Waiting for Wednesday

the garden with her back to the house, the
river flowed from right to left. So Gerry’s house was up to the right. And it
probably wasn’t next door. Lawrence would have said ‘my next-door
neighbour’. And hadn’t he talked about next door being used for refugees?
She got out of the car. She would start with the house next door but one. Josef got out
as well.
    ‘I’m fine,’ said
Frieda.
    ‘I come with you.’
    Lawrence Dawes lived at number eight. Frieda
and Josef walked up the path of number twelve. Frieda rang the bell. There was no
response. She rang again.
    ‘No people home,’ said
Josef.
    They walked back on to the pavement and up
to the door of number fourteen and rang the bell.
    ‘This is for what?’ said Josef,
puzzled, but before Frieda could answer, the door was opened by a white-haired old
woman.
    Frieda was momentarily at a loss. She
hadn’t thought of what she was going to say. ‘Good afternoon,’ she
said. ‘I’m trying to drop something off for a friend of a friend. He’s
called Gerry. He’s in his sixties. I know he lives in one of these houses but
I’m not sure which one.’
    ‘It might be Gerry Collier,’
said the woman.
    ‘Early sixties?’ said Frieda.
‘Brown hair going grey?’
    ‘That sounds like him. He lives along
there. Number eighteen.’
    ‘Thanks so much,’ said
Frieda.
    The woman closed the door. Frieda and Josef
walked back to the van and got inside. Frieda looked at the house. A two-storey,
semi-detached house, grey pebbledash exterior, aluminium window frames. Ornate front
garden, with a little white brick wall, yellow, blue, red, white flowers spilling
over.
    ‘And now?’ said Josef.
    ‘Wait a moment,’ said Frieda.
‘I’m trying to think what to do. We can –’
    ‘Stop,’ said Josef, in a hiss.
‘Look.’
    The door of number eighteen opened and Gerry
Collier stepped out. He was wearing a grey windcheater and carrying a plastic shopping
bag. He walked out on to the pavement and set off along the road.
    ‘I wonder if we should follow
him,’ said Frieda.
    ‘Follow the man?’ said Josef.
‘Is no good.’
    ‘You’re right. He’s
probably going to the shops. We’ve got a few minutes. Josef, can you help me break
inside?’
    Josef looked bemused and then he grinned.
‘Break into the house? You, Frieda?’
    ‘Now, this minute.’
    ‘This not a joke?’
    ‘It’s really, really not a
joke.’
    ‘OK, Frieda. You ask. Questions
later.’ He picked up his work bag, from which he grabbed a heavy wrench and two
large screwdrivers. They left the van and walked up to the front door of number
eighteen.
    ‘We need to be quick,’ said
Frieda. ‘And quiet. If you possibly can.’
    Josef ran his fingers over the lock with a
certain delicacy. ‘Which is most important? Quick or quiet?’
    ‘Quick.’
    Josef pushed one screwdriver into the gap
between the door and the frame. He flexed it, and the gap widened slightly. Then he
pushed the other screwdriver into the gap about a foot further down. He looked at
Frieda. ‘All right?’
    She nodded. She saw him silently mouth the
words, one, two,
three
, and pull the two screwdrivers sharply towards him, at
the same time leaning hard on the door. There was a splintering sound and the door swung
inwards.
    ‘Where now?’ said Josef, in a
hoarse whisper.
    Frieda had seen Lawrence Dawes’s
house. Where was possible? She pointed downwards. Josef put down his bag, and they
walked softly along the hallway, by the left side of the staircase, Josef in front. He
stopped and nodded to the right. There was a door leading back under the stairs. Frieda
nodded and Josef gently opened it. Frieda saw the beginning ofstairs
leading down into darkness. There was a smell, something slightly sweet that she
couldn’t quite identify. Josef fumbled along the wall and switched on a light.
    With a start, Frieda saw that a figure was
sitting at the bottom of the flight, on the floor, back against the brick wall, half
lost in shadow. Whoever it was didn’t look round. Josef hissed at Frieda to stop,
but she walked decisively down the steps. She had only taken a few steps before she knew
who it was. She recognized the jacket, the white hair, the bent frame. When she reached
the cellar floor, Jim Fearby was looking up at her with open, unblinking, unseeing,
yellow dead eyes. His mouth gaped open as well, as if in surprise, and there was a large
brown stain extending from his scalp down one side of his face. Frieda was going to