Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

CHARLES DICKENS

Little Dorrit

THE PATCH OF light moved across the wall above Harriet’s bed. She watched its slow progress for a long time, thinking about the roses on the wallpaper. They were old roses, faded roses, on a background the color of tea stains. Sleepily, she wondered how her mum could have forgotten that she hated flowery, girly things, but the thought drifted lightly away.

She felt very odd, as if she were hovering outside her own body, watching herself, but when she gave her toe an experimental wiggle, it moved reassuringly. It was only then that Harriet realized she was still wearing her shoes. Why had she gone to bed in her shoes?

Frowning, she pushed aside the rough blanket covering her chest. Where was her duvet? And why was she still wearing her sweatshirt, the same one she’d put on for school that morning at Mrs. Bletchley’s? Wait… was that this morning? Or had that been yesterday morning? It had been dark, and she knew, somehow, that she had slept for a long time.

She felt a sickening lurch of panic as fragments of memory coalesced. Her dad… the lady in the front seat of the car… the gray walls… being half carried, half dragged, up narrow and twisting stairs… the darkness closing in…

Harriet sat up, her heart pounding. Her eyes focused on the light pouring in from the rectangle of window on the far wall, but her relief was short-lived. There was daylight pouring in through the window, but it wasn’t her window. Her mind finally wrapped itself around the truth it had been refusing to accept. It wasn’t her room.

She forced herself to look around. Assess things, her mother was always telling her – have all the facts before you act. The room was larger than her bedroom at home. There was the window on the wall opposite the bed, and on the right-hand wall, a door. The left-hand wall sloped down, as if it was set into the eave of the house. The walls were lined with odds and ends of old discarded furniture, and a bookcase under the eave held a few tattered clothbound volumes. There were a stool and a tin pail in one corner, and beside the window, a chest of drawers. On the chest stood a china basin and ewer, patterned in faded pink roses, like the wallpaper.

Carefully, Harriet slid from the bed, and as she moved, the sour, musty smell rose again from the mattress. The odor brought back the memory of the darkness, but she pushed it away.

The bare floorboards had once been painted gray, but the color had aged to the color of dust, and the surface was marred with scuff and drag marks. She placed her feet carefully, afraid to make a noise. Making her way to the window, she looked out of the grimy, spider-snared panes.

A grim prospect greeted her. Below, she saw a dirt yard infested with weeds and rubbish. Across the yard, another wall of gray brick, featureless. Beyond the wall, she could make out the peaks of higher roofs, but nothing looked familiar. She tried the window, but it had been nailed or painted shut. Not that she’d have been able to get out that way, anyway – she could see that it was too high, and a straight drop of several floors. Nor did it look as if anyone would hear her if she called for help.

The choking panic rose in her throat again.

Where was she? What was this place? Why was she here?

Harriet gripped the windowsill as dizziness swept over her. She realized suddenly that she was starving. How long had it been since she’d had anything to eat? A day, two days? The fact that she wasn’t certain frightened her even more.

And she had to pee. The thought made her screw up her courage to try the door. The unpainted wood looked ancient and scarred, and there was a web of scratches around the old-fashioned keyhole. The knob turned in her fingers, but the door didn’t budge.

Gripping the knob more tightly, she turned it hard to the right and leaned back with all her weight, but the door didn’t even quiver. She let go and rubbed her smarting palms against her jeans, then crouched down to peer through the keyhole. There was nothing to see but darkness.

For a moment, the urge to call out was almost overpowering, but she pressed her hand hard to her mouth. A shout might bring worse than being alone and hungry.

Then she heard a noise. A creak, and then another, the soft footfalls of someone climbing the stairs. Harriet’s first instinct was to hide. She looked round wildly, but there was no cover, even beneath the frame of the old iron bed.

Her logical mind told her it wouldn’t matter, that whoever was coming knew she was there, but her body obeyed a different instruction. She ran to the bed and wrapped the blanket around herself, as if the tattered fabric could give her a layer of protection, and huddled back against the wall. Then came the sound of bolts being thrown back, and the clicking of the tumblers as the key turned in the lock. The door swung open.

“Superintendent.” Rose Kearny looked as though he were the last person she wanted to see. Kincaid might have been tempted to take it personally, except that she’d been friendly enough yesterday, and her behavior seemed decidedly odd. She didn’t strike him as the type to be skulking in doorways.

“Are you all right?” he asked, when she didn’t step forward. She was dressed much as she had been at the fire scene yesterday, but with her hair loose rather than pulled back in a ponytail she looked younger, less professional.

“I-” She glanced past him, as if seeking a means of escape, then appeared to resign herself to the conversation. “I was hoping to have a word with Station Officer Farrell.”

Kincaid nodded towards the warehouse. “He’s there now, working on the crime scene.”

Rose looked more uncomfortable still. “I- it’s just that – if my guv’nor finds out I’ve been here without clearing it with him, he’ll be livid. But our next duty’s not until tomorrow morning, and there’s something I thought Officer Farrell should know.”

“Something you’ve remembered?” Kincaid asked, his interest quickening.

She shook her head. “No. But I’ve been looking into some things…” She drew farther into the doorway. “It’s nothing, really. Probably a stupid idea. And if any of the lads from my watch see me here-”

“Look.” He recalled now that there was a tea shop a short way up the road. If he was lucky, the place might have sandwiches, too. “Let me buy you a cup of tea, and you can tell me about it. Then I can pass your idea along to Farrell if you don’t want to speak to him yourself.”

After considering for a moment, she said, “Okay. I don’t suppose it’s likely I’ll run into anyone I know in a tea shop.” She smiled for the first time.

“Any rule against you being seen with a detective?” he asked as they headed east on Southwark Street.

“Not as long as it was you wanting to talk to me, but I’d rather not have to explain.”

They reached the place Kincaid remembered. He saw that it was a museum as well as a tea shop, housing displays on the history of tea and collections of teapots, but they could use the restaurant without buying a ticket for the tour. Rose ducked inside with obvious relief.

When they’d found a table near the back and placed their orders – tea and sandwiches for him, tea and a scone for her – he said, “Anyone would think you were hiding from a jealous boyfriend.”

“Rather that than get on the wrong side of my guv’nor. Or the lads – that’s even worse. But no. No boyfriend, jealous or otherwise.”

He wondered what had motivated her to risk discipline, or being ostracized, but thought it better not to push until she’d relaxed a little. “Are you the only woman on your watch?” he asked.

“Yeah, at the moment. We had another, a probationer, when I first transferred in, but she got posted to another station.”