Читать книгу: «Don’t Trust Me: The best psychological thriller debut you will read in 2018»

Chapter 2

‘Brilliant, just bloody brilliant.’ I ease the key out, wipe it on my skirt and try again. Jiggle. Plead. Swear under my breath. ‘You will not defeat me, you stupid bit of useless metal.’

I’m coming apart at this last hitch. My head is pounding, hands trembling, tears close. Don’t do this to me, world.

I then notice that the Yale lock looks new – a shiny brass face, unscratched, innocent. Right. OK. Reason this through. I’ve been on holiday for a week so it’s possible my boss has had cause to change the locks in my absence – a mugging, a drunken oh-shit-key-went-down-the-drain incident, or maybe he’s finally listened to my doubts about the cleaner? I indulge in a grunt of vindication. I’ve been complaining that she barely wipes the surfaces and seems to think a squirt of air freshener into the scummy bathroom will convince me she’s doing the job. But if he has given her the boot, and changed the locks to pre-empt revenge attacks, why didn’t he at least text me to let me know?

I thump on the door. ‘Jacob, are you in there? It’s me, Jessica?’ I shout my name with a rising inflexion. Remember me? You know, the research assistant who’s been working alongside you for three months.

No response.

Defeated, I sit down on the top step and review my options. This comes as a particularly fat fly buzzing on top of the pile of crap that is my morning so far. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.

OK, some would say I’m being overdramatic. So what do I do now?

I try ringing Jacob but the number is unobtainable. No surprise there, as he usually keeps it switched off, claiming he doesn’t like the idea that his position can be triangulated from every phone mast. I’d once made a lame joke about drone strikes but he just looked at me in that way of his. Some men, actually most men, seem to find me the equivalent of the tissue left in a pocket during the wash. My jokes and ill-thought-through comments are fluff to be brushed away with a show of mild irritation. I then try ringing the office phone, just in case. It’s only a few metres from me on the other side of blue door and if he is in he’ll have to pick it up. I should be able to hear it ringing, but there’s only silence. I lift my mobile to my ear and hear the distressed beep of another unobtainable line.

OK, think this through. I don’t wait for a solution to come to me; I always act. This is my place of work, right? Starting to doubt myself – and that’s very easy to do as doubt is my factory setting – I go back down the stairs and stare at the number 5a on the front door.

Yes, it is the right one, with the busted entrance that yields to a firm push. Our narrow door is sandwiched between the empty shop that was briefly a nail bar and the ex-tapas restaurant that rapidly went bankrupt in the way of overambitious eateries. Both premises are gathering post and circulars on the doormats like letters from an obsessed lover who really just won’t give up. They’re gone. Get over it.

I go back upstairs and carry on an extra flight. I know there is a flat up here as I have heard the sound of feet and occasionally bursts of loud music as I did my internet searches in the office below. I’d never seen the inhabitants so my mind has naturally run riot. We keep very different hours and I’ve sometimes speculated as to whether it is home to one of the prostitutes for which the area is famed. Don’t take any notice of me though. Little do I know about the contemporary sex industry, not having met a sex worker recently – at least, I’m not aware that I have. I probably have. I mean, do Michael’s students count? Some are said to be sleeping their way through college to avoid taking on crippling debt. Well done, government, prostituting the best and brightest.

I realise immediately that I’ve got my picture all wrong when I see the messenger bike blocking the stairwell – unless this is a form of sexual delivery about which I am ignorant. That is entirely possible as my recent experience has been vanilla all the way – and what came before that I really don’t want to remember. I shuffle past, reminded of my less-than-sylphlike proportions as my hip takes a jab from a brake and my butt squashes against the wall. I knock on the door.

After a few seconds, I hear someone approaching. The door opens and a lanky guy wearing an entirely too-small towel, is staring down at me.

‘So?’

What kind of greeting is that? ‘Um, hi, I work downstairs but I can’t get into my office. I don’t suppose you know if there was a locksmith here during the week?’ Stupid question. Why would he know that? What am I even doing here? I try a friendly smile even though my head is still throbbing. I probably look demented.

He rattles off a reply in a foreign language, Polish I think. I can get the ‘nie mowie po angielsku’ (I don’t speak English) thanks to a Polish barista who had once taught me a few words and given me a free coffee for my attempts. It dawns on me that the man hadn’t said ‘so?’ at all, but ‘co?’ – Polish for ‘what’, which sounds almost the same.

‘No English?’ I find myself saying, as if this is in any way relevant to my situation. In post-Brexit Britain I go for an over-friendly, I’m-not-one-of-the-haters, commiserating tone.

‘Leetle,’ he says. As little as his distracting towel.

‘Sorry, never mind.’ I back away before the towel gives up its perilous grip on his hips.

‘You have problem?’ he asks.

Not as long as you keep a hold, mate, I want to quip, but bite my tongue. This month’s goal, agreed with Charles, my therapist, is not to blurt out inappropriate comments or jokes. I failed spectacularly last week but am trying the new-leaf approach. Anyway, here is someone actually showing an interest in helping. I feel so grateful to find a human who cares that I begin a pantomime of my predicament, complete with props: key, lock, downstairs, shake of head.

‘OK. Moment.’ He goes back into his flat and closes the door.

Hanging on to the promise in that ‘Moment’, I wait for him to emerge, which he duly does a minute later, wearing lycra that looks like it’s been slapped on with a roller brush. Soho’s answer to Chris Froome, he hefts the bike out of my way and follows me downstairs. I hold up my keys, and point to the lock. Then magically, he produces a brand-new Yale key on a ring with a fob in the shape of a little bicycle-wheel.

Thank God, some sanity is being restored to my morning. Jacob must have had the locks changed and had the idea of leaving the spare with the guy upstairs. He could’ve told me. My headache begins to ease.

My Polish white knight opens the door and stands back.

‘Thanks.’ I hold out my hand for the key, but he shakes his head.

‘I keep. For boss.’

I don’t really hear this explanation because the room I enter is just not right. Ten days ago, my messy desk with laptop sat in front of the sash window, a grey filing cabinet in the corner, a pinboard of all the cases we were working on next to that. Jacob’s desk had taken up the majority of the room across from me, a chair for clients and a coffee table pushed against the wall. The decor had been gunmetal grey with water-stain accents. The door opposite the entry had led into a depressing little kitchen and bathroom in the cheap extension, which I guess had been put on in the 1930s when it was decided indoor plumbing was here to stay.

Now I feel like I am walking into the same room but in a parallel universe. The place is bigger. Someone has knocked through to the kitchen, laid a wooden floor and painted the walls white, refitted the kitchen. All in the space of ten days. A treatment table, still wrapped in plastic, has replaced Jacob’s desk, and all the paraphernalia for an aromatherapy-cum-massage is neatly laid out on a pale-wood counter that takes up one wall. A feng shui kind of arrangement of ominous forked twig and stones – I mean, where are they planning to shove that? – stands on a low table where my desk had been. It smells new – new paint, new people, new business. There wasn’t even a nail mark in the wall to show where the pinboard once hung.

I resist the temptation to slap my cheek to check I’m not dreaming. ‘What happened to all the stuff that was in here?’ I ask, pointless though it is.

My Polish helper just smiles that bemused ‘seen enough, lady?’ smile.

‘Where is Jacob Wrath? Who’s renting this place?’ Finally I think of a relevant question with which the key holder might be able to help. ‘Do you have a number for the landlord? Landlord? Yes?’ Meeting incomprehension, I type the word into Google translate and let him squint through the spiderwebbed screen.

He nods and pulls a phone out from God knows where in his close-fitting outfit. Also in dumb show, he selects a contact and turns the screen to me. I jot down the number with a biro on a receipt dug out of the bottom of my shoulder bag.

‘Thanks.’

My guide stands back. He’s not going to leave me here, clearly, in case I steal a box of patchouli essential oil. I walk back down the stairs and on to the street. A few moments later, my new friend is outside with the bike slung over his shoulder. He dumps the bike on the road, gives me a wave, and mounts in one smooth move.

‘Jen-Coo-Yan. Thanks!’ I call after him in my one remembered coffee-powered phrase.

And then it starts to rain. Of course it does. But not glamorously, not like that scene at the end of Four Weddings and a Funeral, where the girl stands looking damp but still adorable. This is thunderous downpour where no one escapes with any shred of dignity. Deciding to take my phone call to a drier spot, I scurry to the coffee shop I like on Soho Square.

Buying an Americano to cut down the wait produced by the arcane art of working an espresso machine, I slide into a table near the back. Chasing a couple of paracetamol with a shot of black coffee, I tap in the number I got from the Two-wheeled Pole.

The phone is answered with an aggressive ‘Yes? What the fuck is it?’

God, I wish I was the least bit assertive but that was missed out of the baby shower of cradle blessings thrown by my good fairies. Instead I got impulsiveness, disorganisation and an inability to swear in public. I can swear perfectly well in private – fuck it – see what I mean? But whereas other people seem to regard the f-word as an ordinary intensifier, I can’t use it. Not at all. Not even when it is literally what I’m doing. Especially not then.

‘Um, hello, is that the landlord of 5a Dean Street?’

‘What’s it to you? You’re not that fucking woman from Number 7? Don’t waste my time telling me Marek is playing his music too loud. Fucking racist bitch. Take it up with him.’

I guess Marek is the bicycle messenger. ‘It’s nothing to do with him or his music. I’m not from Number 7. I work in the office below his flat – or at least I did. I was wondering if you know what’s happened to the previous tenant, Jacob Wrath?’

There’s silence at his end. I can hear birdsong and the crunch of gravel. Is he on a golf course? I immediately imagine an Essex gangster type, thick gold jewellery and a blonde younger wife. My mind loves these leaps.

‘You know that fucker Wrath?’

This doesn’t sound good. ‘Um, yes. I mean, I work for him. Do you have a forwarding address for correspondence?’

‘Ha! Stay right where you are… What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t.’ Suddenly, it doesn’t seem a very good idea to admit who I am, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Holly Golightly.’ It must be the whole adrift-on-the-streets-of-a-big-city-in-the-rain thing that’s getting to me if I’ve gone from Four Weddings to channelling Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

‘I’m sending my man round to talk to you. Where are you? Coffee shop?’

He can hear the hiss of the milk being steamed into submission and the Italian being bandied about behind the counter. I calculate what could happen. To lie or not to lie? He needs time to send someone over. ‘Yes, I’m in Carlo’s, Soho Square. Do you know it?’

‘No, but my man will find you.’

‘Why? What do you want?’

‘I’ve got something for you.’

That doesn’t ring true. He didn’t know I existed until he took the call. ‘Right then. I’ll wait for him here. I’m in the seat by the window.’ I mentally picture Audrey Hepburn sitting there over a solitary coffee to make it more real for us both.

‘You fucking be there, all right?’

‘Of course.’ Sending a mental two-fingers, I end the call and then power off the mobile. I have to hope that no unsuspecting girl on her own takes a seat by the window but so far I’m good: there are two Asian boys with laptops who look like they’ve settled in for the morning.

This is getting ridiculous. I’ve just talked to a man who sounds like the cliché of the mobster boss. I don’t do that. My life doesn’t include that kind of conversation. Gathering my things, I leave the cafe, having already plotted my next move into the garden square. I stand in the shelter of the half-timbered hut in the centre, a child-sized Tudor fortress, and keep watch on Carlo’s. A damp ten minutes pass and then a man arrives on a motorbike. He gets off, locks his helmet in the seat compartment, revealing he is the spitting image of Idris Elba, and heads into the cafe. Is that him, the landlord’s man? Two women follow him in with their pushchairs, children under plastic wrap. Then an older man with a briefcase.

I should’ve got a description, but I never got the knack of thinking things through.

Motorcycle man comes back out with a sandwich in a to-go box and roars off. OK, not Idris. Through the window, I see the mothers edge out the Asian students with an interesting piece of psychological warfare. They let their two-year-olds occupy the low window seat normally devoted to flyers for local businesses and West End shows. The kids, two boys, lounge on their bellies and wave their heels in the air as they bash toy cars into each other. The Asian students exchange a look, close their laptops and scram. The mothers settle in the still-warm chairs like a couple of self-satisfied generals. The man with the briefcase comes out but with no sign he’s bought anything.

Him? He doesn’t look dangerous but he looks legal. I don’t want to take charge of any papers or writs that the landlord might be trying to serve. I’ve worked out by now that Jacob must owe him money – just as, come to think of it, he owes me my pay.

The older man, paunchy, grey receding hair, navy suit, makes a call. I would bet that if I had my phone switched on, it would be ringing right now. Then more bad news: he is joined by two serious-looking blokes who have just got out of an SUV, the muscle to the brains. The knee cappers. Spine crackers. My fertile brain comes up with lots of words for them but no hint of how to handle them.

Self-preservation instinct kicks in. I really shouldn’t still be here.

Something tips him off. Mr Lawyer raises his eyes and meets mine across the square. He knows. I break into a run and risk taking the shortest route to Tottenham Court Station. Good idea? Bad idea? How do I know? All I can be sure of is that they’ll be in pursuit. If I get into the Underground their car won’t help. I reach Oxford Street and feel too exposed on the pavement. I dive into the first shop with open doors, a saucy lingerie store where a woman blends in and three guys stand out like priests in a bordello. I weave expertly through the aisles of satin and lace panties and barely-there bras and take the far exit that brings me out closest to the entrance to the station. Once at the bottom of the stairs, I fly through the barriers with a wave of my Oyster card and vanish down the escalator to the Central Line.

With heart pounding, I get on the first service going anywhere. I’m not even sure if I’m going east or west. I’ll work out the route home later. I duck down as I think I catch sight of one of the big guys arriving on the platform just as the doors close. The woman opposite gives me a funny look, but this is London and the trains are full of weird people you really don’t want to challenge. She turns her gaze back to her paperback.

That’s right, sister. Nothing to see here.

The train goes into a tunnel and I sit up.

Well, hell. It appears that my boss and my job have gone. Time I was too.