Chapter 41
She parked up as close to the junction as possible, which wasn’t very close because the whole area was double-red-line central. She had finally found a permit-free street about five minutes’ walk away from the underpass to which she was now headed. She’d initially tried calling Tasha, which unsurprisingly hadn’t worked. She’d then spent a fruitless hour searching how to locate someone’s phone without needing an app or spyware. Not possible. She’d then reluctantly messaged Marcus who had called in a favour from a guy he knew in surveillance. He’d given her a couple of square miles to try on the outskirts of town.
She’d driven around for almost two hours, preferring to be in the car deluding herself that she’d find the girl, rather than sat at home deriding herself for losing her only source of income. But then she’d recognised the road that led towards Dagenham, the one they’d taken to the slum flat, and recalled the encampment to which Tasha had paid special attention. She grabbed her bag and jogged towards it, ignoring the angry grumbles of her stomach. She’d not eaten anything since breakfast, and it was getting on towards six o’clock; she’d have to grab something soon.
How they’d imagined this was a good place to make camp was anyone’s guess. As well as the ear-splitting traffic that ran overhead, it was at the heart of one of those immense multiple intersections you find in London, the kind where no one is entirely sure which lane of traffic they need to be in, and therefore subject to the additional cacophony of frustrated drivers honking and howling around it. Still, desperate times called for piss-poor decision-making. She crossed as soon as there was a gap in the traffic, only half-noting the bike festooned in fake flowers which stood in memory of some poor cyclist who’d fallen foul of the carnage.
Now what? Half of the tents had been abandoned, their frames fractured and crumpled. The rest were zipped up with no immediate signs of life. It wasn’t like she could go around knocking on the doors.
‘Tasha!’ she shouted. ‘Tasha!’
Nothing.
‘Tasha! If you’re here, please come out.’
Still nothing. What if she wasn’t here?
‘I have money. I will pay anyone for information pertaining to the whereabouts of Tasha…’ she paused. She couldn’t remember her second name. And what was with the officious lingo?
‘How much money?’ A man’s voice. It came from a tent about ten yards away.
‘You’re such a twat,’ came the rejoinder.
The zip unfastened and Tasha appeared, clutching a can of fruit cider. She stumbled over the fabric of the tent’s opening.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked. Her eyes were glassy.
‘Lucky guess.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Everyone was worried.’
‘Ask her for the money,’ came the voice from inside the tent.
Its limp flap obscured whoever was inside. Tasha’s jaw tensed.
‘And pass me the cider,’ he said.
Tasha sighed, closed her eyes, and emptied the can’s contents into her mouth before throwing it into the tent.
‘Oi, you dickhead.’
Tasha turned to her. ‘You can take that look off your face. I’m not harming the baby. It’s already dead.’
‘Oh Tasha. What happened?’
‘No heartbeat.’
The girl hiccupped. It would have been comedic were it not for the tragic news she’d relayed.
‘At least you can have a drink now,’ came the voice.
Tasha made a grand sweep of her hand towards the tent. ‘The father, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Are you okay?’
Tasha shrugged. ‘It’s not like I meant to get pregnant, is it?’
‘It’s my super sperm.’ The tent’s occupant chuckled.
‘I know you didn’t, but that doesn’t make this any easier to deal with.’
She imagined what it must have been like for her to get that news alone. If only life had an undo button, she would press it and go back and be there for her.
‘What do you care anyway?’ said Tasha.
A police siren wailed overhead. The smell of the fumes was making her feel light-headed.
‘Can we go for a walk?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think maybe you want to?’
Tasha’s slack face suggested otherwise, but she didn’t say no.
‘Come on.’
‘Get some cider if you’re going out,’ came the voice.
Tasha didn’t reply.
They were close to the Thames, so it was in that direction that they headed. When they were in sight of the river, its surface dappled with the sun’s fragmented amber reflection, she hazarded another question.
‘Has the baby already…?’ She wondered if she would need to be induced.
Tasha shook her head. ‘I’ve got an appointment to discuss my options.’
‘I could come with you.’
Straight away, the girl’s back was up. ‘Hah!’ she barked. ‘Like you did last time?’
‘Tasha, I’m so sorry, I had a job to do.’ Had a job being the operative words.
She sat at a concrete bench near the river’s edge and put her bag next to her, wondering if the physical boundary might encourage the girl to sit too. She didn’t. The Thames Barrier stretched before them, its peculiar construction looking like silver hooded monks standing sentinel across its expanse with only their heads visible above the waterline.
‘Why are you even pretending to care?’ said Tasha.
‘I’m not pretending.’
‘Come off it,’ she scoffed. ‘You obviously prefer things to people.’
She stepped towards the bench, grabbed Simone’s bag, and disconcertingly cradled it like a baby. She instinctively tried to take it from her, but Tasha backed away towards the steel balustrades separating them from the water.
‘See,’ she said. ‘How much is this worth anyway? It could probably pay my rent for a month.’
And the rest.
‘You can have it. Take it. Sell it. Whatever you want.’
‘No. Why should I make you feel better? You can’t buy people off. I only wanted a bit of your time.’
‘I know. I made a mistake.’
Tasha blinked back tears.
‘If I can just have the bag for a second…’
She needed to call Jasper and let him know Tasha was okay. Ish. But the girl was staring into the middle distance, like a plan was taking shape in her head.
‘Maybe I’d be doing you a favour if I threw it in there.’
‘Please don’t do that.’
Tasha shrugged. ‘Do you know what? Fuck it.’
She took a backswing of the bag. Simone was off the bench as quickly as possible, but not quickly enough. It was already arcing upwards, following the path of an invisible rainbow over the railings. It seemed to slow slightly as it reached its zenith above a paddling swan, then continued its downwards trajectory. It landed in the water with a surprisingly small splash given the magnitude of problems its loss would cause. It quickly sank beneath the surface.
‘Fuck’s sake, Tasha, that had my whole life in it!’
Her phone, her purse, her house and car keys. She stared wide-eyed at the place it had gone in, then at Tasha, then at the river again. Her brain refused to accept its disappearance, as if perhaps the girl had pulled off some sleight of hand trick. Tasha’s face was also a mask of disbelief that she’d actually done it, her eyes wide, her mouth agog. Then she rallied.
‘Well, what a sad and lonely life you must have,’ she shouted. She turned tail and ran off in the direction from which they’d come.
Simone attempted to steady herself. Her heart was pounding. With shaking hands, she checked her jeans pockets in case, by some miracle, she’d put her keys in there. She hadn’t. She sat back down and tried to think. She’d have to find a phone box and call someone, assuming it was still possible to get through to an operator and reverse the charges. But who? On what number? All her contacts were in her phone. She knew the landline to Dixon Astley’s, but the chances of anyone being there at this time was slim; almost as slim as the chances Tony would be prepared to help her if he was there. She wished she’d eaten. Her empty stomach murmured its agreement. Her head felt like it was full of cotton wool. She could try and get through to Marcus via the paper, but without a direct line, there was every chance she’d be cut off before she got close. Ziggy and Nancy would be god-knows-where on a Friday night, and without any money, she couldn’t risk cabbing to their places on the off-chance they were in. Maybe she should call the shelter? At the very least try to get a message to Jasper to let him know what had happened. Perhaps he’d come and rescue her, but even as she entertained the idea, she knew she wouldn’t throw herself on his mercy. And there was no way Tasha would help. She must be ten miles away from Brixton, at least a forty-minute taxi ride. She’d just have to go home and hope that a) she could break in and b) she had enough cash knocking around to pay whatever astronomical fare a black cab would charge for the journey. She stood up, relieved to have a plan of sorts, only no sooner had she done so than her skin became clammy, an icy sweat spread across her face and her footsteps faltered, their momentum petering out to a stumble.
Then everything went white.