The Other Side of the Door by Nicci French (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

‘Sad, drunk evenings.’ We grinned at each other ruefully. It seemed a long time ago now; long enough for Sonia to be thinking of taking my place.

I gave a little shiver. ‘You got me through. You and Sally.’

‘And whisky.’ Sonia always deflected sentimentality.

‘And whisky, true. Whisky, beer, coffee, music. Speaking of which . . .’

‘Will Amos want to play in a band with you?’

‘I haven’t asked. I don’t know.’

Sonia looked at me intently, then gave a nod. ‘You waited until the third glass of wine before asking me, didn’t you?’

‘The second, I think.’

‘The third, definitely,’ Sonia said, taking a sip as if to confirm it. ‘On the minus side, you’ve only heard me in the choir.’

‘And that karaoke night last year.’

‘Was that me?’

‘One of the best versions of “I Will Survive” I’ve ever heard.’

‘On the plus side, I don’t know any of the people who’ll be in the audience. Does it matter if you make a fool of yourself in front of people who don’t know you?’

‘It’s like a tree falling in the forest.’

After

I took my mobile out of my bag and turned it on, punched in the first three digits of the number. Then I changed my mind and turned it off again, dropping it back into the bag as if it might burn my fingers. I had read articles in newspapers about how experts can tell not just whom you called on your phone, but precisely where the call was made from. People were caught out like that, alibis broken.

I couldn’t use the landline, and I couldn’t use his mobile, wedged into my pocket. For a brief moment, I thought of giving up and simply dialling 999, weeping to the impersonal voice at the other end. Thoughts hissed in my brain and I tried to separate them out, think each through. I picked up the keys from the bowl, checking to make sure the flat key was among them. Then—through my sleeve again—I unbolted the door and opened it, giving his body a last swift glance before stepping out onto the landing and closing the door behind me. It gave an agonizing click as I pulled it shut. What if someone saw me? I knew that the family next door were away on holiday, because we had been watering their plants for them—or, rather, I had. The young man who lived upstairs was around, although not during the day and usually not until very late in the evening, and today was Friday, the beginning of the weekend. But perhaps he was ill and lying in bed just above me. Or perhaps he was on his way home right now. He could be turning off Kentish Town Road at this very moment and walking up the little dogleg lane, hand already in his pocket fumbling for the keys. Maybe I’d meet him as I opened the front door. I couldn’t move. I stood on the landing, straining for any sound. I took a deep breath and walked purposefully towards the entrance, trying not to break into a run.

Now I was on the unlit street and no one else was there. Even though the pain in my ribs knifed through me, I started to jog past the small garage opposite, but it was closed for the night, only the sign advertising MOTs and bodywork repairs flapping idly in the wind. Round the bend, and still it was dark and empty, and at last I was out on the main road, the blessed relief of lorries and cars and motorbikes thundering past, people I didn’t know on the pavement, alone or in laughing huddles, walking slowly because it was summer and the night air was soft and warm. I didn’t know which way to turn for a phone box because I’d never needed one before now. Maybe they would all be boarded up and useless, the dead receiver dangling from its cable. I turned left and went under the railway bridge, striding quickly until at last I saw a red telephone box. Inside it smelled of piss. There was graffiti on the glass and a solitary sticker advertising the services of Mischa, who specialized in massages. I needed change, and fumbled uselessly in my purse for a coin, my fingers thick and clumsy. I dialled the number. Let her be in, let her be in. She was.

‘Bonnie? Are you all right?’

‘I need your help. Right now. It’s something big.’

‘Tell me.’

Hearing her voice calmed me. ‘I can’t, not on the phone. You have to come.’

She didn’t ask unnecessary questions, just said: ‘All right. Are you at home?’

I thought of telling her to come to Liza’s flat, but then I remembered she wouldn’t know where that was. Also, I realized it would be better to take her there, rather than having her turn up like a normal person. So we arranged to meet outside the phone box and she said she’d come at once. It wasn’t far.

I stood outside the box and stared straight ahead, at the people, the plane trees, the orange streetlights, the smudged charcoal horizon. Everything looked unreal, as if I was gazing at a photograph that was slightly out of focus. I turned on my mobile to check the time, then turned it off again. I walked up and down, just twenty paces one way and twenty back. I didn’t want to miss her, though I knew it would take her at least ten minutes, even if she had run out of the house as soon as she put down the phone. I hadn’t smoked for several years, but I went into the twenty-four-hour shop on the corner and bought a packet of Silk Cut and a box of matches. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, felt a nauseous dizziness rush through me, spluttered loudly and long. At least it gave me something to do while I waited.

I wondered whether it was wrong to ask her to help me, to ask anyone. I didn’t really wonder. Of course it was wrong.