Waking Broken (10 page)

They sat in silence, each absorbed with their own thoughts. Outside, the daylight faded, replaced with the orange glow of streetlights. The drone of traffic got louder, more commuters heading away from the city as the nine-to-fivers followed the trail of those like Brendan who worked less conventional shifts.

‘Oh yeah.’ Harper looked up. The fog had gone and now he could ask the question that was bothering him. ‘I was meaning to ask you. What’s the story with the girl who lives in the flat next to mine?’

Brendan looked wary. ‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’ Harper glowered: fear making him more irritable than usual. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I did, would I? Like I told you, I don’t even know the place. I’ve got no memories of living there. I was standing outside wondering which door to try when she came up the stairs. I didn’t say anything because I had no idea of her name, let alone how well I knew her. Then I went inside and saw her picture on my wall.’

‘Ah,’ said Brendan.

Harper’s eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t mention her on purpose, did you?’

‘I did wonder if you’d see her.’

‘Well, what did you expect me to do?’ Harper demanded. Frustration made his voice tight. ‘I told you. I don’t understand what’s going on. All I know is I’m in the wrong job, in the wrong flat, in the wrong fucking life. How am I supposed to know who lives next door to me in some lousy flat I turned down years ago.’

Brendan looked embarrassed. He gazed at Harper uncertainly then spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. ‘Look, Danny, I’m sorry, boy but I wasn’t sure what to say. I don’t know what the hell to make of it either. I hear what you’re telling me but none of it makes any kind of sense.’ He hesitated. ‘The thing is, you say you don’t know what’s going on, well how in heaven’s name am I
supposed to make head or tail of it.’

Harper clenched his fists. He stood up and limped towards the window. He stared out into the darkening sky. ‘This is all shit.’ The words spat from his mouth like sour pebbles. ‘I thought you at least trusted me, Brendan.’

‘I do, I do, it’s just…’

‘No. “It’s just” nothing. Either you trust me, or you don’t. If you don’t believe me, say so.’ Harper shook his head. ‘Don’t try and test me, for Christ’s sake.’

Wednesday, 6.48pm:

Rebecca held up a hand and shook her head at the proffered bottle. It was tempting but she could see other complications on offer and was uncertain of her head’s ability to cope with more confusion.

‘I’d better not. I’ve still got to drive home and I can’t afford to lose my licence.’

She sat on one side of a massive bleached wooden table in what was once the stable block of Haworth Manor. Opposite her was Paul Cash. The huge room, lined with tall windows on both sides, was his main studio and workplace.

Cash waved her concerns away with a flick of the hand. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’

Rebecca frowned. ‘That’s easy for you to say but I like having my driving licence.’ She shrugged. ‘Besides, I don’t actually want to crash and if I drink any more on an empty stomach I’m really not sure I’ll be able to make all of those corners between here and home. I don’t want to wrap my car around a tree or around someone else.’

The painter laughed. ‘No, that would be a bit unfortunate. But I wasn’t suggesting you drink and drive. Besides which, I wouldn’t dream of sending you away on an empty stomach.’ He grinned. ‘What I meant was there’s no need to worry about driving if you’d like to stay for another drink. And dinner, of course.’

Rebecca raised her eyebrows.

‘If you’re worried about getting round the corners in your own car there’s always taxis,’ Cash said with an airy wave. ‘Or you can stay here.’ Although his smile softened the bluntness of the unspoken invitation, his grey eyes were unblinking and intense.

The corners of Rebecca’s mouth twitched. ‘No. Thank you but no.’

‘Why not? I’ve got spare beds if you don’t fancy mine.’

Rebecca felt her face going red and laughed. ‘It’s not a question of beds.’

‘What is it then?’

She shook her head. ‘Do you flirt like this with every woman?’

‘Only the beautiful ones.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Rebecca gave him a disappointed look. ‘I’m sorry but that’s just too corny.’

Cash looked wounded. ‘But it’s the truth.’

Rebecca made a disbelieving sound. She looked away from Cash and let her gaze wander around the room. The studio was around eighty feet long and nearly thirty wide. At first glance, it looked fairly austere: pale walls, a stone floor and exposed roof trusses high above their heads. On entering the room, Rebecca’s first impression had been one of almost monastic simplicity. But the appearance was deceptive: the tall windows were well insulated, under-floor heating kept the slate flagstones warm enough for bare feet and a button touched by Paul Cash had brought cool jazz oozing from a sound system hidden in the beams.

The studio was also divided into several sections. The first area, originally a tack room, had been left deliberately empty. Now the anteroom to the studio proper, this was where Cash stopped to clear his mind when he needed to make the mental transformation from Lord of the Manor to artist.

Next came the coach-house, with its huge opposing bays and double height doors. A dais, now empty, stood in the middle of the space. Sometimes occupied by a chair, sometimes by a bed, this was where the painter’s subjects sat or lay. Facing the dais in one of the entranceways stood Cash’s easel and workbench; the opposite bay held the great table where Rebecca sat, surrounded by a welter of papers and plans.

Beyond, in the third section of the studio, replacing the original mangers were racks of stretching canvases and shelves laden with brushes and oils. In place of the wooden stall dividers were bookcases, wardrobes and boxes full of props. The stables contained all the essentials of a working studio; tucked into the far end it even had a small bathroom and a kitchen area containing a fridge for the chilled white wine they were now drinking.

The call from Cash had caught Rebecca by surprise. Her mobile rang as she was on her way home after meeting Sarah and she answered it without thinking.

‘Hello?’

‘Ah, Rebecca. It’s Paul… Paul Cash. Are you busy later this afternoon?’

‘Well… no…’

‘Good. Can you get to the manor around six?’

‘Well…’

‘One important thing, though.’

‘Er , what’s that?’

‘Probably best you don’t tell the lovely Miss Hamilton you’re coming to see me.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Come to see me and I’ll tell you.’

‘Er … okay.’

‘Good. Until six then. Bye.’

As she closed her phone, Rebecca stopped in the street and stared into space as her brain slowly caught up with Cash’s words. Part of her wished she had told him she was off work but another part realised his call was just what she needed.

Rebecca had spent all morning trying to make sense of Daniel Harper and his strange claims. Hours later, her mind was nowhere near a resolution and her thoughts were
still going round in circles. Conflicting emotions tugged at her, feelings ebbed and flowed, but the wash of their currents only served to leave her more mixed up.

She could not deny there was something about the man. Under different circumstances he might well have attracted her interest. There was also a compelling tragedy to his story, a sense of loss that touched her heart. And it was a tragedy to which she apparently held the key.

But she was wary too. Whatever he hoped, there was no way Rebecca could just step out of one life and into some alternative world created by him. Whether deluded fantasy or inexplicable mystery, the facts as told by Daniel Harper refused to add up. She did not believe he was consciously trying to deceive her; there was something too genuine about his hurt for that to be believable. But, on the other hand, an innocent delusion could still prove dangerous. And beyond the improbable lay only the impossible: explanations that made even less sense.

Standing in the street, Rebecca shook her head. She had no idea what Cash wanted but the distraction was welcome. And the fact he did not want Claire Hamilton to know they were meeting suited Rebecca perfectly.

Now, as she glanced around Haworth Manor’s converted coach house, Rebecca became aware she was being watched. She lowered her eyes from the beams and glanced at Cash.

He chuckled. ‘And where were you?’

‘Sorry,’ said Rebecca. ‘I was miles away.’

Cash smile faded. ‘I could see that. I’m just a little worried.’

‘Huh? Why?’

The artist looked at her intently. He was silent a moment and Rebecca felt she was being weighed and measured. Finally, he shrugged. ‘I was very taken with you yesterday, Miss Shah,’ he said gravely.

She bit her lip, conscious of the change of address, instantly worried what it might mean.

Cash frowned. ‘As I told you, I know a few people who knew your uncle and it was easy enough to make a few calls and find out a little about you as well. I wasn’t interested in the kind of rubbish you might put on a CV. What I was interested in what kind of girl you really are, what makes you tick.’ He shrugged. ‘And what I heard matched my initial impression, which is why I asked you here this afternoon. But…’ Cash paused. ‘There’s something different about you today. You seemed hesitant when I spoke to you on the phone and all the time you’ve been here this afternoon I’ve sensed a kind of reserve about you. There’s a part of you that isn’t here today.’

Rebecca twisted uneasily on her chair.  She opened her mouth but Cash held up a hand.

‘I’m bothered by it,’ he said. ‘If you’d been like this yesterday it probably wouldn’t have crossed my mind to offer you this job. But, although I’m a little worried, I’m not going to go back on my word. My instinct about you remains the same. But, before you say anything, I’d like you to do me one favour when you do answer.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t make excuses. If you don’t want the job, tell me. If you don’t want to work with me, that’s fine. I’m old enough to be able to take the truth.’

Rebecca smiled. ‘It’s not that. It’s nothing to do with you.’

Cash put a hand on his heart and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Well, that’s a relief. I thought maybe I was losing my charm after all these years.’

Rebecca laughed. ‘Don’t worry, there’s still a bit left.’

Cash winced. ‘It’s not completely faded?’

She shook her head. ‘Stop fishing for compliments.’

He gave her a jaunty salute before leaning forwards and fixing her with a look of furious concentration. ‘So? What is it? What’s up with you today?’

Rebecca hesitated.

‘Uh, uh.’ Cash wagged a finger. ‘If we’re going to work together we’re going to have to be able to trust each other and that doesn’t just mean talking shop. If you’re going to be my assistant, you’re going to have to get to know me and I want to know you. I don’t want a glorified secretary, I want someone I can put my faith in; that means they’ve got to have faith in me. We need to be able to share the good bits and the bad bits in life. So, ’fess up. What on earth has happened to you since yesterday.’

Rebecca looked into her glass then downed the remaining mouthful of wine. ‘Okay. Fair enough.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll talk. But I warn you, it’s a complicated story and you might not believe it: I’m not sure I do.’

Cash raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

Rebecca smiled and held her glass out. ‘But first I’m going to need some more wine and I’d really like to take you up on the offer of some food; I’m starving.’

Wednesday, 7.10pm:

Harper could not help stopping and staring as they passed the Kavanaugh Centre site. The bottom of the main excavation was now in darkness but orange light from the surrounding streets spilled over the fences. He noticed that the frame of the retaining wall looked more or less finished: two parallel walls of plywood shuttering standing either side of a grid of reinforcing steel.

Harper gave an involuntary shiver, imagining what it would be like down inside the wall: imprisoned by cold metal, sandwiched between wooden walls, a narrow slot of dark sky somewhere above. And then concrete being poured down, an unstoppable flow of heavy, wet death.

For the sake of the murdered woman he was almost happy to be in an alternative existence. Looking at the difference in the state of the development it was clear his life was not the only thing to have taken a different course; hopefully there would also be no body inside this wall.

‘What’re you looking at,’ said Brendan. ‘The site of a previous triumph?’

‘Huh!’ Harper jerked round. ‘What do you mean?’

Brendan opened his mouth to reply then hesitated. He gave Harper a considering stare and tilted his head from side to side as if deciding how to respond.

‘What?’ Harper repeated his question. ‘What is it?’

‘Ah.’ Brendan shrugged. ‘I keep forgetting that your memory and mine don’t quite add up. I don’t suppose you remember the story you wrote about this place?’

Harper scowled. ‘I haven’t
written
a story for a year or two. That’s what I get other people to do.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s how it would work.’ Brendan shook his head. ‘But not round here. You see, in this world you
do
write stories. Not maybe as many as people like Tony Wright would want but sometimes you do get your act together. And sometimes you write pretty well. But other times… Well, you’ve managed a few right royal fuck-ups.’

Harper sighed. ‘Okay, tell me. What did I do?’

‘Ah now.’ Brendan grinned. ‘It was a good one.’ He chuckled and clapped Harper on the shoulder. ‘And done with such style, boy.’

He jerked his head along the road. ‘Come on, I’ll tell you the story while we walk. You’re already keeping me from my usual habits and I’m not spending Friday night standing here while I try and make sense of your exploits.’

They walked on, towards the city centre.

‘Come on,’ said Harper. ‘Tell me the worst.’

‘Okay,’ said Brendan, still smiling, ‘well, if I remember rightly, you were supposed to be covering the crown court. However, you’d got a bit bored and decided to take yourself across the road to The Swan for a spot of refreshment. You’d been there for most of the afternoon when you got talking to this builder who told you about a police investigation into dodgy practice by a local developer.’

Brendan grinned. ‘So far, so good. Trouble is, you then lost the thread a bit.’

Harper shook his head. ‘What did I do?’

‘Oh, you knew you needed a bit more evidence to stand the story up, so you rang one of your contacts over with the cops. Your man there confirmed the basic facts and, despite being well and truly pissed, you wrote a cracking exposé about the whole sorry affair. Made front page of the next day’s edition.’

Harper had a sinking sensation in his stomach. ‘So what was wrong with it?’

‘Oh it was a classic,’ said Brendan.

‘Come on!’

Brendan was still grinning. ‘You’d got the wrong site. The builder’s story was basically true but you’d misunderstood him when he told you the name of the site. And when you rang your friend at the police you were slurring your words a touch. Thing was, the investigation was nothing to do with the Kavanaugh Centre; it was the Caravan Centre out on Western Road. A couple of miles away and a completely different developer.’

‘Oh shit!’ Harper groaned.

‘Yeah, that was something along the lines of what was said at
The Post
when the solicitor for the developers rang the editor for a wee chat.’ Brendan gave a mock wince. ‘Although the editor might have used stronger language. Particularly when talking about you.’

He gave Harper a sideways glance. ‘To be honest, you’re probably still on probation for that one. I know you came pretty close to being sacked. If it wasn’t for the fact that they were already short-staffed, you probably would have been given the boot there and then.’

Harper cringed. ‘So what happened?’

‘Oh nothing much,’ said Brendan. ‘Just that the folks from health and safety went into the Kavanaugh Centre and closed the site down. Caused all sorts of a ruckus. Thing is, it sounds like a few wires got crossed all round. You see, the man from the HSE saw your story and, not surprisingly, it rang a few alarm bells. And not knowing anything about the investigation himself, and only having been recently appointed, he decided his boys should swing into action immediately. And to be fair to the man, he did ring the police to see what they had to say and they confirmed there was a criminal investigation underway. Trouble is, the copper he spoke to hadn’t seen the paper himself and didn’t realise they were talking about different places.’

The photographer shrugged. ‘I went down myself to take some pictures of the HSE carrying out their investigation. The builders had put up all this shuttering for a retaining wall and the HSE made them take it all down so they could check if anything dodgy was going on. In the meantime, you had bosses shouting at foremen, foremen shouting at contractors, contractors walking off site and everyone shouting at the HSE. You were lucky though.’

‘Lucky?’ said Harper in surprise. ‘Why’s that?’

Brendan smiled. ‘Well, at this stage, no one quite understood what was going on. The story in the paper started it all but then this new boss at the HSE said the police had confirmed the story and everyone started blaming the poor cops. It took some of the pressure off
The Post
because all of a sudden it looked like it wasn’t us that were responsible for the balls up and the editor started saying we’d been fed dodgy information.’

He shrugged. ‘I never heard what was agreed in the end but the story was pulled from the later editions and a rather terse little apology printed the next day. I don’t know if the developers still intend to sue but they say the project was put back by a couple of weeks thanks to your little bombshell.’

Harper was still trying to absorb the implications of Brendan’s story when they reached the bistro on Worcester Hill. Brendan hesitated as they approached the door.

‘You sure about this? You wouldn’t prefer we grab something from along The Parade, nip into Maxwell’s for a few jars?’

‘Nope.’ Harper shook his head. ‘There’s nothing edible in your cupboards or mine and I want something proper to eat. Besides, you like it here.’

‘I like it here?’

‘Come on, Brendan.’ Harper slapped his friend on the shoulder, trying to force some bonhomie into the words. ‘We’ll enjoy it. Besides, I reckon a meal is about the least I owe you at the moment.’

The photographer looked uncertain but followed Harper inside.

Half an hour later, they were feeling more comfortable: an omelette, salad and a half-bottle of wine sitting inside them. The bistro was quiet and their table tucked into a corner where they could talk and eat in peace.

Despite again finding himself a stranger in a familiar place, Harper felt at home. The bistro was one of the first places he had taken Rebecca and they had come here at least once a month ever since. Sometimes it was just the two of them; often they brought friends. Rebecca’s old school friend Sarah joined them quite regularly and Harper brought Brendan along on several occasions. And, despite protestations about preferring a pint and a pie in a pub, Harper knew his friend was not really averse to coming to the bistro for a bottle of wine and a steak.

Harper sighed. For the first time in days, he was enjoying a moment of mental calm and physical relaxation. He buttered another piece of bread and took a bite. ‘Shall we order another bottle?’

Brendan gave a nod. ‘I reckon it would be sensible. Under the circumstances.’

Harper smiled quietly. So far the conversation had been easy. By some kind of unspoken mutual agreement, they had managed to avoid speaking of what had been happening. Harper talked about the restaurants he knew and Brendan retold an old story about growing up in Ireland.

‘And which circumstances in particular would they be?’

‘Oh there’s too many to mention them all,’ said Brendan with a careless wave. ‘But it is Friday night after all. I’m not working tomorrow and, thanks to a very kind if gullible doctor, neither are you.’

Harper laughed ruefully. ‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

Brendan gestured at the empty wine bottle. ‘Not until you do something about that, you won’t.’

Conversation was halted for a while by the arrival of their main course, washed down with another bottle of Bordeaux. Too soon, though, their plates were looking bare. Harper swirled the wine around in his glass.

‘By the way, Brendan.’

‘Danny?’

‘I was meaning to ask you. What’s the story with the girl in the flat next to mine? You never told me when I asked earlier?’

Brendan speared a last chip and shrugged. ‘There’s not really much to tell. Her name’s Kate, she’s a nurse, nice girl. Bit of a shame really.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, let’s just say you weren’t a perfect gentleman.’

Harper closed his eyes wearily. ‘Come on, what happened?’

‘Not much to tell. She moved in last summer. You made some excuse to pop round, borrowing a tea bag or something like that. Poor girl made the mistake of thinking you were a nice fella. One thing led to another and you spent several months living in each other’s flats and generally putting on the impression of a happy couple.’

Brendan shrugged. ‘Then you dumped her. Came out of the blue far as I could tell. Kate certainly wasn’t expecting it. Messed her up a bit it did. I must admit I felt rather sorry for her. I liked the girl, still do. Myself, I thought you could have done much worse. You told me some bollocks about feeling uncomfortable about her being around all the time: that you didn’t want to get too committed. To be honest, I’ve a hunch you’d just got bored.’

‘Hmm.’ Harper was silent for a while, inspecting the wine in his glass.

‘So, anyway, Danny.’

‘Huh?’

‘I’ve been thinking a little myself.’

‘What about?’

‘This whole thing. You popping up in the wrong life.’

‘And?’

‘Don’t sound so worried. I’m not looking for holes in your story.’

Harper shrugged.

‘It’s just,’ said Brendan, ‘your life may be different now but it obviously hasn’t always been. I mean you remembered me; you still worked at the same place even if in a different job. I was wondering, has it been a bit different all along or is there someplace where something changed? Did something happen that sent your life off along a different track from the one I know about?’