Текст книги "Friday on My Mind"

Автор книги: Nicci French

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

17

When Frieda got back to her flat, she sat on the sofa for several minutes. There was no radio to turn on, no music to listen to, no book to take down from the shelf. It was almost restful, except that there were always noises from outside, shouts, the banging of doors, car horns. She really didn’t want to transform this dingy space into anything that resembled a home, and had no impulse to make it into her own territory. But she needed to buy some more things, cleaning stuff, basic supplies. She would do some shopping in the late-night store, fix a meal and make a plan.

She got up and walked into her bedroom, pulled the bag out and took out her walking boots. She pushed her hand into one boot, then into the other. She repeated the action to make sure, although she was already sure. All of the money was gone.

Frieda felt quite calm: it was as if she had been expecting this to happen. She was neither fearful nor distressed, but was conscious of a sense of steely resolve. She went out of the bedroom, out of the front door and along the balcony. She counted the flats until she found the right one, then knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked hard again. She heard movement and the door opened. The man was so large that he filled the doorframe. He was wearing jeans and a shiny blue football shirt and had long dark hair, really long, down to his shoulders. He was holding a TV control.

‘Is Hana here?’ said Frieda.

The man just stared at her. His gaze was heavy, like something being laid on top of her to hold her in place. Frieda couldn’t tell if he had heard her or even if he understood English, but she could sense the weight of his hostility. She knew that she was putting herself in danger, yet she didn’t feel scared because she was so angry.

‘Hana,’ she repeated. ‘I think she’s got something of mine. I need to talk to her.’

Still no answer.

‘I would like you to answer me,’ she said. ‘Because I know you understand what I’m saying to you.’

It had happened even before she knew it was happening. She was pushed, across the balcony, hard against the railing. His right hand was on her neck, pushing her back. She noticed the oddity that his feet were bare and that his breath smelt meaty as she teetered backwards and wondered almost abstractly whether this was it, whether he was going to push her over the railing. He shifted his grip, grasping the top of her shirt.

‘I never even want to see you again,’ he said. ‘You hear me?’

Frieda didn’t think an answer was required.

‘I said, you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ said Frieda.

The man held onto her shirt for a few more seconds, then released her and gave her cheek a light slap. He walked back inside and shut the door.

Frieda went back to her own flat. She felt in her jacket pocket. She found a twenty-pound note and a five-pound note. She had four pound coins and some change. She considered for a moment, gathering her thoughts, then she went out and down the stairs and into the street. She needed to walk, as if it were a way of converting her anger into something purposeful. She passed through streets, through a park, along the side of a graveyard, along the side of a railway bridge with car-repair shops under the arches. Suddenly she stopped and looked around. She had been seeing nothing, hearing nothing. She hadn’t even been thinking in any coherent way. She tried to orientate herself. For a moment she thought she was lost but, with difficulty and a few wrong turnings, she was able to find her way back.

She remembered that she hadn’t eaten but she wasn’t hungry any more. She half undressed and got into bed, but as hour after hour passed, the idea of sleeping seemed impossible. A few feet from her was that man: she could still feel his hand on her neck and his breath on her face. At one point she reached for her watch and saw that it was half past two, and she thought of getting up, leaving the flat and walking through the streets again, as she often did at times like this. Instead she lay in the dark and thought about the process of going to sleep, of letting yourself drift into unconsciousness, and wondered how people did it, how she had ever managed it before. And she thought of everyone in London, everyone in the world, who needed – once every day – somewhere to go to sleep.

And then she must have been asleep herself because she woke with a start. She looked at her watch. She needed to hurry. She got up and undressed and washed in the trickling shower and pulled on more clothes and ran out of the front door and took the train up to Sasha’s. It cost her three pounds, which left her with just over twenty-six. She thought about people who made calculations like this every day – each pound mattering, each bus or train journey adding up, every cup of coffee in a café something to be budgeted for. The world felt a very different place if you didn’t know how you were going to get to the end of the week, much more precarious, much scarier. She had always known this, but now she felt it – and all of a sudden she remembered herself at sixteen, without money and alone in the world, and it was as if she’d come in a circle back to that time when she had had nothing.

But, of course, she didn’t have nothing, because she had friends.

‘I need to borrow a small amount of money.’

‘Of course. Is something wrong?’

‘I just need some cash.’

Sasha looked through her purse. She had fifty pounds and gave Frieda forty.

‘Can I use your phone?’ asked Frieda. ‘I’ll be very quick.’

Sasha handed her the phone and Frieda stepped out into the hallway. She took the card from her pocket, the one she’d been given the previous day. It felt as if Fate had pushed her into this.

When she had finished, she was about to rejoin Sasha when she hesitated. She felt that she had no choice but, at the same time, as if she was violating a promise she had made herself.

She dialled Reuben’s number: no reply. She swore softly to herself.

‘Is everything all right?’ said Sasha.

‘I didn’t know I was saying that aloud.’ Frieda thought for a moment then tapped in another number. There was a click on the line.

‘Is Sasha? I have been –’

‘No, Josef. It’s me.’

‘Frieda. What happen? Where are you?’

‘I need your help.’

‘Of course. Tell me.’

‘I can’t get through to Reuben. I need you to go to him and borrow some money. Say, five hundred pounds, which I will of course repay as soon as I’m able.’

‘Frieda,’ said Josef. ‘Your money. What happen?’

Frieda felt the question like a punch on a bruise. Her immediate impulse was to say nothing, to deflect him. But then she surprised herself and, simply and fully, told Josef everything, about Hana, about the money, about the man. When she was finished, she waited for Josef’s anger, his surprise. But there was nothing.

‘OK,’ he said calmly. ‘I see Reuben. I bring the money.’

‘Is this safe for you?’ said Frieda. ‘Have the police been bothering you?’

‘No. Nothing now. Reuben say loud noise in newspapers. Some journalists poking. No problem.’

‘I can’t say how sorry I am to be asking you this.’

‘Then don’t say.’

She ended the call and turned to Ethan, who had come into the hallway.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked him, and he stared solemnly at her. ‘We’re going to have an exciting day.’

Bridget Bellucci lived in a terraced house in Stockwell, polished wooden floors, panelling, abstract paintings, french windows leading out onto a long garden. She introduced Frieda and Ethan to three-year-old Tam and one-year-old Rudi. Then she spread out Tam’s collection of fluffy toy animals on the carpet in the living room.

‘Why don’t you show them to Ethan?’ she said.

Tam did not seem especially enthusiastic about this. She picked up one of the animals and hugged it defensively, turning her back on the rest of them. Ethan sat down heavily on the floor and took out his own little pile of wooden animals, which he carefully arranged in front of them, his lower lip jutting out. Bridget gestured to the sofa. She was dark under the eyes; her hair was unwashed.

‘I thought you weren’t available,’ she said to Frieda. ‘What changed your mind?’ She didn’t seem especially grateful.

‘I’ve got Ethan. But I could help out for a few days until you find someone. If that’s what you want.’

‘It is what I want. I’m about to call work and say I’m sick.’ She gave a snort. ‘That’s what we do – it’s OK to be ill yourself, but woe betide you if you take time off for your children. But I can’t pretend to be sick for too many more days.’

There was a shriek from Rudi. Bridget looked at Frieda and Frieda bent down and scooped the little boy into her lap. He was hot and heavy and slightly damp.

‘What do you do?’

‘I teach Italian at the language school. Usually I have mornings free and work in the afternoons, then several evenings a week.’ She was still curt. ‘I’m half Italian.’

‘You look half Italian.’

‘Yes, well.’ She scrutinized Frieda. ‘You’re not my idea of a nanny.’

‘What is your idea of a nanny?’

‘Young, for a start.’

Frieda shrugged. ‘What happened to your childcare?’

‘She suddenly decided she was homesick. I suppose I should ask some questions. Do you have any references?’

‘No.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m not a real nanny. I’m just doing this for a friend.’

‘I must have misunderstood. Could I talk to this friend?’

‘Of course,’ said Frieda. ‘She’s at work at the moment. But I can get her to call you.’

Bridget looked at Ethan, who was clopping two of his horses along the wooden floor. ‘I suppose he’s a sort of reference. He looks happy enough.’ She bent down and put her face close to Ethan. ‘Are you happy with Carla?’

‘No,’ said Ethan. ‘Not Carla. She –’

‘He’s fine,’ said Frieda. ‘Here.’ She passed Ethan a few more of his wooden animals. Tam took one from him and put it into her mouth, where it bulged in her cheek. Ethan was so astonished he couldn’t even roar. His eyes and mouth grew round.

‘Give that to me now,’ said Frieda to Tam, holding out her hand.

Tam stared at her, mutinous. Bridget looked on, waiting to see what would happen.

‘Now, Tam,’ repeated Frieda.

‘Are you going to count to ten?’ Her voice was muffled because of the toy in her mouth.

‘Certainly not.’

There was a silence. Then Tam spat the animal into her hand.

‘Thank you,’ Frieda said. ‘Now, Ethan, show Tam your animals.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re in her house and sometimes it’s more fun to play with another person.’

‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ Bridget said. Her voice had become marginally friendlier.

‘I’d like to be paid in cash.’

Bridget gave a laugh. ‘It all feels a bit under the counter.’

‘It’s how I work.’

‘How much do you charge?’

Frieda was blank for a moment. What was a plausible amount?

‘Eighty pounds a day?’

‘Great. Fine. I’ll pay you at the end of the week. When can you start?’

‘Now.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Today it is. I don’t have to leave for another hour. Shall we have coffee and I can tell you any practical details you need to know?’

‘I’d like that.’

‘You keep an eye on them. I’ll bring it through.’

Frieda did keep an eye on them. Rudi remained placidly on her lap while she watched the two older children with curiosity. Most of the time, they ignored each other; occasionally there were brief moments when they seemed to notice the other’s presence. At one point, Ethan put out a hand and touched Tam’s hair, which was vivid orange and curly, like a fire on her scalp. She was nothing like her mother.

Bridget came back into the room and handed Frieda her coffee. ‘What will you do with them today?’ she asked.

‘I thought perhaps we’d go to a cemetery.’

‘A cemetery!’

‘It’s sunny and warm and I think there’s one near here that’s good for exploring. We can take a picnic. What time will you be back?’

‘Late. But Al will get home at about five thirty or six. Is that all right?’

‘Fine.’ Frieda took a sip of her coffee, which was rich and strong. ‘Did Sandy come here a lot?’

‘Yes, he did. But why do you want to know?’ Bridget’s voice became cold once more.

‘Because the thing we have in common,’ said Frieda, ‘is Sandy. We both knew him.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘He’s dead, but –’

‘Murdered. Luridly famous. And people who haven’t seen him for ages –’

‘Like me.’

‘– like you, like countless others, are all of a sudden fascinated by him. They should mind their own business.’

‘You’re angry.’

‘Yes, I’m angry – angry that everyone’s suddenly wanting to be his best friend, now that he’s gone.’

‘And angry simply because he’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘You’re angry because he’s dead,’ repeated Frieda; she told herself that she was Carla, the nanny, but she didn’t feel like Carla. She could feel Bridget’s anger, coming off her like hot steam, and noticed how her cheeks were flushed. She watched Tam pull a series of ribbons out of a red cardboard case and hand them to Ethan, who held them between his fingers, his face intent. ‘Because he’s no longer here.’

‘Do you want this job?’

‘Looking after your children, you mean?’

‘Because if you want it, don’t keep on asking about Sandy. I’ve had enough. Leave him in peace. And me.’

The day was hot, almost sultry, but inside the cemetery it was cool and dim. Light filtered through the leaves, falling in trickles on the gravestones, many of which were covered with moss, their inscriptions indecipherable. The place was overgrown, full of brambles – it would be a good place for blackberries in the autumn – and birdsong. London felt far off, although they could hear the rumble of traffic in the distance. Frieda pushed Rudi in the buggy and Tam and Ethan played a chaotic and increasingly quarrelsome game of hide-and-seek, before sitting on a fallen log to eat their picnic.

Frieda thought about Bridget. Whenever Sandy was mentioned, she became tense and enraged, and she wondered why. If they had been simply friends, would Bridget be so passionately defensive about him? Had they been lovers? Bridget was beautiful and strong, and Frieda could see why Sandy might fall for her, but she was married to one of his close colleagues and she was the mother of two tiny children. But Veronica Ellison had said that Sandy had had a relationship he felt bad about. Perhaps Bridget was also consumed by grief and guilt, and the terrible effort of keeping such a thing secret now that Sandy had been killed. Or perhaps there was something more –

‘Frieda.’ Ethan tugged at her hand.

‘She’s Carla,’ said Tam. ‘Mummy said so.’

‘No.’ Ethan was firm but his face was troubled. ‘Frieda.’

‘Carla.’ Tam’s voice was a chant, jeering. ‘Carla, Carla, Carla.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Frieda, piling the remains of the picnic into the bag and picking up Rudi, laying a consoling hand on Ethan’s hot head. ‘We can buy ice creams on the way home.’

Rudi was asleep by the time they reached Bridget and Al’s house and she lifted him into his cot. Then she put Tam and Ethan in front of a DVD that Tam chose. It was four o’clock and Al wouldn’t be back until half past five.

She started in the living room, acting on the assumption that even if Tam and Ethan looked up from the cartoon they wouldn’t think it odd that she was pulling open drawers and cupboards, rifling through papers. She didn’t know what she was in search of, just that she was looking for something that would explain Bridget’s angry distress over Sandy. She found bills, she found bank statements, she found an architect’s drawings and brochures about houses to rent in Greece and Croatia. There were playing cards, board games, a ball of rubber bands, sketch pads with no sketches in them, simple sheet music for the violin, with pencil notations on it, stacks of publications about neuroscience going back several years, a whole drawer of postcards and birthday cards to both Al and Bridget, none of which were from Sandy. The two children didn’t look up; both had their mouths open in an identical expression of befuddled attention.

In the hall, she looked at the photos on the walls, but none of them was of Sandy – there were several of Tam and Rudi and a couple of Al and Bridget when they were younger. Al was even thinner than he was now, narrow-shouldered, narrow-hipped, freckled, pale-skinned. Bridget was lustrous, like a dark fruit. Dangerous, thought Frieda, walking into the kitchen where she found only kitchen things. At least one of them was obviously a serious cook. Like Sandy had been: she imagined him in there, among the sharp-bladed knives and copper pans, the complicated array of spices, rolling up his sleeves. She glanced at the recipe books, half expecting to see one of his among them.

She went up to the mezzanine floor and found a small study that looked out over the garden. She knew at once it was Bridget’s, although she couldn’t have said why. It was lined with books and there was a violin with a broken string propped on the windowsill. The desk was scattered with papers. There was a laptop but when Frieda opened its lid, it asked for a password. She pulled open the first drawer, which was full of pens, pencils, scissors, staples and paperclips. The next drawer contained a sheaf of photographs that she flicked through. Faces she didn’t know, obviously from many years ago; probably Bridget’s family and, yes, there was Bridget herself as a girl, immediately identifiable, even to the slightly defiant expression on her face as she looked at the camera. At the back of the drawer was a metal box that was fastened with a flimsy lock. Frieda picked it up and shook it, hearing the soft rustle of papers. She twisted at the lock but it didn’t give. On the wall to the side of the desk was a painting of a woman under an umbrella. She looked at Frieda with a disappointed expression.

‘I don’t have time to explain,’ Frieda said to her and, taking the scissors from the drawer she had first opened, she inserted the point into the lock and twisted it sharply. The lock gave at once and she opened the lid and looked inside. There were dozens of letters. Why would someone keep letters locked away at the back of a drawer? Frieda lifted the first one out; it was written in blue ink in a bold, slapdash hand that wasn’t Sandy’s. What was more, the ink was faded and the date at the top of the letter was twelve years previously – for, of course, few people wrote letters nowadays. Frieda looked at it and saw it was a love letter, written to Bridget before she was a mother, before she knew Al probably. It seemed like a letter written late at night, in an intoxication of sexual passion, and a feeling of shame gripped her. She lifted her head and met the eyes of the woman under her umbrella.

The rest were also love letters, all written by the same person whose name was Miguel. She didn’t read them, but she did look at the few small photos at the bottom of the box, which were of Bridget young and naked. This box that she had broken into, while the children watched a cartoon downstairs and Rudi slept, was simply the treasure trove of a lost affair that was nobody’s business but Bridget’s. It was her secret younger self, the self she had once been.

Then she heard the front door open and shut and a voice call out: ‘Hello!’ She heard Al say: ‘Where’s our saviour Carla, then?’ and Tam mumble an inattentive reply.

The footsteps were coming lightly up the stairs. She had no time to leave the room and the study door was open so that he couldn’t fail to see her, standing in his wife’s study. There were letters all over the surface of the desk and the drawers were open. She gathered up the letters and put them into the box, pushing it back into the drawer, but as Al entered the room she realized she hadn’t put away the photographs so she laid one hand over the top of them. She picked up the small pair of scissors in the other hand.

‘Carla,’ he said. It was neither a greeting nor an accusation, he simply said her name. His pale eyes moved over her, then around the room.

‘Hello, Al,’ said Frieda. She heard her voice, calm and friendly, and felt the photographs under her spread hand. ‘How was your day? I didn’t expect you home yet.’

‘I got away earlier than usual.’ His voice was perfectly amiable. ‘But my day was fine, thank you. Meetings. Timetables. Budgets. All the stuff of an academic life. How was yours?’

‘Good. We had a picnic in the cemetery.’

‘Bridget told me you were going there. I was intrigued.’ He smiled at her. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘I needed these.’ She lifted the scissors. ‘I tore my nail to the quick. The ones in the kitchen were too big.’

‘I see. Can I help?’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ve done it.’

‘Good. Shall we have a cup of tea? The children seem happy enough. Is Rudi asleep?’

‘Yes. But I’ll be on my way, if that’s OK with you. I should get Ethan home.’

Her hand was still laid across the photographs of Bridget, naked. With a smooth movement, she slid them over the desk and held them by her side, still covered by her hand, then followed him out of the room. She went into the bathroom and slid them into her pocket – she could return them tomorrow – then checked on Rudi, who was stirring now, his face creased by the pillow, his eyes cloudy with sleep. She changed his nappy and took him downstairs. Ethan was half asleep on the sofa and she sat down beside him and took his hand. She saw a small, faint bite mark on the wrist.

‘We’ll go home soon,’ she said softly.

He nodded. So she gathered together his wooden animals, lifted him into the buggy and said goodbye to Al, who told her how grateful he was and who didn’t know that she had pictures of his naked wife tucked into her back pocket.

‘I’m sorry about Sandy,’ she said, as she was leaving. ‘I know you were close to him.’

‘Thank you. Yes, he spent a lot of time with us. I think we were like the family he didn’t have. The kids liked him. He and Bridget used to cook huge Sunday lunches together most weeks. They were quite competitive about their cooking.’ He looked at Frieda, but it was as though he were looking through her. ‘He used to say that in some ways Bridget reminded him of someone he once knew.’

‘Who was that?’

‘He never said. Just someone. I gathered there was a woman he had been with. She sounded like a bitch.’ The word seemed odd coming from polite, freckle-faced Al. ‘But Sandy was incredibly private, as you probably know. I could spend all night drinking and talking with him – and did, quite a few times, especially when we were away at conferences together – but he was like a clam about some things. His love life, for instance.’ He sighed then added, ‘You should be on your way. Your little fellow’s falling asleep.’

It was true. Ethan’s head was lolling and his eyelids drooping.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ said Frieda.

Al looked distracted. He smiled at her. ‘Splendid.’

At the end of the day, Frieda stopped off at the mini-supermarket a few streets away from the flats. Lunchtime salads were being sold off at half price. She bought a rice salad and a roasted vegetable salad and took them back to the flat. She was very tired, but she sat at the table to eat, then made herself tea before climbing into bed. She went straight to sleep, as if a trap door had been opened under her. She was woken suddenly out of a vivid, violent dream by a sound she couldn’t identify. Had it been part of the dream? No, it was continuing. Someone was knocking at her door. She stayed in bed. It must be a mistake; they would realize it and go away. But the knocking continued. She got out of the bed and pulled on her trousers and a sweater. She went to the door.

‘Who is it?’ she said.

‘Is me.’

She opened the door, and Josef and Lev stepped into the room, pushing the door shut behind them. Josef was holding two large grey canvas bags; he looked stern, but he gave her a small bow in greeting and, for a moment, his brown eyes softened.

‘Your things,’ he said. ‘Clothes, books, everything in bag now.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Three minutes,’ said Lev.

‘Why are we doing this?’

‘Later,’ said Josef, and the two men walked around the flat, picking up clothes, pulling the sheets from the bed, tipping kitchen implements into the bag. Josef poured the milk down the sink.

‘Has something happened?’ Frieda asked, but neither of the men paid her any attention.

‘All done,’ said Josef. ‘Last look.’

Frieda picked up a pair of socks, a hairbrush, her notebook and some pencils. All were tossed into the bag.

‘Key?’ said Lev.

Frieda took the key from her pocket and handed it to him.

‘We go now.’ He steered Frieda out of the front door and in the direction away from Hana’s flat. They went down some narrow stairs that Frieda hadn’t previously noticed, through an alleyway between two of the buildings, past industrial-sized bins and through a gateway that brought them onto the street. A car gave a little beep and the lights flashed. Lev helped her – it was almost like a push – into the back seat and the two men sat in the front. Lev started the car and drove away, turning this way and that, until Frieda felt entirely lost.

‘Here,’ said Josef, and Lev pulled to the side of the street by a junction with a larger road. Josef took a bundle from his jacket pocket and handed it to Frieda. She saw that it was money.

‘Is this from Reuben?’ she said. ‘That’s far too much.’

‘Reuben is away. This is your money. Some of it. Three thousand. A bit more. That was all we get.’

‘Josef, what have you done?’

‘We get your money back.’

‘What about Hana?’

The men exchanged glances.

‘He not a problem for her,’ said Lev. ‘For a while.’

Frieda leaned forward, took Josef’s right hand in hers and turned it over. The only light came from a streetlamp, but she could see it was bruised. ‘What have you done?’

Josef’s expression hardened and there was a light in his eyes that she had never seen before. It made her uncomfortable.

‘Frieda. Two things. You don’t go back there. Not near there, not ever. OK?’

‘No, not OK.’

‘And the other thing. This not game, Frieda. Not showing your money. This man push you a little. Next man have a knife or two friends.’

‘Josef, what did you do?’

Josef opened the car door and moved one foot onto the pavement. ‘I get money back. End. What you want?’

‘Not that.’

‘I go now. Remember, I still don’t know where you live.’

He slammed the door, put his large hand flat against the window near her face in a gesture of farewell, and was quickly gone.

‘I don’t know where I live either,’ Frieda said.

Lev’s expression was curious. ‘I take you,’ he said.

Lev drove quickly, turning left and right, like he was trying to avoid being followed. Frieda just looked out of the window.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Different part,’ he said. ‘Elephant and Castle. You know Elephant and Castle?’

‘A bit.’

‘Near Elephant and Castle.’

After a mile or so, Frieda saw that they were on the New Kent Road. Then Lev turned off onto a smaller road, drove under a railway bridge and into a street lined on both sides by apartment buildings much like the one she had left, but less abandoned-looking. Under the streetlights she could see areas of grass behind railings, lines of parked cars. Lev turned again and parked. They got out and Frieda looked around. On one side was the building. She saw the name on a sign, Thaxted House. The railway ran along the other side of the street and, beyond that, Frieda could see two tall tower blocks, speckled with lights.

Lev took the bags from the car and gestured her towards a door on the ground floor. He unlocked it and led her inside into a dark hallway. He pushed the light switch on with his elbow and led her through into the kitchen. Frieda saw the torn lino on the floor, the mismatching chairs, a battered and stained old gas cooker. But the kitchen was clean and there were bowls and several oven dishes washed up by the sink.

‘Someone lives here,’ said Frieda.

‘I show you your room,’ said Lev.

‘But will they mind?’

‘Not their business.’

‘Who are they?’

Lev only shrugged and led her back into the hall, past two rooms with closed doors. He put a finger to his lips. He pushed open a door.

‘OK?’ he said.

Frieda looked in. There was a bed, a bedside table, a rug, nothing else. Again, it was clean and tidy. She walked to the window and pulled the net curtain aside. It was barred but through the glass she could see pools of light in the darkness. There was a square expanse of grass, bounded on all sides by the flats.

‘You’ve done too much,’ she said.

He gave a small nod in acknowledgement. He handed her his key. ‘Take more of the care,’ he said. ‘And I will now say goodbye.’

He held out his hand. Frieda shook it, but then, without releasing it, examined Lev’s hand more carefully. The knuckles were raw, like Josef’s had been, the skin stripped off them. ‘What did you do to him?’

Lev took Frieda’s right hand in his hands. It seemed tiny and lost in his grasp. He let it go. ‘You been in fight ever?’ he said.

Frieda didn’t answer. She had, once or twice.

‘I hate the fighting,’ said Lev. ‘The fear, the blood. The people who think the fighting is a joke, that is …’ He seemed as if he would spit to demonstrate his contempt. ‘You cannot have a piece of a fight, a half of a fight, a little of a fight. Then you are hurt. I don’t fight.’ He looked down at his hand with a rueful expression. ‘But when I do fight it is everything. No limit, no stop. It is like love.’

‘Like love,’ said Frieda, slowly, repeating his words rather than asking a question.

‘You get up close, you feel the smell, you feel the touch, you feel the breath, and you do not stop. Most of the people cannot do that. I talk to Josef. You, Frieda, I think you can.’ Almost absent-mindedly, he took something from his pocket. At first she couldn’t see what it was. Then she could. He was holding a knife by the blade. The handle was polished dark brown wood.

‘What’s that for?’ said Frieda.

‘For you. Keep by you always.’

‘I can’t have a knife.’

‘Ach. You never use probably.’ He snapped it shut, then leaned forward and slid it into the pocket of her jacket. ‘Careful. Is sharp. Very.’

‘But –’

He shook his head.

‘None of the way,’ he said. ‘Or all of the way. If you have the …’ He searched for the word. He tapped his belly.

‘Stomach,’ said Frieda. ‘The stomach for it.’

‘Yes. You have, I think.’