Fallen Angel. Andrew Taylor

‘They asked me if I’d heard.’ She turned to Sally. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this. They said someone found a child’s hand this morning. Just a hand. It was lying on a gravestone in Kilburn Cemetery.’

4

      ‘… we carry private and domestick enemies within, publick and more hostile adversaries without.’

      Religio Medici, II, 7

      On the morning of Saturday the thirtieth of November, Angel opened Eddie’s bedroom door and stood framed like a picture in the doorway.

      ‘Are you awake?’

      He sat up in bed, reaching for his glasses. Angel was wearing the cotton robe, long, white and in appearance vaguely hieratic, which she used as a dressing gown. As usual at this time of day, her shining hair was confined to a snood. Eddie liked seeing Angel without make-up. She was still beautiful, but in a different way: her face had a softness which cosmetics masked; he glimpsed the child within the adult.

      ‘Just the two of us for breakfast today. We’ll let Lucy sleep in.’

      ‘OK. Have you been down yet?’ He had heard the stairs creaking.

      ‘You know I have. And yes, Lucy’s fine. Sleeping like a baby.’

      He felt relief, a lifting of guilt. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

      A few moments later, Eddie trotted downstairs to the kitchen. He filled the kettle and set the table while waiting for the water to boil. The washing machine was already on, and through the porthole he glimpsed something small and white, perhaps Lucy’s vest or tights. In the quieter phases of its cycle, he heard Angel moving about in the bathroom. He had hardly slept during the night and now felt light-headed. He did not know whether Angel had really forgiven him for acting on impulse the previous afternoon. But he could tell she was pleased to have Lucy safely in the basement. The latter, he hoped, would outweigh the former.

      At length Angel came downstairs, carrying the receiving end of the intercom to the basement. She plugged it into one of the sockets over the worktop. The tiny loudspeaker emitted an electronic hum.

      ‘I thought I’d do a load while Lucy’s asleep,’ Angel said. ‘Lucy’s things, mainly. That toy of hers stinks.’

      ‘Jimmy?’

      Angel stared at him. ‘Who?’

      ‘The doll thing.’

      ‘Is that what she calls it? It’s not what I call a doll.’

      Eddie shrugged, disclaiming responsibility.

      ‘It had to be washed sooner or later,’ Angel went on, ‘so it might as well be washed now. It’s most unhygienic, you know, as well as being offensive.’

      Eddie nodded and held his peace. Jimmy was a small cloth doll, no more than four or five inches high. Yesterday Lucy had told Eddie that her mother had made it for her. It was predominantly blue, though the head was made of faded pink material, and Sally Appleyard had stitched rudimentary features on the face and indicated the existence of hair. Eddie guessed that Jimmy was special, like his own Mrs Wump had been. (Mrs Wump was still in his chest of drawers upstairs, lying in state in a shoe box and kept snug with sheets made of handkerchiefs and blankets made of scraps of towelling.) The previous evening, Lucy had kept Jimmy in her hands the whole time, occasionally sniffing the doll while she sucked her fingers. She had not relaxed her grip even in sleep.

      ‘Lucy looks rather like how I used to look at that age,’ Angel told Eddie over breakfast. ‘Much darker colouring, of course. But apart from that we’re really surprisingly similar.’

      ‘Can I see her this morning?’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Angel sipped her lemon verbena tea. ‘It depends how she is. I expect she’ll feel a little strange at first. We must give her a chance to get used to us.’

      But it’s me she knows, Eddie wanted to say: it was I who brought her home. ‘She wants a conjuring set,’ he said. ‘You can get them at Woolworth’s; they cost twelve ninety-nine, apparently. I thought I might try and buy it for her this morning. I have to go out for the shopping in any case.’

      ‘I think she’s like me in other ways.’ Angel’s voice was dreamy. ‘In personality, I mean. Much more so than the others. She’s our fourth, of course. I knew the fourth would be significant.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Because –’ Angel broke off. ‘What was that about a conjuring set?’

      ‘Lucy wants one. Perhaps I could buy it and give it to her this afternoon.’

      Angel stared at him, her spoon poised halfway between the bowl and her mouth. ‘Lucy isn’t like the others. Do you understand me?’

      ‘Yes.’ He dropped his eyes: facing that blue glare was like looking at the sun. ‘I think so.’

      Eddie didn’t understand: why wasn’t Lucy like the others? She was no more attractive than Chantal or Katy, for example, and probably less intelligent, certainly less articulate, than Suki. And why should the fact that Lucy was their fourth visitor be significant?

      As he spread a thin layer of low-fat sunflower margarine on his wholemeal toast, he thought that Angel resembled one of those rich archaeological sites which humans have occupied for thousands of years. You laboriously scraped away a layer only to find that there was another beneath, and another below that, and so the process went on. How could you expect to understand later developments if you did not also know the developments which had preceded them and shaped them?

      Angel dabbed her mouth with her napkin. ‘If you want to give Lucy a present, why don’t you buy her a doll?’

      ‘But she wants the conjuring set.’

      ‘A doll might distract her from that little bundle of rags. What does she call it?’

      ‘Jimmy.’

      The intercom crackled softly.

      Angel cocked her head. ‘Hush.’

      A cat-like wail drifted into the kitchen.

      Jenny Wren had liked dolls, especially the sort which could be equipped with the glamorous accessories of a pseudo-adult lifestyle. Her real name was Jenny Reynolds but Eddie’s father always called her Jenny Wren. She had been overweight, with dark hair, small features and a permanent look of surprise on her face.

      Her father was a builder in a small way. He and his wife still lived in one of the council flats on the estate behind Rosington Road. The Reynoldses’ balcony was visible above the trees from the garden of number 29. When Eddie discovered which flat was theirs, he realized that the woman on the balcony whom he and Alison had seen, the woman who stared at the sky over Carver’s, must have been Mrs Reynolds.

      Jenny Wren was their only child, about two years older than Eddie. She started to come to the Graces’ house in the summer of 1971, the Alison summer, always bringing her favourite doll, who was called Sandy. Alison used to laugh at Jenny Wren and Eddie had joined in, to show solidarity.

      Eddie did not know how Jenny Wren had come to his father’s attention. Stanley did house-to-house collections for several charities and this helped to give him a wide acquaintance. Or Mr Reynolds might have done some work on the house, or his father might have advised the Reynoldses on financial matters. Stanley might even have stopped Jenny Wren on the street. Eddie had witnessed his father’s technique at first hand.

      ‘You’ve got a dolly, haven’t you?’ Stanley would say to the girl. ‘What’s her name?’ Eventually the girl would tell him. ‘That’s a pretty name,’ he would say. ‘Did you know I make dolls’ houses? Do you think your dolly would like to come and see them? We’d have to ask Mummy and Daddy, of course.’

      If there were concerned