Chapter 19
As soon as Julian woke, he knew something had changed. His mind had cleared up much as a cold might do or a boil. The mist that each day had sat across his forehead was gone. But the clarity brought him discomfort as well as joy. He felt very strongly that he had no excuse now; that were certain responsibilities he needed to fulfil and that these duties needed to be carried out soon.
He got up and showered. The clothes, which had lain where he had thrown them across the chair the night before, he gathered up and put in the laundry basket in the bathroom. They smelt and he grimaced as he carried them along the hallway. He could not remember when last he had changed into clean underwear — maybe he hadn’t bathed or showered for some time either.
No one was in the kitchen but there was a place laid for him. The egg was cold as usual. Julian couldn’t imagine why his mother had such faith in the little jackets she placed over the eggs — the small knitted woolly hats he remembered from two decades before. He supposed she had boiled the egg at nine and then had left it on the table under its jacket until eleven, when he had got up. He imagined that she had been doing that ever since he had been returned home by the police. Apparently, she had the energy to care for him but not the patience to wait to cook breakfast until he got up.
He sat back and looked at the table. He could hear them outside, squabbling in the garden. It was a bright day, was it summer? He thought it must be. How long had he been that way — living but not living, seeing but not seeing? Was he better now? He supposed he must be.
The healing must have started some days ago. He remembered that he had started to listen to his parents’ voices: was that good or bad? Oh how they wished he was a small boy again: the endless stories of his childhood and how he had done this and said this; the mimicking sound, tuk, tuk, as his mother broke the shell of his egg; the smiles that came over their faces when they looked at the photos on the wall — of him on his ‘Mickey Mouse’ tricycle, of him clutching his father on the merry-go-round; of him in blazer and cap, old-fashioned even then for all but the stuffiest of private schools. Would they have felt so nostalgic if he had made a success of himself?
It was time to go. To leave again but it was different this time. Before when he had left he had been off to university and had known he would not be back. He hadn’t known what he was going to do but he had known that it was to be the end of childhood. This time he had a mission. He had been too passive up to then — too reactive. It was time to become active - proactive - that was the way they put it, those people who did things and made an impression on life. He would take life by the ’scruff of its neck‘, isn’t that what people said you should do? He would no longer be the one who took it without giving back.
He had been made the scapegoat and had only escaped by the merest of lucky chances. No it hadn’t been luck; he owed Anderson, he owed him his life. John had believed in him, he had been the only one to do so, even though the woman had pretended later that she had too. He was determined: he was going to earn the right to call him buy his first name — it was time to pay the man back.
It had been last week that they had come, he thought. It could have been before, because time had meant so little. He had, they thought, a right to know but they had left, he realised that now, without being certain that he had understood. Maybe he hadn’t then but he did now. Turney was free. The man - Comben, Detective-sergeant Comben, was his name, Julian remembered now - had apologised. The other, the woman, had said she knew he had never been responsible.
He wished he had more to tell them but there had been no connection, except the telephone call and the lift Turney have given him to the factory and they knew all about that. Turney had lied about the note – the one he had never sent – and Julian had told them so right at the beginning. Had he told them about it again, when they came this time? He supposed he had and hadn’t they smiled and said it was not enough?
And now Anderson was on leave and Clarissa distraught. That wasn’t right and it was up to him to make it right.
They came in from the garden and the chatter began. He couldn’t listen, so he left the egg on the table and went to his room, ignoring, as he did so, to plaintive cries form behind him — ’aren’t you going to eat the egg, I made it specially for you.’ Yes, especially for him two hours before.
There wasn’t much to pack but he had to wait until they went to bed in the afternoon. Then he left.
His old flat was no longer a crime scene and neither was the one across the hall. That one was still empty and he supposed the landlords might have to wait a while until memories grew dim before trying to let it again. Blood would have seeped into the wooden floors through the carpet. There would be traces if one cared to look. The next tenant needed to be ignorant enough to look at the stains and imagine they had been made by spilt red wine.
He slept well that first night and in the morning rang up a few numbers from the phonebook. John Anderson was a common name but he knew the flat was nearby, Comben had let that out and he had only to phone three numbers. Anderson wasn’t there and Clarissa took a long time to answer; he could understand that. But she seemed pleased to hear from him. He could tell she wasn’t well. After speaking to her, he knew he had been right in his decision. He walked round to see her and she gave him her house keys: that settled it. She even asked him to bring back her laptop. He thought that was a good sign.
The next day he took up his post. That was how he thought about it. He was a soldier on duty. He was a scout and he would need patience but he knew that the man would come.
He sat just inside the park railings, propped up against a tree facing South. He had a book open in his lap but seldom glanced down. There was a stretch of grass ten yards or so to his right separating him from the path that formed the boundary of the main field, where the bodies had been found. To his left and down the hill in front of him was Clarissa’s house. There were no trees or bushes between him and the front door, so it was in clear view. He enjoyed the idea that he had been there before in that same spot. Last time it had been for his own sake but this time he was on mission of mercy or was it revenge.
At first, he wore a sweater but it was August and became warm from eleven in the morning. At noon he stripped off his sweater but left his shirt on for the rest of the time. There were a few others who sat or lay or played football in the centre of the field. Soon no one would remember what had been found there. At dusk he put his sweater back on.
Turney came late in the evening, he walked passed the house on the park side of the street and then walked back on the other side. Julian supposed that Turney was looking for police cars but all the parked cars were empty. Julian imagined that the police had long ago given up watching although they knew where Turney lived. Following a man who wasn’t wanted couldn’t be justified as a reasonable expense — that is what he had been told.
Turney turned first left after he had passed the house and, when he did so, Julian moved. He walked down the grass towards the gate and sat again nearer the railings this time. He was higher than the road and could look over Clarissa’s hedge and along the side of house. Although it was gloomy, he soon saw Turney come from behind the house and let himself in through the side door.
Julian waited but no light was switched on inside. It had got too dark to see much now from where he sat and anyway the park was closing, so he walked out of the park across the road and stood behind the hedge in front of the house. He was out of sight of the road and positioned himself so that he could see the side path. He crouched down and was very still. Turney very soon left the way he had come without even looking in his direction. Julian saw him climb over the fence at the back of the house.
As soon as Turney had gone, Julian let himself into the house through the front door. He had keys for the latch and the deadlock. He switched on the hall light, walked into Clarissa’s study, and switched on the light there. Both Clarissa’s desktop and her laptop had gone. Would she have been able to write again, even if he had brought the laptop to her? Probably not. Julian was disappointed for her. He understood; he himself hadn’t yet started to write again.
After this, Julian walked around the house. Everything portable had gone: television sets; microwave; video recorders; computers; ornaments; paintings. He guessed that Turney had sold them. He had been living off his wife since his release, as he had done before. Now the place looked empty. Anything else that Turney wanted to remove would require a van and Turney couldn’t afford that. It would be noticed. The man would have to find work now.
Upstairs Julian found out what he wanted to know. Turney was sleeping in his old room; his clothes were scattered around and the covers loosely thrown back over the bed. He hadn’t wanted any of them to know, that was why he didn’t use the front door to the house. He had wanted to appear from nowhere and surprise them. Julian did not intend to allow him to do that again. As he had told Clarissa, he was waiting no longer. It was his turn now. Turney had had his chance.
He wasn’t Turney’s target. He had helped Turney – albeit unwittingly – and the man would have no grudge against him. That was what made the whole thing possible. And, in a strange way, he really ought to thank the man. Turney hadn’t meant to do him a favour. He had wanted him locked up but it hadn’t worked like that thanks to Anderson. Instead, the shock had helped. He no longer felt helpless and his headaches had gone. It was time to give thanks – not to God he would leave that to his father – but to Anderson and Clarissa and to Amanda. They had had a hard time one way or another and it was payback time.
He left the house in darkness and locked up. Back home a wave of happiness came over him. He had seldom felt this way. He gloried in his freedom — not just from jail but from the claustrophobia of the semi in North London. He would never go back to that and, if he couldn’t make money from writing, then he would do something else. There was no way he would be a client, sponging on those two old people again. The thought made him uncomfortable as a wave of guilt passed through him. He owed them everything and they had helped him get better. In some ways, if they had been less fussy, it would have been worse. Maybe he would never have left.
He walked to the front window of his living room and looked across the road. The curtains were drawn across the window through which he had seen Amanda that time. Was she still living there? He thought not but he would like to know, so he walked across the road and rang the bell. Amanda answered but he could tell she was frightened. His voice calmed her and she buzzed him through the street door.
Upstairs, he stood at the front door to the flat and made no attempt to go inside. ‘I came to apologise for the last time I was here,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised that you’re still here, I thought you would have moved.’
It was Felicity who answered. ‘We moved here when Mark disappeared. I don’t suppose it worked but we thought he might not find us.’
Inside Amanda and Felicity clung together. His voice and his demeanour made them more comfortable; he could see that. And he was dressed neatly in jeans, a clean shirt and a short jacket. They all looked newish and pressed; he felt respectable. They smiled and ushered him to a seat and offered coffee. He said he would like that. He joked and stipulated that it had to be real coffee. They nodded and fussed and were pleased.
Amanda served him and he was rude enough to hold her hand to steady it as she tried too hard to put his cup on the small table by the side of his seat. Felicity brought him a tissue to mop up the saucer, while Amanda sat opposite and allowed the tears to come to her eyes.
Turney of course, he had known that before they had told him. Turney spooking them, ringing their bell at night or when he thought one of them was alone.
‘I’ve no intention of letting Turney get away with it,’ he said.
Amanda stopped crying and sat up listening attentively. Julian imagined it was a measure of her desperation to have been so affected by his words. They couldn’t know how he had changed. They could have no reason for feeling confident that he could turn his intention into action. Julian appreciated that. He didn’t know either but he felt that he might. He would give it a good try and he thought he might very well succeed.
‘And how will you do that?’ asked Felicity.
Julian looked round at her. He knew the story. Did she still want to be called Felicity? In any event, whatever she called herself it was to her he would look for help. ‘Will you help?’ he asked.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she answered.
‘We will stalk him just as he has been stalking you.’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Amanda.
Julian was not going to tell her. It wouldn’t help and it would get Fielding and possibly Anderson into trouble if he told. He would be economical with the truth — wasn’t that the proper phrase? ‘Clarissa told me what has been happening.’
‘Even the police don’t know where he’s living,’ said Felicity.
It wasn’t true of course, Anderson was not at all surprised when he had told him what he had seen but he wasn’t going to tell them why he knew that. ‘I know,’ he said. They waited for him to continue but it was too early, they needed time to absorb what he had told them, to understand how he had changed.
He finished his coffee and got up. ‘I’ll call on you, when I need you,’ he said and left.
Back home he thought over their conversation. He had wanted to prepare them but not frighten them and he had done that. They must know deep down what he was going to do but he wasn’t sure how they would react. He imagined that Felicity would do anything to rid the world of Turney but what of Amanda and, even if she wanted to help, would she be able? Three of them should be enough even if two were women. They would need to be resolute and tomorrow he would test them.
He phoned the next day and then visited again. This time, after the coffee was served and he was seated, Julian could see that they expected something. That was an improvement. They had believed him and he would not disappoint them.
‘I know where Turney sleeps,’ he said.
They waited.
‘It was quite simple, if the police had wanted to know they could have found out.’ He stopped and sipped his coffee. His little white lie had its affect. They waited patiently for him to continue and did not interrupt. He liked it. He was enjoying himself. It hadn’t happened before that women had taken notice of him and waited on his every word. He took another sip. ‘He lives in Clarissa’s house. He never switches on the lights and he has been selling her stuff to live on.’
The two women looked at each other. He had scored and it had been so easy. Now he would see how far they would go. He told them his plans.
Amanda was not shaking that morning. The cup she had placed on his table had a clean saucer and when he had grasped her wrist it had been still and cool. She hadn’t pulled it away either. There hadn’t been any women as beautiful as Amanda who had left their wrist in his hand so willingly. He looked into her eyes and wondered whether they would seem so appealing afterwards.
But, by the time he had left, it had all changed. Felicity had taken Amanda into her arms to quieten her and the girls’ bodies appeared to vibrate together in front of Julian’s eyes. Would they be able to do what was necessary? He had to believe that they would. Turney had run out of money; both of them would need to act very soon. Julian felt it had to be that night.