Chapter 23

To George’s surprise, Lydia declined the offer of lunch. He had assumed that she would embrace every opportunity to eat but apparently she wanted to wait in to be sure of being at home if Conrad came back from his delivery run. It dawned on George several minutes later, when Deborah was sitting next to him in the White Hart, that Lydia had tactfully left the two of them alone together. Several times he had caught Deborah looking at him intently with her brows knitted in a puzzled, questioning expression.

“Is something wrong? Have I missed a bit shaving or something?” George rubbed his hand over his chin in case there was something on it.

“George, I don’t want to be not polite… to look too much into your life, but do you know what you are going to do now? I mean… are you going to stay in England now that Susanna is… well… Are you going to the funeral and going back to the island or what will you do?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know but what happened to Susanna, before she died, I mean, as she was leaving Corfu but I think, well… somebody thinks, this may have something to do with the accident… if it was an accident. I need to get it clear in my own mind. The police seem to think she was deliberately run down but that seemed pretty far-fetched until I spoke to someone who knows about these things – the people trafficking, but I still don’t know.”

“You’re English, George, so it must seem fantastic to you but, believe me, if you came from the Balkans, you would not find it hard to believe that criminals could kill someone for revenge or to keep them quiet. It happens; it really does.”

“I know. I’d thought about that but I don’t know yet what I can do. The police will listen politely and probably try to investigate but what do I tell them? I’ve no names or dates or facts, just a suspicion. And another thing; I’m trying to keep a low profile, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. I could have a... a sort of a problem myself if I get too involved.”

“Why, George? What did you do? Rob a bank,” Deborah teased?

“In a way, yes. I don’t know that it counts as robbery exactly but I don’t want to put it to the test.” The old chill of anxiety returned so when Deborah opened her mouth to say something, George got there first. “ And I don’t much want to talk about it yet. The fewer people involved, the better. On the other hand, I can’t just go and live on my own on an island for the rest of my life. Then there’s money. I mean, I’m okay for now but it won’t last forever. I probably need a job or a business or something. But if I do that I may have to give something to Susan but even if I don’t I can’t leave without settling a divorce and all that. I’m not even sure if I want a divorce. It was all about Susanna but now…well, I don’t really know. Then there’s the girls coming over. I owe it to Susanna to see that through to some sort of conclusion. Oh, I don’t know. Want another drink?” Easing himself into his mock-Victorian seat on his return from the bar, George began the story of his meeting with Helen Knight. Deborah listened intently, watching his face.

“My God, George, your life is complicated, you poor thing. But this is all very exciting, isn’t it? I need to get a job too but I haven’t really started looking yet. I was sort of waiting to find out what you were going to do. Perhaps we could work together? Or I could help you somehow if you are going to do something else? Are you going to help this Helen woman?” She leaned forward and put her hands over his where they held his pint glass, further warming the warm bitter. It was comforting. And more. George felt a glow of intimacy but kept his face straight.

“Another string of questions!” He leaned forward. “I did have a vague idea that I… or we… might get the girls to help somehow, when they get here. Maybe they could somehow meet people… fellow Albanian girls… yes, yes, or Macedonians… who came here illegally and are already working in the sex trade. Of course, they may not want to, especially after what happened to Susanna. I’d need to get some advice from Helen or someone. Anyway, I don’t feel I can just walk away from it now. Whatever…”

Food arrived and scampi and chips came between them and warm tartar sauce with a grey-green skin and knives and forks wrapped in red paper serviettes completed the separation. He put his hand out again, briefly and hesitantly but Deborah seemed not to notice, busy spooning tired capers and pale mayonnaise on to her skimpy salad garnish. George felt comfortable. ‘Come and hold my hand; I want to contact the living,’ he thought and settled down to his warm beer and fried frozen chips. Wonderful; no beating good pub grub!

Neither of them had noticed the nondescript man who had come into the bar and hesitating just inside the door, looked around and, seeming to change his mind, had turned and quietly left.

Lydia was still alone when they got back to the house and a somewhat preoccupied George did not see the questioning look she gave Deborah or the little, non-committal shrug given in reply.

“There was a call for you, George.” Lydia fumbled for a piece of paper in her ski-pants pocket. “Somebody called Brown, from the probation service. What have you been up to?”

“Probation? Not the police? It’s probably about the accident, but I don’t see where the probation people come into it.”

It was not about the accident. It was about the mugging. Lance had been to court and pleaded guilty. Sentencing had been deferred for reports and to allow George to be contacted. The magistrates were minded to make an order for Lance to be confronted by his victim as well as for attendance at a drugs rehabilitation clinic and for community service – all part of attempts to reform him. Was George willing to meet Lance to tell him how badly the mugging had affected him? George got the impression he was supposed to agree and, to avoid having to think of reasons he didn’t want to meet Lance or to confess that he had all but forgotten about the mugging, he said he would be willing to co-operate if the magistrates saw fit to make such an order, falling easily into legal jargon.

The walls of the terraced house were too thin to shut out the sounds from the next room. George had been awake for some time, wide-eyed in the darkness, his mind churning on what to do and what to do first. He knew what he should do. He should get up and work on his list – spend ten minutes on starting to turn it into a project plan with dates, deliverables and dependencies, then he would be able to sleep. But he was afraid that if he got up, his movements would be heard next door and Lydia and Conrad would be embarrassed that their energetic lovemaking had disturbed him, even though they had. Mostly they made him feel lonely and unloved. He badly needed affection and approval for his actions and he had nobody he could really talk to. Even the prospect of going back to Susan, of asking her to take him back might be better than lying awake and alone in a cheap bed, in a small room in a rented, terraced house in South Croydon in September in his forties worrying about finding a way of making a living. You’re a slave to money. Then you die. At least Conrad had Lydia and a future. A vivid memory of lying awake in another bed, long ago, sprang into his mind. Had it been Harriet or Sally? Whoever, and why ever, he had accepted the offer of a bed for the night after the party. Fuzzy with cider, and forever optimistic that his sixteen-year-old lust was about to be indulged, he had not expected her parents to be home, much less to be allocated a bed in a room also occupied by her three-year-old brother in a cot. He had lain awake for some time while the room spun nauseatingly but had eventually slept for a few hours before he was awoken in the pale, early light of a summer dawn by the urgent ringing of his bladder. His roommate was also awake and overwhelmed with excitement to find someone in the nearby bed. Every twitch or wriggle had drawn squeaks of delight and anticipation. As an only child, George was unused to dealing with small people. He had been terrified and dared not move. Instead, he had lain, fully conscious, and tortured by his bladder for what seemed like hours before finally being rescued, at last, by the arrival of Hannah or Sarah or whatever her name had been. Now as then, he thought that, if this were a movie, the bedroom door would silently open and a sexy, rescuing girl would slip into his room.

“George,” whispered Deborah, slipping into the room through the silently opened door. “Are you awake?”

George froze, unsure how to proceed and unsure for a moment whether he was awake or dreaming. While he wondered, the door closed with a barely-audible click. He sat up quickly and saw stars as his nose made violent and painful contact with Deborah’s elbow. His stifled profanity produced a tinkle of giggles from Deborah and a sudden, freeze-frame silence from the next bedroom.