of touching, even the supposedly accidental. ‘It does look rather as if the sun was in my eyes, doesn’t it?’
‘It does a bit. Didn’t you like being photographed?’ She sounded unguarded now, friendly, almost maternal.
‘Not much, no.’ He gave her a bashful, boyish look.
‘Well, I don’t know why. You’re very handsome when you smile.’
‘You’re very kind,’ he said, modestly.
‘Oh, not at all. Look, there’s Billy Powell,’ she said, pointing at another boy in the line. ‘Do you remember him? He used to come here for tea. Such a funny little boy - always pulling faces . . .’ As she rambled on, Todd’s eyes strayed to the pile of paper on the tray. He could see tantalising glimpses of crests and embossing. Those were the things he wanted: documents that validated a life.
‘You haven’t finished your cake,’ said Mrs Dacre. ‘I hope it isn’t too dry. Would you like some tea to go with it? I’m sure I can squeeze one more out of the pot.’
‘Thank you.’ He extended his cup as she removed the knitted cosy. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘It’s sweet of you to say that, but really, this is so nice for me.’ Mrs Dacre poured milk. ‘It’s kind of you to listen to me rambling on like this. I don’t often get the chance. Are your parents still living here?’
He shook his head. Might as well start with the truth, he thought. ‘I’m afraid my father passed away some years ago,’ he said, ‘and my mother’s in Worcestershire. She moved when the flying bombs started - too much for her, and we have family there, so . . .’ That, he thought, was suitably vague.
‘I don’t blame her,’ said Mrs Dacre, fervently. ‘Horrible things. I’m sorry about your father.’
‘It was very sudden,’ he said. ‘A perforated ulcer. He hadn’t been well for a while, but we had no idea . . .’ The memories that impinged made it impossible to finish the sentence. In the last weeks of his life, his father had become more withdrawn and depressed, but Todd had simply chalked it up to the demoralising effect of failure, and thought no more about it. When his father had collapsed on the sitting room rug, crying out, his mother’s first reaction had been to tut over the upset ashtray and rush for the dustpan. He remembered his father’s outstretched hand fumbling, in an agonised crawling motion, towards her feet as she crouched, swishing up the mess with brisk strokes of the brush, ignoring his pain. Despite his protests, she’d insisted they get him upstairs and into bed before calling out the doctor. He’d screamed as they hauled him up the stairs, and died a week later, in hospital, having caught pneumonia after the operation.
‘How dreadful.’ Mrs Dacre’s words sounded extra loud in the charged silence. ‘I hope he didn’t suffer too much.’
‘It was very quick.’ As he said it, the excruciating image of his writhing, tormented father came before him so strongly that it took all his self-control not to wince.
‘That’s what the doctor said about James,’ said Mrs Dacre. ‘He wouldn’t have known.’
He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘That’s a blessing.’
‘Yes . . . I can’t bear to think of him in pain. Oh, dear . . .’ Raising her handkerchief once more to her eyes, she stood up. ‘Do excuse me for a moment . . .’ and left the room.
Quickly, he scooped up the papers on the tray and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Gathering up the photographs, he returned them to the wooden box and locked it. Catching sight of his almost untouched slice of cake, he broke it in half and, standing up, stuffed a piece into each trouser pocket, crumbling it with his fingers so that there would be no bulge. Then he drained the last of his tea and went out into the hall in time to see Mrs Dacre, her nose freshly dusted with powder, coming down the stairs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, please.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘I put the things back in the box,’ he said. ‘I locked it. It might be as well not to . . .’
‘You’re right. I’ll put it away. But I do thank you for coming. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you?’ She tried for a smile. ‘It’s silly, but the war makes it worse. So many mothers losing their sons . . .’
‘Not silly at all,’ he said, heartily, covering her hand with his.
‘You’re very kind,’ she said. ‘And I am glad you came to see me.’
He said goodbye and hurried back to Norbury station, grinning to himself. Really, he thought, Mrs Dacre ought to be pleased that he was putting her son’s identity to such good use. As he waited for the train to arrive, he patted his jacket over his heart, where his new life was folded up, waiting for him.
Now, sitting in his little room, he took stock of his situation. A vacancy, in the shape of Dr Reynolds, had been created, and an identity, in the person of Dr Dacre, secured. Next he needed to engineer a meeting with some of the doctors at the hospital, get himself an ‘in’. He’d work on that and he’d have a little fun in the meantime. He needed an appreciative audience, someone to look up to him and admire him, as well as love him: a girl, but it had to be the right girl. A nurse, that was only right and proper. He’d have to have a look round, select a suitable target. Once he was a doctor, he’d be able to have his pick, wouldn’t he? That, he thought, rubbing his groin in anticipation, was definitely something to think about, but, in the meantime . . . He selected a face and body from the harem in his memory (unobtainable girls, these, never girls he’d had), undid his trouser buttons and settled down to satisfy himself.
Eight
A
s he left the police station to look at the body on the bomb-site, Stratton heard the telltale misfiring motorcycle sound and looked up to get his first really decent view of a pilotless plane. So far, he’d seen the damage they could do, but not the machines themselves. He pulled Ballard into a doorway, ducked in beside him, and then, craning his neck, realised that the thing was travelling away from them. A long plume of flame spurted out behind it, vivid scarlet and orange - a dragon’s fart, thought Stratton, remembering the picture books he’d read with the kids. Small and demonic, the P-plane went into a glide - somewhere near Baker Street, he guessed - then the noise cut out and it disappeared. Seconds later, they heard a loud, dull crump. ‘Christ,’ said Ballard, which, Stratton felt, about covered it.
s he left the police station to look at the body on the bomb-site, Stratton heard the telltale misfiring motorcycle sound and looked up to get his first really decent view of a pilotless plane. So far, he’d seen the damage they could do, but not the machines themselves. He pulled Ballard into a doorway, ducked in beside him, and then, craning his neck, realised that the thing was travelling away from them. A long plume of flame spurted out behind it, vivid scarlet and orange - a dragon’s fart, thought Stratton, remembering the picture books he’d read with the kids. Small and demonic, the P-plane went into a glide - somewhere near Baker Street, he guessed - then the noise cut out and it disappeared. Seconds later, they heard a loud, dull crump. ‘Christ,’ said Ballard, which, Stratton felt, about covered it.
‘Let’s hope it landed in Regent’s Park and not on top of anyone.’
‘Know what people are calling them, sir?’ asked Ballard.
‘What?’
‘Doodlebugs. Makes them sound like toys, doesn’t it?’
Stratton snorted, thinking of the previous night. ‘Some toys.’
They tramped on towards the Middlesex Hospital, and clambered over the damp debris of the bomb-site until they came across the warden, who was squatting over a human-shaped something shrouded in a dusty blanket. He was smoking and swatting at the flies, which, despite the recent rain, had begun to circle.
‘What have we got?’ asked Stratton.
The warden, his face grimy and exhausted, pinched his fag end between his thumb and forefinger, and flicked it at a pile of bricks. ‘Dead bloke, guv. I come across him on my way home - always take a short-cut across here - and I thought I’d better let someone know.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
The warden drew back the blanket, revealing a clean-shaven face with strong features. About half of it, including the dark hair, was covered with damp plaster dust of a pinkish colour. Blood, Stratton thought, mostly washed away by the rain. ‘Was he on his back when you found him?’ he asked, pulling the blanket further down to reveal a well-built man in a good - if soaked and grubby - suit. The hands were only superficially dirty, and the nails looked well kept. ‘Looks as if the only injuries are the ones to the head.’
‘He was lying on his side,’ said the warden. ‘I turned him over to have a look, and . . . Well, here we are.’
Aren’t we just, thought Stratton, wearily. ‘Was he at all stiff?’
‘No, he came over quite easy.’
Stratton sniffed at the body, hoping for a whiff of alcohol - if the head wounds could be chalked up to a drunken fall, that would wrap things up nicely. Scenting nothing, he stood up again.
‘Must of been last night,’ said the warden. ‘Like I said, I always come this way, so I’d have noticed. You do see some funny things in this job,’ he conceded, ‘some of ’em don’t have a mark, but this one didn’t seem right to me. We didn’t get any bombing here last night, or the night before. This lot,’ he jerked his thumb at the site, ‘come down six months ago, and he ain’t dead long enough for that - if he’d just worked his way up to the top, I mean. That happens, too. Things,’ he added, vaguely, ‘moving.’
Stratton stood for a moment, indecisive. Ordinarily, such a situation would have sharpened his interest, but today . . . He shook his head, trying to force his brain to life. ‘Right,’ he said to Ballard, ‘seeing as we’re so close to the hospital, I’m going to have a word with Dr Byrne. Take some details, and then you,’ he nodded at the warden, ‘can get off home.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He left Ballard extracting his notebook from his tunic, and began picking his way through the rubble towards the Middlesex.
After several years’ working with Dr Byrne the pathologist, Stratton, though impressed by the man’s observational skills, had never got used to his way with the living, which was brusque to the point of rudeness. His manner matched his domain, which was permanently cold and smelt of a mixture of cadavers and disinfectant. The refrigeration - never enough after an air-raid, when sheeted bodies lay in the corridor awaiting inspection - coupled with the damp cement floor and the hard textures of the white porcelain tables, metal instruments, rubber overalls, and the slippery prophylactic feel of recently washed dead flesh, made everything cold to the touch. Everything was impersonal, hygienic, clinical, and bathed in harsh white light.
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