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13. SPRING 2013

Buried beneath the earth, deep underground, at least thirty feet between her and natural light. Catherine isn’t alone: there are scores of others just like her. But are they just like her? Is he here? Is she here? She clutches her bag to her stomach and snatches a look behind her, to her right, to her left. Eyes meet hers then flick away.

… she felt a gentle stroke across her back and turned around. A sea of faces met hers, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. She glanced up at the arrivals screen and saw the train would be arriving in three minutes — what she didn’t know was that it was also announcing how long she had left to live…

She begins to panic. This was a mistake. A foot treads on her. Someone trying to trip her? She pulls hers away and glares at the owner of the trainer but he mumbles an apology and stares ahead, eyes on the prize, wanting to beat her onto the train, not to push her under it. Breath on her neck, the smell of aftershave to her left, she holds her breath, can’t breathe in that nauseating smell. Steals a look. A man, taller than her, leers down. Shit. She should have taken the bus, but fuck it, when she’d left the house she’d been determined not to let that book cripple her and the bus meant three changes, too long to get to work. Too difficult. Catherine the brave, that’s who she is, not a whimpering coward. She is trying to be Robert’s Catherine. Since her late-night book burning he has started to believe in her again. He has been so careful around her, so considerate. She kept her promise and made an appointment with the doctor and Robert has seen the small yellow pills that sit beside her bed. They help her sleep a little, and help him believe she is getting back to her old self.

They are pushing her and she cannot allow herself to be pushed closer to the oncoming train. She has inched forward each time a train has passed, moving a little closer, ready for the next one, but not too close. She has discovered a new respect for the yellow line. Her body twitches with the fear that a psychopath will pick her out at random and push her onto the track. It has happened to people before, and now she believes it could happen to her too. Except it wouldn’t be random. She would be chosen. It would look like an accident and Catherine knows how easy it is for accidents to happen.

She fixes her eyes on the track, and sees parts of herself splattered onto it. The train arrives, she stands her ground and pushes forward. Her turn to go over the top. She makes it. The doors close. No seat, but for once she is grateful for the bodies pressed around her, keeping her upright. Eight stops and she will be there.

Eight stops and she gets off and up out into the street. She keeps walking, doesn’t look back. Onward to work, onward to the desk which she needs to get behind. The closer she gets to it the safer she feels and she almost forgets that, a short while before, she had suspected perfect strangers of watching her, waiting to push her. Not now though. Now she is safe. She swipes her pass, goes through security, and joins the few already waiting for the lift. They know her here. And she knows them.

“Hey, how was the move?”

Catherine smiles back at Kim, lovely Kim, lovely, young, and vibrant Kim. She dumps her bag on the desk with a thump and takes out the ugly metal lump she’d won and holds it up in self-mocking triumph, placing it on the shelf behind her. It’s open plan here too, just like home.

“Went well,” she says and settles into her chair. This is a place where she is in control, where she can manage things, start them, stop them even, if she wants.

“Isn’t it hideous?” Catherine says, looking at her award.

“Useful blunt instrument though. We’ll be glad of it when Simon comes in,” Kim quips.

“Yes, and so easy to clean off the blood with one of these handy wipes,” and Catherine whips out a screen cloth and cleans the dust from her computer, surprised at how easy it has been to join in with Kim’s murderous banter.

“Coffee?” asks Kim.

“Please.” Catherine smiles.

Others start arriving: producers, researchers, production people. There are hellos, congratulations, general goodwill towards her and her towards them. Even Simon, who breezes in bursting with entitlement, is almost tolerable. Simon is her contemporary — another documentary director — who came from the newsroom so sees himself as a serious heavyweight, but this morning Catherine doesn’t care. It’s the contrast between how she has been feeling and how she feels now. Almost normal.

“Well done, by the way.” Simon winks, giving Catherine’s award the once-over.

She ignores him and opens a new notebook.

“So what next?” he says. Oh chirpy, chirpy, irritating man.

“Someone’s interested in turning my documentary into a feature film,” she lies and enjoys seeing him struggle to keep the smile on his face. “That’s great,” he says.

“Isn’t it,” she replies, her eyes locking on his.

“Well, if you want to talk about it, just let me know — I’ve had a bit of experience with some of those film guys,” he smirks.

“Oh I will, Simon,” and she gives him a wink then turns her back and picks up a pen, drumming it on her notebook. A list, that’s what she needs to do. A list is always a useful starting point.

The book: The Perfect Stranger.

The author: Friend of… Relative of… Witness of…?

Catherine stabs at her list with the pen and remembers when she met Nancy Brigstocke. It was 1998. It had been just the two of them and they’d met only once. It had been Nancy who had got in touch with Catherine. She remembers the stab of guilt she’d felt when she received her letter, knowing that Nancy may have been waiting for Catherine to get in touch. It would have been easy for her to track Nancy down, but it couldn’t have been that hard for Nancy to find her. Who would have the heart to refuse passing on her details? The letter was written in fountain pen, blue-black ink. She can still see the slant of the script, the loop of the capital letters at the beginning of each sentence. The note had left its mark. Catherine had felt compelled to meet her — knew that, really, she should have been the one to initiate it.

It had been a Friday afternoon in October. The sky was white, the air was muggy. Muggy in October? It couldn’t have been muggy in October, but that was how it had felt to Catherine. Suffocating. She remembers taking her hat off and stuffing it into her pocket. She’d put it on when she left work, thinking it would be cold, but instead she’d felt hot. The heat had built up in her head until it felt as if her brain was being slowly cooked, turning her thoughts into a mushy stew. She’d pulled off her hat and undone her coat. Nancy Brigstocke had kept her coat buttoned up. It swamped her. She was a tiny woman. She wore gloves, but no hat. Catherine remembers looking down and seeing the pink of her scalp through her thin white hair. She would have been not quite sixty then, but looked older. She had cancer. That’s what she had written in her note, and she had looked like a woman losing a battle. She’d told Catherine that she had lost her husband recently — another reason Catherine had agreed to meet her. But perhaps Nancy Brigstocke hadn’t died? Perhaps she was alive and living with cancer. She adds her name to the list, and the word “alive” with a question mark.

Their meeting had been strained. There was so much Catherine had wanted to say but couldn’t so she had let Nancy speak. She had heard the hunger in her voice — probing, trying to nudge Catherine into opening up, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. “There is nothing I can say that will help you,” she’d said. And then Nancy had asked to meet Nicholas and Catherine had had to say no. She’d tried to make her refusal gentle, but she couldn’t allow it. He was too young. Catherine had taken the frail woman’s hand and she is sure she had felt death in it even then, while she was still alive. She had seen it in her eyes too, as they looked up at Catherine, and Catherine had turned away, unable to face it. She said good-bye and walked away and she had kept walking, not looking back. She didn’t want Nancy to see that she was crying. She didn’t want her to misunderstand her tears. She was crying for all the things she hadn’t said and for this tiny woman, shrunken inside her smart herringbone tweed coat. Her leather gloves. Her thin, combed hair, her comfortable shoes. The effort she had made with her appearance was heartbreaking. The effort she’d made to appear stronger than she was. But perhaps Catherine had underestimated her strength and she had triumphed over death and was now marching on Catherine too. Perhaps it hadn’t been death at all in her eyes, but something else, something equally cold. Was Nancy Brigstocke capable of producing the poison in the book?

“Anything you need doing?” Kim is looking over her shoulder. Catherine shuts her notebook.

“Not really. I’ve scribbled down a few thoughts, but why don’t you come up with a list of possible stories and we’ll go over them in the morning.” Kim agrees. Kim would do anything for her. Catherine is her chance for advancement — the only one who gives her the opportunity to be more than just an efficient assistant.

“Actually, I did have a few ideas while you were away. I’ll bash them out. See what you think.”

“Great.” Catherine smiles. That’s what she loves about Kim. She is motivated, proactive. She doesn’t need to be asked twice, not by Catherine. She wonders what Kim would think if she read The Perfect Stranger.

Catherine leaves work early. She knows she kept that note. There are a couple of boxes still in her bedroom full of things she doesn’t know what to do with. She remembers putting the note in a folder along with miscellaneous photographs and letters from her mother and old friends. When they’d packed up to move from the old house, she’d thought about throwing it out, but had decided to keep it. Her hand grazes the faded pink of the file and pulls it out. She flicks through and yes, there it is. Pale blue notepaper and blue-black ink. And there is an address in the top right-hand corner. No phone number, just an address. The chances of her still being alive and living at the same address are slim, but it’s worth a try. Her heart races, a shot of adrenaline, but the right kind: fight not flight. Face-to-face, that’s how Catherine prefers things. Whose face she will confront is uncertain, but someone must answer for what she’s being put through. She checks her watch: 4:00. Time to get there and back before Robert comes home.

Catherine makes her way up the last flight of stairs and tries to imagine how a woman dying of cancer could have managed them. And if Nancy Brigstocke is alive, how would she manage them now she is in her seventies? She punches the light on the last landing, but it doesn’t work. She tries again. Nothing. Someone has neglected to change the bulb. And someone has neglected to water the plant in the pot by the front door. Dead, dried-out and brittle. A mean pinch of light comes through a small, dirty window in the roof, just enough for her to see the numbers on the two front doors. She stands in front of Nancy Brigstocke’s last known address and presses the bell, but there’s no sound. She knocks, two sharp raps with bare knuckles, and hitching her bag over her shoulder, waits. Nothing. No one there. She crouches down and peers through the letter box. Green carpet, legs of dark wood furniture, no movement.

She sits on the top stair and opens her bag, burrowing inside for her pad and pen. She must word her note with care. “Dear Mrs. Brigstocke,” she begins. She mustn’t be aggressive or defensive. She mustn’t seem angry. She thinks she succeeds in being persuasive and fair. She tears her note from the pad, folds it in half, and pushes it through the door. This is mad. The chances of Nancy Brigstocke still being alive and finding her note are less than slim. She rests her head on the door for a moment, and is aware of someone standing behind her. She can hear their laboured breathing from the effort of climbing the stairs. She turns round. A woman, long, white hair, is watching her, bags of shopping hanging from her arms, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Mrs. Brigstocke?” Catherine asks. Could it be Nancy after years of illness, neglect, hair unwashed, too long, thick socks oozing through fraying sandals? Surely this woman is too tall, but still… Catherine takes a step forward, peering into her face, searching but not recognising. The woman pushes past her, shuffling towards the other flat. She puts down her shopping and fumbles a key in the lock.

“I was looking for Nancy Brigstocke. Do you know if she still lives here?” The woman mumbles her reply: “She hasn’t lived here for years.”

“Do you know if she is… where she might be living now?” Catherine hears herself stutter. “We lost touch — I haven’t seen her for a while… the last time we met she was ill….”

The woman is inside her flat now but she keeps the door ajar, keeps an eye on Catherine, looking her up and down, a rude stare which grazes her skin. A stare full of suspicion.

“I’m a friend of the family but we lost touch…,” Catherine tries and the eyes drill into her, detecting her lie, making a silent judgement. Some friend.

“Are you from social services?” the woman asks.

“No, it’s nothing like that…. I lost her address and… then I found it but… I just wanted to talk to her….”

“Has someone been claiming her pension?”

“I’m not from social services, really… I just wanted to see her again….”

“Well, you’re too late. She was dying when they took her away… and that was years ago. Poor soul — all sorts of gubbins she was strapped up to. She’ll be dead now I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry…,” Catherine mumbles and turns away. She should have known. Of course she is dead, and she walks back towards the stairs.

“He might get it though — whatever it was you stuck through the letter box.”

Blood thumps in Catherine’s ears. She turns round.

“Who? Who might get it?”

The woman assesses her, takes her time to decide whether to answer.

“Who might get it?” Catherine repeats, a wisp of fatal panic in her voice. The woman frowns at the question, which doesn’t sound quite right coming from someone who is supposed to be a friend. She begins to close her door and Catherine rushes forward, putting her hand out to stop her, not threatening but desperate.

“Please…”

A cat mews from inside the flat — hungry and vying with Catherine for the woman’s attention.

“Please…,” Catherine tries again.

“Mr. Brigstocke — he comes by from time to time.”

“Mr. Brigstocke?”

“Her husband.”

“But her husband’s dead.”

“I thought you said you were a friend of the family.” The woman’s eyes narrow, seeing Catherine for what she is. A liar.

“Of hers. I knew Nancy Brigstocke. She told me her husband was dead.”

“Maybe she didn’t trust you….”

The words startle Catherine. They could be true and she looks away.

“We were friends,” she tries again. They were not friends. They had never been friends. They barely knew each other and her lie squirms in the air.

“We lost contact with each other… I’m just trying to understand what happened….” There are tears in Catherine’s eyes now and perhaps it is these which make the woman relent.

“Haven’t seen him for a while, but he comes by now and again. It was sad at the end. The place was beginning to stink but she wouldn’t open up, she wouldn’t answer the door, so someone from the Residents’ Association had to phone him and get him over. He had a key, you see. Must have been a terrible state in there. And then the ambulance came and they took her away. That was the last time I saw her.”

“But didn’t he live here with her?”

“No. It’s the son’s flat. She moved in while he was away on one of his trips — always off somewhere he was, that’s what she said. Her husband never lived here, but he looked after her in the end. He was holding her hand the whole time when they took her away. He told her he’d come to take her home so he could look after her. I heard him. I was here watching, just in case they needed anything, you know.

“I like to think they were together at the end.”

“Do you have his number? Or address?” The woman tuts. Enough questions. She shakes her head and closes the door. Catherine stands on the other side, knocks, desperate for more.

“What about his first name? Can you tell me that at least?” She waits. Knocks again. “Please.” But the door stays shut and Catherine makes her way back down the stairs, gripping the cold metal of the banister with a slippery hand. She is shaken by how much she didn’t know and she thinks of her note lying on the other side of the door, written to a woman who is probably long dead. And then she remembers her mobile number written in the middle of it. Shit. How long before he calls her? What will he say? What does he really want? The “dead” husband. And then she begins to wonder whether Nancy left the flat willingly. Or was she too weak to resist? Did he force her? Did he make her go home with him? Nancy told her he was dead. Why? Was she scared of what he might do?

“Stephen.” The name echoes down the stairs. She looks up at the dark shape leaning over the balustrade. “His name is Stephen.”

Catherine continues on down and images from the book flick through her head. He’d got some things right. The details of what she’d been wearing. How would he know? And then she hears a sound echo back from the past: click, click, click.