“Hey, what are you doing?”
“How am I meant to work in there if I can’t even get inside?” She stood the second figure beside the first and their featureless faces stared at her serenely. “Anyway, there’s no desk and nowhere to sit. Is this a joke?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Help me.”
“Sorry?”
“If we take out these two as well, we can just about fit that little table in here and a chair.”
“Somebody needs that.”
“There’s no one here.”
“There will be tomorrow. This place is popular. The girls like learning to sew.”
“Girls?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean the prisoners?”
“Yeah.”
Tabitha pushed the table, which was surprisingly heavy and screeched horribly along the floor, into the cupboard. Her spirits were lifting; she felt almost spritely with anger. She picked up a chair and put that inside as well. A single mannequin remained in the corner, its back turned to her. There was just enough room to squeeze herself in as well, though she would have to lift the chair up to get the door closed. She put her bundle of papers on the table and turned back to the warden, who was staring into the distance, whistling softly.
“I need more light.”
He shrugged his large shoulders and pushed his hands deep into his pockets.
Tabitha went to the long table at the front and seized the Anglepoise lamp, then bent down and pulled the plug from the socket on the floor. At first she thought there was no socket in the cupboard, then she spied one near the door. Its cracked plastic casing suggested it hadn’t been used for years. She plugged in the lamp, pressed the switch, and light pooled into the little space.
“There’s a dead mouse,” she said.
“It’s a rat.”
“It’s too small.”
“He’s dried up. But he still has his thick tail.” He prodded it with the toe of his shoe. “See.”
“Can you get rid of it?”
He stared at her.
“OK, OK. I’ll do it.” She stared around her then spied bin bags in the corner, along with a bristle-headed broom. She ripped a bag off the roll, put her hand into it, bent down and picked up the rat in her protected hand, trying not to look at it as she turned the bag inside out with the creature safely inside. She rubbed her hand down the side of her trousers. “Can you put it in the disposal unit for me?” she asked.
He sighed, then took it. She was starting not to mind him. “What’s your name?” she said.
“What?”
“Never mind. How long do I have?”
He shrugged. “Until curfew, I guess. You’ll miss lunch, though.”
“I don’t want lunch.”
He pointed to his left. “There’s a cubicle.” Then, seeing her bewildered expression, “For when you need to go.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll have to lock you in.”
“To the cupboard?”
“To the workroom.”
“Won’t anyone be coming here?”
“It only operates twice a week. Cuts.”
“How will you know when I’m ready to leave?”
Once more, he shrugged his massive shoulders. “Someone will come,” he said.
Alone, Tabitha felt almost giddy with the sense of solitude and space. The fluorescent lights hummed above her and the sewing machines sat there, sinister objects that she felt might suddenly stir into life. Going into the curtained cubicle, she washed her hands, shook them dry, then drank some water from the tap. On the side there was a plastic bag with several teabags in it, but no kettle; also a box of sugar lumps that were turning yellow with age. She put one lump into her mouth and sucked it. Her teeth ached. Then she walked up and down between the tables, running her hand over their surfaces, fingering spools of cotton, lifting pieces of fabric and letting them fall again. She unfolded a pair of trousers and held them out. They were thick and looked comfortable; she wondered if she could take a pair with her when she left. She knew she was putting off the moment of squeezing into the cupboard and facing all those pieces of evidence.
At last she sat down at the table and opened her notebook. For a moment she was a student in the university library, doing research for an essay. But then she looked at the remaining plastic mannequin turned to the wall, and at the photo of Stuart’s body that lay on the top of the pile, and a little shudder rippled through her.
She had to be methodical. She unstopped her pen and pushed the photos away, out of sight. Underneath them was a photocopy of the anonymous letter that had been sent to the police; she had missed it yesterday. It was all in large capitals, written on a slant, everything leaning backward as if the words were about to fall into a heap. The sight made Tabitha feel slightly sick.
FYI. IT IS MY DUTY TO INFORM YOU THAT STUART REES WAS CARRYING ON WITH TABITHA HARDY WHEN SHE WAS UNDERAGE AND HE WAS HER TEACHER. THIS IS TRUE.
Tabitha crumpled the paper into a tight ball and held it in her closed fist. She wanted to throw it on the floor where the dead rat had lain, and stamp on it until it disintegrated. But at last she uncrumpled it, smoothed it out and stared down at the message, frowning.
“Fuck you,” she said. “Whoever you are, fuck you.”
She put the letter to one side and began with the transcript of her own interview. Though it went on for pages, it turned out that she hadn’t actually spoken a great deal. She had said “I don’t know” many times, often repeating the words over and over in response to a single question. She had said she didn’t know what she had been doing that day, didn’t know when she had been in the house and when out, didn’t know how the body came to be in her backyard, didn’t know when she had last seen Stuart Rees. She had also said, several times, that she had no bad feelings toward him, no reason whatsoever to wish him dead. That wasn’t good. Her lawyer, the blustery young man she vaguely
