'Did you give it to him?'
'Well, it was your dad.'
'Fine,' I managed. 'I'll speak to you later. 'Bye.'
I threw the phone down, took a few deep breaths, then picked it up and dialled.
'Hello.'
'Dad? Hi, this is Abbie. Is that you?'
'Course it's me.'
'You rang the office.'
'What office?'
'Just a minute or two ago. You rang jay and Joiner's.'
'Why should I ring them? I've been doing the garden. The snow pulled down the orange climbing rose. I think I can save it, though.'
I was suddenly cold, as if the sun had gone behind the clouds and an icy wind had sprung up. 'You mean, you didn't ring them?' I said.
'No. I keep saying. You haven't phoned for weeks. How have you been keeping?'
I opened my mouth to reply, and then the doorbell rang, one long, steady peal. I gasped. 'Got to go,' I said, and jumped to my feet. I could hear my father's tiny voice through the phone's mouthpiece. I raced from the sitting room into Jo's bedroom, grabbing my bag and keys as I ran. The bell rang again; two short bursts.
I fumbled with the catch then pulled up the window and leant out. It was only about an eight- or nine-foot drop into Peter's narrow, overgrown garden, but it still looked horribly far and I'd land on concrete. I thought about going back into the living room and dialling the police, but everything in me was telling me to flee.
I clambered out on to the window-sill then turned so I was facing backwards. I took a deep breath and pushed off.
I hit the ground hard and felt the shock jarring up my body. I half fell, hands outstretched and scraping along the cold concrete. Then I straightened up and ran. I thought I could hear a sound from the flat. I pounded across the garden's overgrown and sodden lawn. My legs felt like lead as I dragged them over the rotted mulch of leaves; I could barely make them move and it was as if I was running in a dream. A nightmare, where you run and run and never get anywhere.
There was a high wall at the back of the garden. It was full of cracks and in some places the bricks had crumbled and come away. There were brambles with purple stems as wide as hose pipes climbing up it. I found a handhold, a foothold, pulled myself up. I slipped, felt rough brick grazing my cheek; tried again. I could hear myself panting, or sobbing; I couldn't tell which. My hands were on top of the wall, and then I was there, one leg over, the next. I let go and fell into an adjacent garden, landing painfully and twisting my ankles. I saw a woman's face peering out of the downstairs window as I staggered to my feet and limped to the side passage that led out on to the road.
I didn't know which direction to go in. It didn't really matter, so long as I went somewhere. I jogged along the road, each step throbbing in my ankle. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. A bus drew up at a stop a few yards away and I hobbled towards it and jumped on board as it was drawing away. I went and sat by a middle-aged woman with a shopping basket, even though there were spare seats, and looked back. There was no one there.
The bus went all the way to Vauxhall. I got off at Russell Square and went into the British Museum. I hadn't been there since I was a child and it was all different. There was a great glass roof covering the courtyard and light flooded down on me. I made my way through rooms lined with ancient pottery, and rooms full of great stone sculptures and I saw nothing. I came to a room lined with vast, leather bound books; some were on stands, opened at illuminated pages. It was softly lit and quiet. People, when they talked,
talked in whispers. I sat there for an hour, gazing at the rows of books and seeing nothing. I left when it was closing time; I knew I couldn't go home.
Twenty-one
As I came out on to the steps of the museum I realized that I was freezing. I had escaped from the flat in only a light sweater. So I walked to Oxford Street and went into almost the first clothes shop I came to. I spent fifty pounds on a jacket. It was red and quilted and made me look as if I should be standing on a railway platform taking down train numbers, but it was warm. I took the tube north and walked to Ben's house. He bloody wasn't there. I walked over to a Haverstock Hill cafe, ordered an expensive frothy coffee and allowed myself to think.
Jo's flat was now out of bounds to me. He'd found me again, and now he'd lost me again, for the time being. I tried to think of another possibility but there was none. A person had obtained my address from Carol by pretending to be my father. I made a feeble attempt to imitate a sceptical policeman. I tried to imagine an angry client or someone I'd hired being so desperate to contact me personally that they would attempt this complicated subterfuge. It was nonsense. It was him. So what would he do? He had found where I was staying. He didn't know I knew that or maybe he didn't. He might think that I was out and he simply had to wait there for me. If that was so, then I could call the police and they could go and arrest him and it would all be over.
This idea was so tempting that I could hardly stop myself. The snag was that I knew I was about one millimetre away from Jack Cross losing patience with me altogether. If I tried to call out the police because of some suspicion I had, they might simply not come. Or if they did come, they might just find that he wasn't there. And what was I asking them to do? Go up to any man, any man at all, and accost him on suspicion of being my kidnapper?
I finished my coffee and walked back to Ben's flat. The lights were still off. I didn't know what to do so I lurked outside, stamping my feet, rubbing my hands together. What if Ben was in a meeting? What if he had suddenly decided to meet someone for a drink or go out for dinner or a movie? I tried to think of somewhere else to go. I started to compile a list of friends I might drop in on. Abigail Devereaux, the Flying Dutch woman, wandering from house to house in search of food and a bed for the night. People would be hiding behind their sofas when I rang the bell. By the time Ben walked up the steps, I was feeling thoroughly sorry for myself.
He looked startled as I stepped out of the shadows, and I immediately tried to apologize for being there, and then, in the middle of my apology, I began to cry and was immediately angry with myself for being so pathetic and tried to apologize for crying. So now Ben was standing on the steps outside his flat with a crying woman. Worse and worse. In the midst of it all Ben managed both to put his arm round me and get his keys out of his pocket and unlock the door. I started an explanation of what had happened at Jo's flat but, whether because I was shivering with cold or whether saying it out loud made me realize how frightened I had been, I was unable to speak coherently. Ben just murmured words into my ear and led me up to the bathroom. He turned on the bath taps. He started to pull down zips and unfasten buttons on my clothes.
'I like the jacket,' he said.
'I was cold,' I said.
'No, really.'
He pulled my clothes over my head and eased my trousers down my legs and over my feet. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Red-faced from the cold, red-eyed from crying. I looked raw, as if my skin had been peeled off with my clothes. The hot water of the bath stung at first, then felt wonderful. I wanted to live in that bath for ever, like a primeval swamp animal. Ben disappeared and came back with two mugs of tea. He placed them both on the side of the bath. He started to take his clothes off. This was nice. He got in with me, entangling his legs with mine, and he behaved like a complete gentleman: he sat at the end with the taps. He draped a flannel over them so that he was able to lie back without being in total discomfort. My mouth was working again and I managed to give him a fairly composed account of my escape, if that's what it had been.
He looked genuinely startled. 'Fuck,' he said, which struck the right note. 'You climbed out of the back window?'
'I didn't open the door and ask him in for tea.'
'You're absolutely sure it was him?'
'I've been desperately trying to think of any other explanation. If you can come up with one, I would be so grateful.'
'It's a pity you didn't get a look at him.'
'Jo's front door doesn't have a peephole. There was the additional problem that I was having a heart-attack from fear. I have to admit that there was a part of me that almost wanted to lie down and wait for him to come and
