Close to the Edge Page 5

  The alarm rang on, precluding any thought, dominating Laurie’s consciousness.

  And then it stopped. Now it was the silence that was overwhelming. Laurie shut her eyes and concentrated on getting her breathing back to normal. What had she been thinking? The only thing she knew about that man was that he was capable of extreme violence. And she had tried to trip him. It was only luck that his need to escape outweighed any desire for vengeance. Never fight if you can run. Isn’t that what they’d drummed into them in those self-defence classes at school? She would remember it next time.

  Her pulse slower now, Laurie looked around the room she had entered. It was windowless, with strip lights in the ceiling. Two chairs faced each other across a table. Laurie sat down in one, realising as she did so that it was fixed to the floor. So was the table. She looked up; a security camera seemed to be aimed at her face. Another realisation: there was no handle on this side of the door. If Laurie had not already used up her stocks of adrenaline, this might have been a time to panic, to succumb to claustrophobia. As it was, she could only greet her surroundings with recognition. She wasn’t stuck in a nightmare. This was an interview room, entirely similar to the one she had occupied in Cambridge, the one where she had not so much been interviewed as lectured about the dangers of drugs and underage drinking. On that occasion the arresting officer had given the impression that he cared about her, even as she was processed through fingerprints and mugshot, and waited for Dad to come to retrieve her from the holding cell. She had only been fifteen of course, covering her fear with bravado.

  So when Sergeant Atkins arrived about twenty minutes later, Laurie’s residual shock at what had occurred was overlaid by a spirit of warmth towards the police. There was nervousness too, the sort she always felt in any encounter with a figure of authority. She had to suppress the urge to rise at the policewoman’s entrance, remembering her old headmistress as she did so (‘Stand up when I come into the room!’).

  The sergeant placed herself in the chair opposite Laurie’s. They looked each other full in the face for the first time. Laurie saw a woman a few years older than herself: shoulder-length brown hair, no obvious make-up. The sergeant gave a little nod, as if of recognition (surely that mugshot had been destroyed?), examined her notebook, and began: ‘You are Lauren Miranda Bateman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Laurie replied, and then, still eager to please: ‘How is your colleague? You know I saw the assault. Would you like a statement about that too?’ Laurie paused, wondering if she should mention that he’d hit her too. Was that relevant?

  ‘I’ll note your details on the file in case the investigating officer wishes to be in touch. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if we could focus on the reason you are here. On 21st the twenty-first of July you reported yourself as the witness to an incident on the Victoria line southbound platform here at Euston station. Is that correct?’

  And so the interview began. At one level, it was relatively unremarkable. Throughout, Sergeant Atkins continued to be unfriendly, almost austere. Was Laurie just imagining that she had been weighed in the balance, and somehow found wanting? There was certainly no understanding that she might be distressed by the way a random encounter, sparked by friendliness, had ended in a death, no attempt to get to know Laurie herself. Rather, the policewoman’s concern was simply to establish why Laurie was so sure the man’s death was accidental. She took her through the sequence of events that led to him falling at least three times. Did Laurie really think he’d been trying to point out a smudge on her nose? The disbelief with which she treated Laurie’s suggestion seemed to be rooted in scorn.

  The final part of the interview provided some explanation for Sergeant Atkins’s behaviour. Laurie had just said something like, ‘I didn’t move for a while, but then I came up to the surface as quickly as possible for some fresh air,’ when she noticed the policewoman nodding. That was when Laurie realised: ‘I suppose you’ve been able to see me on the platform video?’

  Laurie blushed as she remembered her moment of panic, all consideration for others thrown aside as she barged through to the escalators. All she could say was, ‘I’m not usually like that.’

  And all Sergeant Atkins would say in return was, ‘You’ll appreciate that there are reasons why passengers are asked to make their way upstairs in an orderly manner.’

  Even after the interview, the sergeant still had to transcribe Laurie’s words onto a statement form for her signature. Converted into witness-speak, the result bore little relation to Laurie’s own description, and made no attempt to convey her accompanying emotions, but it was, at least, an accurate summary of what she had seen. Several other forms established Laurie’s personal details, from address to ethnic identity. One final admonition seemed particularly heavy-handed: ‘If you are summonsed to attend the inquest then I must warn you that failure to do so will be an offence and the coroner can impose a fine or prison sentence.’

  Laurie was sensible enough to realise that this would not be a good time to lose her temper. ‘I understand,’ she replied. ‘Any idea when that might be?’

  Sergeant Atkins’s response was businesslike but surprising. ‘My investigation is almost complete, but psychiatric reports generally take at least three months.’

  ‘Psychiatric reports? Does that mean you think he killed himself? But I know it was an accident. I saw him fall.’

  ‘Your statement will be passed to the coroner, together with the other evidence.’

  The interview ended on that unsatisfactory note. In the corridor outside there was no sign that anything untoward had ever taken place. Laurie wondered if she should ask Sergeant Atkins about what had happened again. Had they caught the man? Why hadn’t the sergeant at least asked how she was? Did she even know that she had been attacked as well? Laurie was still in two minds when they reached the door to the waiting room, and there the sergeant left her, with a handshake that was such a surprise, and so out of place, that it could only have come from a training manual.

  Back in the station concourse, the evening rush hour was at its peak. Commuters hurried past Laurie, heading for the trains to take them north and out of London. No one gave her a second glance, but that was just as well. What would she have done if they had? How many of them had the capacity for the sort of violence she had just experienced? Where was the man? If he had escaped then he would surely be a long way from Euston by now, wouldn’t he?

  Laurie’s route to her bike took her by the escalators going down to the ticket hall for the Underground. She must have passed them on her way to the interview without a second thought. Now she couldn’t help shivering a little. Was it Euston station itself that was dangerous? The people around her did not seem to think so. Or was it just that the potential for horror existed everywhere?

  None of these thoughts seemed so powerful outside in the evening sun. Laurie looked at her phone: seven o’clock. Perhaps she should return to work? She imagined Michael sitting there, tapping away, as desks slowly emptied around him. It wasn’t as though he was able to authorise overtime, but he’d surely be pleasantly surprised to see her; the routine she had established during the afternoon would be a good return to normality. Laurie shook her head and smiled. The last thing she wanted now was to be stuck in an office. She wheeled her bike to Eversholt Street and headed for Tufnell Park.

  Saturday, 25 July – 5 p.m.

  Laurie tightened her knees and brought in her heels. Even now, after all these years, she still felt a thrill from the sense of latent power waiting for the call. Roxanne needed little encouragement; she picked up her pace to a trot. Laurie allowed the saddle to rise and fall beneath her, flexing her hips in rhythm as they rounded the corner into the main part of the field. It was empty; Laurie had timed it right; the cows were all inside for their evening milking. Twenty acres of pasture stretched out before her, sloping gently up towards the ridge: considerably yellower even in the two weeks since her last visit, but no worse riding country for all that.

 
One small squeeze behind the girth and Roxanne flowed into a canter. Laurie did little more than aim her towards the gate in the far corner, relaxing for a brief moment into the smoothness of the ride. But she wanted more than relaxation. Now, for the first time, she used the crop, flicking Roxanne’s neck to urge her on up the hill, through a fast canter and then, as the slope levelled out, into a full-on gallop. With her knees bent, Laurie leaned forward, her torso almost parallel to Roxanne’s neck as the horse strained for speed. The insistent beat of the hooves ran up Laurie’s legs and into her body, drowning out the rhythm of her heart, so that it seemed the gallop itself was pumping the blood she could feel in her ears and fingertips.

  They were approaching the gate. When Laurie had saddled Roxanne a few minutes earlier she’d had no intention of going for the jump, but now she sensed an added urgency to the horse’s stride. It was as if Roxanne remembered their last disastrous attempt as well as she did, and was equally anxious to erase the memory. Laurie ignored the sudden twinge in her collarbone; she made no move to slow the horse down. Instead, it was Roxanne who paused, gathered her stride and, with no hint of refusal, leapt, smoothly and freely, over to the other side.

  One more empty field beyond the gate allowed the gallop to continue. Then came the bridle path at the top of the ridge. Laurie was forced to slow down. She could never tire of that view: Glastonbury Tor, wobbling in the haze that rose up out of the Vale of Avalon. If the blackberries lining the hedgerows had been ripe, it would have been a perfect ride.

  Returning, Laurie leaned back slightly in the saddle to compensate for the downhill gradient. She could see the cottage at the bottom of the hill. It wasn’t much to look at really, certainly not the kind of place to interest weekenders. The loose box Dad had constructed against one side wall did nothing to improve its lines, nor did the way he’d turned most of the garden into a paddock, with the remainder set aside for vegetables. Well, Roxanne made all of that worthwhile.

  Dad was waiting for her in the yard. ‘Did I see you getting a monkey off your back just now?’

  Laurie grinned in response. ‘It was Roxanne more than me. I just let her do it.’

  Dad tried to sound severe, although Laurie could tell he was as pleased as she was. ‘I would have thought one broken collarbone would be enough. Anyway, she’s getting too old for it, even if you’re not.’

  ‘Dad,’ Laurie chided. ‘That was years ago. You know I’d never have let her go for it if I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t refuse this time. Anyway, you’re right. The monkey’s off my back. Once was enough. I don’t think I’ll ever need to jump that gate again. And I’ve got the feeling Roxanne won’t either.’

  With that, Laurie swung her leg over, slipped off the saddle and gave the horse a little hug, before tying her to a ring set in the wall of the cottage. Roxanne nuzzled her pockets: she could smell the Polos in there somewhere. ‘Of course you deserve one, my lovely girl,’ Laurie whispered to her, slipping her first one mint and then another, before popping a third into her own mouth.

  ‘And what about me?’ Dad was watching them.

  ‘There you go, the last one.’ Laurie didn’t mention the second tube in her other pocket. She undid Roxanne’s girth and placed her saddle and bridle on the door of the loose box. She’d clean it later. For the time being, the horse was her main concern. The sweat had lathered on her neck, making Laurie conscious of the heat for the first time. Roxanne would be thirsty, but she needed to cool down first. Laurie used the hose to run water over her, going over her coat with the sweat scraper as she did so. Only then did she fetch a bucket of water and place it within easy reach of the horse’s mouth, while she gave her a final rub-down with the towel, all the time whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

  Meanwhile, Dad began mucking out the loose box, forking the dirty straw into a wheelbarrow and replacing it with fresh from the small stack that he kept under wraps just outside. ‘I’ve been keeping her in here for the cool, would you believe? It’s been that hot in the paddock. But you might as well put her out there when you’re done, now the sun’s a bit lower. Check her trough’s full, won’t you?’

  Dad was in the kitchen by the time Laurie returned. It had become his natural habitat ever since Mum was ill, although he’d hardly ever cooked before. Now he treated food with the same care she imagined him once applying to his physics experiments, doing his best to recreate old favourites from Laurie’s childhood. He looked up from the chopping board. ‘Supper in about half an hour. I’ve taken your bag upstairs and run you a bath. Take a glass of wine with you.’

  It was closer to an hour than thirty minutes before Laurie appeared for supper in the dressing gown that hung on the back of her bedroom door, her hair wrapped in a towel. Dad was sitting down, doing the crossword and listening to Radio 3. A rice salad stood on the table. This was a dish that Dad had reverse engineered soon after they moved down here, and then gone on to perfect, at least as far as Laurie was concerned. He’d kept the things that made it special in Mum’s day – like the walnuts and fresh basil – but had improved the dressing, and added avocado. Being in the country helped, of course. Laurie could tell that these French beans were homegrown as soon as she bit into one, and she was sure the same went for the tomatoes, eggs and cucumber.

  They ate for a while in companionable silence. When they did start to speak it was of nothing particularly important. Dad updated Laurie on his new sideline building henhouses for the rest of the village. She described her evening in West Hampstead the night before. Josh and Lizzie had gone out to a film, leaving Laurie in full ‘godmum’ role, from watching In the Night Garden, through supervising a bath where she could hardly see any water for all the toys, to reading Tessa the same bedtime story three times in a row. Laurie was glad to have something like that to tell Dad; it saved admitting to all the other evenings spent alone. He liked hearing about Lizzie, although expressed his usual shock at the idea that a girl he remembered coming round for play dates when they were both at Park Street Primary was now herself a mother.

  ‘She’s the only one I’ve kept in touch with, of course,’ Laurie mused. ‘And that’s only because she made an effort when she came to uni in Bristol at the same time I was at college there.’

  Dad was quiet. Laurie could tell he was replaying the old arguments in his mind: her accusations that he was ruining her life, running away, dragging her to the back of beyond; his own stock responses that it would be better for both of them. It was time to say something.

  ‘You know I don’t mind, don’t you? Not any more. God knows what would have happened to me if we’d stayed in Cambridge.’

  Dad suddenly got very interested in his salad. Silence returned for a minute or two.

  ‘How about you?’ Laurie burst out, seized by a sudden thought.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you regret coming here? I mean, you had a nice life there, didn’t you?’

  Dad shook his head and smiled. ‘Laurie, we are both so much happier now. How could I regret that? You know I wasn’t in great shape either. Mum being ill was bad enough. I hadn’t published anything for three years. And then she was gone. I’d been so full of hope; she really did seem to be getting better, and then – nothing. You were all I had. The students scared me. So did the idea of making a grant application. I brought you here because I knew if you’d stayed in Cambridge you’d have only got worse, but it was for my sanity as much as yours.’

  Laurie was stunned – and ashamed. Of course she wouldn’t have noticed that Dad was struggling too just after Mum’s accident. She was in no state to notice anything then, but it still shouldn’t have taken her the best part of ten years to find out. She thought back to the Dad she remembered from her childhood: solving the Rubik’s Cube in three days, as he brushed away Laurie’s attempts to teach him all the tricks, installing his own boiler, either because he resented paying a plumber to do so, or because he only trusted himself to do it properly – probably both. He had always been able to do an
ything. He still could, couldn’t he?

  Dad changed the subject. ‘So, tell me about your week.’

  Laurie knew exactly what he was getting at. ‘Well, I haven’t been on the Tube again, and I’ve been having nightmares. I still can’t get past the idea that if my bike hadn’t been wonky, if I hadn’t got a smudge on my nose, if I hadn’t gone to that end of the platform, if I hadn’t smiled back at him, for God’s sake, then that man would still be alive.’

  Dad made no response. The silence was long enough for Laurie to think about telling him more: about the thoughts she had been having just before the man smiled at her, about the way she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Then Dad began, hesitantly, ‘It’s a while since we talked about Mum, isn’t it? I guess this has made you think about her?’

  ‘Dad. I’m always thinking about her.’

  At this Dad looked Laurie straight in the eye and gave her a smile of such warmth, happiness even, that she felt ashamed again that he’d needed to hear her say something that should have been so obvious. Then he rescued her with a slight change of subject: ‘Good. She deserves it. But I suppose I’m worried that this has made you think about how she died again.’

  ‘Yeah’ Laurie admitted, with a little sigh. ‘You too?’