Final Witness

Chapter 9

It had been a long time since Thomas had stayed in the house off the King’s Road, and he enjoyed running up and down the staircases and opening the doors to the various rooms.

Greta had an apartment in the basement, while the ground floor had been converted to a suite of offices where Sir Peter conducted his government business and held important meetings. All the rooms were empty now, however, because both Peter and Greta were away from home on the weekly visit to Peter’s constituency in the Midlands. They were expected back the following evening, so Thomas had the place to himself for more than twenty-four hours.

The house was tall and narrow, with a small walled garden at the rear. Sir Peter had bought it twelve years before when he was first elected to Parliament, and it had always been very much his house, in contrast to the House of the Four Winds, which bore the stamp of Lady Anne and her Sackville ancestors.

The rooms were expensively but sparsely furnished, and they contained almost nothing personal. The only two photographs in the house were a studio portrait of Lady Anne and one of Thomas, both displayed in heavy frames on a bookcase in the living room. The books were all biographies of statesmen and treatises on economics and foreign policy. Thomas looked without success for a novel on the shelves.

Everything was clean and tidy. Decorative objects stood at exact right angles to their neighbors, and the cushions on the armchairs and sofa were plumped up as if nobody had ever sat on them. Thomas noticed that almost every room except his own contained a clock.

Lady Anne was having a rest after the journey, and the tall house felt cold and unfriendly to Thomas. He unpacked everything in his suitcase and draped his clothes over the furniture in his bedroom on the top floor, but this did nothing to fill the underlying emptiness. It was the sort of place, thought Thomas, where you could die and nothing would happen. Nobody would notice.

Outside everything was different. It was a warm spring day in Chelsea, and the young and the beautiful vied to fit themselves into outfits that revealed more of their breasts and legs than Thomas would have believed possible. It all filled him with a random lust of which he felt ashamed in the presence of his mother, who took him shopping at Harrods in the afternoon.

Later they ate dinner on the other side of the river at a little French restaurant with a view of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Thomas thought of his father and felt glad that he was away from home. About Greta his feelings were more ambiguous. Not a day went by that Thomas did not remember the sight of her breasts as she stood half naked in his mother’s bedroom and pulled him toward her. The girls that had passed so close to him on the sidewalks during the afternoon had made the memory more vivid than ever, and yet at the same time he almost hated Greta. He’d seen the way she looked at his mother and his father like she was greedy for something they had, but then he remembered the way she looked at him when she said: “You’re looking at my breasts, Thomas.” The way she laughed when he denied it.

Back at the house in Chelsea Thomas lay awake in bed listening to the passing voices of the late-night revelers. Someone somewhere was playing David Gray’s White Ladder, and the songs filled Thomas with a sense of longing for people and places he didn’t yet know.

Toward midnight he fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed that he was once again in his mother’s bedroom in Flyte watching Greta in the long mirror, but this time she seemed unaware of his presence in the doorway. She stood with her hands on her hips, wearing the same lemon silk dress of his mother’s that she had worn on that day the previous October, but now Greta had brought it in at the waist with a thin black snakeskin belt that matched her raven hair.

Slowly her hands moved to the buckle of the belt and eased open the fastening. She held the two ends for a moment and then let go. In Thomas’s dream the belt fell slowly to the floor but he didn’t hear it land. It was a dream without sound, but unlike other dreams he’d had, it was full of will. Greta did as she did because he willed it. If he did not will it, then she would stop. No, more than that: she wouldn’t be there at all.

Slowly her hands moved to an invisible zipper at the back of the dress just below the nape of her neck. She had it in her fingers, and slowly, with exquisite deliberation, she pulled it down. He could feel the movement as if he were tracing the line of her spine with his finger, and he knew that she only did it because he willed her to. The effort made him sway and catch hold of the side of the door, but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead she pulled her arms free of the dress and stepped out of it closer to the mirror. The dress was a discarded pool lying on the floor between them.

Her body was perfect. Thomas could feel the strength of it, the muscle tone of the thighs below the rounded hills of her buttocks. He imagined running his hands slowly up the inside of her legs, and as if in answer to his thought Greta slowly moved her legs apart, arching herself forward as she did so.

In his dream Thomas stepped out from the shadow of the doorway and fell to his knees. Groping forward almost blindly, he took hold of Greta’s naked sides, pulling her close so that his fingers soon had hold of her hard nipples as she pushed her breasts down toward him. Almost at the same moment his tongue found the wet softness between her legs and he went forward into a dark, unconscious ecstasy.

Thomas tossed and turned on the bed, throwing the hot duvet onto the floor as he did so, but he did not wake. The dream would not let him go. He felt Greta’s hands on his shoulders pushing him toward his mother’s bed.

He staggered to his feet, asking for release, but as his knees landed on the bed and he arched his back ready to thrust himself deep inside her, he looked down and saw his mother’s sapphire ring glowing midnight blue on Greta’s finger, and his mother’s gold locket hanging from her lovely neck.

He cried out in his sleep, waking as he came, and then lay on the bed like someone pulled half drowned from the sea while the sound of fire engines’ sirens passed the house and then faded into the distance.

Thomas stood washing himself at the sink in the bathroom at the top of the stairs. He was flushed with a confusion of feelings, self-disgust and sexual excitement contending with each other for dominance. Looking down at his body, he felt almost frightened. It was as if he had no control over its workings.

His inner clock had been set to the unchanging rhythms of Flyte. Year after year, nothing changed there except the weather — until Barton died, of course, which was why his mother had brought him to London, where everything was different. The girls in the street, the music after dark, the sound of the sirens. Anything could happen here, and Thomas suddenly felt imprisoned by his father’s house, with its anonymous rooms and high staircases. He needed to get out and walk, breathe the air, if only for five minutes.

He dressed hurriedly and went down the stairs almost on tiptoe so as not to wake his mother. In the hall the grandfather clock gave the time as half past twelve and Thomas realized that he couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour before the sirens had woken him up.

He opened the front door and looked out. The main road to his left seemed as deserted now as the little side street on which his father’s house stood. The music had been turned off and almost all of the windows that he could see were in darkness. Only one or two passing cars broke the stillness of the night.

Thomas took a deep breath of the cool air and then walked down the steps, shutting the door behind him. The house was only three away from the main road, and Thomas turned immediately into it, heading toward the bridge over the River Thames. He had driven across it with his mother earlier in the evening when they were coming back from the restaurant. It had been covered with tiny white lights, and they’d stopped on the other side to look at it properly because it was so pretty. The Albert Bridge it was called. Named for the husband of Queen Victoria, the Prince Consort. The one who’d died young and broken the Queen’s heart.

However, Thomas didn’t get as far as the river. Two young men with baseball caps turned back to front appeared suddenly, coming toward him up the street. One was walking half in the gutter, and the other was running a beer can along the black railings of the houses so that Thomas realized he would have to pass between them. He could not turn back, as he was too close to them, and there was no one else in sight. He accelerated to get the moment over with, but just before he drew level they both moved into the center of the sidewalk, knocking his shoulders so that he almost lost balance.

Nothing else happened, however. Behind him, Thomas could hear them laughing as they carried on down the street.

“Stupid little cunt,” one of them said. “Did you see the look on his face?”

Thomas didn’t hear the other reply. He carried on, walking slowly down the street, cursing himself for his stupidity in going out so late. His mother had told him to be careful, that London was a dangerous place, and she hadn’t even been talking about walking deserted streets after midnight. He hoped that the noise of the beer can on the railings wouldn’t wake her up, send her into his room to find him gone, but soon it had faded into the distance and he felt safe to turn around and head for home.

He’d gotten almost as far as the little side street when he saw them at the top of the road. They were coming back toward him. They were still walking but quicker, more purposefully than before, and Thomas felt desperately in his pockets for the house key. His mother had given it to him when they first arrived, and he was sure that he had brought it with him when he came out.

They were closer now, and Thomas could see their faces. They were laughing, and one of them was punching the fist of one hand into the open palm of the other. They could see him too, feel his fear.

“Got lost, have you, cunt?” said one. “Why don’t you come here and I’ll give you some fucking directions.”

The other one laughed.

“Got any money?” he asked. “Got a phone?”

Panic had momentarily paralyzed Thomas as they approached, but when the second youth spoke he felt his strength return. He dashed suddenly to his right down the little side street, and in two seconds he was trembling by the streetlight outside his house.

There was clearly no time to lose. He could hear them coming toward the corner. It was obviously worse than pointless running up the front steps if he had no key, and the thugs would catch him if he ran on down the side street. They were three or four years older than him and a lot quicker. He took his only chance and ran down the stone steps into the basement area by the front door of Greta’s apartment.

He’d noticed the house trash cans down there earlier, but when he got to the bottom of the steps they were nowhere in sight. Someone must have moved them since the afternoon. A second later he saw where they’d gone. They were just inside the open entrance to a vault under the sidewalk. Thomas dashed in, taking care not to make any noise. In normal circumstances nothing would have frightened Thomas more than going into a pitch-black vault, but now he went right inside without hesitation, grateful for the enshrouding darkness.

He was not a moment too soon. The two youths had stopped on the sidewalk just above his head.

“He’s gone down in one of these fucking basements. That’s where he’s gone,” said the one who’d offered to give Thomas directions.

“No, he hasn’t,” said the other. “We’d have seen him if he’d done that. I’m not fucking blind, even if you are. Come on, we’ll catch him if we’re quick.”

Thomas heard the sound of them setting off at a run down the side street. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt and pressed his hand hard against the left side of his chest, covering the pain of his racing heart.

Breathing deeply, he stepped out of the vault into the basement area so that he was standing outside the front window of Greta’s flat. It was less than five feet away. The bottom half of the window was open, raised no more than six inches from the sill. It had been shut earlier in the day and the curtains had been half open, whereas now they were closed. Thomas noticed the difference because he’d been down in the vault after lunch — part of exploring the house with no risks attached because his mother had said that his father and Greta would be away until the following evening. He’d looked in through the window and seen the gas fire and the two armchairs and behind them a table and chair and a bookcase. Everything neat and tidy. He couldn’t see into the room now, but he could hear voices. One was too soft to make out, but the other was close and Thomas recognized it almost immediately as Greta’s.

“You’ll just have to be patient. It’s not that difficult.”

Thomas couldn’t hear if the other voice replied, but a moment later Greta was speaking again. She seemed to be just on the other side of the curtains.

“No, you listen to me. You can wait a little longer. That’s what we agreed.”

Another pause and then her voice came again. It was farther away this time.

“Can’t you see I haven’t got it yet?”

Or was it “him yet”? Thomas couldn’t be sure. The words were indistinct, and he couldn’t make any sense of them. What was she talking about? And to whom? Why was she home when she was supposed to be in the Midlands with his father until the following evening?

Thomas stood motionless and preoccupied in front of the window, revolving the unanswered questions around in his head, and he would have been entirely visible to the two youths coming back up the street if they hadn’t chosen to advertise their approach. They were talking even more loudly than before, as if to assert their defiance of the rich neighborhood around them. Thomas had just enough time to retreat back into the vault before they stopped outside the house.

“It’s a fucking waste of time,” said the one who’d voted for going on down the street. “He didn’t look like he had anything on him anyway.” But his friend didn’t agree.

“He looked like a fucking little rich kid to me. With a wallet full of Daddy’s money in his back pocket, and he went down in one of these fucking basements. I saw him. I told you that before!”

“All right. So what if he fucking did. He probably lives there.”

“Maybe. But I bet the little cunt was hiding. Probably still is. He went down this one or the one next door.”

“Well, I’m not fucking going down after him. We’ll end up in the nick for burglary.”

Thomas heard the sound of one set of footsteps going off toward the main road. The other youth was still standing by the gate at the top of the steps.

“Cunt,” he said. “Fucking gutless cunt.” He kicked the gate hard so that it hit the wall behind. Then he ran away into the night.

Thomas waited a moment before he came back out of the vault heading toward the steps. Just as he did so the curtains in front of him opened and he instinctively crouched down under the windowsill where he could not be seen.

As he bent over, the house key fell out of his shirt pocket and hit the concrete with a loud clink. Thomas froze, certain that Greta or whoever it was on the other side of the window must have heard the noise. He wondered how he could explain his presence bent over underneath her window and then gave up the attempt. He was eavesdropping and he couldn’t deny it. How he got down into the basement was irrelevant.

It was soon clear, though, that neither Greta nor her friend had heard the key hit the ground. The sound must have been drowned out by the greater noise of the sash window being lifted up as far as it would go. Thomas could now hear her voice inches away from his head.

“I can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean anything. There’ve been burglars up there before, and I’m not having them stealing my computer. Mrs. Posh won’t hear. She takes sleeping tablets. And the boy’s at the top of the house.”

If Greta could have leaned out far enough, she would have touched Thomas, but the bars on the window prevented this. He was safe until she opened the door of her apartment, but from the sound of it that was precisely what she was about to do.

Thomas did not hear any reply from the other person in the room because the next moment Greta pulled the window down. There didn’t seem to be enough time to get away before the door opened, but he had to try. Picking up the key, he turned and crept up the steps with his back against the wall. There was no sound from below.

At the top he had no choice but to run in front of the house under the streetlight so that anyone looking out of the basement window could not have failed to see him. But when he stopped to fit the key in the lock with a trembling hand, he still heard nothing. It seemed like a miracle.

Thomas pulled the front door shut behind him and stood in the dark hallway trying to fight back the panic that was once again turning his legs to jelly. Afterward he realized that it was this moment of inactivity that had saved him from discovery. Turning on the light would have given him away, but as it was, Greta came through the door at the end of the hall to find everything in unsuspicious darkness, and Thomas had time, while she turned the key in the lock, to escape into the room she used as an office. He half closed the door behind him.

There were tiny red lights twinkling on the computers and the other machines in the room, but they didn’t illuminate it sufficiently to enable Thomas to see any hiding place other than behind the thick curtains drawn across the tall windows. He moved slowly, taking care not to trip over any wires or bump into the circular table in the center of the room that he remembered from his afternoon tour of inspection. It seemed an eternity away now.

Thomas realized as he stood by the curtains in the office that he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. Clearly his experience with the youths in the street had shaken him, but it was Greta’s strange words, the invisible second person inside the basement flat, and the closeness of their presence that had unnerved him so badly.

Outside in the hall Thomas heard footsteps, so he ducked behind the curtains and stood up against one of the front windows. On the other side of the room the owner of the footsteps — Greta it must be — turned on the light. She wasn’t moving, but Thomas could sense her standing in the doorway looking into the room. Involuntarily he turned his head away to look out into the street and in the same instant clapped a hand over his mouth to strangle a gasp that had risen in his throat. There was a man standing under the streetlight with his back to the house. Thomas did not know why he knew with such certainty that this was the person whom Greta had been entertaining in her flat two minutes before. He just knew.

The man was wearing tight blue jeans and a white, collarless shirt. He had a belt too, thick and black, and Thomas had a sudden vision of the man taking it off his narrow hips and holding it above his head like a whip. There was something about his body, about his posture, that suggested violence. Thomas could sense the strength of the man’s muscles as he rocked back and forward on his heels like a boxer or a dancer even. He felt the man’s quickness. The stranger’s black hair was long, tied back in a ponytail. Without the ponytail Thomas wouldn’t have seen the scar that ran from behind the man’s right jawbone down into his strong bull neck.

Thomas was terrified. He didn’t know how long he stood there with Greta behind him on the other side of the curtain and the man in front, who had only to turn his head for a moment to see Thomas in the window. In reality it was only a few seconds before Greta turned out the light and closed the door, but it seemed forever to Thomas as he fought to hold his breath and willed the man with the scar not to turn around. And he didn’t. He remained standing by the streetlight. Several times he looked to his right up toward the main road, but he never looked back at the house. Not while Thomas was standing at the window.

When he heard the door to the basement close behind Greta, Thomas stepped back into the room and the thick curtain fell into place behind him, shutting out the streetlight and the man standing beneath it.

He began slowly to grope his way across the dark room. He put his hands out in front of him to feel for obstacles and felt them trembling until they met the sideboard, which took him step by faltering step out into the hall.

Thomas was only halfway up the stairs before his legs gave way under him outside the door of his mother’s room. He could hear her even breathing, but he did not go inside. Not too long ago he would have gotten into the bed beside her seeking comfort from the Suffolk storms, but now everything was changed. This was London and he was no longer a boy, whatever Greta Grahame might say to the contrary.

Thomas brushed the tears from his eyes and took hold of the banister. At the top of the house he washed his face and then lay down on his bed. But sleep didn’t come until long after the bells of St. Luke’s Church had tolled three, and then it was troubled by dreams of faces at the window and hands behind the curtains.