appeared to have been averted but there was a more sinister threat ahead. If her pursuers returned to Brewer Street empty-handed, West would use his network to try to locate her. The word would go out and the search would be on. When that happened, anybody she passed on the street would be a potential danger.
She wondered how long she had and where she should go. Chalk Farm was out of the question. In fact, anyone she knew was out of the question; it was too risky to involve them. Which was why she chose Proctor. She felt nothing for him.
At the junction with the Tottenham Court Road, she turned left and headed north. She found a working BT phone-box outside the National Bank of Greece. She dialled and luck was with her.
‘It’s Stephanie Patrick.’
If surprise had a sound, it was to be found in Proctor’s silence.
She said, ‘Can we meet?’
He was trying to gather himself. ‘I guess … sure. Sure. When?’
‘Now.’
‘Now? Er, that’s not very convenient. I’m busy. Working –’
‘I’m in trouble. I need help. And I need it right now.’
I am drinking a cup of coffee in the McDonald’s on the corner of Warren Street and the Tottenham Court Road. I keep my head bowed, aware of the strange looks that I am attracting from some of the other patrons. I should be standing in the entrance to the Underground station across the street, but it’s cold outside. I’ll return there when it’s time to be collected.
I am trying not to think about the man I hit or the situation in which I find myself. Instead, I am thinking about the trigger.
I am wondering what it is like to be in a plane crash. To be going down and to be conscious of it. To know that you are doomed. What does that feel like? What does it sound like? These are matters that I’ve considered on too many occasions to count. The images creep up on me in the night. I see Sarah, my sister, her hair on fire. David, my younger brother, looks at the stump on his shoulder from where his arm used to hang. And my parents are ash, instantly incinerated and scattered on the wind.
These are the things that wake me at night. They’re the reason I drink myself to sleep. That’s where they belong – in the sleeping world. But tonight, they crossed over.
I looked at Grant – whoever he really was – and I thought about what we were going to do. For seventy pounds – not even eighty – since I would have discounted myself in the end. Except, it never came to that. Instead, I imagined my parents were in the room too, with David on one side, Sarah on the other, the smell of charred flesh everywhere, the floor slippery with their blood. I saw myself on all fours, Grant drunkenly ploughing into me from behind, my family watching, their total disappointment evident through their hideous wounds.
It has never happened before. I have never seen them when I’ve been selling myself. Some instinct has always blocked them – and anything I have ever cared about – from my mind. But lately, there has been something wrong. I’ve felt it building within me, a pressure in search of release. And now I know the cause.
Proctor. Proctor and his far-fetched conspiracy theories. He has resurrected the ghosts. He is to blame.
Outside, on the Euston Road, running over the underpass, there is a construction of concrete with a metal grille set into it. Perhaps it is some kind of ventilation unit. I don’t know. Anyway, beneath the grille, there is some graffiti which I noticed before coming in here.
It says: NO ONE IS INNOCENT.
Proctor was driving a small, rusting Fiat. Stephanie had imagined he’d be in the latest BMW or Audi, something sleek and German. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. Stephanie stepped out of the entrance to Warren Street Underground station and crossed the pavement.
‘You’re twenty minutes late.’
‘The car wouldn’t start.’
She looked at it disdainfully. ‘You don’t say.’
Proctor’s surprise was self-evident. ‘For someone in trouble, you’ve got a crappy way of saying thank you.’ When she failed to speak, he said, ‘Are you getting in the car, or not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? I thought you needed a place to stay.’
‘I need a safe place to stay.’
The wind blew newspaper along the pavement. She shivered.
Proctor nodded slowly. ‘I won’t harm you –’ She looked unconvinced. ‘– I promise I won’t.’
‘You can’t have sex with me.’
He found her frankness disarming. ‘What?’
‘You can’t have sex with me.’
Proctor attempted a little levity. ‘That’s a relief. You’re not my type. Now get in.’
But Stephanie looked as serious as before. ‘I mean it.’
‘I don’t believe this. Look, you asked me. Remember? I was the one who was working at home, who pulled on his shoes and drove up here to collect you.’
She clutched her coat at the throat. ‘I won’t let you –’
‘I don’t want to have sex with you. You look like death warmed up. Now are you getting in the bloody car or not? Because I’m not hanging around here all night waiting for the police to arrest me for kerb-crawling.’
Once again, Proctor saw a look that could have been sorrow, hatred or fear. Or all three. After a final suspicious pause, Stephanie got into the car.
Proctor kept both hands on the wheel and looked straight ahead. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Forget about it. You’ve no idea how refreshing the truth can be.’
It takes me time to remember where I am. This sofa is not in Brewer Street. It is in Bell Street, which is between the Edgware Road and Lisson Grove. I am in the living room of Proctor’s flat.
My life is precarious enough without climbing into strangers’ cars. Last night, I needed to get off the street, and to rest, so I was grateful for his intervention. But now that it is morning, I’ve got to think ahead and make plans. I have to keep moving – moving prey is harder to catch – until I can find somewhere secure to lie low. And for that, I’ll need money. The three hundred and fifty-five pounds that I lifted from the businessmen in King’s Cross will fuel me for a while but it does not represent a passport to a new life.
As I rise from the sofa, I become aware of how ill I feel. This doesn’t seem like a regular hangover; I ache all over and I feel sick. I am simultaneously hot and cold. Maybe this is my body protesting yet again at the way I have treated it.
I assume that Proctor is still asleep. I move quietly. When we returned here last night, we didn’t talk much. He showed me where the bathroom was and I changed into the jeans and sweatshirt that I was carrying in my rucksack. Then he sat me on this sofa and poured me one whisky after another. I don’t remember how many it took to eradicate my in-built sense of caution. Exhaustion was to blame, but by the time I was ready to talk, I was ready to sleep. Proctor realized this and fetched me a pillow and some blankets. I suppose he thought we’d talk this morning. He’s going to be disappointed.
He was wearing a worn leather jacket when he picked me up. I cannot see it in this room so I put on my shoes, gather my things, fasten the rucksack and pull on my overcoat. Then I open the door as quietly as I can and I tiptoe past Proctor’s bedroom, which is on the