THIRTEEN
“I’m going to Camden Market,” I said. “Straightaway.”
Lynne looked confused. It was Saturday and only just past nine o’clock, and I guess she’d got used to my staying in my bed till late, trying to find ways of being alone. For the past two days I had been locked into my nightmare, seeing those photographs over and over again in my mind. Zoe, looking as if she had simply gone to sleep; Jenny, obscenely mutilated. Yet here I was, washed and dressed and strangely friendly, and ready to go.
“It’ll be crowded,” she said doubtfully.
“Just what I need. Crowds, music, cheap clothes and jewelry. I want to buy lots of useless things. You don’t need to come with me.”
“I’ll come, of course.”
“You’ve got to, haven’t you. Poor Lynne, trailing round after me, having to be polite all the time, having to lie. You must miss your normal life.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I know you don’t wear a wedding ring. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Yes.” Her familiar blush spread over her pale face, her birthmark flamed.
“Hmmm. You must be wishing this was all over. One way or another. Come on. It’s only five minutes’ walk away.”
Lynne was right. It was a hot day, the sky a faded dirty blue, and Camden Market was packed. Lynne was wearing long woolen trousers and heavy shoes. Her hair hung down her face in sweaty little tails. She must be sweltering, I thought to myself with satisfaction. I had put on a lemon-yellow sundress and flat sandals; my hair was tied back. I felt cool, light-footed. We pushed our way through the crowds, and the heat rose from the pavements. I looked round as we walked and felt a wave of euphoria rise in me, that I was among this great sea of people again. The dreadlocks, the punks, the bikers, the girls in bright dresses or tie-dyed skirts, the men with pitted faces and watching eyes, the teenagers slouching by and being cool in that self-conscious kind of way you lose, thank God, as you get older. I tipped back my head and breathed in the patchouli oil and dope and incense and scented candles and good honest sweat.
There were stalls selling freshly squeezed juices on the corners and I got us each a tumbler of mango and orange and a pretzel. Then I bought twenty thin silver bangles for ?5, and slipped them onto my wrist, where they clinked satisfyingly. I bought a floaty silk scarf, a pair of tiny earrings, some flamboyant clips for my hair. Nothing I couldn’t put on immediately. I didn’t want to be carrying anything. Then, while Lynne was examining wooden carvings, I slipped away. It was as easy as that.
I went quickly down the staircases that led to the canal and ran along the path until I got to the main road. It was still crowded and I was just another body in the crowd. I ducked and weaved between them. If Lynne came this way, looking for me, she wouldn’t be able to see me now. Nobody would be able to see me. Not even him, with his X-ray eyes. I was on my own at last.
I felt free, quite different, as if I’d shaken off all the rubbish that had been clinging to me over the past weeks: The fear and the desire and the irritation fell away. I felt better than I had in days. I knew where I was going. I had planned the route last night. I had to be quick, before anyone worked out where I was.
I had to ring the bell several times. I thought maybe he had gone out, although the curtains in the upstairs windows were still closed. But then I heard footsteps, a muffled curse.
The man who opened the front door was taller and younger than I had expected, and more handsome. He had pale hair flopping over his brow, pale eyes in a tanned face. He was wearing jeans and nothing else. He looked bleary.
“Yes?” His tone wasn’t exactly friendly.
“Are you Fred?” I tried to smile at him.
“Yes. Do I know you?” He spoke with a languid self-assurance. I imagined Zoe beside him, her eager, pretty face looking up at his.
“Sorry to wake you up, but it’s urgent. Can I come in?”
He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Nadia Blake. I’m here because I am being threatened by the same man who killed Zoe.”
I thought this would surprise him, but it clearly hit him like a physical blow. He almost fell backward.
“What?” he said.
“Can I come in?”
He stepped back and held the door open. He looked utterly dazed. I was past him before he could say anything more. He followed me upstairs to a small cluttered living room.
“I’m sorry about Zoe, by the way,” I said.
He was looking at me intently.
“How did you hear about me?”
“I saw you on a list of witnesses,” I said.
He ran his hand through his tousled hair and then rubbed his eyes.
“Want some coffee?”
“Thanks.”
He went into the adjoining kitchen and I stared around me. I thought there might be a photograph of Zoe, something that would remind me of her, but there was nothing. I picked up some of the magazines lying on the floor: horticultural manuals, a guide to London club life, a TV guide. There was a heap of round stones on one of the shelves and I picked up a marbled one that looked like a duck’s egg and held it in the palm of my hand. I put it carefully back and picked up a brown felt hat that was hung on the edge of the chair, swung it round on my forefinger. I wanted to feel close to Zoe, but she felt utterly absent. I picked up a carved wooden duck from a shelf and examined it. When Fred came back into the room I hastily restored it to the shelf.
“What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously.
“Just fidgeting. I’m sorry.”
“Here’s your coffee.”
“Thanks.” I had forgotten to tell him I don’t like it with milk.
Fred sat on a sofa that looked as if it had been retrieved from a dump and motioned me into the chair. He held his mug in both hands and stared into it. He didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry about Zoe,” I said again, for want of anything better.
“Yeah,” he said.
He shrugged and looked away. What had I been expecting? I had felt that there was a bond between us, because he had known Zoe and that made him, in a quite irrational way, closer to me in my imagination than any of my friends.
“What was she like?”
“Like?” He looked up sulkily. “She was nice, attractive, happy, you know, all that, but what do you want from me?”
“It’s stupid, I know. I want to know silly things about her: her favorite color, her clothes, her dreams, what she felt like when she got the letters, everything…” I ran out of breath.
He looked uncomfortable, almost disgusted.
“I can’t help you,” he said.
“Did you love her?” I asked abruptly.
He stared at me as if I had said something obscene.
“We had good fun.”
Good fun. My heart sank. He hadn’t even known her, or didn’t want me to know her through him. Good fun: what an epitaph.
“Don’t you wonder, though, all the time what she must have felt like? When she was being threatened, I mean, and then when she died?”
