Thorn in the Flesh Page 17

  It didn’t take long but, as she brought out the photograph of Stephen that the investigator had given to her and passed it across the desk, Les interrupted her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, glancing at the photograph and then up again at her. ‘We do have a duty to protect client confidentiality here. There’s really nothing I can tell you.’

  Kate felt her shoulders tighten. Les continued to look at her. She couldn’t tell if he recognised Stephen’s picture or not. His features remained as they had been.

  She took a harsh breath. ‘I see. I imagine you think I could be anyone coming to you with this story, which might or might not be true. But I don’t have anything else to make you believe me. The story is simply as it is.’

  Kate gazed round the room. She saw a dirty bookshelf packed with what looked like manuals of some kind, a shabby plant and a curled picture of a fair-haired woman holding a baby. Les’s wife or girlfriend, she presumed. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Swallowing, she found her eyes were burning and she didn’t dare blink. From nowhere a box of tissues appeared and she grabbed one, clutching it between her fingers and dabbing at the wetness on her face. Her shoulder was patted and she was aware that Les was saying words which sounded comforting but which she was unable to understand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said when she was able to speak again. ‘Of course, I should have thought it through before coming here. I don’t mean to put you in a difficult position.’

  ‘You don’t. I shouldn’t have been quite so abrupt about it. They tell me I’m better as a manager here than one of the advisers, though I like to think that’s not true.’

  Les talked of nothing for a few minutes, and Kate was glad of the distraction. When she was ready, she got up to go, but almost stumbled as she stood. His hand on her shoulder saved her from falling.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her. ‘Please believe me when I say I really wish I could help, but I can’t.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ she said, interrupting him and wanting nothing more than to get away. ‘I’m all right. And I do understand. I just … need some air.’

  Outside, she leant against the wall of the centre for a few moments and tried to calm her thoughts. Somebody brushed past her and she looked up, expecting whoever it had been to have already moved on. They hadn’t. In front of her stood a young man in his late twenties with dark blond spiky hair and gold chains on his wrist. Next to him was an African girl dressed entirely in denim.

  ‘Go on then,’ the African girl said to the young man, nudging him. ‘Do it.’

  Kate’s heart thudded as the fear of being mugged swept over her, but the man merely shrugged, spat once on the ground and said, ‘Did you come about Song then?’

  ‘I’m sorry? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Song. You know, Song Man. Or that’s what they used to call him here. Stephen.’

  The sound of her son’s name made Kate blink. ‘How do you know why I came? Who told you?’

  The man laughed. ‘Les thinks he’s so clever, but we overhear stuff, you know? You never know when it might …’

  ‘… come in handy, like,’ the girl finished the sentence. ‘And I think it’ll come in handy today, won’t it?’

  The slyness of her smile spoke volumes.

  ‘Do you know something about St… Song Man then?’ Kate asked her, leaning close enough to whisper. ‘Because if you do, I can pay you.’

  ‘How much?’

  Kate named a price. The girl hesitated, but the young man pushed forward. He brought with him the stale stink of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Come on, Izzy,’ he said. ‘Any money’s good. We’ve got to get married sometime, right? Anyway if we hang around here for too long, Les’ll find out. And then what? We better be quick. Get back inside before they miss us.’

  Without hesitation, Kate thrust the money she’d offered into his hands.

  ‘Tell me what you know about my son,’ she said.

  In the next few minutes, Izzy and the young man – whose name was Barney – told her things she had never known. Stephen had last come to the centre about six or seven months ago. Just before Christmas. Which was a shame, they told her, as he always did well in the panto, but he’d turned up too late to act in it. He had a good singing voice too, hence the nickname. The star turn in the centre drama classes, when things were going right for him. She’d never imagined that. Did he get it from her? She’d always loved the theatre. Anyway, on that night, he’d eaten a hot meal in the café, spoken to one of the volunteers, had a bath and a change of clothes and then disappeared again. He hadn’t been back.

  ‘What was he like?’ she asked them. ‘Was he a friend of yours?’

  Izzy laughed. ‘No way! There’s no way of being friends with that one. He’d turn and tear you up at the slightest thing, he would. A wild one. You had to watch your back. Sometimes he was so high on God knows what that they wouldn’t even let him in here. Sorry to say that, with you being his mother and all, but it’s true.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Kate said, ‘I’ve had enough in my life of not looking at the bad things, of assuming everything is all right. I’m sick of it. I want the truth.’

  ‘He was better last year,’ Barney said with a shrug. ‘For a bit. But then that last time, just before Christmas, well, you could tell something was eating him. He wouldn’t let anyone near him. Not even the bloke that did the plays. And then he went, like we said. I know the centre asked around. They always do, yeah? But he’s gone. Another town, maybe, or …’

  ‘… or he might be dead?’ Kate finished Barney’s words.

  ‘Yeah, and good riddance if he is,’ Izzy chipped in. ‘I ain’t gonna cry over that.’

  Ignoring her, Kate swallowed, the noise her throat made louder than the beating of her heart.

  ‘I don’t believe he’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘No, I know he isn’t.’

  After Barney and Izzy had gone, the air around her seemed to close in, growing ever hotter. She leaned back, trying to regulate her breathing and, for the first time, felt in her body how fragile she was. Nothing but a combination of blood and bone and muscle, all held in by a thin layer of skin, the whole of herself regulated by the unknown machinations of the brain. Why was she here? What was it she’d hoped to achieve? One act of terrible violence and the continuing threat of a man she thought was her son had catapulted her into this insane search for him. Why couldn’t she leave well alone? But no, something in her body, her being, was compelling her to do this, for her own safety’s sake, and she wasn’t strong enough to fight it. She would see it through, however much pain and guilt the end might bring. A sudden longing for the easy friendship of Nicky overtook her and she rubbed her hands up over her face and through her hair.

  The door to the centre opened and she blinked back tears, trying to put on a calm façade in case it was Les asking what she was still doing here. But it wasn’t. The smell, at the very least, should have told her that. Unwashed flesh and alcohol.

  An old man was leaning on the threshold. His white, wispy hair was combed forward over his head, failing to disguise the large, quivering lump that disfigured his left eye. He was dressed in a stained grey tee-shirt and torn brown trousers which didn’t fit him. On his arm, he carried what looked like an old blanket encrusted with dirt and dark smears. Despite herself, she flinched and took two steps sideways, away from him. The man grinned, a disconnected grin that showed rotten teeth and blackness. Suddenly, shockingly, he reached out and grabbed her arm.

  ‘Let me go,’ she tried in vain to push him away and glanced around for help. Nobody caught her eye. ‘Let me go.’

  He didn’t appear to have heard her. Instead, he shook his head, a movement which made the cyst on his face tremble even more.

  ‘You listen,’ he said, his voice high-pitched and as if unaccustomed to use. ‘You want Song, I know him. Might have something for you, eh? You meet me. Tonight. Ten o’clock. Square outside, big square, see?’


  And then he stumbled away, quicker than she’d anticipated and before she could form any kind of reply. After a second or so, she ran after him, his smell still lingering in the air, but he’d vanished into the different groups of people chatting and laughing and, by the time she’d pushed her way through, as gently as possible, he was nowhere to be seen. What had he meant? What did he know of her son? Was it more than Barney and Izzy had told her? And what did he mean: big square? Trafalgar Square? Yes, it must be that. He couldn’t mean anything else.

  For a few minutes she stood alone in the noise and fumes of the city street. Watching the people go by, she knew where she’d be at 10pm.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She had a couple of hours to fill.

  It would have been easy enough to travel anywhere in London she wished to go; there would be plenty of time to get back to the meeting point by 10pm. But something inside was reluctant to put any great distance between herself and where she would meet the old man. So her feet took her first to the National Gallery, open late tonight. By default, she found herself at last in the stark drama of the Sainsbury Wing and, from lack of any other alternative, paid for a ticket to the Stubbs exhibition. The routine of the decision took her back to Bruges and the paintings she’d seen there and for the first time since leaving the centre she compelled herself to concentrate on the present moment.

  As a girl, she’d always loved Stubbs’ pictures – the horse in all its seasons – although she was no rider. Now the strength and clarity of the light and soft colours of the landscapes exercised a calming effect. A particular favourite remained the meditative study of Mares and Foals, and she stayed for a while, drinking in the peace and expansiveness of the scene. This was all she could do for now; there would be time enough for distress, confusion, later.

  At last, avoiding the few more violent pieces in the collection, she came to stand in front of the artist’s great masterpiece, Whistlejacket. His chestnut coat made her smile, so close as it was to her own hair colour. But most of all, the lifelike size of the painting startled her; she’d only ever seen it reproduced in books. It seemed as if the horse was about to turn and step out of the frame, his eyes startled but joyous. And what if he did? Hadn’t too many extraordinary events happened to her over the last few months for her to be concerned about one more? From nowhere, a wave of rare anger flooded its way through her mind and it was all she could do not to step forward and run her nails across the canvas, tearing long gashes through the flesh of the unknowing subject.

  She stepped back, her throat tight and her fists clenched. She was breathing fast, almost panting.

  ‘It’s beautiful, don’t you think?’ An American accent beside her made her jump and she swung round to see a neat woman in her sixties dressed in a red suit and with blonde hair tied up in a complicated arrangement. ‘A real miracle.’

  For a moment Kate couldn’t reply, all social responses lost in the overwhelming need to destroy what she saw in front of her. Then she found her voice again.

  ‘Y-yes. Indeed.’

  It astonished her that she sounded so normal. She felt that everyone in the room should have guessed what she might have been about to do. But no, glancing around, nobody was staring at her, nobody had noticed anything odd. The secrets of her mind remained undiscovered.

  Next to her, the American woman had started a conversation which Kate had not been listening to. Something about “British art”, “the beauty of horses” and how she’d travelled all the way from Maine just to see London and this exhibition. Kate nodded and smiled and searched for the moment of escape. In another life, at another time, she thought she might have been willing to start a casual acquaintance with her companion, perhaps even suggest sharing coffee and conversation in a nearby café, but today such niceties were beyond her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in the end, after five minutes had ticked by. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go. I-I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Sure. You go right ahead. My husband says I always get carried away and talk too much.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Kate said. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you. It’s just that … you see …’

  Uncertain how to end the sentence and the encounter, she waved her hand in a gesture encompassing everything and nothing, and stepped backwards, one step then another and another. Her companion stared after her but didn’t follow.

  Outside the gallery, Kate took great gulps of air and tried to still the bubble of wild laughter forcing its way up from inside her. She sat down on the steps and realised her face was wet. She’d been crying again and she hadn’t even known it. What was happening to her? And how would she deal with whatever was to come?

  As she always had done. On her own and with the intention to survive.

  She ate at a restaurant on the corner of the road opposite Charing Cross Station. She could remember nothing of what she ate or drank and, when she glanced at her watch, it was 9.45pm. After paying the bill, she walked out into the night.

  Weaving between the groups of people, young and old, she turned right and headed towards the lights of Trafalgar Square. Heart beating fast, she made her way down the steps into the new expanse of space filled with fountains and yet more people, presumably on an interval between one activity and the next. Or perhaps sitting or sprawling on the steps here and enjoying the atmosphere was their main purpose? She found an empty bench near a café that looked as if it hadn’t been used in a long while, sat down and wondered how she would know when the old man arrived. The thought that she might miss him couldn’t be borne. Glancing round, she tried to make sense of what she could see. After a few moments, she realised that her first assumption that the crowds were simply out for the night socialising was wrong.

  Some of course were – young girls smoking and giggling, gangs of boys in jeans and leathers – but some were not. Dotted around the edges, she could see bags of rubbish, old blankets, empty bottles and cans piled up together and at the far end a small fire burnt, surrounded by hunched people whose faces she couldn’t see. She couldn’t believe they would do that in such a public place, but there was not a single policeman in sight. Nobody to stop them. Here, she thought, she would find the old man.

  She got up and, swallowing hard, began to walk towards the fire. As she came closer, she could see some of the bags and blankets were not rubbish after all, but people. Nobody was talking.

  Someone jogged her elbow. ‘What’re you doing here, rich bitch? Come to gawp, have you?’

  The voice was hoarse, female and the accent almost indecipherable. She turned quickly, taking a step back, her heart pounding blood through her veins and instinct telling her to run. But she didn’t run. The smell of urine and whisky made her gag but she swallowed down the bile. The figure challenging her was wrapped in a pale blanket, the bottom of it dragging along the ground and streaked with grime and damp. She was stooped and her face was a pattern of lines and whiskers. She could have been any age from thirty to sixty. In her hand was a half-empty bottle and she was swaying towards Kate, leering and coughing.

  ‘Yeah, then,’ she said. ‘What do you want, bitch? Come to have a laugh, eh?’

  Kate flinched.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to find someone.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Find someone? What d’yer fancy then? A bit of rough for a weekday night? I know someone who …’

  ‘Please,’ Kate said, ignoring the questions. ‘I’ve come to find someone who asked me to meet him here. It’s about my son. His name is Stephen. Stephen Williams, but he also goes by the name of Song. Do you know him?’

  The response wasn’t what she’d expected. The woman gave a bark of laughter, leant forward and spat a ball of phlegm at her feet. A smattering of it smeared her shoes. The woman’s eyes, sunken into her face, stared into Kate’s and she noticed her front teeth were crooked and black. Like the man’s from earlier.

  ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I don’t know him now, though I used to in the old day
s, when he weren’t so bad. Now you don’t want to know him neither.’

  Already she was moving away. Kate reached out and grasped her arm. Through the roughness of the blanket, it felt as if her fingers were closing round nothing but skin and bone. A second of pity before the woman wrenched herself away.

  ‘Leave me alone, bitch. What d’yer think you’re doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Please. I just want to know where Song … where Stephen is.’

  ‘How should I know? I told you I don’t know nothing.’

  Close up now, Kate could see the woman’s nose was running and the mucus was making her upper lip glint in the street lights. Around them, she could sense people’s interest growing, the glimmer of a threat, but she hung on.

  ‘Yes I heard,’ she said. ‘But you knew the name.’

  ‘Lemme go, cunt.’

  After a heartbeat or two, Kate released her grip on her companion. Turning away, the woman spat again, but this time aimed at the ground, not towards Kate. Two staggering paces from her, she swung round.

  ‘Yeah, I dunno, I said so, didn’t I? But someone over there might do. Why don’t you ask them and leave me alone?’

  As she spoke, she gestured with her head to Kate’s right. When she followed the direction of the gesture, she saw a smaller group of people huddling around a row of dustbins. She could tell neither their ages nor whether they were men or women.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and burrowed into her pocket to find some money to give the woman for her kindness. But when she looked up, she saw only empty space.

  The warm night netted its mystery round her. Everyone else knew their place in this city of fire and rubbish and the only one who didn’t fit in was herself. Still, she’d come this far. She’d not go back yet.

  She stepped forward. ‘Hello?’

  There was a slow diminishing of whatever conversation the people in front of her had been engaged in. One or two unknowable faces lifted up to hers. She swallowed.

  ‘Please,’ she went on. ‘Someone said you might be able to help me.’