Fractured(79)

Gradually we left behind the more desirable residences and at last arrived in a street of rather shabby shops boasting one of London’s less enviable postcodes.

‘Can you pull in over there?’ I pointed at a parking space that had just opened up. ‘Behind that van.’

He did as I asked, parking efficiently and switching off the engine before turning to me.

The panic I had felt during our fifteen-minute detour had begun to lessen, but in its place was a familiar dread. What I was about to say was going to ruin everything: was going to have everyone looking at me like I was some sort of lunatic again.

Jimmy took hold of my hands, which were twisting convulsively together in my lap.

‘Which one?’

‘Which one what?’ I replied, keeping my eyes upon his large hands, which had gently curled around mine, steadying them.

‘Which one is your flat?’

I looked up then, but I couldn’t see him properly through the diamond jewelled tears that threatened to spill over. I nodded my head slightly to indicate the properties on the other side of the street.

‘The one on the end, above the launderette.’

He looked over at the property for a moment or two, before unbuckling his seatbelt.

‘Come on then.’

I looked up, perplexed.

‘We have to check it out.’

He came around to my side of the car and took my arm, firmly tucking it under his. My death-white pallor and stony expression must have worried him, for he tried to defuse the moment with humour.

‘By the way, remind me never to go rally driving with you. You’re far too grumpy a navigator.’

We waited to cross the road, which I had crossed a thousand times before during the time I lived there. There was a resolve and determination to Jimmy’s stride as he guided me through the traffic. I knew he was probably wondering how to deal with my reaction when I found out that the flat was not, and never had been, mine. But I had an altogether different worry. I turned to him, and hoped my voice sounded steadier than it felt.

‘What are we going to do if that flat turns out to be full of my stuff?’

We were outside the launderette by then, and mindless of the captive audience of those waiting in the steamy interior by the machines, he pulled me into his arms and held me fiercely against him, as though the strong circle of his embrace could keep out the demons.

‘We’ll deal with it. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.’

It was a vow, an oath, a promise. It gave me the strength to step out of his hold and lead him slowly towards my other home.


The entrance to the cluster of flats above the shops was just around the corner. I halted before making the turn, allowing Jimmy to reach the door first.

He looked at me curiously.

‘Do you see, there’s a push-button entry panel beside you?’

He glanced to the left-hand side of the front door.

‘I do, but most flats have—’

‘Winter. Hunt. Webb. Freeman.’

I watched his frown deepen in confusion as I correctly listed the names on the cardboard tags beside each individual buzzer. Names I couldn’t possibly read from where I was standing.

‘And the top one is mine. Wiltshire.’

He looked from me, back to the panel, and then at me again.

‘Four out of five,’ he announced. ‘The top card is blank.’

I stepped around the corner and saw he was right. The last time I’d seen this device, my name had been clearly printed by the top button. Doubt began to inch into the certainty that had drawn me to this place.

‘This flat could belong to a friend of yours. Someone you don’t remember,’ he suggested gently. It was a reasonable enough conclusion: except for one thing.

‘And do you memorise the names of your friends’ neighbours?’

He had no answer, but I could see his policeman’s mind was already struggling with the evidence.

I pressed the second buzzer on the entrance system, saying as I did, ‘Mrs Hunt. She lets everyone in, without asking who they are. It’s a real crime hazard.’

Sure enough, the clicking of the front door mechanism came almost immediately in response to the buzzer, and the front door swung slowly open.

Jimmy took the first step over the threshold into the darkened hallway, which always smelled vaguely of detergent from the launderette. The familiar aroma rocked my assurance for a minute and my steps faltered slightly as I began to climb the threadbare stairs in front of us. Jimmy took my hand and I gripped it like a lifeline as we began to ascend the well-worn treads.

We passed the first and second landings without incident, but as we turned to climb the next flight, a large middle-aged woman with ebony black hair swept past us. She was clearly preoccupied with some paperwork she was reading, and jumped in surprise when I greeted her.