| |
SUSAN STOOD ALONE WITH her feet together while hordes of commuters brushed past her. She wore a long camel coat and a polo-necked jumper and held her hands by her side. In the streets outside Waterloo station the sun shone, but inside it was chilly and it smelt faintly of axle-grease. The tannoy blared arrival and departure times into a conversational rumble that echoed between the glass ceiling and the fake marble floor. Kiosks sold pasties and baguettes and cups of coffee. Men in yellow jackets zig-zagged between the Underground and the ticket barriers with litter pickers and clear bin bags. It was five to ten.
It was imperative this date should go well even if ‘George’ should turn out to be dull, so she was determined to behave nicely. And since there was nothing provoking about him it shouldn’t be difficult. She remembered the way he’d stroked her head – the only person at the funeral who’d had any sympathy for her.
She sat down then walked around for a while. She looked at her watch then at the station clock. It was nearly ten now. She stared into the human jumble in an attempt to distinguish him. She hoped she was in the right place.
George arrived at Charing Cross at nine-thirty so he wouldn’t miss her. He went to the toilet, bought an Independent then left to take up his post half a mile away at the Savoy end of Waterloo Bridge.
That was where she’d be if she’d worked out the nearest spot to the museum.
But she wasn’t there.
It would be just his luck if she’d chosen the south-eastern end. It didn’t matter. The potential for problems could be minimised if he kept walking from one end of the bridge to the other and crossing the road on each about-turn. In addition, he’d brought a pair of binoculars. If she arrived, he’d see her. He hoped.
But at five past ten he began to worry. He realised as soon as he’d left her that they’d failed to agree all the details. He should have said which end of the bridge at least. He’d walk to the south-western.
The sun flashed on the river in step with him. The commuters thinned out. Crossing the bridge now were day-trippers, tourists, students, shoppers. As a rule he loved London, but now he was too anxious to appreciate it. He raised his binoculars and scanned the area with the police station behind it for the eighth time.
Susan looked at the station clock again. Ten past. She wondered how far away he lived – although that had nothing to do with anything. Maybe his train was held up. But if he’d been looking forward to today as much as she’d been he’d have taken an earlier one – one that got him in at half nine, say. Then he’d have had time to go to the toilet, get a newspaper ... She looked at her watch again then at the station clock. They were the same.
She’d taken a day off for this. Her boss wasn’t happy, but that was his concern. She didn’t like it there anyway. They treated her like she was stupid. She understood postcodes better than anyone and she wore her badge everywhere but they never gave her the slightest credit. Now that Vivienne was dead they were itching for an excuse to fire her. If anyone was going to save her now, it would have to be George. It wouldn’t be Royal bloody Mail. Vivienne knew that as well as she did.
The next time she looked, he was fifteen minutes late. She wondered what could be keeping him. She didn’t dare contemplate the worst.
George was using his binoculars again when a policeman arrived. His face was thin and pockmarked and his eyes narrowed into suspicion. His helmet was too big. He stopped, raised both feet in turn and put them down as if to say he was never going to move from here again.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Could you tell me what you’re doing?”
“I’m just looking for a woman.” As the chaplain at a women’s refuge George was used to dealing with the police. But that was in his professional capacity. Now he was just a private individual behaving in a way even he could see was shifty.
“Any particular woman, sir?”
“About five foot five, blonde hair down to just below her shoulders. Very attractive - ”
“Does she have a name?”
“Susan Swinter-Jones.”
“And what might your name be, sir?”
“George Grant. Look, I’m not doing anything illegal. It’s just I arranged to meet her on this bridge but we forgot to agree on what side of the river. I don’t want to miss her, that’s all.”
“Can’t you ring her?”
“I – I didn’t get her number.” He felt stupid.
“Fair enough. Do you mind if I just take a quick look through your bag, sir? It’s just – we’ve got to check these sorts of things, reassure ourselves. Then I’ll be on my way.”
His tone suggested he no longer thought there was anything to worry about, he was merely going through the formalities. George opened his bag.
“Is that a woman’s shoe in there, sir?”
George took out Susan’s shoe. “This? Yes. She left it behind last time we met.”
“Have you ever heard of Richard Reid, the shoe bomber?”
“I vaguely remember something. In the papers ...”
“So you don’t have this woman’s number. Do you have her address?”
“No. Look, as I recall, Richard Reid had to board a plane. The only way he thought he could hide the explosives was to put them in his shoe, his own shoe. It was a completely different situation. If I wanted to bomb London there are a thousand things I could conceal a bomb in. I wouldn’t bring an expensive lady’s shoe in a carrier bag. Have a look inside it if you like.”
“Do you mind if I take it away for analysis?”
“But – what? She’ll be expecting it back.”
“Let me have your address, sir. We can get it back to you in a few days. She’ll get it back. Or you will.”
“But that’s - ”
“Try and look at it from my point of view, sir. This is a very litigious society we live in. No one wants to be sued, me included. Now I grant you, the chances of this shoe housing anything lethal are small, but even a small risk is a risk. I’m not a risk taker.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous.”
“The shoe, sir. And your name and address.”
George handed over the shoe and his name and address. The policeman’s demeanour changed.
“So you’re a reverend?”
“Yes.”
“Can you confirm that? Identification of any sort?”
“I’ve got a hymn book, that’s all.”
“That’ll probably do.”
George produced Hymns Ancient and Modern from his jacket. It had his Christian name on the inside cover, but the policeman didn’t look at that. He flicked through it to confirm it didn’t contain explosives.
“On the inside cover,” George said.
The words, To dear George on your confirmation, December 1978, lots of love from Mum and Dad were written in blue fountain-pen.
The policeman sighed. “Fair enough. I’ll have to take the shoe, though.”
“Bloody hell, okay then. But I must have it back. What’s your name?”
“PC Sevensteps, sir.”
“Do you mind if I take your number?”
“Why? Are you going to complain?”
“Not necessarily. Not if I get the shoe back fairly quickly. I am entitled to take your number though.”
“Because if you’re going to register a complaint I think we should continue this conversation in the police station, where I’ve got witnesses.”
“I’m not going to complain.”
“I think we should continue this conversation in the station, just in case, don’t you, sir? It’s only a matter of yards away. I can give you my number there. It won’t take a minute. Then we can give you a proper receipt for your shoe - ”
“It’s not mine.”
“The single ladies’ shoe, which you’re carrying - ”
“Excuse me, can I help?” A second, older policeman had arrived. With thick eyebrows and more effortlessly narrow eyes, his helmet was also in reassuring proportion to his head.
“I’m just trying to explain to this – colleague of yours why I’m in the middle of London with a pair of binoculars and a single ladies’ shoe doing nothing illegal and trying to cooperate fully with his questions and why I don’t feel I should have to come to the Station when I’m - ”
PC Sevensteps cleared his throat. “The fact is, sir - ”
“Okay, Sevensteps. You go back to the Station. I’ll deal with this.”
“But sir.”
“Go on. We’ll talk about this later.”
PC Sevensteps ground his teeth and walked away, still carrying the shoe. George was about to protest but didn’t want to push his luck. His heart sank as he watched it go.
“Sorry about that, sir,” the older policeman said. “Fact is, I’ve been eavesdropping. Apologies for him. He’s new. I’ll make sure you’re left alone now.”
“Will I get my shoe back?”
“So it is yours?”
“I meant the shoe I was carrying.”
“Yes. I’ll ensure that. Good morning.”
He left. George looked at his watch. Bloody, bloody hell, it was eleven o’clock. He focussed the binoculars on the opposite side of the bridge. No Susan. He ran to the Albert Embankment. No Susan. Back to the Victoria Embankment. No Susan there either. He looked through the binoculars again and swivelled a hundred and eighty degrees. No Susan anywhere.
Either he’d missed her or she’d failed to show. Either way, his chances of ever seeing her again had shrunk exponentially. A chasm opened in his stomach. Apart from anything else, he was exhausted. He sat down on a bench on the Embankment path and put his head in his hands. He was still clutching the newspaper he’d bought. He swore and slammed it in the bin. Then he felt guilty for not recycling it. He took it out again.
He had one last alternative but it was a desperate one. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.
Susan decided ‘George’ wasn’t coming at eleven o’clock. Why hadn’t they arranged a particular part of the station to wait in? It was so big. They could have been wandering about for an hour missing each other by centimetres for all she knew.
But that was unlikely. He hadn’t given her a false name for nothing.
She didn’t hate him for it though. She couldn’t shake the conviction of his fundamental decency. Her wrestling match with Valérie at the funeral probably put the frighteners on him. She wanted to see him and explain that that wasn’t the real her. Not any more. She really did want to change.
But she wasn’t going to see him, today or ever. He’d decided against her and since she didn’t have his phone number or his address there was nothing she could do about it. There was an end to the matter.
Suddenly her mobile bleeped. A text. Valérie. Phillip & I say: lunch 12, @ Anton’s? We’re paying.
Phillip had supposedly ‘forgiven’ her for putting him in hospital and destroying his flat. He was having reconstructive surgery on his nose and he’d left his wife and daughter for Valérie. Susan didn’t want anything to do with them any more, but that was when she’d been relying on George. Now she had no one.
She hesitated, then texted a yes. She had to eat. And it was free.
Two hours later, George arrived back at the women’s refuge. He’d spent the train journey steeling himself for what had to be done. He had to e-mail Charles.
He went up to his room and switched on his Viglen. Everything he owned was in here: a cluttered desk, a single bed strewn with recently-acquired books about ancient Egypt, a picture of Christ, a bookcase and a filing rack piled with folk CDs, devotional texts and Private Eyes.
While the computer was loading he took a prayer manual from the rack. On page 54 was ‘For Use When Despairing’. He recited it, logged on to the Internet and went straight to his Inbox. As far as he knew, Charles was now in Australia.
There were a thousand reasons why he’d have preferred not to contact Charles now the funeral was over, and a thousand more in relation to Susan. They’d been collaborators on a short-term project. They’d never been within a million miles of the intimacy Could you please tell me your granddaughter’s phone number required.
He’d ask for her address, not her phone number. That was okay. ‘Phone number’ sounded far too much like what it was.
After careful thought, he started to type.
Dear Charles,
How is Australia? I hope you’re well.
Sorry to trouble you when you’re on holiday, but I wonder if you could let me have Susan’s address? After the funeral she thoughtlessly left her shoe behind and I was hoping to return it to her.
Best wishes,
George Grant.
A reply came the following day.
George,
If it’s the shoe I think it is, one of a pair isn’t going to do her any good. She hit her mother over the head with the other one and I had to confiscate it. I threw it on my garden where it’s presumably been fertilising the roses for the past three weeks. I shouldn’t think it’s in any condition to be worn any more, not with the rain you’ve been having. She’s probably got hundreds of shoes, in any case. You have my official permission to throw it in the bin.
Charles.
He had no alternative now but to come clean. He braced himself for the embarrassment of another appeal.
Dear Charles,
I didn’t mention this in my last e-mail, but I also made an agreement to meet Susan in London. The trouble is, I forgot to get her contact details. I wonder if you could help me out? Obviously, confirm all this with her first. I’m sure she’ll remember.
Best wishes,
George.
The reply came four days later.
George,
I can see what’s behind this and forgive me for being frank but what I’m about to say is for your own good.
You’re an idiot if you’re thinking about dating Susan. Yes, I can see she’s attractive but beauty’s only skin deep and believe me it fades. She’s mad, bad and dangerous to know and, if I was of your particular religious persuasion, I’d think God had intervened to make me forget to ask for her contact details. Because that’s the sort of thing ‘deliverance’ is. Steer well clear of her and any woman that remotely resembles her is my sincere advice.
I don’t actually have her address and telephone number but even if I did, I wouldn’t give them to you. More than that. I’d e-mail our mutual acquaintances and tell them not to give them to you. Why? Because I rather like you and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Susan eats men like you for breakfast and when they emerge from her arse they’re covered in shit and gasping for breath.
Count your lucky stars she hasn’t come looking for you. She’s a psychopath. I told you in my last e-mail she attacked her own mother with a shoe. I wasn’t even trying to dissuade you from anything then, just stating a fact. When I get back to Britain, remind me to sit you down sometime and list her other crimes. If you happen to have a spare seventy-two hours, that is. And I’m not even an expert. I don’t even know most of them.
One day, you’ll find someone you click with. You’ll marry her, settle down and have a swarm of delightful children. And maybe years later, by chance, you’ll bump into Susan. Then you’ll know I did you a favour. How? Because by that time she’ll have turned into what she is. Green scaly skin, long hind-feet with claws, etc. By contrast, whatever you’ve chosen to settle down with will probably still look vaguely human.
I had a word with Edward before I left the country. I told him in no uncertain terms what I think of this ‘Secret Bachelor Society’ you and he and Thanongsak are in. I think it’s a self-pitying perpetuation of the very thing it purports to want to get away from. When I get back, we’re all going to a dance and we’re going to pull some tit. Or you are. There’s no excuse for virginity nowadays. Not at whatever age you are.
In the meantime, forget Susan. And that’s an order.
Charles.
He sighed. Time to take those ancient Egypt books back to the library. He knew he should feel devastated and he did. But Charles had made him wonder. Perhaps he really had had a lucky escape.
He didn’t think so, no. He’d only spoken to her for twenty minutes but he wasn’t about to forget her. She was beautiful, true, but that was just a pretext. It went beyond that. Even with ‘green scaly skin, long hind-feet with claws, etc’, he’d still want to take her to the British museum for a look at the ancient Egyptians and a cup of tea.
And yes, definitely see her again afterwards.
