‘Well, who is he?’
‘He’s another artist, she knew him at art school, I think, and they must have caught up again – his parents only live a mile or so from Feywood. His name’s Dylan Madison.’
‘Oh jeez, I’ve heard of Dylan Madison, he’s a complete wreck, isn’t he? Always off his face on something. Wasn’t he arrested last year?’
‘Yes, that’s him. You can see why I’m so worried.’
‘I don’t blame you. What on earth is Frankie doing with him?’
‘I don’t know, but now I can understand why she wouldn’t tell us who he was. What are we going to do, Jools? We’ve got to make sure she’s all right.’
Juliet took a breath. She could hear the rising panic in Martha’s voice and didn’t want to be infected by it.
‘Look, Frankie’s not stupid. She might be with Dylan, but she wouldn’t take drugs.’ Privately, she wasn’t so sure. Frankie had a reckless streak and was liable to get carried away, but she didn’t want Martha any more worried than she already was. ‘The chances are that she’s with him, so I’ll ask around and see if I can track them down. Try not to worry too much, M, I’ll let you know as soon as I can that she’s all right.’
‘Thank you. I’d come down to London myself, but I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘You stay put at Feywood. I’ll let you know if I need anything, okay?’
‘Okay. Speak soon, Jools.’
As soon as her sister rang off, Juliet dialled another number. She hadn’t spoken to Germaine Halliford for years, a dissipated old crony of her mother, who was always hanging around with the much younger art crowd, despite only having a very dubious talent herself. She was the most obvious choice of someone who would be able to give her the lowdown on Dylan Madison.
‘Hello,’ croaked a voice down the line. ‘Who is this?’
‘Germaine? Hi, it’s Juliet Carlisle, Lilith’s daughter?’
‘Oh yes, what can I do for you? Oh, sorry I didn’t make the memorial, by the way. I raised a glass to your mum and remembered her in my own way.’ Her voice was suddenly replaced by a hacking cough, and Juliet held the phone away from her ear until it stopped.
‘I’m trying to get hold of an artist called Dylan Madison. I know you know all the young crowd, and I wondered if you knew where I could find him?’
A gravelly laugh came down the line.
‘Trying to find Frankie, are you? I heard those two were an item. Yes, I know where he lives when he’s in town, hang on a moment…’ A loud clunk was followed by some rustling before Germaine’s voice came on the line again. ‘Here it is.’ She rattled off an address of what she called a ‘Warehouse Community’ in Tottenham, North London. ‘They’re a nice lot of kids living there, but it’s a far cry from the family seat.’ She laughed her rattling laugh again, then had another coughing fit.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Juliet, once the hacking had stopped. ‘I’m really grateful.’
‘My pleasure, darling. I might go and have another drink to your mum now.’
Germaine ended the call, much to Juliet’s relief. She quickly opened the maps app on her phone and looked up the address she had been given. It was only half an hour on the Underground, not bad at all. She tapped out a quick text to Martha and set off.
Stepping out of Seven Sisters station she gazed around, not sure what she had been expecting but pleasantly surprised, nonetheless. It wasn’t a part of London she knew at all and, if she was being honest, was one she had – until now – had no interest in visiting. But as she walked along the main street, she enjoyed the lively vibe and although the bookies and mobile phone shops weren’t of interest, she liked peering into the Turkish barber and Latinx supermarket she passed. Her burgeoning concern about Frankie faded as she imagined her sister settling nicely into a multicultural, artistic community, and she could hardly blameher for abandoning Feywood for London when she had done the same thing herself. She walked past some warehouses that had been converted into smart-looking flats, some of them also advertising artists’ studios, and her hopes were raised higher. Checking her phone, she took a left and then double-checked as the right turn she was then instructed to take seemed to lead down a track between two buildings, rather than a road. No, that was definitely what it said, and as she hesitated, two men wearing paint spattered T-shirts and tracksuit trousers emerged from it, deep in conversation, and disappeared in the direction of the Tube. Shrugging, she put her phone in her pocket and walked down, hoping that it would suddenly open up into some kind of funky urban space. No such luck. Instead, she found herself in what looked like a piece of wasteland, lined on three sides by what must be old garages or storehouses, brick-built, painted white with corrugated roofs and small, barred windows. Most were grubby and several daubed with graffiti. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach that she had found the right place then. As she glanced around with the forlorn hope of being proved wrong in some way, she saw a hand-painted sign that read: ‘Airframe Lane’. This was the one. She picked her way across the rubble-strewn grass towards number twenty-three, then knocked gingerly on the door.
‘Come in!’ shouted a voice, and she pushed it open to reveal the scene she had feared. There was one space, clearly used as a studio as well as living quarters. Huge canvases daubed with thick black paint and goodness knows what else were propped up against the walls, and an emergent sculpture, which she recognised as Frankie’s work, stood on an upturned plastic milk crate. There was a metal sink and draining board in one corner, smeared with paint but with mugs and plates piled up in it. Across the room, on the floor, was a double mattress adorned with a dirty, crumpled sheet, and it was here that she foundFrankie and Dylan. Bleary-eyed and unkempt, they looked up as she entered.
‘Juliet!’ shouted Frankie, waving the cigarette she was smoking in greeting, but not getting up. ‘Dylan, this is my first big sister, come to find out what’s happened to me.’
‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Dylan in grandiose tones, giving a mock bow from his reclined position and spilling his red wine on the mattress, adding to the stains.
For a moment, Juliet froze, her eyes roaming over the scene before her, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the stale, musty odour of the room, or to look too appalled. It wouldn’t do to be seen as disapproving, that would only egg Frankie on. She forced a smile to flicker across her face.
‘Hi, Dylan. Good to see you, Frank, I can report back to Martha that you’re alive at least.’
‘Alive and kicking,’ said Frankie, waving a foot in the air and giggling. ‘Tell Martha to do something else with her time other than worrying about me, such as getting Wimpy Will between the sheets.’
‘Right. You could have sent her a text or something, just to reassure her.’
‘Hey, man,’ chimed in Dylan. ‘Chill out. We don’t bother with all that tech here, we’re creatives, we need to be able to focus on our art.’
