Greenwich Park(72)
When nothing has happened for another hour, I throw the blanket to the side, stand up, set about rearranging another one of our drawers. But I soon get bored, put it back, make another cup of tea, sit at the kitchen table. I retrieve my book, but I can’t get into it, my concentration drifting away at the end of each paragraph. I walk back into the sitting room, try to settle on the sofa. I close my eyes. I keep seeing her face.
The embers in the fire die to a weak red glow, then to a grey ash, light and delicate as the snowflakes outside. Finally, I give up and go to bed early but cannot fall asleep.
My phone rings at half past eight. It is Katie. I ask her about Rachel, whether she has heard anything at work. She won’t answer my questions.
‘Can you meet me, Helen?’
‘I’m already in bed, Katie. I’m exhausted.’
‘I know – you must be, I’m really sorry.’ I can hear the noise of chatter in the background. It sounds like she is in a pub. ‘Look, I’m at the end of your road,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘In the Plume of Feathers. Please?’ She pauses. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘Why can’t you come here?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Please, Helen. Ten minutes.’
I dress slowly and make my way there, the wintery wind stinging my fingers. Frost snaps in the air. I wish I’d thought to bring gloves. I walk slowly, unsteadily, fretting about the ice. The pavement isn’t gritted, and the light from the street lamps glints off the surface of the frozen puddles.
When I reach the pub, I throw the door open and feel the warmth on my face. I see Katie at a table on the far side, and she shoots me a relieved smile, rushes to help me sit down.
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter. I wipe the melting snow off my trousers and sink into the green leather of a booth seat. I feel enormous, eclipsed by my baby. A man reaches to help me move the table back so I can fit into the seat.
‘I’ll just grab the drinks.’
As I wait, I look around the pub, wondering how long it will be, after this, until I’m in a pub again. It is a nice pub, cosier than I remember. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, the chimney breast is covered in horseshoes, the wonky shelves squashed full of silver tankards and dusty old bottles with models of boats inside. There is a low hum of chatter, a smell of mulled wine and cider. There are decorations over the bar, in gaudy green, red and gold. I guess it is nearly December. I haven’t even thought about Christmas. It is as if the time has gone ahead without me. I’m stuck on the night she disappeared.
Katie returns with a soft drink for me and a large glass of red wine for herself. She places them down and hugs me, her arms barely reaching around me over the bump. ‘So close now, Helen,’ she says.
Katie looks worried, her shoulders are tense, her brow low over her eyes. She has already drunk one glass of wine; the empty glass sits between us next to the pieces of a cardboard beer mat that she has torn to shreds. Her hand keeps flitting to her right ear to tuck a strand of hair behind it.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says vaguely. ‘I’ve been here for ages – I hadn’t noticed it had started snowing.’ She grimaces. ‘I hope you were OK getting here.’
She glances at the door, takes a sip of her wine. She has shadows under her eyes.
I shift in my seat. ‘What is it? You said it was important.’
Katie sighs.
My heart sinks as soon as I see the look on her face, and I know what the next words will be, even before she says them.
‘It’s about Rachel.’
HELEN
My train pulls in and out of breeze-block tunnels through the alien city landscape, the huge ghostly towers of blue and green glass. The waters of the docklands are grey and flat. There are endless apartment blocks around the water, backing onto the railway line, outdoor furniture cramped onto tiny balconies. One has a plastic car and a child’s tricycle. In the giant glass office blocks, the lights are still on, the glow of computer screens, people working, even late on a Friday night.
I hadn’t planned to come here. I had planned to hear whatever it was that Katie had to say then head home, have a long bath, get into my pyjamas, see if Daniel wanted to order a takeaway when he finally got home. But I ended up staring at the photo, the one Katie had found in the club. And before I knew it, I was here. On my way to Charlie’s. Texting Daniel to tell him not to wait up.
At South Quay the track starts to bend, taking my stomach with it. I haven’t done this journey in a while. I can’t say I enjoy it much. Reflected in the wobbly mirror panels of a skyscraper, the train looks like a toy in its primary colours. It shudders past the no man’s lands of Mudchute, Westferry, Limehouse. There’s a change at Shadwell, a steep flight of stairs. I can feel sweat under my arms.
On the Overground to Dalston, the landscape changes. Scrappy allotments, low-rise housing estates with long brick balconies. Parks with playgrounds in garish colours, hooded youths lingering among the swings. Teenagers, BMX bikes, dangerous-looking dogs.
Finally, we reach Charlie’s stop. There’s no way I’ll get a taxi here. I try Uber, but it says fourteen minutes. I might be able to find a bus, maybe, but I think better of it. The last time I did that, I went the wrong way, wheeling round and round the estates, one indistinguishable from another. I decide I’ll have to walk. My feet are sore, my ankles swollen. I can feel the pressure at the bottom of my pelvis, hard now, sometimes like a shooting pain. Don’t come now, I tell the baby silently. Not tonight.