Читать книгу Good Bad Woman - Elizabeth Woodcraft - Страница 9

Edmonton was everything I had dreaded and more. I left the house in good time, puzzling over the meaning of the sugar-free gum note and was still abstractedly worrying about it at half past nine as I climbed the narrow stairs to the tiny Ladies Robing Room in the eaves of the brick courthouse. As I shrugged off my heavy dark grey overcoat I realised I had forgotten to put on my jacket. I considered my options. I was wearing a black T-shirt, which fortunately had long sleeves, but was rather short and a little faded. I had no options. I tied my black devoré scarf round my neck and hoped it looked deliberate.

‘I’m in the case of Fiona Stevens,’ I told the new usher downstairs in the waiting area.

‘Are you being represented this morning, Miss Stevens?’ he asked me.

‘I’m the barrister,’ I hissed.

We were there all day. Fiona Stevens needed an emergency injunction, without her ex-husband knowing, to protect her and the children. He had punched her the day before as she was leaving home to collect the children from school and had threatened to come back to her house and tear it apart one night while she was out with her new partner, a woman.

Before we could appear in front of the judge we had to issue our application in the court office. But I had no papers, I couldn’t issue anything. ‘Everything is in the file,’ the solicitor told me when I rang her, ‘the outdoor clerk picked it up last night.’ I had no outdoor clerk. ‘We tell our clerks to be there half an hour before the hearing,’ the solicitor said accusingly, ‘she’ll be there somewhere,’ as if I was being stupid by failing to see her.

‘Are you ready?’ the usher asked me twice, and I said winningly, ‘Well, we haven’t issued, but yes.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I can’t send you in before the judge without issuing. He’d have my guts for garters,’ and he laughed. I laughed too, in case I needed him later. My client went downstairs for a cigarette.

The solicitor’s clerk arrived at quarter past eleven. She was late because she had washed her hair so it looked lovely and clean, but as she searched for the papers it became clear that she had been given the wrong file. She had to go back to the solicitor’s office to collect the right one.

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Fiona Stevens said as we sat outside the ladies’ toilet, sipping bad coffee from beige plastic cups, waiting for the clerk to come back, ‘but he never wanted to go out with me, day or night. He used to like going out with his mates or with his girlfriend, he’d get all dressed up, but he’d say, “Who in their right mind would go out with you?” So I found someone who would, and he doesn’t like it.’

We left court at quarter past four with the injunction which would be served on Gary Stevens later that evening. When I got to my car, I was sorry I had snapped at the solicitor’s clerk as the car wouldn’t start and I had to ask her for a push. Humiliatingly, the client helped and then there was an uncomfortably quiet journey as I gave them a lift to Seven Sisters tube station.

My mental memo, which this morning had read, ‘Find Saskia,’ now read, ‘Find Saskia. Buy new car battery. Possibly buy new car.’

I drove back to my flat and rang my solicitor to tell her what had happened in court.

Gratifyingly she said, ‘The client was really pleased.’ But then she added, ‘She’s got a large ancillary relief case coming up and she’d like you to do it.’

Through gritted teeth I said, ‘Of course, I’d love to.’ I hate ancillary relief. Divorce work is bad enough with people being horrible to each other, but money matters seem to bring out the very worst in everybody. Compromise is usually the only answer because there’s not much money and the legal costs are so high, but the parties feel that compromise is giving in, like losing, so they argue over who gets the sun lounger and it goes to trial and the only winners are the lawyers. Then I thought of the car battery I needed. ‘Send me the papers,’ I said.

I rang chambers. Gavin was obviously distracted as he didn’t even apologise for sending me to Edmonton. He said, ‘I’ve got you a five-day case in the High Court, starting Monday fortnight. You’re for the First Respondent, the mother. The solicitor wants a con next Thursday. Brief’s coming down to chambers early next week.’

‘Gavin, I love you,’ I said, thinking, Perhaps I could get a new car, a green one.

‘I’m glad someone likes me,’ he said.

‘Bad day?’ I asked, thinking, I could have four doors and a sun roof.

‘Your room-mate Marcus sometimes has a very forthright way of expressing himself,’ he said, meaning Marcus had sworn at him for something which was doubtless Marcus’s own fault. ‘Do you want your messages? Hang on …’ Gavin put me on hold while he collected the messages from the message board. ‘“Lesley Page”,’ he read, ‘“please ring back.” Do you want the number?’

I made a note, asking, ‘Is that a solicitor? Did they say what it was about?’

‘I don’t think it’s a solicitor. That’s a mobile phone number isn’t it?’ Gavin said, ‘I’ve no idea what it’s about, I didn’t take the message.’

‘OK, fine. I don’t suppose there’s a message from Saskia?’

‘Nothing here.’

‘Anything from Kay?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Frankie, you’re not starting all that nonsense again, are you?’ Gavin asked. He liked Kay, but there had been two occasions when he had found me in tears in my room at the tail end of our relationship, and he had put my coat over my shoulders and taken me to the George and bought me drinks till I cheered up.

I rang the number he had given me for Lesley Page. A snooty voice told me it had not been possible to connect my call. Someone else who never switched on their mobile. I put it out of my mind. People know where to find me.

I had a shower – the luxury of my bathroom is that I have a separate shower – and put on some black jeans and a loose black jumper. I put on my black suede boots. The reason I became a barrister is because I like black clothes.

I was going back to Gino’s. F could be Frankie, but it could be Friday. It could of course be foolish, but I had no social life anyway. The weather was still cold and I wrapped my heavy overcoat round me as I walked out to my car, which started perfectly.

I got there at seven fifteen. The restaurant was empty except for Gino and a man in a white coat and a blue and white apron who I knew was the chef. They were sitting side by side at a table near the kitchen with a crossword between them.

‘Signora, so lovely to see you. How many you are? A bottle of vino tinto red?’

‘Gino,’ I said carefully, drawing him over to the bar area, ‘I don’t know if I’m staying and I don’t know if I’m meeting anyone.’

‘Si, signora, yes, of course,’ he said with concern. ‘So you would like just a glass of red for the meanwhile and you sit at the bar, yes?’

I smiled at him gratefully and eased myself on to a stool. Gino bustled round behind the bar. I could see his grey roots as he bent his head to pour the glass of wine.

‘Gino,’ I began slowly, ‘have you seen a woman with spiky blonde hair, taller than me, wearing … I don’t know, possibly a rather nice grey denim shirt, in the last day or two?’

‘I have seen you in the last day or two, signora. You didn’t see her yourself?’

‘No, I didn’t. But then it might not be her I’m expecting,’ I murmured, partly to myself.

Gino placed the glass of wine in front of me with a flourish. ‘What are imitation germs?’ he asked. ‘Five letters. P something S something something.’

‘Pests?’ I suggested.

‘It’s paste,’ the chef growled. ‘It was imitation gems, not germs.’

‘Oh, you English,’ Gino twinkled and went to welcome some new arrivals.

I sat at the bar with my back to the restaurant watching in the reflection of the peach-tinted mirror as the restaurant began to fill up. I had almost finished my glass of wine when he walked in. It was the man with the brown shoes from the magistrates’ court.

I watched Gino hurry over to him and greet him like an old friend, like he greeted everyone. He showed the man to a table and came back to the bar. The man looked at the clock on the wall which stood permanently at half past nine and then at his watch.

I checked my watch. It was seven twenty-five. Gino was popping the lid from a bottle of mineral water.

‘Gino, has that man been in here before?’ I asked casually, out of the corner of my mouth.

Gino threw me a look.

‘Si, signora, he was here last night, about this time, and, maybe, the night before, I think.’ He creased his face in concentration. ‘He did not stay long. He too is waiting for someone. Is he waiting for you? Is it a Blind Date?’ he asked eagerly.

‘No, no,’ I said, shocked. ‘Not with those shoes.’

Gino placed the mineral water in front of the man and hurried away to greet some newcomers. The man followed Gino with his eyes, then looked at his watch again.

In the subdued lighting of the restaurant, it was hard to get a clear picture of him in reverse. I noticed that the rosy sheen of the mirror made me look very well and I couldn’t be sure whether the man was young and attractive, as it appeared in the reflection, or mean and nasty. I didn’t want to turn round in case he recognised me. He took off his beige raincoat. He was wearing a grey sweater with a short zip at the neck. With tan shoes! Extraordinary.

Gino came back to the bar and opened two bottles of wine. He looked quizzically from me to the man but said nothing.

The man reached into the pocket of his mac and drew out a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph. I’m always surprised when people, especially people under forty, read the Daily Telegraph. All the news of a tabloid with the disadvantage of the size of a broadsheet.

What would Saskia be doing, knowing someone like that, I wondered.

He was reading the sports pages. Each time the door opened he half-closed the paper and looked up expectantly. It was ten to eight.

Gino had just poured me another glass of wine. ‘I’ll charge you for the bottle,’ he said, pushing a packet of bread sticks under my nose, when the man began elaborately to fold the newspaper and gestured towards the bar for his bill.

‘Gino, see if you can find out his name,’ I hissed, cramming three inches of bread stick into my mouth. I realised I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Edmonton didn’t have much to offer if you didn’t want to eat at McDonald’s, and, as a gesture of solidarity with Saskia, I hadn’t.

I watched Gino’s dark head bobbing in conversation. A look of confusion passed over the man’s face and then he drew out a credit card. Gino bounced back to the bar and spoke to me from the corner of his mouth as he fiddled with the clumsy machine.

‘His name is P. J. Kramer,’ he murmured excitedly.

‘He doesn’t look old enough,’ I muttered back.

Gino’s eyebrows rose. ‘P. J. Kramer,’ he enunciated slowly.

‘I thought you said Billy J. Kramer,’ I said and snorted with laughter. Oh God, I was not sober. I shoved another bread stick into my mouth.

The man was putting on gloves.

Casually I shrugged into my coat and put a £10 note on the counter.

He was leaving the restaurant.

I slid off the stool and then froze as he stopped at the door, adjusting the newspaper in his pocket. He went out into the street, leaving the door of the restaurant open to the cold night air, and turned sharply left. I followed him and closed the door.

He was about five foot nine and skinny but looked strong. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Physically, I knew I was no match for him. What was I doing even thinking about the possibility of physical confrontation? I am five foot five but slight. I once did a six-week self-defence course and I could probably still do the moves and the shouting, but any real possibility of a physical exchange was bound to end in tears. Mine. At best.

He was getting into a car; not the dark saloon but an old Ford. It was parked two cars away from mine, facing in the opposite direction. I shrugged down into my coat to hurry past him and jumped into my car. As his headlights came on, I fumbled with the key, turning it in the ignition. The engine whined in a tired unhappy way, like an exhausted wasp, then was silent. ‘Come on!’ I pleaded, breathing deeply but casually, trying not to let my car know I was questioning its continued existence in the world. ‘Oh God,’ I muttered as the man started doing a three-point turn. In Upper Street. He had to be mad. Or desperate. ‘I don’t really want a new car,’ I whispered faithlessly to the dashboard as the Ford lurched unhappily backwards and forwards in the middle of two opposing lines of traffic. I turned the key again. The engine coughed and purred into life. Now what was I going to do?

I followed him. He drove to Highbury Corner, turned into Holloway Road towards Archway and then up Highgate Hill. Then a Pizza Hut moped rider overtook me and I lost sight of the Ford. I was looking around for the car when I turned and found myself staring him in the face. I hadn’t noticed that he had pulled in to the side of the road, and now I was driving past him. He had parked outside the little house in Waterlow Park where on summer nights people have parties. But now it was dark and cold, cheerless and threatening and he seemed to be speaking angrily on a mobile phone.

I drove on, casually slowing down, throwing anxious glances in my rear-view mirror. Headlights were coming up behind me and I couldn’t make out if it was his car. As the lights drew closer I was dazzled and quickly looked away. Suddenly there was a bang and I shot forward. My seat belt clicked firmly and thrust me back. I could hear the revving of an engine very close behind me. Something large had made damaging, buckling contact with the back of my car. Automatically, I switched off my engine. I had no fear, just an enormous sense of fury and protectiveness for my small, unassuming car which had never hurt anyone. Certainly not since I’d had it, anyway. I unbuckled my seat belt, ready to jump out to look at my bumper and confront the bastard who had done this, when suddenly the door was wrenched open.

I was conscious of a narrow, pointed face with pock-marks and thin pale lips leaning towards me. I could smell garlic and something meaty, like pâté. A hand came round my neck and I was being dragged out of the car.

I was outraged, choking and gagging, repeating, ‘What? What?’ and clawing at the hand. There was a swish of material and something came towards me very fast. It was a fist, which punched me hard in the right eye. As my head jerked back a thin, harsh voice hissed, ‘Just keep your fucking nose out of things,’ and something that sounded like, ‘Fucking lesbos – you’re all the same,’ but perhaps I was just feeling sensitive. Then he threw me on to the ground and my face landed in gravel. I lay still for a couple of seconds, hoping he would go away, but he was standing there moving back and forth on shoes that in the half-light looked suspiciously as if they might be brown. I stretched out my left arm and groped along the ground, trying to get my bearings, trying to find something to hold on to, when a foot landed in my stomach. The impact flung me against the edge of the open car door. I snaked my hand round until I felt the door compartment with the reassuring cassette tapes, then eased my forearm up to the arm rest and began to pull myself up, using the door as protection.

Somebody was breathing heavily, which could have been me, but when he coughed a laugh I knew it wasn’t. ‘Got a bit of a headache, have we?’

As I stood up I smelt pâté breath from the other side of the door. I swayed slightly, my face and in particular my right eye were stinging.

As he advanced towards me I pulled the door quickly towards myself, then thrust it back hard against him. From his groan I guessed the edge of the door had hit the target. He bent forward and I came round the door. Raising my right knee and flipping my foot sharply, I kicked him very quickly between the legs. ‘That’s for all the lesbos,’ I said. He staggered backwards clutching his groin, and I contemplated doing it again, but decided to leave while I was ahead. As I slid behind the steering wheel I watched him in the rear-view mirror, limping over the gravel. I locked myself in with my elbow as a car door slammed behind me. There was a sound of violent revving and squealing into reverse, and I heard a car roar past me, but by then I had my head in my hands, leaning on the steering wheel, so I saw nothing.

Had that really happened? I’d been following a man and then he’d beaten me up? I hate that kind of clichéd situation. And keep my fucking nose out of what? Saskia? Kay? One of my other cases? Could Kramer have something to do with a family case of mine? Had he been hired by the husband of one of my clients? Most of the men in the cases I did would probably want to say that to me. The man in the case today might well have felt like that when he was served with the papers. Then I heard a car labouring up the hill. Was he coming back? Had he even gone? I lifted my head, conscious of a pounding pain behind my right eye. I turned the key in the ignition, prayed, and the car sparked into life. I jerked into first gear, pulled away from the kerb and across the road in one movement and sped into Hornsey Lane. I wanted to get away from the place, away from the man, away from the pain as soon as possible. I put on a cassette of Motown Greatest Hits. The low cello introducing Brenda Holloway singing ‘Every Little Bit Hurts’ seemed appropriate, the slow, deep notes solicitously filling the car, taking my mind off the throbbing in my head.

My mind was still scrambling over the events of the last few minutes. I was trying to remember all the details. Should I tell the police? Something niggling in the back of my mind said I shouldn’t. What would I tell them? I saw him in court. ‘And then you were following him, madam? A man you say you’ve never met … I see. And then he assaulted you? Well, sounds like we’ve got a bit of a domestic here, madam.’ If I missed out the part about seeing him in court – and I was beginning to wonder if I had seen him, perhaps I’d just imagined that part – they’d probably say it was a road-rage incident. ‘Don’t you worry, madam, we get a lot of this: attractive young lady in a small car, meandering slowly up the hill, gentleman behind gets a little bit impatient, a bit aggressive. Unfortunately that’s the modern world of today. Perhaps you should try keeping up with the speed limit, madam.’ But it wasn’t just road rage, he knew me, and that meant he might try it again. Surely I should at least get the assault on the record.

Then it came to me, the reason why I couldn’t go to the police. I was drunk, that was why.

Brenda Holloway was wondering why her lover treated her so, when I had to stop the car and be sick in the gutter. It didn’t last long, but it was a very intense experience. When I stood up I leaned on the railings of the viaduct and looked down at the traffic rushing along the Archway Road below and wondered if he was down there looking up at me. I shuddered and turned back to the car. As I opened the door, I glanced up at the sky which was clear and filled with stars and a crisp crescent moon. My eye hurt and my stomach ached.

I drove home carefully, wincing at every bump in the road. I was driving so slowly I worried I might be stopped, but it was still only nine thirty and the police obviously hadn’t started looking out for Friday-night drunk drivers.

I went into the flat, shut the door and considered who I could ring. I couldn’t ring Lena because she was in France, and I definitely couldn’t ring Kay because she had very clearly warned me to leave well alone and I couldn’t bear to hear the unspoken ‘I told you so’ in her voice when she sighed, ‘Oh, Frankie.’ I did a mental run through my address book and realised there was no one I could ring at ten o’clock at night and say, ‘I’ve just been punched in the face, it hurts like hell, will you be nice to me?’ Feeling alone and extremely sorry for myself, I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and took two aspirin.

I trailed into the living room and put on the Four Tops, who said I could reach out and they’d be there.

And I wondered, as I so often had, if the idea was to reach out now while I was listening to the song, which would be fairly unproductive since I was quite obviously on my own, or if I should wait till I was at a really good party and then reach out and it would all fall into place. Except at parties you can never be sure how good the music will be. That’s why I like sixties nights – they do both, play the song and it’s usually a good party, so you can reach out without anxiety. Except, of course, the last one I’d been to, I’d reached out to Kay and she wouldn’t dance. The Four Tops said I just had to look over my shoulder. You do that, of course, and you’re doing the Hitch Hiker – not my favourite dance. It was time to go to bed.