Chapter 26

Someone had written an obscenity in the dust on the passenger door. Stella rubbed off the illiterate letters, pausing a moment to listen to barking dogs in a nearby park. She liked dogs because they were friendlier than cats but she could never have one, she was away from home too much. Home. Thinking about her flat in Chiswick made her even more determined to leave the basement, with its depressing décor and smell of damp. But not yet, not until she had achieved the purpose of her self-imposed imprisonment. She thought about Erin who had delivered the microwave. And liked Babar the elephant. Always a good sign.

The previous evening, one of the female students from upstairs had knocked on her door and asked if she had a bottle opener.

‘No idea. I expect so. They usually have one on the end of corkscrews. Come in, I’ll check what’s in the drawer. What are you studying?’

‘Politics.’

‘Is it interesting?’

The girl shrugged. ‘It’s all right.’

Stella gave a snort. ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are. What are you planning to do when you finish?’

‘We’re having a party at the weekend.’

‘Are you now? With any luck I’ll be gone by then. Actually, it’s the people next door that make all the noise. Drilling, hammering, filling up that skip that takes up two parking spaces, yelling at their kids.’

‘At least, it’s too cold for a barbecue.’

‘True.’ Stella managed a smile. ‘Have a good party.’

Two more days. She would allow herself two more days. But if the days passed, without success, she knew she would have to stay longer.

Why now? Why not last year or the year before? But it had become an obsession, a madness, something that was interfering with the rest of her life.

The weather had turned colder and, leaving her car at the bottom of the hill, she wound her scarf round the lower part of her face, and looked about for a place to hide. Until today, a scarf would have been unnecessary so it was fortunate the temperature had dropped. A good omen, some would say, along with a whole lot of rubbish about coincidences and phases of the moon. Stella despised irrational people, although recently her own rationality had started to go down the pan. If the next car that passes is red . . . If it takes less than thirty paces to reach that tree . . . Too many days had been wasted, catching glimpses that only lasted a few seconds, hearing voices, moving closer then retreating for fear of being spotted.

So far, so good. His car was squeezed in between a brand-new people carrier and a motor bike, spattered in mud. The people carrier had a sticker on the back window that made Stella curl her lip. “Little Princess on board”. God help us. Some people were gross. An elderly man, a few yards ahead of her, kept slowing down to let his dog cock its leg against a tree. Marking out its territory, and people were the same, flaunting their gentrified properties and manicured gardens. Money was good, but only for providing new opportunities, new challenges. Money gave you choices.

A shiver ran though her body. She needed to find a better position, one where the front garden was clearly visible. Could she will them to come out? Could she, hell? A black transit van had been parked a short distance away and should provide enough cover. Looking up, she saw the sky had become dark, menacing. It might snow, or was it too cold? Feeling in her pocket, she found the remains of a bar of dark chocolate and broke off two squares, pushing them between her cold lips, and biting hard. Her nerves were on edge, and she focussed on an Asian woman with a double buggy, who was struggling up the opposite side of the road. One of the flats above the basement housed Asian students, but she had never spoken them. Like her, they preferred to keep themselves to themselves.

Now what? She could have killed for a cigarette. Before she left the basement, she had studied a map of the whole area and been surprised how close to the coast she was. Once, years ago, she had stayed in a B&B with Auntie Linda, who was not actually her real aunt. The sea had been far out, where the sand started to change into mud, and she had ridden on a donkey called Daisy – that plodded along with its head down – and eaten fish and chips, and candy floss.

With her brain fully occupied, estimating the distance from the city to the coast, she almost missed the child that had appeared in the front garden. In spite of the cold, she had no coat, and she was coming out onto the street, calling someone’s name. Someone that turned out to be a cat, sitting on a low wall. Now she was stroking it, talking to it, then she held out her hand, testing for non-existent drops of rain.

She was small for her age. Not pretty, but with a pleasant intelligent face and hair that had been cut very short and was more or less the same colour as the cat.

Stepping out from behind the van, Stella asked if the cat belonged to her.

‘My mum won’t let me have one.’

‘That’s a shame. What about a guinea pig?’

‘My friend’s got one. It’s called Sanders.’

‘Great name.’ Stella was keeping half an eye on the house, listening for sounds, voices, someone calling the child’s name. Taking her phone from her pocket, she asked if the cat was Siamese.

‘No, Burmese. They’re very friendly and they like you stroking them. He’s called Rex. He never scratches.’

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘Some cats pretend to be friendly, then they bite your hand. Have you got one?’

‘A cat? No. I live in a flat and cats like a garden. What’s your name?’

‘Maeve. Is Rex in the photo you took?’

Stella held it out for her to see.

‘Oh, it’s got me too. I’m having a phone for my birthday. Most of my friends have had one for ages but Mum said I had to wait till I was eleven.’

‘When will that be?’ As if the date was not imprinted on her mind.

‘Next month. Which house do you live in? I think I saw you before. There’ve been quite a lot of new people in the road.’ Maeve stopped stroking the cat, and pointed. ‘I live in that yellow one. Mum likes it, but Dad doesn’t. He says white would be better.’

The woman was coming through the front door. She spotted Maeve and shouted to her. ‘What on earth are you doing? You’ll freeze. How many times have I told you—’

‘That’s my mum. I have to go.’

‘Bye, Maeve.’ Stella held up the phone for her to have a last look, and started walking, half running, calling over her shoulder. ‘Have a good birthday.’

‘Maeve!’ The woman’s voice was high-pitched with anger. ‘Come back here at once. I’m tired of telling you . . .’

‘I was talking to Rex.’ Her voice faded as Stella slammed her car door, started the engine, and moved off, glancing in the driving mirror but seeing nothing. Her eyes were too blurred with tears.