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‘No worries,’ I said, but I was nervous now.
He took a fresh needle and jabbed again – and the same searing pain shot through me.
‘Ow!’
He stared down at me, needle in hand, and I gazed back at him with apprehension. ‘Why’s that happening?’ I asked anxiously, looking at the spot of blood welling from my wrist.
‘I’m not sure. It could be hitting a chi path, ’specially if you’re feeling unwell.’ He stroked his beard again until it began to look pointed. ‘Something feels off kilter to me.’
My vague headache was taking a more severe hold and suddenly I felt violently ill. He was an alien presence, smelling so sickly of patchouli and lavender; and the stupid whale music he’d put on in the background seemed unbearable now.
‘Can you take them out?’ Panic was building in my chest. I was going back to a place I never wanted to revisit. ‘The needles. I really would like you to—’
‘Of course, Claudia. Be still for a moment.’ He removed the first two needles as I tried desperately to calm my breathing.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Francis shook his head, melancholy now. ‘This so rarely happens. And it is inexcusable if it is my fault. But as I say,’ he held his hands above my head now, not touching me, just hovering over my hair, ‘as I say, if you are poorly, then your paths can get so blocked that it causes pain. And I do feel a blockage.’
‘Right.’ I stood now, wishing his hands far away from me. ‘I need to go out now. Thank you for coming.’ I walked to the front door; held it open. ‘It was very kind.’
‘Something is not right, Claudia.’ He stepped through the door, gazing at me. ‘I sense it in your system. Is there anything you’ve changed? Your diet maybe, or—’
‘No,’ I almost shouted. ‘Nothing. Really.’
‘And I did want to talk about Tessa with you. To celebrate her spirit—’
‘Another time, OK?’ I shut the door firmly and leant against it, my heart thumping painfully.
What was happening to me?
Tessa had fitted no mould. Unconventional; gentle but outspoken, it was as if she had been born in the wrong era, out of her time. Push her back through the decades by forty years, and it would have seemed right. She revelled in beauty; the whiteness and the thread count of a tablecloth; the cylindrical shape of a water glass; Grace Kelly’s frocks. She dressed simply, in silks and cottons more expensive than my rent. The way she pulled her hair up and back was reminiscent of Margot Fonteyn or Lynn Seymour, not of the dancers’ styles today. She was anachronistic, misplaced – and hiding some deep hurt.
We’d met on her first day at the Academy. I was just back from compassionate leave, unsure if I could now hold down a job. I had retreated into myself wholly. I absorbed myself in work as best I could, but I was still raw as butcher’s meat on the block.
That morning during a break I had found the staffroom empty and I’d hunched into the corner chair, restraining myself from running; desperately repeating the mantras I had been taught, which were apparently meant to see me through the times of despair.
Tessa burst in, her long black skirt trailing dramatically, her spotted hairband wrapped tight round her fair hair. She exuded excitement.
‘Coffee?’ she offered, resting her walking stick in the corner whilst she wrestled with the jar of Nescafé. I indicated my full mug.
‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ I bit back the tears that had been threatening to fall.
‘Tessa Lethbridge, new from Melbourne.’ She poured the boiling water into her polystyrene cup. ‘God, the sense of history in this place. I can’t believe I’m actually here – er—’
I looked at her. She was waiting for me to tell her my name, I realised. I met her eyes, and they were kind.
‘Claudie. Claudie Scott. I’m one of the physios.’
‘Well, Claudie Scott, the sense of heritage and beauty in this building, my God,’ she whistled low and long. She sounded so much more Australian then. ‘We are privileged beyond belief, aren’t we?’
‘I guess so.’ I had never really looked at it like that.
‘You English. You don’t know you’re born half the time. I mean, look at this place, just look, Claudie, and give thanks.’
I just gazed at her. She looked back, frowning slightly now.
‘Sorry. Are you OK?’ She swiped up her cup now and sat in the chair beside me.
‘Yes.’ I nodded my head. The tears fell. I despised myself. ‘No. I don’t know.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ She pulled her chair nearer. ‘Me and my big mouth. There’s me all revved up and you’re crying in the corner. Wanna share?’
‘If you don’t mind,’ I wiped away the tears, ‘not really right now.’ I looked at her face, so worried now, and I tried to smile. ‘But thank you.’
But there was something about Tessa that did make me want to share, and eventually I did. An openness we uptight British lacked, perhaps, a warmth, or just a basic human instinct for being there, and it drew me to her until we forged a proper friendship. We ate lunch in small brasseries down the side streets; we talked of ballet and books and, sometimes, old boyfriends. We both liked Jean-Luc Godard and Tati; we cooked from Elizabeth David. We went to the ballet – our favourite busman’s holiday, or to watch French films; inevitably I forgot my glasses. We didn’t talk family often; it was unspoken and safely off-limits most of the time, but after a while, I discovered that she too had lost a child; two in fact, when her only pregnancy ended in early tragedy, and it led to a strong bond. We both had huge holes in our lives that needed filling, but we let them lie quietly beside us. Tessa, with her limp and her stick; her passion bubbling below a benign surface; with a love of ballet more intense than any I’d ever known before.
It was Tessa who I’d come to depend on in the darkest, bleakest hours. It was Tessa who had encouraged me to listen to my heart when my husband Will left, to not follow him to a place I didn’t belong. It was Tessa who had found me Francis when I couldn’t sleep. It was Tessa who knew what loss was like; it was Tessa who answered the phone in the middle of the night when I felt I couldn’t wake my oldest friends any more, though I saw her a little less once Rafe was around.
It was Tessa who had gone now. Dead.
It was I who, once again, was left behind. Who couldn’t help fearing that in some way, I had helped her to her death. I clutched the necklace she’d bought me; I racked my brain. If only I could remember why. And if only I knew why I couldn’t remember …
TUESDAY 18TH JULY KENTON
Silver had insisted she take the weekend off, but by Monday night, Kenton had been champing at the bit to get back to work. The horrific images had begun to fade a little, and she had listened to Alison’s calming tape at least five times until frankly, she thought the images were probably increasing manifold in her supposedly relaxed mind. Severed limbs and the like strewn across the ‘safe place’ of her childhood, a long beach in Dorset with good fossils and an ice-cream van selling cider lollies on the cliff. It had been difficult keeping busy with not much to do.
On Saturday she had driven down to see her father in Kent, who had worried her rather by referring to her at least twice during the visit as ‘Lilian’, which had been her late mother’s name. She had taken him to Waitrose, which was a real treat in her eyes. She had picked up some lovely ginger cordial and a fantastic Beef Wellington – but Dad had just grumbled that it wasn’t what he was used to, and then grew apoplectic about the prices, so in the end she had given up and taken him down to Aldi.
On Sunday the rain had been Biblical, as her mother would have said, and Alison came over for lunch: Beef Wellington, green beans and lumpy mash. Cooking really wasn’t Kenton’s forte, but Alison had been nice about it all, even about the sticky toffee pudding, which had more stick than toffee and had been impossible to get off the bloody pan for days after; the custard that was in turn both liquid and powder. Kenton had kept sneaking looks at Alison’s pretty round face, slightly troubled now as one dark curl caught in the zip of her borrowed cagoule, as they had prepared to walk along the canal after lunch.
‘Here, let me,’ Kenton had said, and she had been both nervous and exhilarated as she helped free her hair, and she had wanted to stroke Alison’s face. Her skin was like alabaster, her mum would have said, and Kenton had wondered for the tenth time that day what Alison saw in her, in her own pleasant blunt-nosed face that no one could ever call pretty. Alison had slipped her hand into Kenton’s and Kenton had felt a kind of pride that she hadn’t for years, since Diana Grills had kissed her behind the science block after the Sixth Form disco. Before Diana had blanked her and got off with Tony Hall half an hour later, leaving her broken-hearted for the first but not the last time in her life.
‘How are you feeling?’ Alison had asked, and Kenton had grinned and said, ‘Happy.’
‘That’s nice,’ Alison had smiled too, but then looked more serious and said, ‘But I meant about work. You know. The bad dreams.’
‘All right,’ Kenton had became gruff. She didn’t like to show her weak side.
‘It’s OK to be freaked out,’ Alison had said gently, and she’d held Kenton’s hand tighter, as if she could feel that Kenton had been about to relinquish hers. ‘We can talk about it if you like.’
‘It’s just part of the job,’ Kenton had said, and Alison nodded, and said, ‘Yes I can see that.’
There’d been a pause. Then two Canadian geese had flown overhead in perfect symmetry; they wheeled and turned course together over the rooftops.
‘Amazing,’ Kenton had shaken her head. ‘How does one know where the other is about to go?’
‘Not sure,’ Alison had looked up into the sky. ‘Synchronicity, I guess.’
They had walked on in silence for a bit.
‘I’m going back tomorrow,’ Kenton had said eventually. ‘Or Tuesday. See how I feel.’
‘You do that,’ Alison had said, and squeezed Kenton’s hand.
And so, by 8.15 a.m. on a damp Tuesday morning, Kenton was back at her desk, papers stacked neatly. Not exactly raring to go, perhaps, but looking forward to putting the trauma behind her, and getting on with the case. She had been in Berkeley Square herself; now it was of paramount importance to find the culprit and lay it to rest.
TUESDAY 18TH JULY CLAUDIE
I switched off the landline, so they rang my mobile instead.
Natalie first. I didn’t answer the phone.
I tried Tessa’s number. Just in case. Just in case it was all a big mistake, I tried it. Nothing.
I lay on the sofa. I stared at the ceiling.
Rafe rang. He was at the House of Commons; he sounded pretty keen to hear from me, but I didn’t answer the call. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say yet. I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been a challenge to him and he didn’t want to admit defeat.
I got up again and ate some stale Jammy Dodgers. I threw a dead spider plant away I’d always disliked. Its dead leaves trailed from the bin like fingers.
I tried Tessa again. The silence was deafening.
I paced the flat. I had that feeling again that someone was watching me from the corner of the room. I was fighting the paranoia and the memories of what had happened so dramatically to me when Ned died. I had to find an answer to this mess.
Helen rang. ‘Call me, Claudie, please. I’m worried. You’ve missed an appointment.’
I looked at my photos, I turned the big one of Ned back up again. Sometimes it hurt too much to look at him, but now I stared into his laughing eyes. What should I do?
My head was beginning to ache again; I was becoming my headache. Why couldn’t I remember Friday morning?
Listened to the rain outside. Got dressed, turned on the television.
There was yet another news conference taking place, headed by the Commissioner of the Police; blindly I stared at it. Next to him sat a bullet-headed man with the bluest eyes, grim-faced, glaring at the cameras, and beside him a gently weeping woman, face in her hands, and a plain middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses and an expensive but nondescript suit, his receding grey hair pushed back, talking about the Hoffman Bank and how they would rebuild despite the tragedy. After a while, the Commissioner stopped talking and the bullet-headed policeman called Malloy was asking for the public’s cooperation as confirmation was still awaited re bomb or explosion, and our patience whilst they worked on the difficult task of identifying the missing and wounded as quickly as possible. Once again help-line numbers were flashed up.
An unsmiling photo of Tessa floated behind the man’s head.
‘One of the confirmed dead was ballet teacher Tessa Lethbridge,’ the bullet-headed man said vehemently. ‘We need these deaths not to go unmarked. If you know anything at all about the events of Friday morning, if you saw anything, were in the area, please, don’t hesitate to get in touch. You will be doing your public duty.’
Now the weeping woman began to talk about her missing brother. I turned the television off, rubbed my aching head fretfully. Fear was building in me until I felt like I might explode. I banged my head desperately with my flattened palms, palms that were itching desperately, the eczema flaring again. Why could I not remember? Why did I feel like I had done something very bad?
I returned to the sofa. The sun set over the rooftops, sliding into cloud, tingeing the sky with a pink luminescence. I felt an ache like a hard stone in my belly. I couldn’t cry any more. Something was very wrong and I didn’t know what. Tessa was slipping into the darkness, and she didn’t belong there.
TUESDAY 18TH JULY SILVER
Silver had stared at the girl’s face for what seemed like an age, and then called up her name. With a flash of relief he saw that it wasn’t Jaime Malvern. Misty Jones, 20, the name read. The girl Malloy had bumped Bobby Elwood for; reported missing at the end of last week, just before the explosion by a worried flatmate and friend, Lucie Duffy. No other details yet. He sat behind the desk, head in hands, trying to laugh at himself. Ridiculous to think it could have been her.
Silver had debated calling Lana and reassuring her – but he didn’t; he simply couldn’t face it now. He clocked off; glad to see Kenton back at her desk, brave lass, and then fought his way through the traffic wondering for the thousandth time why exactly all Londoners seemed so imbued with rage, glowering and swearing in their vehicles. Silver put on his CD of Duke Ellington and managed to maintain his calm by imagining his kids on the beach in Corfu. At a set of lights, he pulled up next to an elderly Rastafarian swaying to music by Burning Spear, crumpled spliff in hand. He smiled politely at Silver, his beard grizzled against his darker skin. Silver nodded back.
In the lively house in New Cross that was presently home, Silver retreated to his attic room and ate a bowl of Cornflakes sitting on the bed. He slid his boots off and lay down on the chintzy bedspread, fully clothed, sick with tiredness, thanking God most of his landlady’s noisy tribe were out.
When Silver had first come to London three years ago, when Lana had fully recovered, he’d stayed in the Section House nearest the station. But he’d found the boxy little room and the cool anonymity depressing after the noise of a large family home, and when one of his constables moved out of Philippa’s, Silver took over the large attic room as an experiment. He’d been expecting to stay for a few months at most, but somehow, a year or so later, here he still was. It was cheap and predominantly cheerful; Philippa cooked for him, which meant his tolerance of chilli pepper was impressive now; plus living here meant he could afford the small cottage at the base of the Pennines that sat empty for ten months of the year; that he planned to make home one of these days. Before too long, he told himself. For now, he felt comfortable where he was.
But tonight there was no rest to be had. Each time he shut his eyes, Jaime’s face floated in the ether, her name whispering through the red blood that thumped in his ears.
He dozed for a fitful hour and then he was back up again. It was dark now and he could hear the younger children below, the jolly and incessant jingle of the Wii. He called Craven.
‘Any news?’
‘Nope. None of the Islam-a-twats are holding their hands up – yet, anyhow. Fucking monkeys.’
‘No call for that, is there, Derek?’ Silver said lightly. ‘Need a favour, actually.’ It pained him to even ask.
A sigh. ‘Go on.’
‘I need some details on a missing person. Girl called Misty Jones.’
‘Misty Jones? As in Clint?’
‘Clint?’ Silver switched the kettle that lived on the table in the corner of his room, and wiped the surface down. It was spotless already, but he wiped it anyway.
‘Eastwood. Play Misty For Me.’
‘Oh right.’ He pulled the coffee off the tray. ‘I’m not a big Western fan personally.’
‘Not a Western. More – creepy. About a bunny boiler with big tits, I seem to remember. Anyway,’ Craven ate something noisy down Silver’s ear. Crisps, by the sounds of it. ‘Misty. Kind of a made-up name, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’ He didn’t want her to be made-up: she had to be Misty. Flesh and blood and real; nothing to do with Jaime. ‘That’s what I need to find out.’
‘I’ll have a dig around.’ Craven finished whatever he was eating with relish. Was the man actually licking his fingers? ‘Get back to you as-ap.’ He pronounced it as two words. Irritating. He did irritate Silver, a lot. All faux-jollity, resentment and latent bigotry, big belly spilling over a thin crocodile-skin belt.
‘Cheers, pal.’ Silver hung up. His emotional intelligence might be out of kilter, but his gut instinct was working hard now at least. He had tried to convince himself all afternoon that things were all right – but he knew deep down something was definitely wrong.
TUESDAY 18TH JULY CLAUDIE
In the evening, I managed to open the front door to my best friend Zoe. Good old Natalie had rung her, and despite all my best protestations she had been insistent that she’d cook Paella and sit with me tonight. Zoe had a new Spanish boyfriend called Pablo and was learning Spanish cuisine for his benefit, which was infinitely preferable to the toasted cheese sandwiches she normally lived on. She arrived at six in her latest incarnation – Zoe was the eternal chameleon when it came to men – Capri pants immaculate, ingredients spilling out of the wicker basket she lugged up to the flat, neat auburn ponytail and gold hoops swinging from her ears as she unpacked her wares, black eyeliner flicked above her watchful eyes. We drank white Rioja and didn’t talk about the explosion, apart from the plaster on my cheek. We talked about love; she was thinking of moving to Barcelona to be with Pablo.
‘Hmm,’ I mused. ‘It means your babies will play for Barca and not Man U. Your dad will be devastated.’
‘My mum will be relieved, that’s all I know. She knows my clock is ticking.’ She shot me a quick look.
‘It’s fine, Zoe,’ I murmured, staring into my cloudy glass. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘So,’ she said brightly, ‘how’s it going with that nice Rafe guy? Will you be moving into Number 10 together soon?’
‘It’s not going.’
She stared at me.
‘Are you joking?’
