Silent Playgrounds (26 page)

Mechanically, she slipped the pages of transcript into the paper holder and began typing. At first, her fingers missed the keys and fumbled with the commands. But gradually she was drawn into the routine and, as she worked, her encounter with Lee became less vivid in her mind. After a couple of hours she finished the last piece, methodically saved the file and shut down. By the time she switched off her computer, it was almost midnight. She went down the stairs to her bedroom and looked out onto the road, watching the shadows from the street lamps on the bushes, the faint shine on the flagstones from the earlier rain. The wind was getting up, and the shrubs in the gardens were moving restlessly, sending their own pattern across the pavement.
The road was deserted. She was suddenly aware of the empty houses around her: Jane and Lucy away for the weekend; the student houses empty for the summer. She was in the middle of a bustling city, but she lived in an enclave of ghosts.

She looked at her watch. She was turning into a recluse, and for what? For a piece of research she couldn’t complete, and a grant that ran out in seven months’ time. Maybe she should just give up, go to the careers advice centre tomorrow and start looking for a proper job. Her breath had misted the window and she wiped the pane clean. Then she looked more closely. There was someone across the road, standing in the shadow of the laurel hedge. She could see feet in worn trainers. As she watched, a hand moved, holding a cigarette. There was a shower of sparks as the butt hit the pavement.

She felt uneasy. There was no reason why someone shouldn’t be standing there, no reason for it to be anything to do with her, but it was a good place to stand if you wanted to watch her house – and Jane’s. She frowned, realizing she was biting her nail again. She went downstairs, turning on the light in the outside passage as she went past the door, then decided to have a look out of the downstairs window. She might get a better look at whoever it was. The overgrown cotoneaster outside the bay obscured her view a bit, but as far as she could tell, there was nobody there. She went out of the side door and stood at the gate, looking up and down the road. It was dark and silent. There were lights on in one of the houses a bit higher up, but she realized
again how many of them had been turned over to student accommodation now. They were marked by their dark windows and the
TO LET
boards in the front gardens.

The house by the privet had a light in the window. Maybe the person standing in the shadows had been a guest, or a family member, banished outside to smoke. She was pretty sure that the couple who lived there – what was their name? – had a son who’d be in his late teens, or early twenties.

She felt irritated with herself for getting distracted. She went back in and closed the curtains. If anyone was watching, they certainly weren’t going to watch her. She went upstairs and had a shower. She didn’t feel like going to bed, so she put on her dressing gown and went back downstairs. She put a cassette into her stereo – Cleo Laine and John Williams, music to commit suicide to, Dave had dubbed it – and let the melody take her. Cleo Laine’s voice slid over the notes as she sang about feelings, feelings of love … Only it wasn’t feelings of love she was trying to forget, but feelings of responsibility, regret, guilt. If only—
Stop it!
She made a conscious effort and turned her mind to her plans for the next day. How much sleep had she had last night? Last night …

Then she was abruptly alert again. Her head felt full of bubbles and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. The twiggy branches of the cotoneaster were knocking and scratching against the window as the wind caught them. She could see the moving shadows through the curtains. Then she listened. Surely that had
been … There it was again. A knock, quiet and deliberate, at the door.

She moved to the front door and listened. The knock came again, and she said, ‘Who’s there?’ clearing her throat as her voice came out high and nervous. No answer. Then the knock again. She peered through the spyhole, trying to see through the shadows. Her heart was beating fast. Then she could see his face, and she felt weak with shock. She leant against the door for a second, regaining her composure, then she said, quietly, ‘Hang on,’ as she unlocked and unbolted the door.

He was through the door before she could say anything. He slammed it shut behind him and leant back against it, looking at her, breathing fast. Ashley was in front of her, his face white, his hair tangled, his clothes stained and torn. ‘Ashley.’ She didn’t know what to say to him.

‘Listen!’ His voice was an urgent whisper. He grabbed her shoulders, pushing her back into the room. ‘Don’t …’

‘Ashley.’ He looked awful – ill, and far less in control of the situation than she felt. ‘What are you doing? You can’t—’

‘Don’t tell them. He’s looking for me.’

‘Ashley.’ She needed to get through to him. ‘You’ve got to let me help you. You can’t keep running away.’ She looked into his dark eyes and felt that elusive sense of familiarity again. Adam?
Listen to me, Suzanne!
She took a deep breath. ‘OK?’ she said. ‘Ashley? OK?’

‘Where are they?’ he said.

‘Who?’ Suzanne was confused.

‘Next door. Loose …’

‘It’s all right, there’s no one there. They’ve gone to London for the weekend.’

He relaxed and seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time. ‘That’s all right then.’ He leant against the wall and closed his eyes. She couldn’t let him disappear again. What had brought him to her door?

‘Ashley. Let me help you.’ She watched him come alert, looking at her warily. ‘You need some food, and you need some sleep. Stay here tonight. We’ll talk in the morning. I promise I won’t tell anyone anything. Not until after we’ve talked.’ She wasn’t sure if he had agreed or not, but he followed her through to the kitchen where she cut some bread and made sandwiches. She wasn’t hungry, but she sat with him as it seemed important to be companionable. She was glad, very glad, that Michael wasn’t with her. She would have had no choice then. He ate ravenously, and for a while his attention was entirely taken up by the food. She wondered how long it was since he’d eaten. She ran options through her mind, wondering what to do for the best. She realized he was watching her again, waiting to see what she would do next. She needed time to think. ‘Why don’t you have a bath?’ she suggested. ‘Or a shower.’ She tried a smile. ‘You need it.’

His mouth twitched in response, but his eyes slid round the room. He didn’t trust her, she realized with a pang. Why should he? Did she trust him? ‘It’s OK,’ she said, wondering why he should believe her. ‘I promise you I won’t tell anyone until we’ve talked tomorrow, and I won’t do anything without telling you
first.’ He looked at her, assessing her meaning, then gave an abrupt nod. ‘Your clothes are falling apart,’ she said. Didn’t she still have some stuff of Dave’s in a bag at the bottom of the stair cupboard? They were about the same size. She found him jeans, a sweatshirt, socks. He took them, still looking undecided and wary, then she showed him the bathroom and the towels in the airing cupboard.

She went into her bedroom and pulled on a pair of trousers and a jumper. As they had sat together in the kitchen, she had become aware that her dressing gown was flimsy, and aware that he was aware of it. She made up the bed in Michael’s room. She checked her watch. It was nearly one. She went back downstairs and waited.

The sky dark and clear. The wind starting to blow. Watching the stars, in the cold in the park, waiting. Walking through the woods in the darkness, past the glittering river, past the shuttered silence of Shepherd Wheel, past the dam where the mud gleamed in the moonlight.
Remember. Always remember.

Order. Walls of brick, rectangles, doorways. Planes where the shadows washed like water over the surfaces. Across and back. The window, dark, no face watching.

Where? A shadow against the lit square pulling the curtain across. A dim light in the doorway. Where? Darkness again. Where?
Where?

There.

Waiting now. Waiting for it to get quiet, for the lights to go out and the hush of night to fall on the house.

The lines of the bricks like maps to draw the eye, up, down, sideways in a crazy pattern. Disorder, but it isn’t, not really. Look, look, the pattern, whole and clear and beautiful, the eye racing along the lines, finding it, losing it.

Wait.

Half an hour later, he came down. He slid round the door and hesitated, looking at her. He seemed to be listening for sounds outside. Now he looked more the way she remembered him from the Alpha Centre. He’d put on the jeans she’d given him. He had a towel across his shoulders and his feet were bare. His skin was very white; his hair hung in damp curls round his face. The hair on his chest was dark. She couldn’t think of anything to say. He came further into the room. ‘There’s a bed made up,’ she said, her voice sounding artificial in her ears. ‘I’ll show you.’ She realized she was going to have to pass him to reach the stairs. He stayed where he was, just in the doorway. As she came close to him, he said, ‘You came looking for me …’ and he touched her face, gently. Surprised, she looked up at him, and he kissed her.

For a moment, she froze, and he pulled her close against him, his arms round her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He was pushing her back onto the settee. ‘Ashley! Wait, don’t …’ She didn’t know what to do. She needed to think, to win back the initiative. She hadn’t read his signals until too late, she’d got it wrong, wrong, wrong!

He was kissing her again so that it was hard to free
her mouth, hard to speak. He was pressing her back into the cushions, his hands reaching under her jumper, pulling it off her shoulders, down her arms. It was like trying to swim against the current. She didn’t know, for a moment, if she was fighting him or acquiescing. He was kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts. She pushed against him as hard as she could. ‘Ashley! Stop! I don’t want …’

He relaxed his hold of her and was still for a moment, his head between her breasts. She had to fight a crazy impulse to put her arms round him and hold him there. Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his expression confused. ‘Why did you let me in? Why did … ?’

Of course. Sex was one of the currencies in Ashley’s world. She’d gone looking for him, she’d admitted him into her house, invited him to stay. What else had she expected? ‘I want to help you,’ she said. ‘But I can’t do this.’ His head slumped forward. He wrapped his arms round her waist and pressed his face against her. She felt his warmth and the weight of him lying half across her. He whispered something and she had to strain to hear him as he whispered it again. ‘I’m sorry … love …’ She remembered Richard’s words:
Ashley’s never had anyone who loved him or cared about him.
She wanted to say something to show him that she did care about him, but she knew he would misunderstand her again. She felt his head heavy against her, and touched his hair, lightly. ‘We’re both tired. You’re tired. We can talk in the morning.’

He lifted his head and looked at her. ‘You’ll let me stay?’ She nodded. There were tears on his lashes.

She needed to be alone, to have time to think. She freed herself and stood up, pulling her jumper back up round her shoulders. It was torn. She stood away from him, not wanting to give him any signals he might misinterpret. ‘You know where the room is. The bed’s made up.’

He stopped at the door and looked back at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. Then he reached out for her, almost like a child reaching for comfort. ‘Stay with me,’ he said. For a moment, she wanted to hold him against her, do whatever he wanted her to do. He was young, he was lost and she wanted to comfort him.

‘I said, sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’

He closed his eyes, steadying himself against the doorframe, then he smiled that warm smile. ‘OK,’ he said. He looked so young it nearly broke her heart. He pulled the door shut behind him and she heard his feet on the stairs.

The key sliding into the door, turning silently. The house full of empty air, full of the silence of abandonment. Stairs, where feet could tread one, two, three, four – always an odd number, always an itch in the mind. Feet stepping centrally onto each tread. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven … and stop. Knowing where to stop in the darkness. Along the landing, one hand on the rail, one hand on the wall, smooth and rough. Not equal, not balanced. Another itch.

More stairs. Narrow and twisting. And the room with the moonlight flooding across it. A bed, stripped to the
mattress. A wardrobe against the wall, crooked. Sliding it away, and there against the smoothness of the wall, smooth against the fingers, the trap-door.

The trap-door opened into dusty night. Then a moonlit attic. Another trap-door. Then the dust-filled shadows. Then a room with books, a desk, shelves. A chair, looking black in the moonlight. A door, open to the steep and narrow stairs leading into darkness.

Suzanne stayed downstairs, putting together a makeshift bed on the settee. She wrapped a wool rug round her against the chill of the early summer’s night, and curled up against the cushions. Even though she was exhausted, for a long time she couldn’t sleep. Then when she did, her sleep was fitful, disturbed. The wind was gusting now, sudden bursts rattling the windows and making the shadows move on the curtains. She lay awake, listening so she would hear if he got up, if he moved about, if he tried to leave. She dozed off, and woke suddenly. Someone outside. The wind gusted again and the twigs of the cotoneaster scratched against the window. She turned over, wrapping the rug more closely round her. It was draughty. She’d have to do something about that before the winter: replace the draught-excluder round the front door, try and seal the window frames. She settled her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. She was floating through the shadows, floating down the road, looking at all the houses dark in the moonlight. Lucy’s monster was coming up the hill. She couldn’t see it, but she knew it was there. It was a silent, gliding monster, but she could just hear its
footsteps if she listened carefully.
Rattle, rattle
against the door, the creak of a floorboard.