The Winter Foundlings (14 page)

The fire’s embers were still glowing so I piled more logs onto the grate, then he pulled me towards him, and for once I let myself stop thinking. I decided to be thankful for small mercies. A spectacularly handsome man was standing in my front room, taking off his clothes. When he leant down to kiss me, I realised I was a long way from sober. Closing my eyes made the world spin, so I kept them open. Up close his surliness was easier to ignore. All I had to concentrate on was his poreless skin and his intent stare. I kissed him back without worrying about the consequences. The sex was better this time, even though my hipbones took the impact of the hard floor. He communicated better with his body than words, every action precise and confident, like a gymnast completing a routine, but there was something mechanical about his performance. I made the mistake of looking into his eyes when he came: they carried no emotion whatsoever, except desire. If I hadn’t been available, the brunette at the party would have suited him just as well. He seemed to approach sex like a workout – it improved your health, and quenched an appetite that the gym couldn’t satisfy.

I half expected him to leave as soon as we’d finished, but he lay next to me on the sofa, the strain easing from his face. I had to remind myself not to stare. He looked like a photomontage of an ideal man, with golden hair sprinkled across his chest and well-honed muscles, perfectly adapted for hunting in woodlands or swimming through fjords.

‘Go on then, tell me your story, Alice.’ He leant towards me, head propped on his hand.

‘Another time. I’m half asleep.’

‘But I don’t know anything about you.’

‘You don’t need to. We’re not getting involved, remember?’

‘I’m intrigued, that’s all.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I grew up in south London. One brilliant brother who crashed and burned. Father dead, mother alive. I studied hard, became a shrink, and hey presto, I’m here with you.’

‘That’s your entire autobiography?’

‘It’s more than most people get.’

He dropped a kiss on my shoulder. ‘Give me more details.’

‘Why?’ I frowned at him. ‘This is meant to be fun, isn’t it? You never talk about your past because it makes you uncomfortable, so I don’t pry.’

The mocking smile slipped from his face and he kissed me again. He was so good looking it was impossible not to respond as his knee pressed between my thighs, forcing my legs apart. This time there was no foreplay. He didn’t break eye contact for a second when he pushed inside me, and I couldn’t guess whether he was angry or just determined to watch me lose control. I tried to stay silent but it was impossible – I didn’t yell the house down when I came, but I made enough noise to unsettle the ghosts.

Afterwards I fell into a deep sleep on the sofa, my body shocked by so much pleasure. When I woke up again, light was seeping through the curtains, and it was cold enough to make me shiver. I assumed Tom had gone home, but when I opened my eyes he was sitting at the table, fully dressed, flicking through my papers, and I tried not to move. If he thought I was asleep it would be easier to observe him. After a few minutes he turned his attention to my books, reading titles from the spines. He picked up a photo of Lola and me from the mantelpiece and studied it carefully, without making a sound. It felt like a spy had broken in while I slept, and now he was searching my house for something incriminating. When he slipped out of the room I half expected to hear him climb the stairs, to complete his inventory, but after a few seconds the front door clicked shut. All he had left behind was a blast of freezing-cold air.

18

There’s a two-inch gap under the door, and in the morning light Ella can see a patch of wasteland. The snow is piled high, like icing on a birthday cake, and the metal box where he kept her stands beside a solid wooden fence. The box is bright red, with writing on the side, and rust flaking from the doors. It’s the kind that lorries haul, keeping their secrets hidden inside.

She stands up again and scans the room. Every mark on the wall is familiar; it’s been two days since the man left her here. She’s terrified that he’ll forget about her, leave her with nothing to eat or drink. Tears prick the backs of her eyes, so she forces herself to concentrate on playing a game. She counts the objects in the room: one mattress, two blankets, a chair with broken spindles, a loo that doesn’t flush, and a ceiling light that never switches off. Warm air spills from the heater at her feet, and in the corner there’s a pile of old newspapers and a cardboard box full of rubbish: a broken radio and a dartboard with no darts. The radio clatters when she picks it up, pieces loose inside the casing. She presses her ear to the plastic shell, and the hiss sounds like the sea. It reminds her of caravan holidays in Whitstable before her mum got sick, and Suzanne on the beach, throwing pebbles at the waves. She closes her eyes and concentrates as hard as she can. Maybe her sister will pick up her messages, like telepathy in Doctor Who.

The door swings open before Ella can rearrange her features and make herself look glad. The man’s carrying a shopping bag and it’s tempting to run past him, but the fence is too high to climb.

‘Been waiting for me, princess?’

‘Of course.’ She stretches her lips even wider.

‘You’re better than the last one. The miserable little cow cried all day.’

Ella has to stop herself asking where Sarah’s gone, because that would make him angry. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she says quietly. ‘I miss you when you’re not here.’

‘I work miles away, but I’d rather be here with you. Look, I brought you these.’ The man unloads a can of Coke and a chocolate bar from a plastic bag. Ella’s mouth waters. The hunger pains are so sharp, anything would do.

‘Thanks.’

‘And here’s something special.’

The man reaches into the other bag and pulls out a package. It’s gift-wrapped in bright red paper. The man grins as he hands it to her. ‘Open it, if you like.’

She tears back the paper and a piece of cloth drops into her lap. The white material is almost see-through, a dozen tiny buttons running from collar to hem. The dress is identical to the one Sarah wore.

‘Put it on for me, princess.’

‘Why do I have to wear it?’

‘Because you’re a foundling. I’m the one who takes care of you now.’

Ella’s smile falters. She hates the dress. It’s thin and papery as an old lady’s nightie, but there’s no choice. The man is standing there, waiting for her to turn into someone else.

19

The day after Boxing Day I caught the train to London to stay with Lola and Neal. Their flat was a five-minute walk from my place on Providence Square, and returning to the bustle and noise of the city felt like a homecoming, even though I could only stay a few days. I took a step back to admire Lola’s apartment block. It was an upmarket warehouse conversion on Morocco Street, the bricks scrubbed to their original primrose yellow, every flat furnished with a steel balcony. A few months ago she’d been living in a grotty bedsit over an off-licence on Borough High Street. I couldn’t help smiling to myself: Lola was the consummate survivor. Not only had she bagged a toy boy, she’d also found herself the perfect home.

Lola flung her arms round me when I arrived, as if I’d been away for years, travelling dangerous seas. She held me at arm’s length, checking for signs of damage.

‘Come in and get warm.’ She galloped down the hall like an excitable red setter.

A transformation had taken place since my last visit. I’d helped her and Neal move in a month ago, when the flat was a blur of lacklustre walls and kitchen units, the air smelling of decay and stale food. All the rooms had been decorated since then, and the lounge was the
pièce de résistance.
Only thespians could cope with so much drama – emerald-green walls, and swathes of velvet hanging from the curtain poles, as though Kenneth Branagh might step out at any minute to deliver a soliloquy.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ I murmured.

She beamed at me. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much paint I got in my hair.’

The flat had been furnished with very little money but plenty of style. Lola had ransacked her parents’ loft and haunted auction rooms for weeks. The place fitted her personality perfectly – a combination of wild flamboyance and a modicum of good sense. She left me reclining on an antique chaise longue while she prepared lunch, the radio blaring through the open doorway. The one o’clock news was announcing record low temperatures and more snowstorms; travellers were advised to stay at home. Outside the window, the sky was a solid bank of grey.

Lola kept me entertained throughout our meal, regaling me with stories about her teaching job at the Riverside Theatre and Neal’s acting triumphs. I didn’t have to speak at all, enjoying her nonstop flow of stories and impersonations. Eventually she asked about life at Northwood.

‘How are the psychos treating you?’

‘They’re quite a bunch. One man’s been inside longer than we’ve been alive.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He lured vagrants into his basement, then killed them. About two dozen, all told.’

Lola winced. ‘Jesus. You have to work with someone like that?’

‘Not yet. He stays in his cell most days; the guards have got him on suicide watch. If you make eye contact, he thinks you’re after his soul.’

‘God, I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. His soul must be black and shrivelled as a walnut.’

‘The Laurels wouldn’t suit you, Lo. One guy killed every member of his family, then went out for fish and chips.’

She gaped at me. ‘What’s the attraction? Why go near people like that?’

I could have attempted a flippant answer, but she’d have spotted the lie instantly. ‘They come from a different universe. When you meet them, they’re terrifying and fascinating at the same time, and there’s some amazing research going on at Northwood. Neuroscientists are close to finding a cure for violent psychopathy. Imagine how great it would be if we could delete it from our gene pool.’

‘I still think you should let some other poor sod do the dirty work.’ Lola hurried away to fetch dessert, and came back clutching a coffee jug and a plate of macaroons. Her skin was more flawless than ever, auburn hair gleaming with health.

‘You look amazing. What have you done to yourself?’

‘You won’t believe it, Al.’ She fell silent for a minute, building a dramatic pause. ‘I’m eleven weeks pregnant.’

‘That explains why you’re glowing from head to toe.’ I leant over and squeezed her hand.

‘I’ve only told Mum and Dad. We’re waiting till the first scan before we blab to everyone else.’ Her smile widened by another inch. ‘It was Neal’s idea; he thinks we should have three at least. We want you and Will to be godparents.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘Of course. Will’s getting better all the time, he’ll be perfect.’

‘I’d love to. But I’m not the best nappy changer.’

I couldn’t guess how my brother would respond. Lola had adored him since we were at school, but his godparenting style would be unconventional. He’d teach the child to believe in ghosts, and that clouds contain messages about your future. Only Lola was sweet enough to believe he’d be a good mentor for her child. When I looked at her again she was observing me closely, and I could guess her next question.

‘What about blokes, Al? There must be some interesting ones at Northwood, apart from mass murderers.’

‘Not really.’ I took another bite of my macaroon. ‘These are great, by the way.’

‘Tell me, or I’ll give you a Chinese burn.’

‘Okay, okay.’ I dug my phone out of my bag and showed her my photo of Tom asleep in his bed. ‘It’s purely recreational. He’s a gym instructor and he’s a bit of an iceberg.’

‘Recreational’s better than nothing. The man’s beyond gorgeous.’

‘I prefer someone else, but he’s spoken for.’

‘Married?’

‘No, but he’s definitely seeing someone.’

Lola raised her palms to the ceiling. ‘All’s fair in love and war.’

I pictured Tania’s reaction if I tried to poach Burns from her grasp – she’d rip me to shreds with her immaculate talons. I put down my coffee cup and checked my watch; four hours had evaporated into thin air.

‘I have to go out for a bit, Lo.’ I made my excuses and promised to return in time for her dinner party.

London had a distinctly post-Christmas air as I walked to the Tube. A church bell was tolling above the drone of traffic, slightly off key, as if pollution had dulled its purity. I felt compelled to do something to help the investigation. Ella Williams had turned into an obsession; the portrait photos that filled the tabloids floated in front of me whenever I tried to relax. And Lola’s news had wrong-footed me too. She’d make a brilliant, doting mother, but her relationship with Neal was six months old. All I could do was cross my fingers.

Blackened snow was heaped on the pavement when I reached Russell Square, stained by smog and the footsteps of pedestrians. It was a different substance from the immaculate flakes that glittered on my windowpanes in Charndale. The temperature was plummeting, but I needed to see the Foundling Hospital again. I knew I’d missed something. The place had haunted me since Sarah Robinson’s cardboard coffin had been left there like a macabre sacrifice, her body dressed in the foundlings’ night-time uniform. It was clear that other people felt the same. Dozens of cards had been tied to the railings, and a sea of flowers, cards and cuddly toys had flowed across the pavement since my first visit.

The museum was still open when I arrived, but it didn’t surprise me that the ground floor was almost empty. Any rational human being would be curled up at home watching
The Polar Express
instead of visiting the city’s most disturbing museum. It was a relief not to bump into Brian Knowles, the volunteer who had given me a tour. Being alone made it easier to concentrate on the photo displays. The pictures were more than a century old, faded to a dull tobacco. Children’s faces peered out through the brown haze. They were packed into a classroom, straight-backed and attentive, aware that the cane would be administered if they misbehaved. Another picture showed a long line of foundlings being marched across Coram Fields, for their daily exercise, the girls’ pinafores streaming in the breeze. Their faces all looked the same, thinned by a legacy of hunger and anxiety.