The Evil Beneath Page 2

  Moments later, I heard the doorbell and my sessions got underway. It was a straightforward day, if you considered consoling a woman who had just found out her husband had been frequenting a nightclub dressed as a woman, calling himself Geraldine, straightforward. Or discussing deeply intimate sexual acts with a gay man who was still a virgin at thirty-five. Such were the secrets behind the seemingly humdrum lives of many people. Then my final client scheduled for four o’clock arrived.

  ‘Come in,’ I said, opening the front door. ‘Juliet Grey.’

  Mr Fin was ten minutes late. I decided not to make anything of it as it was his first session. He averted his eyes to start with and brushed past my outstretched hand. He was inordinately tall, perhaps six-feet five. I led him along the corridor to the spare room and pointed to the seat beside the door. He grunted and folded his wiry body into it. In the silence that followed, his dewy brown eyes shifted and were now trying to scorch a hole in mine.

  ‘You told me you hadn’t had any counselling before, is that right, Mr Fin?’ I asked. When he’d phoned a few days earlier, Mr Fin had sounded meek and lonely. He nodded. His gaunt face was so pale it looked as though it was covered in a layer of talcum-powder. He looked around forty-five, going on sixty.

  ‘Okay. So, what has brought —’

  ‘I know you,’ he said, without the slightest movement.

  It wasn’t the way my sessions usually started. I tried not to shift in my seat.

  ‘I know that you’re thirty-one, that you lived in Norwich before you moved to London, two years ago.’ I swallowed hard, but did not interrupt. ‘I know that you’ve been a therapist since 2006 and that your brother died in a fire when you were twelve. He hesitated, but continued to fix his staring eyes on me as if he was hypnotised. ‘And that you’re not married.’

  My insides had taken off on a big-dipper ride, but I didn’t want him to see he’d shaken me.

  ‘You know a lot about me,’ I said, soothing any alarm out of my voice. After an initial flash of concern, I realised there was nothing he had told me that wasn’t publicly available, either through my website or published articles. ‘You must have decided that it was important to know something about me.’

  He crossed his stick-thin legs, crushing them together. I half-expected to hear a crack as one of them snapped. He didn’t speak.

  I waited, then tried again. ‘What is it you’d like to explore in counselling, Mr Fin?’

  ‘Are you any good at this?’

  I didn’t like his tone. ‘I think that is something you’ll have to find out.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me questions?’

  I was tempted to point out that this is what I’d been doing all along. I tried another one. ‘What sort of questions did you expect?’

  ‘About what’s wrong with me.’ He finally looked away for a second and I realised I’d been holding my breath.

  ‘Wrong with you?’ I found myself running my hand over my pocket, checking the rape alarm was there. In a flash I pictured my neighbours. Would the squeal of the alarm get through the walls? Would anyone respond? Would they all be out at work? I made a mental note to remind them about my situation as a matter of urgency.

  ‘Isn’t that what you’re supposed to find out?’ he said.

  Mr Fin was going to be a tough cookie, I decided. It was going to take nerves of steel to forge a connection with him and not be intimidated. As I batted back his questions, feeling like I was being pummelled with vicious volleys from a first-rate tennis player, a question of my own rose to the surface and wouldn’t go away.

  What the heck did he want from me?

  Chapter Two

  It was the blue light that woke me during Saturday night. It broke through the white muslin drapes and skimmed the walls of my bedroom in a regular pulse. I went to the window and saw a patrol car right outside, together with a small huddle of people including the couple from the flat downstairs.

  I held my breath. My first thought was that someone had been run over, but there was no ambulance and nothing blocking the road. Tony, wearing only a t-shirt and black boxer shorts was gesticulating his way through a complicated mime for the police officers and Jackie, wrapped inside a pink dressing gown, was sitting on the front wall as if she was waiting for a bus. I heard Jackie laugh and knew then it couldn’t be too serious. Curiosity got the better of me. I decided to go down and disguise my nosiness with an offer of a hot brew and plateful of custard creams.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me scream?’ replied Jackie.

  ‘No - are you okay?’ I said, squeezing her arm, looking for an injury.

  ‘We’ve had a nasty shock - a burglar.’ Tony looped one arm around his wife’s shoulder. ‘Crazy guy,’ said Tony. ‘Got into our flat at the back, but as he was starting to rummage through our stuff his mobile phone went off!’

  ‘All I heard was the William Tell overture and then a loud crash,’ said Jackie.

  ‘He must have realised he’d cocked it up and made a run for it.’

  ‘Have they caught him?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet. By the time we knew what had happened, he’d legged it out of the French windows and over the fence into next doors’ garden. I wasn’t going after him.’

  Tony was around five feet six, with thickening belts of flesh around his waist. He didn’t look the type to routinely scramble over fences. I glanced down at his bare feet. They must have been numb with cold by now.

  I ran inside to boil a kettle and found myself thinking about my weird session that afternoon with Mr Fin. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. He’d complained that my clothes were too casual and that I wasn’t old enough. Honestly. What was he trying to do? Deflect from his own issues? Challenge me? Frighten me? By the time he left, I was sure he wouldn’t be coming back, but he surprised me by insisting on coming again at the same time next week.

  I was torn between the challenge he presented and a reluctance to return to the lion’s den. But, I had a say in this, too. It was simple. If he continued to be hostile, I’d discontinue the sessions.

  I braced myself against the night chill and handed out the steaming mugs and biscuits. A few more people had joined the group beside the police car, but no one had anything to add. No one had seen a thing. I went back inside acutely aware that I was on my own.

  As I switched off the bedside lamp, I noticed there was a text message on my mobile phone:

  At first light go to Hammersmith Bridge. There is something there you’ll be interested in. No later than 7.15am.

  As I read, I felt a fierce pummelling in my ribcage. The number had been blocked. I had no idea who it was from. Someone must have punched in the wrong one. I switched it off.

  I pulled the duvet over me, but I kept seeing the message in white letters in the black space under my eyelids. Hammersmith Bridge. It wasn’t far along the towpath from here. I was bemused. It meant nothing to me. What on earth could possibly be of interest there at seven in the morning?

  I turned over, hoping to shake the stupid message out of my head. I needed to get to sleep. It was well after 3am. I plumped up the pillow and let out a loud sigh.

  Within half an hour, I was wide awake again, mulling over the meaning of the message. I put on the bedside lamp and switched the phone back on to read it one more time. I knew curiosity was one of my biggest strengths, but it could also be my downfall. Surely, though, going down to the bridge to have a look would do no harm? If it was a misdialled text or a stupid prank, it was no big deal. I could go for a run along the towpath. I’d been meaning to do something about my fitness.

  The jogging idea swung it and by 6.30am, I was dressed. I gulped down a glass of orange juice and then taking my keys from the hall table, quietly let myself out. Even if this was a silly game, at least I’d get a decent run out of it. I checked the message once more before slipping the phone into my pocket. It was precise about the time - no later than 7.15am. The weird thing w
as, if I hadn’t been woken by the incident downstairs, I would have completely missed it. Daybreak would have come and gone without me.

  * * *

  The street lights were on and it still felt like night-time, although lower parts of the sky were starting to turn a pale grey, as though they had been rubbed with an eraser. To make sure I got to the bridge by first light I needed to drive down to the river. Surprisingly, my mini fired up first time. The starter motor had been on the blink for weeks and I kept meaning to get it fixed. I left it near the Wetland Centre in Barnes and broke into a slow jog as soon as the footpath joined the towpath.

  I hadn’t gone far before I started to get a stitch. Then I twisted my ankle on scattered stones on the path. Suddenly the whole idea seemed ridiculous: launching myself into rigorous exercise without any preparation. I hadn’t jogged for months and my last block of yoga classes had clashed with the new job at Fairways. Besides, there was no one else around and no one knew where I was. The thought that I might be in danger slipped into my consciousness. Bad move. I checked my watch: 6.50am. It would be light soon. It seemed feeble to go back now.

  I heard panting behind me and a bulldog shot out of the bushes and brushed past me, followed by a woman wearing an orange bandana and a whistle around her neck, trying to keep up.

  ‘Too much bloody energy,’ called out the woman, as she staggered by.

  I smiled. There were people around after all.

  When I passed the penthouse blocks of Harrod’s Village, I could see the shape of the bridge ahead. The darkness was lifting now and although there was no burning sunrise, there was a shift from the earlier monotones. Blues and yellows were breaking through. Rather a magnificent time to be out and about, I decided, as I ran down the slope that dipped under Hammersmith Bridge.

  At this point I slowed down, as a small gathering was forming by the water’s edge. People were pointing at something in the water and then turning away. A woman was propping herself up against a large tree, the branches of which, swung out over the water. As I got nearer, I could see leaves and sticks forming clumps under the tree. At first, I couldn’t see exactly what was trapped in the weeds; it looked like a floating bin bag or a thick log covered in dark moss. I looked closer. Then an icy chill crept under my skin.

  It was a coat.

  I shuffled another step closer and heard someone being sick.

  By now it was light enough to see clearly and all of a sudden I knew what people were looking at. The body was face down. It looked, from the build and the amount of hair floating on the surface, like it was a woman.

  There was no question about it. She was dead.

  A gurgle of vomit rose in my throat and I held my chest, snatching to get my breath, wanting to look away, but also drawn to the sodden shape. I could hear a man behind me saying he’d called the police. For a moment I stood aimlessly staring at it, as it - she - rocked gently with the lull of the water. I didn’t dare think about her final moments. Nothing gentle about that. I didn’t dare imagine what her face must look like. I kept thinking she must be so cold lying there, except of course by now she wouldn’t be able to feel a thing.

  Suddenly the sound of people commiserating and gasping around me became too loud, the soapy smell of the Thames too pungent. I didn’t want to be there. This was some awful tragedy and the shock and grief belonged to other people, not to me. Then I remembered the message:

  At first light go to Hammersmith Bridge. There is something there you’ll be interested in. No later than 7.15am.

  I looked down at my watch: it was 7.19.

  Dawn was breaking and here I was at the bridge. I’d been invited to come to this exact spot, at this exact time for what, exactly? To see this wretched dead woman in the water? Is this what I’m supposed to be ‘interested’ in? What on earth did it have to do with me?

  I twisted round searching for anyone who might be watching me, but everyone seemed preoccupied with what was in the water. Two people turned away from the bank, leaving a space for me to squeeze through to the edge of the water. Perhaps just one closer look, I said to myself. I looked down at the feeble shape rocking backwards and forwards. That was close enough - my stomach couldn’t take any more.

  Three police officers emerged from under the bridge telling everyone to stand back, followed by a pair of paramedics and the group of onlookers started to break up. I was jostled to one side and could no longer see the body, only the yellow and black shapes hovering over it. I needed to see the face. It occurred to me that this could be why I’d been sent here: NoGodPlease - I might know this person.

  A paramedic carrying a box crossed in front of me and I made use of the space she created to follow in her wake. I leant against the tree, out of the way of the emergency services, but with a view of the body. I could hear myself hyperventilating as I stared at the bundle. The paramedic held the limp wrist for a moment, but it was obvious that life had long since departed. She noted something on a clip-board and knelt down. It took two of them to untangle her from the scrub and turn the woman over. I held my breath. Every muscle inside me was urging me to move away, but I knew I had to hold my ground. The last thing I wanted to do was look at her face, but I had to see who see was. I needed to set my mind at rest that this had nothing to do with me.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight. The woman’s flesh was off-white and glutinous, with small leaves and weed caught around her nostrils. Her eyes were open, staring up at a sky she’d never see again.

  I forced myself to look, swallowing back surges of nausea, trying not to heave. I made myself search for signs of recognition, but as I scanned her bloated features, no lights were going on. I did not recognise this woman. That was all I needed to know. A wave of vertigo forced me to lean back into the tree and I pressed my hand against my chest in an instinctive gesture of sorrow and relief. I found myself drifting away from the group and sat down at the edge of the bridge. I’d seen enough.

  And yet - there was something else. Something I wasn’t seeing, but I couldn’t make my brain join the dots.

  Every muscle in my body wanted to move away, but I was riveted to the spot. If I left, I might never know what was trying to get through to me. It was like looking at random letters upside down, feeling sure they make a word. It could be important. It could be the reason I was sent there.

  Perhaps more than most, I knew how the brain could distort images left to fester in the memory. An impulse was telling me I had to capture this scene exactly as it was. On the spur of the moment I pulled out my phone. I had to take a photograph. Revulsion gnawed at me, but I had to take an image of this scene away with me, so I could reflect on it in my own time. It was the only way I could be sure.

  More people were appearing all the time; from the bridge, the road and both directions along the towpath. Police officers were more occupied keeping the surge of new onlookers at bay than they were with the group already collected at the scene. With my phone held low, hoping no one would spot it, I edged as close to the river as I could get without getting my trainers wet. I tried to focus on the abstract shapes as they appeared on the screen without putting them together. I took two shots and with my eyes lowered to avoid any outraged stares, elbowed my way to an unoccupied patch of grass.

  I wanted to cry, throw up and curl into a ball all at once. What I had just done filled me with disgust. Right there and then, I had no hesitation in making the call. If I’d thought it through, I’d probably have chosen someone else, but as soon as my composure was sufficiently restored, I punched Andrew’s number into my phone.

  True to form, he had a hangover.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jules - what time is it?’

  I didn’t even occur to me until then that he might not have been alone, but it was too late.

  ‘Sorry, Andrew, but something awful has happened…’

  I got no further before the tears came. I tried to stay coherent to explain what had happened, but the sobs swallowed up my words. Finally he interrupted me. />
  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just under Hammersmith Bridge - the Barnes side.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing there?’

  ‘Long story. I got a text message and then when I got here —’

  ‘I’ll come and find you,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

  In spite of Andrew’s past failings, I knew I could count on him at a time like this.

  As I waited on the bridge, I wondered what he’d been doing lately. Probably sitting in his studio with a blank canvas in front of him thirsting for his next drink. What I felt most wasn’t frustration, but sadness. Alcoholics went through such torment to keep the truth from others, but mostly from themselves. Andrew used to hide bottles amongst his paints, lie about how much he’d knocked back that day and try to convince himself that what he was doing was normal. The worst thing he feared was that without a drink, he wouldn’t be able to paint. Like many artists, he was convinced that the moment he swilled that whisky down the plughole, his muse would drain away with it. Drink was his friend, his ally, his supporter, but mostly Andrew believed it had a symbiotic relationship with his gifts. Take it away and he would dry up completely.

  I might have been able to tolerate his artistic reliance on drink, if it hadn’t brought about such a profound Jekyll and Hyde effect. It was like going out with two different men and not knowing which one would be standing there when I answered the door.

  It wasn’t long before I spotted him walking over the bridge. Lovely Andrew, with his penetrating green eyes and long artistic fingers. I felt just the same as I did when we first met. My palms started to feel moist and I couldn’t help wondering if my hair looked a mess. I went to meet him and we stopped about a foot from each other, both caught in a moment of awkwardness, not knowing what form of greeting was appropriate.

  ‘Thank you so much. I know it’s early.’ I pulled on his jacket sleeve, with an affectionate tug.

  ‘And a Sunday,’ he reminded me, coming alongside and leaning on the handrail of the bridge.

  He was around six-feet tall, slim with dark blonde hair he liked to keep highlighted. It looked in need of a trim and a curl rolled over his left eye. He brushed it away and I saw his eyes were still lazy with sleep. His energy was set to different levels than most people’s, with only two speeds for living: full-on or off. He didn’t seem to have an in-between. Nothing flew at half-mast in Andrew’s life.