The Things I Know(49)
‘It’s okay, don’t be scared. You can do this.’ She whispered the self-soothing mantra under her breath. The Tube was crowded, dirty, and she knew that, no matter how exciting, this was a life she would find hard to get used to, instantly missing the fresh air and being able to look up at the big sky. The tiled walls of the station were grimy and the carriage itself felt claustrophobic. She more than understood why her fellow commuters all looked so miserable, if this was how they were forced to spend large chunks of their day. The only positive was that, because no one looked up from their phone, newspaper, book or Kindle, they didn’t stare at her mouth and it felt nice to be just another face in the crowd.
By the time she emerged from the station, she felt dirty in a way she never did when covered in farm muck. There was something quite unpleasant about breathing second-hand air, and the thought of sharing the cramped space with so many other people all squished together like sardines in the hot, confined carriage was gross. She had hated the Underground and, looking around now, was sorry to admit that she hated what sat above the ground too. This was absolutely nothing like the dazzling Covent Garden or the Chelsea Flower Show, the sanitised face of the capital, scrubbed clean and beribboned for tourists and visitors alike. Her eyes were drawn to the graffiti-covered walls, the litter, the grey concrete and the corrugated iron, ugly buildings, the soot-filled kerbs and the trucks that hurtled by. And she saw in sharp outline all the hard corners, spikes and jagged edges.
Grayson was right: if the countryside was soft, then this place was hard – and too fast-paced for a girl who had spent her entire life in the green and gentle world of Austley Morton. Here in the big city it felt as though life moved to a different rhythm. People hopped up and down the kerbs, skirting around each other, slowing down or speeding up to match the swell of feet in front of them, or jumping to the left or right to dodge obstacles. Everyone seemed well rehearsed in a dance that was new to her and she felt as if she missed a beat with every step she took. Her foot ached and it was rare for her to feel sorry for herself or overly consider her physical difficulties, but as she trod the hard, grey pavement the discomfort threatened to overwhelm her rather. She didn’t want to be limping slowly up to his front door, but instead wanted to appear sprightly, appealing, and to make a good impression on his mother. It felt important.
Backing up against the wall, she lifted her foot and rotated her ankle as best she could before smoothing the crumpled square of paper from her jeans pocket and reciting the flat number. Armed with the knowledge that he got home from work at six thirty, she had deliberately timed her journey, knowing she did not want to be hovering in the walkway outside the murderer’s home, all alone. It was now a little after a quarter to seven as she slowly trod the ugly concrete stairs of Grayson’s tower block. The going was cumbersome with her foot, but the stairs, she had decided, no matter how much a chore, were still preferable if it meant she could avoid the lift, where she knew a large shit had once lurked. Dog or human? The jury was still out.
The reek of urine invaded her nostrils and she spotted discarded syringes gathered in the odd dark corner, no doubt courtesy of the junkies who apparently lived on the top floor. Cautiously, she made her way along the gangway, trying not to look down to the car park below, where vans and cars were tightly parked, or pay attention to the harsh shouts, sirens and the seemingly continual banging of doors that put the fear of God into her.
Nerves began to bite, along with a reluctance to knock at the door, as her earlier courage slipped from her and trickled over the edge of the balcony. She looked back along the path she had trodden and for a second considered leaving quickly and hoping she hadn’t been seen, not sure this was worth it. As quickly as the question rose in her mind, it was suffocated with an image of him leaning in as they dawdled by the riverbank and kissing her mouth . . .
Standing outside the half-glazed front door, Thomasina looked to the right, towards the wide picture window that separated this flat from the one next door. She took in the grubby net curtains and the hazy flickering light of a TV, which pooled on to the walkway as dusk now gave way to darkness. A worn coconut mat sat on the floor with three cigarette butts lodged under the side. She took a deep breath and rang the tinny doorbell before taking a step backwards and waiting. As she wondered for the first time who might answer and exactly how she might introduce herself to Mrs Potts, she heard a loud shout from within, so loud she took another step backwards until she rested against the balcony wall. It was a woman’s voice, not only loud, but also rather angry.
‘Tell them to go away! Disturbing our evening! It’ll be bloody Jehovahwhatshisnames. Tell them I gave up my faith when my husband abandoned his marriage vows, ruining my life and destroying my belief in God! That father of yours made a mockery of my promise to the Almighty!’
Thomasina had very little time to digest the shout or react to the naked fear that leapt in her gut when the door opened and suddenly everything felt okay . . . There he was!
Grayson.
Her heart flipped at the sight of him and she felt her face break into a smile that was almost involuntary.
Standing in a white shirt with a tie loosened at his neck and clutching a red cotton napkin in his hand, he stared at her with an expression of disbelief. She felt her legs sway beneath her and her tongue stick to the dry roof of her mouth. It was a relief to find that the excitement he evoked in her had not diminished.
He pushed his long fringe behind his ear and blinked, looking lost for words, and she understood, sharing this mute sense of shock and wonder. She felt a similar collision of fear and joy swirling through her veins, leaving her limbs trembling.