Barry Maitland: Babel

Brock was sitting on a bar stool, slightly apart, contemplating his pint, and looked up as she moved forward through the crowd, as if he could sense her approach. For a moment before he spotted her she felt a tremor of panic and almost ducked and ran, but then it passed and he was beaming, waving her over, saying something to the others who turned and gave a cheer. She grinned and stuck up her chin, accepted the hugs and handshakes, and gave her congratulations to Bren.

She was pleased to see a couple of other women in the group, Dot, chuckling much more freely than usual, and Bren’s wife Deanne. They were going up west for a celebration dinner, Deanne explained, their two girls in the care of a baby-sitter.

‘And you, Kathy, are you really fit again? Bren told me what happened and I couldn’t believe it, the things that happen to you!’

The phrase made her sound like a freak, she thought, as if she collected trouble like an eccentric hobby. ‘I’m fine,’ she said brightly, taking a large scotch. ‘All patched up and ready to go again. No problems. And how are the girls?’

While she half listened she was aware of Brock examining her. Later he drew her aside and asked how her afternoon session had gone.

‘It’s a waste of time,’ she said, forcing confidence into her voice. ‘I’ve got over the shock and there’s not a lot you can really say, is there? The shoulder’s OK. I’ve been swimming and going to the gym. I’m ready to come back, Brock.’

He tilted his head, doubtful. ‘Sleeping all right?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she lied, and wondered if it showed. Deanne had done a strange little double take when she’d first caught sight of her, as if surprised at Kathy’s appearance. ‘And I’m going spare sitting around at home.’

‘Suzanne wanted you to stay longer in Battle, you know.’

‘She was very kind.’ More than that. After the hospital had released her Brock had taken her to stay with his friend Suzanne Chambers near the Sussex coast, and for a week between Christmas and New Year she had rested there, cocooned in medication and domesticity, distracted by Suzanne’s two young grandchildren who lived with her. Apart from anything else, it was an extraordinary gesture on Brock’s part, since he had managed to keep his mysterious woman friend private from his work colleagues until then.

After another whisky Kathy began to relax. The laughter was getting louder, the jokes about Bren’s new status more facetious. He stood with his arm round his wife’s shoulder complacently recounting one last joke before they had to leave. He reached the punch line, which was received with more hilarity than it really deserved, and then Deanne said that he had something else to announce, and nudged him in the ribs when he became coy. Someone called out, ‘Come on, Bren! Tell us yer secret,’ and he blushed happily and confessed that Deanne was expecting again, their third, another girl according to the tests. Everyone clapped, Brock at his most avuncular as he shook Bren’s hand and kissed Deanne’s cheek. Kathy cheered with the rest of them, and thought of how Bren had managed to hold all the parts of his life together and how empty her flat was now that Leon was gone.

As the party began to break up, Kathy headed for the toilets. A sign warned her of building work beyond the door. She opened it and found herself in a corridor of bare concrete block walls and harsh fluorescent lighting. The door banged shut behind her and the world of laughter and raised voices was abruptly cut off. The air was pungent with the smells of raw concrete and urine. Suddenly she was in that other room again. Panic, uncontrollable panic, choked her as the walls began to close in around her, crushing, and she knew that he was close and soon would come for her again.

Kathy began to stumble towards the door at the far end of the corridor, concentrating on the Fire Exit notice. She threw herself against it and it gave. She heard a cry behind her and stumbled on, out into a yard. The air was cold here but the smells just as strong inside her head. An intensely bright light shone into her eyes across the darkness. She blinked blindly at it and then it was broken by a shape, a dark silhouette, striding into the light. Her breath caught in her throat as the dark shape filled her vision.

‘Is she all right?’

She heard the words dimly, then blinked open her eyes. She was on the ground, two people bending over her, their breath steaming in the cold air.

‘Kathy?’ Dot’s voice roused her. ‘Kathy?’

The black sea heaved and crashed against the piles of the old pier as if aware that the structure had been abandoned, its great days gone, its stability in doubt, its entrance sealed by order of the borough engineer. Kathy turned away from the rail and continued her walk, the collar of her coat up against the north wind at her back, her short blonde hair whipping about her cheeks. There was a bright shimmer out on the eastern horizon, as if the sun were shining on the French coast and might, perhaps, edge its way towards England. Little chance of that, she decided, looking up at the weight of dark cloud looming overhead.

She came to a pedestrian crossing controlled by traffic lights. An elderly couple, faces barely visible between hats and scarves, was waiting patiently at the opposite kerb for the signal to turn green. The road was deserted, not a vehicle in sight. The sight struck Kathy as very sad. She put her head down and marched across the street, aware of the disapproving stare from the old man.

She reached the cafe and stepped in out of the wind. The place was empty, and she collected a cup of tea from the counter and took a seat at the front window, easing out of her coat. Someone had left a newspaper at the next table, and she reached across to pick it up and glanced idly at the front page, then looked again, transfixed. A picture of a man in a bulky black coat, cropped grey hair and beard, the familiar face staring sombrely at something away to his left, other men in black crowding round him. Brock and the team. The caption read, ‘DCI Brock of Scotland Yard’s elite Serious Crimes Branch, who leads the hunt for the killer’.

Kathy’s eye went across to the headline, which filled most of the remainder of the page, leaving room only for the opening words of the story:

CAMPUS SLAYING One of Britain’s most respected academics was gunned down on the steps of his university yesterday in an execution-style killing. Philosophy Professor Max Springer, 66, was shot dead

Shot dead. And suddenly Kathy could taste the fumes at the back of her throat and feel the bile rise. She looked quickly away out of the window, fixing her attention on the bright patch of sky on the horizon. Take your time, take your time. She breathed deeply, clammy with sweat, until the panic passed.

When she turned round, she saw Suzanne standing at the counter. She went over to join her.

‘Oh, Kathy, hello. I thought that was you. How was your walk?’ Suzanne looked more closely at her. Brisk and to the point as always, she said, ‘Doesn’t seem to have done much for your colour. You look terrible. Are you feeling all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

As they approached the table by the window, Kathy saw a look of consternation pass very briefly across Suzanne’s face as she noticed the newspaper lying by Kathy’s cup. It struck her that Suzanne had already seen the story, the picture of Brock, and also that she had deliberately kept it from her. Now she came to think about it, there had been no papers at breakfast that morning. She wondered what Suzanne would do now. They sat facing one another across the table, the newspaper lying between them. Kathy said nothing.

Suzanne sipped her coffee, then placed the cup carefully in its saucer and said, ‘Not a very good picture of him, is it?’