The doorbell rings. He turns toward the sound, surprised. I follow him down the stairs and wait in the hallway as he opens the front door.
Yvonne gives a deep-throated sob and throws her arms around his shoulders, crushing his head to her chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she wails. Her eyes open. “Alisha?”
“Hello, Yvonne.”
Manhandling Barnaby out of the way, she smothers me in her cleavage. I remember the feeling. It’s like being wrapped in a fluffy towel, fresh from the dryer. Gripping my forearms, she holds me away. “Look at you! You’re all grown up.”
“Yes.”
“You cut your lovely hair.”
“Ages ago.”
Yvonne hasn’t changed. If anything she is a little fatter and her pitted face has fleshed out. Overworked veins stand out on her calves and she’s still wearing men’s shoes.
Even after Ruth Elliot recovered her speech, Yvonne stayed with the family, cooking meals, washing clothes and ironing Barnaby’s shirts. She was like an old-fashioned retainer, growing old with them.
Now she wants me to stay, but I make excuses to leave. As I reach the car, I can still feel Barnaby’s stubble on my cheeks where he kissed me goodbye. Glancing back at the house I remember a different tragedy, another goodbye. Voices from the past jostle and merge. The sadness is suffocating.
8
Donavon gave the police an address in Hackney, not far from London Fields. Set back from the road, the crumbling terrace house has a small square front yard of packed dirt and broken concrete. A sun-faded red Escort van is parked in the space, alongside a motorcycle.
A young woman answers the door. She’s about twenty-five with a short skirt, a swelling pregnancy and acne scars on her cheeks. Cotton wool is wedged between her toes and she stands with her heels planted and toes raised.
“I’m looking for Donavon.”
“Nobody here by that name.”
“That’s too bad. I owe him some money.”
“I can give it to him.”
“You said he didn’t live here.”
“I meant he wasn’t here right now,” she says curtly. “He might be around later.”
“I’d prefer to give it to him personally.”
She considers this for a moment, still balancing on her heels. “You from the council?”
“No.”
“A welfare officer?”
“No.”
She disappears and is replaced by Donavon.
“Well, well, if it isn’t yindoo.”
“Give it a rest, Donavon.”
He runs his tongue along a nick in his front tooth while his eyes roam up and down over me. My skin is crawling.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?”
“My mother told me to beware of strangers who tell lies about owing me money.”
“Can I come in?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“I’m fucking certain I ordered a Thai girl but I guess you’ll do.”
He hasn’t changed. The pregnant girl is standing behind him. “This is my sister, Carla,” he says.
She nods, sullenly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Carla. I went to school with your brother. Did you go to Oaklands?”
Donavon answers for her. “I sort of shat in that particular nest.”
“Why did you run yesterday?”
He shrugs. “You got the wrong guy.”
“I know it was you.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Are you gonna arrest me, Officer? I hope you brought your handcuffs. That’s always fun.”
I follow him along the hallway, past a coatrack and assorted shoes. Carla continues painting her nails at the kitchen table. She is flexible and shortsighted, pulling her foot almost up to her nose as she dabs on the varnish with a thin brush, unconcerned about exposing her knickers.
A dog beneath the table thumps its tail several times but doesn’t bother rising.
“You want a drink?”
“No. Thank you.”
“I do. Hey, Carla, nip up the road and get us a few cans.”
Her top lip curls as she snatches the twenty-quid note from his fist. “And this time I want the change back.”
Donavon gives a chair a gentle shake. “You want to sit down?”
I wait for him to be seated first. I don’t feel comfortable with him standing over me. “Is this your place?” I ask.
“My parents’. My dad’s dead. Mum lives in Spain.”
“You joined the army.”
“Yeah, the Paras.” His fingers vibrate against the tabletop.
“Why did you leave?”
He motions to his leg. “A medical discharge. I broke my leg in twelve places. We were on a training jump above Andover. One of the newbies wrapped his chute around mine and we came down under the one canopy. Too fast. They wouldn’t let me jump after that. They said I’d get a pension but the government changed the rules. I got to work.”
I glance around the kitchen, which looks like a craft workshop with boxes of leather strips, crystals, feathers and painted clay beads. On the table I notice a reel of wire and pliers.
“What are you making?”
“I sell stuff at the markets. Trinkets and shit. Don’t make much, you know…”
The statement trails off. He talks a little more about the Paras, clearly missing army life, until Carla returns with a six-pack of draft and a packet of chocolate biscuits. She retreats to the stairs with the biscuits, eating them while listening to us. I can see her painted toes through a gap in the stair rails.
Donavon opens a can and drinks noisily. He wipes his mouth.
“How is she?”
“She might be brain damaged.”
His face tightens. “What about the baby?”
“She wasn’t pregnant.”
“What?”
“She was faking it.”
“What do you mean—faking it? Why would she…? Makes no fucking sense.”
The phantom pregnancy seems harder for him to accept than Cate’s medical condition.
“Why are you interested in Earl Blake?”
“Same reason as you.”
