THIRTY-TWO

Emma

TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 2012

My head is full of Will Burnside, and I find I’ve doodled a stick man on my notepad. My pen has gouged deep into the paper as I rerun my final days in Howard Street. The house reeked of disappointment. It seemed to drip down the walls and taint the food.

I can remember the hiss of the whispers between Jude and Will, the staccato urgency of phone calls and the closing doors. My exclusion. How could Jude say I was in love with Professor Will?

The drawing is on the same sheet as the reporter’s name. Kate Waters. I trace over the letters with my pen as I think about how I can talk to her without showing my hand. I need to know what she knows. Maybe put her off the track. Away from me.

I could mention the drug addicts, I think, and stop drawing.

I scroll down through the chapter I’m working on and write down the first name I come to.

“Hello, I am Anne Robinson and I used to live in Howard Street,” I try it out. “Did you know there was a house of drug addicts in the street? I think the baby belonged to one of them.”

It sounds stilted and scripted so I have another go, trying to make it sound more natural. “Hello,” I say again, sounding even more forced.

“Oh, forget it,” I say, and throw my pen across the room.

But I know I’m going to do it. It’s a good idea. She’ll go looking for the sad kids. Since Jude mentioned them, I’ve tried to remember them—I think they must have lived at number 81—but I can only recall them as a group, not individuals, with their dirty hair and stick-thin arms tattooed with needle tracks. “The living dead,” Will used to call them.

What if she asks questions? I think, biting the skin round my fingers. I start writing down details I remember. There was a girl called Carrie. They were there for years. Or it seemed like years. They’d gone before I left in 1985, I think. The landlord cleared them out early one morning. All their stuff was on the pavement, smashed cups, spilled bags of pasta, stained sheets, and old jumpers. The addicts didn’t take anything with them. It all stayed until the next time the binmen came round and shoveled it aboard the lorry. I’d forgotten all that until today. Packed it away with everything else.

Okay, I’ve got my story, I chivy myself back to the task at hand. I dial the number for the Daily Post and wait.

“Daily Post, how can I help you?” a woman chirrups.

“Er, can I talk to Kate Waters, please?” I reply, already sounding like an imposter.

“Putting you through.”

“Hello, Kate Waters,” a voice says. And it begins.

My carefully crafted opening sentence vanishes from my mind and I stutter.

“Hello, is that Kate Waters?” even though she’s just said so.

“Yes,” the voice is crisper now.

“Sorry, it’s just I’ve never spoken to a reporter before,” I burble.

“That’s okay,” she says. “How can I help you, er . . . ?”

For a second I can’t remember the name I’ve chosen, then blurt: “Anne. Anne Robinson.”

“So, Anne, how can I help you?”

“It’s about the baby on the building site,” I say and I hear an “Oh” under her breath. “You see I used to live in Howard Street.”

“Did you?” she says. “When was that, Anne?”

“Well, early seventies to mid-eighties. I read your story the other week and I thought I’d ring you.”

“I am so glad you did, Anne,” she says. She’s using my name all the time and I keep thinking, Who’s Anne?

“How old were you then? Did it jog a memory, Anne?” she adds.

“Sort of,” I say. Mustn’t sound too sure. “I was in my teens when I left. We rented, my mum and me.”

I’m telling her too much. Adding details that aren’t on my pad. Need to keep to the plan.

“It’s just that there used to be a house full of drug addicts down the road—number 81, I think—on heroin and stuff, and I wondered if they could be connected to this. To the baby.”

“Right. That’s so interesting. Did you know any of them? Can you recall any of their names?”

The questions pile up in front of me and I sit and breathe deeply while she carries on digging into my lies.

“I think one was called Carrie,” I offer. “But I didn’t talk to them. No one did, really. They got thrown out by the landlord when the neighbors complained about the mess and the smell.”

“Which neighbors?” Kate asked.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“Actually, it’s brilliant that you’ve rung,” Kate Waters says. “I’m tracking down people who lived in Howard Street in the seventies to ask them if they remember anything. Any births or disappearances.”

She’s beginning to talk about what she knows and I push for more information. “Tracking who down? Who have you found?”

“Hold on,” she says. “I’ve got a list. Would you mind if I read it to you to see if you recognize anyone?”

“’Course,” I say. “It’s such a mystery, isn’t it . . .”

“Absolutely. The police seem to have no idea what happened,” Kate says and I breathe a little easier. But then she adds: “I’m pursuing quite an interesting line at the moment. A bit of a long shot but could be an amazing story.”

“Really?” I say, my voice all squeaky. But she interrupts, reading the list of Howard Street inhabitants before I can ask another question.

Jude is on the list and I hesitate—just for a beat—before saying no. I hope she doesn’t notice and I distract her with a bit of info about Mrs. Speering and ask her if she’s been to Howard Street.

“What? Oh yeah,” she says. “I’ve been there a couple of times—I’m going later, actually. To the pub there.”

“The Royal Oak,” I say.

“That’s it. Your old local, I imagine,” she says, and I mutter something about being underage.

She laughs and goes back to the names and when she gets to the end, she says: “That’s funny. There’s no Anne Robinson on my list.”

“No, well, like I said, I was just a child so I wouldn’t have been on the electoral register,” I say quickly.

“’Course. But you said you lived with your mum, didn’t you? She’d be on the list, wouldn’t she?”

“Umm, yes.”

“Let me have another look. No, no Robinson.”

“It’s my married name,” I blurt. I look at my pad, searching my script for answers, but there’s nothing left to say.

Must end this quickly before she asks any more.

I wrap my fist in my cardigan and bang on the desk.

“Oh, there’s someone at the door. Look, I’ll have to go . . .”

“But Anne,” she says. “I’ve got loads to ask you. Can I have your number and I’ll ring you back?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to go,” I repeat weakly and put the phone down.

I write down everything she’s said and start to plan what I’ll say the next time I ring.