Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

The heat hit me like a wall when I stepped through the main door of the Horse Hospital. Violet lights twinkled on either side as I made my way through the central passageway, past the original layout of loose boxes and stable furniture. Even at this hour the place was full and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and humanity.

A party was going on in one of the boxes and for a second I considered gate-crashing. Then I noticed red helium balloons around the iron grilles. They swayed, gleaming, in the hot air. Like blood droplets. I carried on, pushed my way to the bar and bought a Bombay Sapphire on ice. I can’t bear the taste so I drink it very slowly, but if I need a quick shot, it does the job. The clock behind the bar told me it was five to one in the morning. The place closed at two.

A few more paces and I was surrounded by the soft tangerine light of the photographic gallery. Around me golden faces glistened with heat. A band had been playing earlier and up on the stage someone was packing away sound equipment.

‘Hey baby!’ Four boys, barely old enough to drink, were blocking my way. The one who’d spoken staggered closer, put a hand out towards me.

‘Want to step outside?’ he offered.

The hand had made contact with my hip. He was having trouble focusing and I didn’t think it was just the booze.

‘Well, it’s a sweet thought,’ I said, ‘but I haven’t had the all-clear from the clinic yet. I’ll get back to you.’

I smiled quickly at a tall, dark-haired boy who seemed more sober than the rest. He grinned back and I stepped past them. Before I’d gone more than a few feet I felt a hand on my arm. The dark-haired boy had followed me.

‘Don’t rush off,’ he said.

I looked at him and thought about it. Younger than I preferred, but otherwise definitely possible. Tall, just starting to fill out. He had a strong jawline and his face an almost regal look about it. His hair was curly, a few inches long, and he had pale skin. The sort that was very soft.

‘What’s your name?’ I said.

‘Ben,’ he replied. ‘Yours?’

Three pairs of eyes were watching us, willing him on. Scratch a gang of mates and you get a gang. I didn’t like gangs.

‘Catch you another time,’ I said. ‘Come without your friends.’

I turned away, moved back through the Horse Hospital’s loose boxes and stepped outside. A wide, curved walkway known as the horse creep takes you down, past another giant equine statue, to the market below. The night was cooling down. Most of the outdoor stalls had closed up for the night, but those serving food were still doing business. Everywhere I looked, people were huddled in groups, leaning against walls and railings, keeping warm under outdoor heaters, eating, drinking.

At the centre of the piazza, wide steps lead down to more market stalls. The top was as good a vantage point as any. About halfway down, a fair-haired man was watching me. As I stared back he didn’t look away. When I smiled, he smiled too.

He seemed to be alone, leaning against one of the metal horse statues. Around thirty, I guessed, maybe a bit older, still in a business suit. He’d removed his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. If he’d come straight from work he’d been here a long time, but, even at this distance, I didn’t think he was drunk.

As I set off down the stairs he realized I was heading his way. He’d straightened up and was running a finger around his collar. His eyes hadn’t left mine and I didn’t think he was going to be one of my more difficult conquests. Then something made me look up and I stopped dead.

Mark Joesbury was directly opposite me, on the balcony that ran round the steps. He was leaning forward against the railing, his eyes going from me to the man I was heading towards. As he realized I’d seen him, his eyes narrowed.

I carried on walking, blanking the fair-haired man. At the bottom of the steps, I went left and shoved my way through the crowds, pushing a leather-clad girl out of the way, squeezing through bodies. I just had to hope Joesbury didn’t know Camden as well as I did.

The crowd was thinning out but getting less respectable as I walked quickly past the toilets. This was where drug deals went down. I pushed through the swing door and started to run up concrete steps. I had to go up several flights to get back to street level.

If Joesbury didn’t know about this way out, I could skirt my way around the market stalls, cut through Camden Lock Place and get across the roving bridge. On the other side, I could jog a few hundred yards and get a night bus home. I had flat shoes in my bag.

As I made my way towards the lock, I was shivering again and honestly couldn’t have said this time whether it was cold, delayed shock or just plain fury. By the time I’d reached the canal, I’d decided.

What the hell was Joesbury doing here? I come to Camden for a reason, damn it. It’s the other side of frigging London from where I live and work and the chances of coming across anyone I know are tiny. It could not be coincidence that he was here. He’d dropped me off, hung around outside my flat and followed me here. Why?

It was after two by the time I got home. I walked straight through the flat. There is a tiny shed at the bottom of the garden. I’ve put foam matting on the floor and hung a large punchbag from the middle of the shed roof. I’ve humanized it, giving it a head that once belonged to a shop dummy, dressing it in clothes, so that it resembles a human figure. I rarely bother with gloves.

I hit it as hard as I could; so hard my bruised shoulder yelled at me. Ignoring the pain, I hit it again, then again, until I was so weary I lost my balance and fell over. I gave the bag one last kick and wondered whether, just once, I’d get away with screaming my head off. Instead, I closed my eyes.

I can never remember my dreams. Come morning I have no idea what’s passed through my head in the dark hours and yet I always know if my dreams have been bad. They must have been very bad that night, because I woke, hardly an hour after falling asleep, to find myself drenched in sweat and hardly able to breathe. I scrabbled backwards until I hit the shed door and found myself, wide awake, in the garden.

Awake or not, it seemed the dream was hovering around. I could see pale-blue eyes, the dead woman’s eyes, staring into mine with something like rage. No, that wasn’t right, the eyes had been terrified. Except now the terror was mine. And the eyes were getting closer all the time …

The chill night air was taking away some of the heat. I was OK, it was just delayed shock. Just a dream, my first for a very long time. I stumbled halfway across the garden and stopped.

Music was coming from close by, possibly the park. But it wasn’t the sort of pounding, pulsing sound I was used to hearing here at night. This was a melody, soft and light, drifting across the rooftops. Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music , the song she sings to comfort the children scared of the storm. Raindrops and roses , it begins. ‘My Favourite Things’.

As a child, I’d been enchanted by The Sound of Music . I’d loved this particular song and played the game myself, making lists of my favourite things. When life got completely shit (regular occurrence when I was a kid) I’d played the game and made myself feel a little bit better. But it had all been so long ago.

I took a step closer to the house.

The music was still playing, softly, sweetly, and beneath it, on the other side of the garden wall, I could hear scuffling. Quickly, I checked the side door that led to the alley. The bolt was shut. Something moved again, something brushing against the wall. I wouldn’t normally describe myself as a timid person but I felt a sudden need to get indoors.