Chapter 13

" Newfangled" was a word that figured predominantly in Gwendolen'svocabulary. She applied it to most things which, in another favorite phrase, had " arrived on the scene" since the sixties. Computers were newfangled, as were CDs and the means of playing them, mobiles, answerphones, parking meters and clamping (though she enjoyed seeing a clamp on animproperly parked car), color photographs in newspapers, caloriesand diets, the disappearance of telegrams, and of course, the Internet. In respect of most innovations, she managed to ignore them. But the Yellow Pages was a book and with booksof any sort she was familiar. Papa used to say that if he were insome isolated place with no company and only the telephonedirectory to read, he would read that. Gwendolen wouldn't goquite so far, but she didn't find this directory of services as newfangled and incomprehensible as she had feared.

There were whole pages devoted to firms that treated woodworm. It was difficult to know which to select. Certainly not afacetiously named one, such as Zingy Zappers (Let Zingy Zapperszap your woodworm and dry rot) or anything commercialr industrial. Eventually she chose Woodrid, mainly because itwas near at hand in Kensal Green. This did nothing to mitigatethe horror of failing to get through to a live human voiceon the phone. She had to press key 1, then 2, did it wrong and had to begin all over again. After she'd got over these difficultiesshe was asked to press something called " pound" and had to ask for an explanation. When there was no response fromthe automated voice to her inquiry she reasoned that since itwasn't a figure or a star it must be that thing that looked like acrooked portcullis. It was. She waited and waited while musicwas played, the kind of newfangled music that thumped out ofcars being driven by young men down her street on Saturdaynights. At last she was through but was told, to her dismay, thata " representative will come and make a survey" two weeks and four " working days" hence.

The phone call exhausted her and she had to lie down in the drawing room for a rest and half an hour's read of The Origin of Species. Olive was bringing her niece to tea. She had said both of them were on diets, but Gwendolen knew how seriously shes hould take that. It just made things more difficult, for they wouldn't want simply to drink tea but would expect calorie free crispbread, low‑ fat cake, or other newfangled nonsense. Besides, Gwendolen, who never put on weight no matter whatshe ate, liked something substantial for her tea. These people never thought what a lot of trouble they were causing others.

She and Stephen Reeves had so much in common. Therewas no reason to believe his tastes had changed. Gwendolen believed that people changed very little, only pretended to as part of a showing‑ off campaign. Stephen had loved his teas, sandwiches, and homemade cakes, especially her Victoria sponge. When they met again, would she be capable of makinga Victoria sponge for him? But the letter still had to be written, if not today, tomorrow or the next day. The more she thought about disabusing his mind of the impression he must have got of her, the more awkward it seemed to have to explain to a man how she hadn't had an abortion but was accompanying someone else who nearly had. And that itself might appear reprehensiblein his eyes.

Perhaps she could find a subtle way of doing it. She could begin practicing now and once more she took pen and paper. Dear Dr. Reeves … Why should the words " illegal operation" even have to be used? Dear Dr. Reeves, I remembered something about our affection ‑ no, that wasn't right, it had been more whatthey called a " relationship" today‑ I remembered somethingabout our relationship, yours and mine, after I had posted my previousletter. That would do, that was quite good. And she hadn'tcalled him Dr. Reeves for a long time before they parted. DearStephen, After I had posted my previous letter I remembered something about our relationship, yours and mine, which had slipped my mind. The day before we met in your surgery where I went to consult you about a minor ailment … Should she put the date of that meeting? Perhaps not… about a minor ailment I did not comment on the fact that we had seen each other the day before. Shec ouldn't know that he had seen her, any more than she had seen him, he might have been miles away and his desertion of her due to some quite other cause. But, no, that couldn't be. He had loved her, she knew he had, no doubt continued to love her but felt, in the circumstances, that she would make an unsuitable wife for a medical practitioner. As indeed she would have if she had done what he thought she had.

She glanced up at the time and it gave her a shock. Olive, with or without her niece, would be here in an hour and she hadn't yet bought the cakes. She couldn't even be sure she had enough milk. This letter would have to wait till later or even until she had had a reply to the first one.

For all Olive had said about her niece's passion for old Londonbuildings, Hazel Akwaa showed little interest in St. BlaiseHouse. She turned out to be a quiet well‑ mannered woman who drank her tea and ate a plain biscuit in silence while Olive chattered. Olive wore black trousers with bell bottoms and ared sweater patterned with fir trees and people skiing, moresuitable for someone a third of her age, but her niece was in agray wool dress with a valuable‑ looking gold necklace. WhenOlive introduced her, Gwendolen had to ask her first to repeatthe surname, then to spell it, it was so outlandish, it soundedAfrican. Gwendolen knew her Rider Haggard from childhoodand thought she remembered a character from She or King 'Solomon's Mines called Akwaa. Surely Hazel whatever‑ her‑ name‑ had‑ been hadn't married an African?

" Would you like to see over the house? " Gwendolen asked when tea was over. " There are rather a lot of stairs. "

She expected the woman to say she wouldn't let a little obstacle like stairs put her off, but Mrs. Akwaa looked far from enthusiastic. " Not particularly, if you don't mind. "

" Oh, I don't mind. I can go up there whenever I choose, of course. I was going for your sake, Mrs. Akwaa. "

" Hazel, please. I can see this lovely room from where I'm sitting and I doubt if the rest of the house can be more beautiful than this. "

Gwendolen was mollified by this gracious remark. She decided to unbend a fraction. " And where do you live? "

" Me? Oh, in Acton. "

" Really? 1 don't think I've ever been there. And how will you get home? " Gwendolen made it sound as if her guest livedin Cornwall and she wanted to get rid of her as soon as possible. " Not in an underground train, I trust? You take your life in your hands using those. "

" My daughter said she would come and fetch us at five‑ thirty. We shall all go back to my home for supper. "

" How nice. And would that be the paragon your aunt is always telling me about? "

" I don't know about 'paragon, ' " said Hazel Akwaa in nearly as cold a tone as Gwendolen's. " I have only the one daughter. Her father and I think she's very special but we are her parents, after all. Would you mind telling me where your toilet is?

" Gwendolen smiled her tiny half‑ smile. " The lavatory is on the first floor, the door facing you at the top of the first flight of stairs. "

She decided, in Hazel Akwaa's absence, to tell Olive about the woodworm. " I have just been up there to examine it again. I've sent for Woodrid, but like all these firms today they mean to keep me waiting over a fortnight before they'll come. I don't suppose the floor will collapse in a fortnight. " She gave asmall humorless laugh. " Do you happen to know if woodworm smells? "

" I really don't know, Gwen. I've never heard of it smelling. "

" Perhaps it was my imagination. I'd take you up and showyou only that great‑ niece of yours is coming in five minutes. "

Hazel came back, followed by Otto. " Your lovely cat rubbed himself against me and when I stroked him he followed me down. "

" Yes, it does seem to bestow its favors on some people, " said Gwendolen in the sort of voice that implied there was no accounting for tastes.

Watching outside Nerissa's house in Campden Hill Square, Mix was rewarded by the sight of her coming out of her front door soon after half‑ past four and getting into her car. This time she was elegantly dressed in a honey‑ colored trouser suit and a large golden hat that she took off and deposited on thepassenger seat. She drove past him down the hill, slowing and turning her head briefly to stare at him. He was pleased. She'll know me again, he thought.

He had one more call to make before going home. This was at a house in Pembroke Villas, home of one of those rare clients who possessed a treadmill and actually used it, if not daily, three or four times a week. The belt on the machine hadshifted on its rollers too far to the left and Mrs. Plymdale wasn't strong enough, despite all her working out, to ply the spanner and fix it herself.

Her house had a drive on which he could park his car. He congratulated her on her adherence to exercise, adjusted the belt and oiled the machine. But the belt really needed renewing and he advised her to order a replacement now. The visit was completed in fifteen minutes and he was free for the rest of the day. He drove home via the Portobello Road, LadbrokeGrove, and Oxford Gardens, stopping on the way to buy a half‑ bottle of gin, a bottle of red wine, and a frozen chicken masala.

The late afternoon was very hot and the wind had dropped. He thought, I wonder if they've started looking for that girl, that Danila, there's been nothing in the papers so no one's told the police. He was afraid to find out but at the same time he wanted to know. If Shoshana's Spa didn't care, surely the people she'd rented that room from, surely they'd be wondering. He turned into St. Blaise Avenue. Outside the house where he lived, on a single yellow line, was parked a golden Jaguar. Funny, it looked a lot like Nerissa's from here. But, great cars as they were, one Jaguar was very much like another. That sharp‑ faced traffic warden he'd spotted round the corner wouldbe down on its owner like a ton of bricks.

He couldn't help wishing he'd noted Nerissa's registration number but he never had. There had seemed no point. He put his own car on the residents' parking, locked it, and wentacross the street to the Jaguar. Her large golden hat was lyingon the passenger seat. So the car was hers. He lifted his eyes, turned around and came face to face with her. He couldn't beI dreaming, it must be real…

" Nerissa, " he said, " it's wonderful to get to talk to you at last. " She raised her large black eyes to his but said nothing. She was standing quite still, as if in shock.

" You're parked on a yellow line, Nerissa, " he said. " The traffic warden will catch you. Let me move the car for you, Nerissa. "

" Miss Nash to you, " said a voice from behind her. He had had eyes only for her, he hadn't seen either of the other two women. They were the kind who might have been invisible, and he never noticed them. The one who had spoken said, " My daughter will drive her own car, thank you. She is about to do so. "

Nerissa smiled at him. It was such a radiant smile, sweet, kindly, and forbearing, that he almost fell on his knees at her feet. " That was very thoughtful of you, " she said, got into the car and tossed the hat onto the backseat. The window was wound down. " Bye, now. "

The car disappeared around the corner just as the warden appeared, almost running, documentation in hand. Mix stood for a moment on the hallowed ground where the Jaguar had been, now occupied only by an empty beer can, a strip of oilyrag, and a Magnum ice‑ cream wrapper.

The warden fancied himself as a wit. " Stay there and you'llget clamped, sir. "

" Ha, ha, " said Mix.

He drifted toward the house. So much of what happened to him these days had this dreaml ike quality about it. The dreamswere either glorious like the most recent, or nightmarish. What had become of reality? Well, it was real that he had spoken to Nerissa and‑ wonder of wonders! ‑ she had spoken to him. And she had been so nice, so charming. She had called him thoughtful. If that old woman who said she was her mother hadn't interfered she'd probably have let him move the car, would even have got in beside him and let him drive her home. But the old woman had interfered. Mix would have liked to knock her down and trample on her. How could she be Nerissa's mother with that reddish‑ gray hair and that pale dog‑ face?

The house was always quiet, but this afternoon it seemed unusually silent. He began to climb the stairs. Nerissa wouldr ecognize him another time. She would come out and speak to him, maybe invite him in for a coffee. When that happened it would be his chance to ask her out. He'd take her to that double‑ barreled Italian place with the funny name that won the Italian Restaurant of the Year award. Luckily, he'd been able to save a bit. He'd wanted it for one of those flat‑ screen TVs, but Nerissa was far more important.

As he reached the top flight, thoughts of Reggie and his ghost invariably drove out everything else. Even Nerissa hadn't sufficient power over him to displace that. It was early, of course, but already dusk and the passages up here were always dark. Sometimes he thought of shutting his eyes when he got to the top and letting himself blind into his flat, but he feared ahand touching him on the shoulder if he did that or a voice whispering in his ear. Better to face up to it and look. No one was there, nothing was there. Everything was as it ought to be. Or was it? Mix stood still, trying to remember. He was almost positive he had shut the door to the room where Danila lay under the floorboards. He knew he had because he always did. It had never been left ajar like that in all the time he'dbeen here.

Tiptoeing for some reason, he approached the door, thought that flinging it open would be the best way but opened it stealthily just the same. The room was empty and very hot. Sun blazed down on the glass. A smell, not very strong but quite unpleasant, must be coming in through the open window, only the window wasn't open. He crossed to it and triedt o raise the sash but found this impossible, the sashcords werebroken, one of them dangling. Some of the smells you got in London were untraceable and seemed to make their way in through cracks in the fabric of a house. He looked out of the window. The Indian man's guinea fowl were huddled together on the roof of a low shed, watched by Otto on the wall.

Closing the door behind him, Mix put his key into his own lock. Not only a strange smell but strange music too. It must have started up while he was in that room, the sort of music he had never been able to follow or understand, while some people seemed to like it. He suspected they didn't really like it but pretended to because it made them seem clever. A piano, possibly two pianos, tinkled away while someone sawed at a violin. Where was it coming from? No doubt, the old bat's bedroom. He went into the flat, thinking about that girl under the floorboards.

Was he going to leave her there? He hadn't intended that at first. The room next door was just a temporary resting place., He'd meant to put the body in the boot of his car and disposeof it somewhere. Reggie had never gone so far as that. His victims had all been buried inside the house or in the garden, but Reggie hadn't got a car, few had in those days. Of course his own experience was very different from Reggie's. The necrophile had killed all those women in order to have sex with them as they lay dying or were recently dead while he, Mix, had killed someone in self‑ defense because she said such dreadful things to him. What he had done was no more than manslaughter.

In Reggie's day, forensics hadn't reached anywhere like thepeak of expertise they had achieved now. Mix knew all about it, as anyone must who watched television. Now, with all the tests they did, they'd be able to tell if he'd carried a girl's body in hiscar, they'd know who she was by DNA testing. Reggie had to conceal those bodies from his wife until she became his victim too. He was forced to bury them. Surely things would be far safer for himself if he left Danila where she was, where no onewould ever have reason to go. But who had been in that room today? Probably old Chawcer, hunting for more rubbish in the drawers of that cabinet.

Suppose it had been Reggie's ghost, fascinated by someone else's concealment of a body? Suppose Reggie, instead of haunting him with intent to frighten, was watching over him? He'd feel better about it when he'd been back to Madam Shoshana and heard what she had to say.

But a ghost was equally frightening, he thought, whether it was threatening you or protecting you. The fact that it was aghost at all made you look at the world in a different way. Heshivered, thinking that perhaps it wasn't too early to mix himselfa Boot Camp.