Until it's Over Read online

  At a little after one, the waitress slouched over to the door, turned the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ and asked me to leave.

  I walked. Past queues outside nightclubs, past a group of drunken men in suits, past down-and-outs in doorways strewn with cigarette butts. Down to the river. I sat on a bench and looked at my watch. It was three o’clock. In two hours or so it would be light. I closed my eyes and went through everything in my mind. When I opened them, it was half past five and there was light on the horizon. I had no notion that any time had gone by and no memories of dreaming, but I supposed I must have slept. I stood up and stretched. I made sure all the buttons on my shirt were done up, took a comb out of my breast pocket and neatened my hair. Then I walked back the way I’d come. At twenty past seven, I stopped in a café and ordered a cup of tea, but I could only manage a few sips. My insides were burning. I bought freshmint chewing-gum from a newsagent: that would have to do this morning in the place of cleaning my teeth. I bought a bottle of water as well, and rinsed my mouth. I felt like a runner waiting to take his place on the starting blocks.

  At half past eight, I went to a public pay phone, used my mobile to remind me of Astrid’s number and punched it in.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Astrid! Did I wake you up?’

  ‘Is that you, Davy?’

  ‘Yes. My mobile’s packed up and I’m in a phone booth.’

  ‘I’ve been awake for ages.’

  ‘Me too. Listen, I know we’re meeting later with everyone, but I was really hoping I could come and see you beforehand. There’s something I think you should know.’

  I thought at least she’d ask me to explain, and I had my answer ready, but she didn’t. Her voice was warm, natural. ‘That’d be fine. Why don’t you come here at – what? Ten, ten thirty? Then we can go on to Maitland Road together.’

  ‘Great. You’d better tell me where “here” is, though.’ If she was with a friend, I’d have to change plans.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ She gave an odd little snort. ‘I’m staying at my friend Saul’s – you met him a couple of times. I’m feeding his cat and watering his plants for the next few weeks while he’s away. Sorry. Too much information. It’s Capulet Road, just off Stoke Newington Church Street. Number sixty-six A.’

  It was so typical that it made me smile. I had spent a night wandering the streets while Astrid had already found somewhere to stay, with plants and a cat. I’d never become part of the world where people did things like that and knew other people who did it too.

  I walked to Stoke Newington. It was just a couple of miles and it cleared my head. When I got to the main street, I went into a rather cool shop selling men’s clothes and bought myself a new shirt. It was an olive-green colour and smelled cottony and clean. I looked at myself in the mirror and liked what I saw. I was pleased with the slim young man with honest grey eyes in a fresh face, and – I leaned forward and smiled at my reflection – oh, yes, a modest and endearing smile that said, ‘You can trust me, you can lean on me, you can tell me what’s troubling you. I won’t let you down’. I wouldn’t let myself down. I’d come this far and I was on the last leg of my journey.

  At ten minutes to ten I turned off Stoke Newington Church Street and down Capulet Road. I passed sixty-six A but it was too early; I didn’t look up but kept on walking. At three minutes to ten, I halted and put the last two sticks of chewing-gum into my mouth, chewed them vigorously, then spat them out on to the pavement. Then I went back up Capulet Road. I got to number sixty-six, a little cobbler’s that looked like something out of medieval times. The dark blue door to the left said ‘66a’, in gold. I stood in front of it for a few seconds. I straightened my jacket over my shirt. I took some deep breaths. I ran my fingers through my hair. I licked my lips, arranged my expression. And then I rang the bell.

  It was only a few seconds before I heard the unmistakable sound of Astrid’s footsteps running down the stairs: light and quick. She pulled open the door. Her feet were bare and she was wearing faded jeans and a high-necked green cardigan that was short enough to show a strip of her tanned stomach. We were co-ordinated, I thought, on this day of all days. But there was something different about her and it took me a few moments to understand what it was. She was smiling at me and seemed properly pleased that I was there. Of course, she had always been perfectly friendly and approachable before, but in Maitland Road we had rarely been alone and I had always felt I was on the sidelines of her life. Today it was simply me and her. Nobody had just left and nobody was about to arrive. Her eyes were fixed on mine; her expression was attentive. She put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me, first on one cheek, then the other. ‘Hello, Davy,’ she said. ‘I’m really glad you’re here. I’ve been feeling so cast down about everything.’

  She didn’t look cast down. Her face glowed with health and life. Her dark hair shone and her lips were glossy. She smelled of lemon and roses.

  ‘Of course you have,’ I said, stepping over the threshold and shutting the door behind me. I followed her up the stairs. The tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck were still damp; she must be fresh from a shower, I thought. Her back was slender. She led me into a room that served as kitchen and living room. It was all a bit higgledy-piggledy and cluttered. There were geraniums in the window box, and a ginger cat lay curled up and purring on the baggy corduroy sofa. It opened one yellow eye, examined me, then shut it again.

  Astrid looked at me with concern. ‘Where did you spend the night?’

  I mumbled something about staying at a friend’s.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like a shower or something.’

  ‘I already had one.’

  She laughed. ‘It wasn’t an accusation. Sit down. Try to ignore Saul’s mess.’ She hurled a coat and a bag off the sofa. ‘Coffee? Tea? Juice? I think there’s juice, anyway, I haven’t really examined the fridge yet.’

  ‘Coffee.’ I wanted to prolong the moment; watch her as she served me, watch the way her cardigan tightened over her breasts as she reached up for cups.

  ‘A small amount of milk and no sugar, right?’

  ‘You remember.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled at me and I felt my throat thicken with desire.

  ‘How long are you staying here for?’

  ‘I don’t know. A fortnight at least. I can’t see beyond that. I’ve no idea what I’ll do next. Maybe I should grow up and try to sort out my life. What do you think?’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘About what I should do next.’

  I stared at her, memorizing every detail of her face. ‘I don’t think you should plan beyond the next few minutes at the moment, Astrid.’

  She turned away and shovelled several spoonfuls of ground coffee into a cafetière and poured in boiling water, stirring vigorously. ‘This might be a bit strong.’

  She sat down on the sofa next to me, pushing the cat to the end without waking it. Her leg brushed my leg; her shoulder was a few millimetres from mine. When she bent her head to take a sip of her coffee, I gazed at the curve of her cheek, at her long dark lashes. Steam rose into her face, moistening her skin. ‘You’re trembling,’ I said to her softly.

  ‘Am I?’ She held up her free hand. ‘So I am. I’m tired, Davy. Tired, scared, lonely, at a loss.’ She put the hand on my knee. ‘Do you understand that feeling?’

  I put my hand over hers. ‘Do I understand it? Astrid, I’ve spent my whole life feeling like that.’ Tears welled in my eyes but I didn’t try to check them. I was done with pretending. This was my moment, my perfect day. I put down my coffee cup and picked up her hand between both my own.

  ‘I should have paid more attention,’ she said. She let me lift her hand to my lips and hold it there for a moment. ‘You’re the only person in the whole house to have come well out of all of this. Everyone else went to pieces or turned on other people, except you. You were always calm and kind. Especially
to me. Do you think I didn’t notice?’

  ‘Do you know why, Astrid?’

  ‘I think so.’ She placed her hand against my cheek. She gazed at me, then leaned forward and, very lightly, kissed my lips. I pulled her to me. Her lips opened under mine, I felt her breasts against my chest. I pushed my hand into her hair and kissed her again, more roughly, tasting blood but that didn’t matter. My Astrid. My destiny. My ending and my beginning.

  I pushed her back on the sofa. I kissed her gently, then started to do things I’d wanted to do since the first moment I’d met her. I put a hand on her breast. She smiled blurrily at me and I moved my hand under her cardigan and felt her warm, smooth stomach, then the rough fabric of her bra. I wanted her. I wanted to do everything to her at once. I moved my hand down to her jeans and started to fumble with the button. ‘Wait,’ she said dreamily. ‘We’re got time, Davy. We’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘I’ve waited so long,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’

  She sat up, stroked my hair and kissed me. ‘I think I owe you,’ she said.

  ‘Owe me?’ I was finding it difficult to speak.

  She pulled my jacket off and very delicately undid the first button on my shirt. ‘You got Miles out of the way for me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘What does it matter?’

  She smiled at me and kissed me again. I could taste her, wet and sweet. She undid the second button. ‘It matters to me,’ she said, kissing my lips, my face. She kissed my ear and whispered, ‘Tell me. I need to know. I want to know everything about you.’

  ‘It was easy,’ I said.

  She undid the third button and pulled open my shirt. She put her lips against my neck. I moaned. I couldn’t stop myself.

  ‘So what did you do?’

  She lay back on the sofa again. I bent over and kissed her lips. I kissed her hair, breathed it in. The clean soft smell was like a drug that made me feel dizzy and drunk with her. She gave a murmur.

  ‘It was the paperweight,’ I said.

  ‘Mm?’

  I put my fingers on the fastening of her jeans, and this time she didn’t try to stop me. I undid the fastening, then drew down the zip. I saw her blue knickers, lacy at the top. I put my hand on them. I felt the hair through them, warm under my hand.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘The paperweight.’ I said the words to her between kisses. ‘You saw it in my room. I just put it in Miles’s room.’ I pushed my hand deeper under her knickers.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘My top. Take it off first.’

  I undid the first button. She lay back with her hands raised behind her head, open to me.

  ‘Peggy was just a mistake,’ I said, undoing the second button and the third. ‘But it was in his room, so the traces were there already.’

  ‘You?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Perfect, Davy,’ she said. ‘Perfect.’

  And I didn’t know whether she meant me, stroking and kissing her beautiful body, or whether it was because now she finally understood it was me who knew everything and had done everything. I unfastened the last button and pulled the cardigan open and apart.

  ‘No, it was a mistake. Leah and Ingrid.’

  My hands moved to the blue filigreed covering of her bra.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said, as I saw a black cord running along it and round under her back. I looked at her and her expression had changed suddenly, like a cloud covering the sun, and I knew what it was and I knew that bad things were going to happen. Everything was about to crumble. The darkness would cover everything, like an icy tide coming in. I reached for my jacket, for the spanner in the pocket. I could take her with me. One blow. She would raise her hand. It would shatter her wrist. The next blow would hit her face, immobilize her. Then I could smash those glorious features to jelly. But the jacket was out of reach; the bitch had kicked it away.

  I raised myself from the sofa, pushing her back with one hand so that her head knocked against its wooden arm, and then I heard a clatter outside, heavy footsteps. The door opened hard, banging against the wall, and there was a rush of bodies. I let myself be shoved backwards against a wall. They pushed me hard, so that something fell from a shelf and smashed. The pain in the back of my head was like cold water, but a trickle of clear thought seeped into the jumble of my mind.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ said a familiar voice. Kamsky. It was like a surprise party. You think you’re having a night alone and suddenly all your friends jump out. You think no one can hear you and all the time they’ve been listening, snooping, prying, spying.

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘Don’t. Listen – listen, this is a mistake. A stupid mistake, I was just playing along with Astrid. I was talking dirty to excite her. You’d understand that. It was a joke.’

  Astrid was sitting on the sofa with her head in her hands. Kamsky looked at her with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  She stood up, then remembered the state she was in. She zipped up her jeans. A female officer stepped forward and removed the wire and microphone. She had to reach round Astrid’s body and disentangle it from her bra. All the time, Astrid looked at me, with an almost speculative expression, as if she was staring at me through the bars of a cage. Her lips curled back.

  ‘You…’ she began, and then she stopped.

  ‘You did well, Astrid,’ said Kamsky. ‘Really well, my dear.’

  ‘He touched me,’ she hissed. ‘I let him. I let him.’

  Her hand came to her mouth. Her eyes met mine for a second, then she ran from the room. I heard the sound of vomiting, again and again. Then the sound of a door being locked and then of a shower. Not very flattering. The officers started to get busy. There was rummaging in my pockets. Grubby fingers poking and prodding me. Dirty eyes staring. A nasty fluttering in my head. A nerve was jumping just above my lip. I tried to bite it still, but I couldn’t stop it.

  ‘You fucking piece of filth,’ said a voice. A uniformed man brandished my spanner in front of my face. ‘What the hell’s this?’

  ‘I’m a…’ I couldn’t remember the word. What was happening? Pieces of my brain falling off like flaking plaster; words and thoughts cascading away. ‘A builder,’ I managed at last. ‘I keep tools in my pocket.’

  ‘Admit what you did,’ said Kamsky. ‘Save us all a lot of trouble. Get your friend out of prison.’

  I needed to look puzzled. I tried to pull my expression the right way. My face was rubber and cardboard. My mouth felt numb, as if I’d had a stroke or something.

  ‘Get a guilty man out of prison?’ I said at last. I laughed, tried to laugh. Kamsky drew back slightly. ‘Why would I do that, mate?’

  Kamsky’s expression was partly anger and partly a kind of wonderment. ‘You never give up, do you, your kind?’

  My kind. What did that mean, ‘my kind’? He didn’t know anything at all about me and he never would. I didn’t have a kind. I was someone else, someone different, and they’d never understand.

  ‘All that stuff you said before,’ I said, ‘about what I say being used as evidence. I hope someone has noted down that I’ve kept trying to explain that you’ve made a mistake, that I’m completely innocent.’

  ‘It’s all on tape,’ said Kamsky.

  ‘I told you,’ I said. ‘I was playing along.’

  ‘We’ve got you admitting it. You don’t have an alibi. We’ve got the underwear you stole from Leah Peterson. That’s right. We’ve been talking to your girlfriend. It seems she wasn’t entirely convinced by your attempt at an alibi.’

  ‘Silly little bitch,’ I said. My tongue was thick. There was spit on my chin but I wiped it away. ‘I got that underwear at the sale at our house.’

  Kamsky smiled.

  ‘Which is why Leah Peterson’s credit-card payment is dated the day before she died. We’ve got you, Davy. You might as well tell us what you did. Spare the families of the people you killed.’

&nb
sp; I was falling. A steel band was being drawn tight round my skull and no relief from it would ever come.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No. No. You’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t me.’

  Because it wasn’t. Not really.

  Epilogue

  My mobile rang.

  ‘Hi, Emlyn,’ I said.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You know what I’m doing. I’m hacking some bushes down.’

  ‘I know. But I like to hear you say it. It helps me imagine it.’

  ‘Can’t you ring a chatline for that sort of thing?’

  ‘I’ve arranged for us to look at a house. The estate agent’s meeting us there in half an hour.’

  ‘A house? What for? We’ve already got a house.’

  ‘Astrid. It’s seventy-two Maitland Road. A friend of mind drove past and saw the for-sale sign.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, and suddenly I felt cold and the garden turned from autumnal gold to grey. ‘I didn’t know he was selling it. He never said. But what did you arrange that for?’

  ‘I’m curious to see it because of everything it’s meant to you. And I want to see it with you. You always said you needed to go back one more time at least. But only if you want to.’

  I paused for a moment.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  When we arrived the estate agent was already waiting on the pavement, a clipboard under his arm, a mobile phone at his ear. When we got out of the car, he held up his hand in acknowledgement of our presence but continued talking.

  ‘Well, you know what they say about verbal agreements,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Cheers, mate. Catch you later.’

  He put his phone into his pocket and turned to us. He seemed momentarily confused by our appearance. Emlyn was dressed in a grey suit with a blue open-necked shirt. I was doing my best impersonation of a landscape gardener who had been interrupted while at work.