Call me paranoid – if you can be paranoid on someone else’s behalf – but I wanted to remind Luke about his personal safety. And I thought it safer not to phone him from the pay phone in the work-room. Finding an empty-ish bit of road, I parked and fished out my mobile. If I wanted to use it again, I’d better charge the battery tonight.
It seemed to me, as I dialled, that I was still taking risks over my own safety. I’d had the same car for a week now. Time to chase the garage about the repair. Or to change the hired one.
No time to make decisions: the switchboard was quick to take the call. And the young woman who answered first ring in Personnel was quick to tell me that Luke was off sick. I knew there was no point in asking for his phone number – would have been furious if she’d given it to me. But I asked anyway. And then – half relieved, half frustrated by her discretion – I tried Directory Enquiries, to hear the charming plastic voice giving it without hesitation.
What did I want? A bit of pathetic fallacy? Machinery anticipating misery? What I got was a surge of anger: hadn’t the silly sod learnt from experience that there are some things best kept private? Had he never thought of being ex-directory? Or was he making a foolhardy attempt to prove to himself that lightning never struck twice?
It was my fault it had struck once.
I counted the rings. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. If it got to twenty-five I’d go back to Piddock Road and ask Peter to—
‘Hello?’
The voice was thick, distorted. A cold or broken nose? Sore throat or shattered teeth?
‘Luke! Are you all right?’
‘Sophie, my dear, do I sound as if I’m all right? I’ve got the flu in spades and you get me out of my bed to ask if I’m all right. Oy vey!’
‘Are you expecting any visitors today?’
‘It should be the Aspirin Fairy?’
‘So long as you don’t answer the door to anyone else. Promise me, Luke.’
‘You sound like my old mother. Are your feet in a mustard bath? Have you rubbed your chest with goose fat? Are you—’
‘Someone’s after me,’ I cut in. ‘I’d hate them to be after you too. Here, write down this number, and if you think of anything that could help us both, phone. Peter’s OK. He’ll listen.’
‘With my voice he’ll need good ears. Who is this Peter, anyway? Don’t I need to know that?’
‘He’s a senior CID officer, based in Smethwick. I’ve told him about you. Now, please look after yourself—’
‘OK, OK. I’m just going back to bed.’
‘Well, for God’s sake stay there!’
I knew it would take ages to get through to the garage: they joke I always wait for them to embark on the most difficult two-man job before lifting the phone. Since they don’t run to a receptionist, I always have to hang on. And on.
Goodness knows what they’d been lifting; Paul was quite out of breath when he answered. And quite irritated: he’d left three messages with my colleagues (I knew of old that he was allergic to answerphones and I did have the nasty habit of leaving my mobile switched off) to say the car was ready as soon as I’d primed my cheque book to pay the insurance excess. Oh, and a bit of work on one or two other things.
So who had failed to deliver not one but three messages? I was so pissed off, I forgot I ought to be checking behind every lamppost for potential assassins, and charged the short distance into West Bromwich like Boadicea late for battle.
I was greeted by Jago with the sort of smile designed to fetch the ducks off the water. Still sucking pastilles, and, come to think of it, with quite a convincing rasp, which might have been intended to be sexy, he got up, bending his head and striking his chest in a classic mea culpa.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I found this. I must have buried it when we were sorting everything out. I hope it hasn’t messed you about.’
His script was rather too mannered for my taste, but the message was clear enough. ‘YOUR GARAGE CALLED. YOUR CAR IS READY. BRACE YOURSELF FOR THE BILL!’
‘The least you can do is run her over to collect it,’ Lola observed.
‘No. Don’t worry—’ No way was I going anywhere with him.
‘Where is the garage?’ she pursued.
‘Selly Oak. Just off Bristol Road.’
‘That’s excellent. I need to get there for my osteopath’s appointment. You could take us both, Jago. It is preferable not to drive after treatment.’
So Jago would have to sit and wait for her. I suppressed a grin and demurred no more. With Lola riding shotgun, surely nothing could happen to me. In fact, I could myself put him to a little extra trouble – I could drop off my hire car on the way.
As I handed over the keys, another little thought path clicked open. Lemon … lemon throat pastilles … Jago … Jago jogging …
So, reunited with my Clio and separated from a disconcertingly large amount of money, I set off for West Bromwich. I’d hardly crossed the Birmingham border before I chickened out. I simply couldn’t face going back into UWM, not for a bit. I had to be there till nine thirty tonight, after all. I couldn’t bear to stick it out that long in the company of a Jago made almost unbearably vivacious after his Sir Galahad act. He’d contrived to flirt with both of us, the stupid pillock.
Irritating little prick … Lemon-sucking little prick …
I checked the clock on the dashboard. If I did indeed dash I could just nip down to talk to Aggie. No, it wasn’t a disinterested visit. I wanted to experiment with some lemony smells. Bowen’s lemon-flavoured antacids, Jago’s throat lozenges – I wanted to see if she reacted to either of them. It might give some clue about the visitor she’d scared off. Provided the gods were on my side, I should be back in plenty of time for the English Language class in the afternoon.
It wasn’t that the Clio wasn’t every bit as nippy as the Fiesta. It wasn’t that it was tatty – I cherish my cars. It was just it seemed a mite old-fashioned. Well, the model was due for a revamp any day now. I’d have to look into the possibility of turning it in. Fiesta or Clio? And what had Paul said: check every likely model on the market? Well, that could pass some spring days. Depending on my finances, of course.
At least I knew where everything was on this radio. Radio Three or Classic FM? Berg on Three, but Brahms on Classic FM. The sextet I’d heard at the Barber. Lovely. But hardly had the last note died away when the news came on. Then the weather. Finally the announcer declared, as if announcing the end of civilisation, ‘And on Classic FM Sports News—’ how I hate the way they imply that they’ve got exclusive coverage! ‘—England batsman Mike Lowden is set to miss the next Test through injury.’
Mike! Injured! How badly? My God! And I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t even checked Ceefax for God knows how long. Or the sports pages. The announcer chirped on. A pulled thigh muscle. That was all. No need for all those vocal histrionics.
I breathed out. A long, therapeutic sigh. And realised that with my anxiety my speed had increased: better drop that before a passing patrol car noticed. There. I told myself, again and again, repeating it like a mantra. Thigh. That’s all. And this time next week I shall be on my way to rub it better. Thigh. That’s all …
But it was a thigh I’d once rubbed with a tenderness I’d not realised I was capable of feeling. Somehow I felt little comfort.
Aggie was pleased to see me, accepted my rushed explanation with interest and consented to breathe in lemon smells from the tablets I’d brought. Provided – she eyed me with grandparental severity – I had a sandwich with her when I’d finished sucking.
‘Or you’ll need one of them stomach things for real, won’t you? Can’t go mucking about with a stomach like that. OK. I’ll shut me eyes, shall I?’
I wasn’t sure how to do it. Like a wine-tasting? Except it needed both of us to have fresh palates and fresh noses. I started on a throat pastille.
Aggie blew her nose on a voluminous handkerchief that looked as if it might have been one of her late husband’s. I breathed out. She sniffed.
‘No. I don’t reckon it was one of them. Go on, wash your mouth out good and proper and try the other. A good rinse, mind. Like young Ian Dale says.’
I did as I was told, and embarked on the antacid.
She shook her head sadly. ‘Couldn’t swear to that, either, my love. Not to put a man under suspicion, that is. And, you know, I wonder if the lemony smell wasn’t more … sort of all over him. I don’t know. And there you’ve driven all this way. I am sorry. Now, you will have a bit of bread and cheese with me, won’t you? Only I made a bit of bread the other day, and there’s this cheese – they make it round here …’
Stinking Bishop! Well, who could resist? Aggie was chuckling even as she passed me the plate.
Fear. That was the smell of my English Language group. Getting back with ten minutes to spare, I’d called the register with clarity and care. Then I’d circulated a sheet of paper for them to sign their names, and I taught exactly what I was supposed to be teaching. The future tense and idioms and vocabulary they’d need if they were ill. But instead of the usual anxious goodwill, I felt this constant tension. What on earth had I stirred up with my visit to the so-called University College of the West Midlands? Christabel, the girl from the university college building, seemed to be avoiding eye contact at all costs. As did the others. Yet I was quite sure that when I was addressing other people, she was staring at me.
The harder I tried to engage their interest, the more I sensed it slipping away from me. The more I smiled and urged, the more withdrawn they became. Was I being fanciful to wonder if it was suspect to engage in conversation with me? That there was someone in the group making sure the others weren’t too friendly?
Twaddle, Sophie. You just aren’t teaching very well, that’s all. And you’re boring on and on and all they want to do is head off to the refectory.
Perhaps if I hung around at the end of the class – nothing unusual; I always made it clear to classes that I was happy to give extra help then – Christabel might come and talk to me about whatever was troubling her.
But however much I smiled and looked relaxed, no one stopped behind. Well, after a class with all the charm of an endurance test, I wouldn’t have either. But as I sighed with frustration, and prepared to gather all my papers together, I realised I’d not collected in the name list. Hell! I could have sworn I’d picked it up – yes, Tim Yip had passed it to me. So where was it?
In the far corner, on a desk. And it was not alone. Under it, on the back of a spare handout, was a neatly written note. ‘Please do not come to the college hall of residence again. But I will try to talk to you. And show you. C.’ The last three words were crossed and recrossed.
So should I try to talk to her in the refectory? No, pointless: she wouldn’t approach me in so public a place. Not if she wouldn’t risk speaking to me after a class. Perhaps, though, if I could see her around the building, I could persuade her into the comparative safety of a tutorial room.
No. No sign of her anywhere. But as soon as I’d dumped my teaching stuff, I’d scour the place for her.
Jago was looking more than usually smug when I went into the work-room.
‘I’ve just been doing your job,’ he said. ‘Helping the police.’
It took me a second to remember that on a previous occasion he’d failed to pass a message on. Now he was preening himself as if he’d cornered the market in civic virtue. Oh dear, he’d be a lot less smug, wouldn’t he, when they got round to asking him to help them with their inquiries. As no doubt Peter would, when he was good and ready.
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘How?’
‘They needed someone to translate when they talked to some Malaysian tarts,’ he said.
I’ve never quite been able to call prostitutes ‘sex workers’, but I didn’t like his total lack of sensitivity over the nomenclature. I didn’t like the snotty-schoolboy glee with which he spoke, either.
‘Prostitutes?’
‘Yes. One seems to have topped herself. I suggested Jenny.’
Why Jenny, for goodness’ sake? She would speak some sort of Chinese, not Malay.
If he couldn’t restrain a coy half-smile, I couldn’t hold back my curiosity any more. ‘Why on earth did they ask you?’ After all, he was, like myself, just a student.
‘Oh, someone started to dictate a message for you. I interrupted and offered to help.’
I could almost see the officious straightening of his shoulders, hear the spurious authority in his voice. Why had I ever bothered to try to help this creep? A man who’d volunteered a woman he seemed to be attracted to into what would at best be a harrowing job and at worst a dreadful one. ‘Well, that was very kind of you,’ I said.
He smiled, modestly, not noticing the flatness of my voice.
I smiled too. I would enjoy telling Peter who’d been so helpful. But I’d also tell him that whoever had spoken to Jago had been in the wrong: they should have gone through official channels.
Right. Time to hunt for Christabel. The refectory? The library? A loo? I scoured the building, only to find her in the corridor nearest our work-room. There she was, assiduously reading the notice board. I went and read it too. The evening’s session on Managing the Curriculum had had to be cancelled. Richard Hoffman was ill. He’d reschedule it for next term. Meanwhile there was a set of worksheets in an envelope pinned to the notice board under the note. I wondered if Bowen would have been so conscientious in similar circumstances. Like Christabel, I took a worksheet – actually several sheets stapled together, with exercises to complete at the bottom.
Pointing to the top page, I whispered, ‘I’ll check if there’s anyone using the lavatories. If no one is, I shall stay there, just inside, and you will come in and talk to me. OK?’ I pointed lower down the sheet.
She turned a page and pointed to something on it. Bless her! She’d followed my ploy. ‘OK.’
If only the outer door had had a convenient lock. The best I could do was lean against it. Then, burrowing in my bag for a fat felt-tip and cadging a sheet of plain A4 from Christabel, I wrote
OUT OF ORDER
DO NOT ENTER
‘There,’ I said. No Blu-tack, of course. So I slipped it between the plate saying WOMENS TOILETS (one day I’d have to do something about that missing apostrophe) and the door itself. It might just hold. Then once again I closed the door and leant against it.
Christabel smiled briefly. But her face was serious, frightened even, when she said, ‘You must not come to the hall of residence again. It put – puts – us in danger. All the women.’
‘Can you tell me how?’
She reached for that tiny pocket inside the front right pocket of her jeans. I’ve never worked out what it was intended to hold. Tickets? Change? Hers held a scrap of newspaper. She unfurled it and thrust it at me.
I couldn’t recognise the language, let alone translate it.
‘What does it say?’
‘It say – says – ah!’ She gasped, her eyes widening with fear.
Someone had pushed against the door hard enough even to shift me. I staggered forward.
Christabel shoved the paper into my hand and bolted herself into a cubicle. I pocketed it – same tiny pocket – as a figure erupted into the room.
‘Someone should report that door to Maintenance. It could hurt someone, sticking like that.’ Lola had clearly benefited from her osteopathy session.
I nodded ambiguously and made my escape.
Yes, there was my impressive notice. Not on the women’s loo door. It had fallen from where I had lodged it but someone had thoughtfully given it a new home. Between the name plate and the door of the MENS TOILETS.