by Laura Wilson
‘That’s more like it.’ The flow of blood abated a little. ‘Keep her like that – there’ll be more.’
‘Please…Please stop it…Make it stop…’
‘I’m sorry, mate. I can’t.’ Dacre jerked his head up. ‘Listen!’
Stratton could hear, faintly, the sound of a siren.
‘That’s the ambulance,’ said Dacre, urgently. ‘Now, listen to me.’ He grabbed Stratton’s left wrist and pushed his hand into the pile of towels against Jenny’s stomach. ‘Hold these here. Don’t let go.’ Dacre released his grip and, still kneeling, leant towards him to check the tourniquet, his face so close that Stratton could see the pores of his skin. ‘Listen…Mrs Ingram is dangerous. She’s deluded. She mentioned a Mr and Mrs Kerr. Tell the police to go to their house…Do you understand me?’
Stratton stared at him.
‘Tell them to go to the house. They need to find Mr and Mrs Kerr. Make sure they’re safe.’
Stratton nodded.
‘Are you sure you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Dacre straightened, and stood up. ‘I’m leaving now.’
‘Yes.’ Stratton continued staring at Dacre. ‘Wait,’ he said.
Dacre backed towards the door. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘You saved me, didn’t you?’
‘Never mind that, just keep talking to her, and—’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I came to kill you.’
‘But…you saved me…’
‘Keep talking to her. Tell her you love her.’
‘Yes…Wait…’
Dacre shook his head. The noise of the siren was louder, now. ‘I can’t. They’ll be here in a minute. I’ve got to go.’
‘But…who are you?’
A strange expression passed across the man’s face. It was only later – months later – that Stratton, recalling it, was able to identify it: puzzlement.
Sixty-Four
Jenny died just as the siren stopped. Stratton tried to smooth her hair as a deep gurgling noise welled in her throat, and she expelled a final, fierce plume of blood. He saw her eyelids flicker, he whispered to her that he loved her, and then she left him.
He stared, unseeing, at the ambulance men as they burst into the kitchen, followed by the woman he’d seen before, her hand once more in front of her mouth. He tried to shake them off when they wanted to take Jenny away from him. Someone put a coat over her, and eventually they brought a stretcher and prised her from him and took her away. Perhaps he fainted, then, because the next thing he recalled was someone holding a glass of brandy to his lips and urging him to drink, but he retched it back up, and then he was helped to his feet and taken to a different room where his arm was examined. Then he was taken to hospital, where they treated him and gave him something, so that he woke up later, in a bed in a bright white room. There, he tried to talk to an inspector – Doug Watson, from the local nick, a man he knew a little – about Mrs Ingram and Doris and Donald. Watson said he already knew, and then Stratton half remembered telling him before, at the Rest Centre, while they were looking at his arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Watson. ‘We’ll find her, all right. Don’t you worry.’
Stratton tried to explain about Dacre but the words didn’t come out right. It was still a jumble in his head, too much to explain, and he kept feeling himself sliding away into dark emptiness. He managed to tell Watson to contact Sergeant Ballard at West End Central, and tried to give a description of Dacre, but he couldn’t remember what the man looked like, only the blood all over his jacket and cuffs and hands. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Watson, again. ‘I’ll see to it. By the way,’ the inspector turned in the doorway, ‘this bloke, whoever he was, he saved your life, you know.’
A young PC was standing at Stratton’s shoulder, and there were footsteps in the corridor outside, hushed conversation and someone crying. Then, how much later he didn’t know, Lilian and Reg were there, mute and pale-faced, standing at the foot of his bed. Lilian’s eyes were red. ‘Ted,’ she said, ‘Ted,’ and got no further. Stratton fell asleep as she wept and Reg patted her on the shoulder.
Then Donald arrived with Doris, who hugged Stratton and wept while he lay numb, like a block of wood. Donald pulled her away and said, ‘Come on, Doris, he needs to rest.’
‘Jenny’s dead.’ Stratton locked eyes with Donald.
‘I know, mate. I’m sorry.’
‘Where did they take her?’
‘She’s here.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry, Ted.’
‘It’s my fault.’ He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the bed.
‘No, Ted, don’t say that.’
‘It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t pulled Mrs Ingram out of that hole. Jenny didn’t want me to. She told me not to.’
‘No…You couldn’t have known…’
‘And we saved her,’ wept Doris. ‘Jenny and me – when she tried to gas herself. We saved her life…If we hadn’t got there in time…If only…And we didn’t tell you. We thought we were doing the right thing, but…’ her words dissolved into sobs.
‘I should have told you,’ said Donald. ‘I shouldn’t have let them persuade me.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Stratton. ‘Either of you. You couldn’t have known.’
‘I told you that woman was dangerous.’ It was Reg speaking. Stratton thought he’d gone, but he was standing a few paces behind Donald, who turned on him.
‘Can’t you keep your mouth shut for once in your life?’
Reg took a pace back. ‘There’s no need—’
‘Yes there is,’ spat Donald. ‘Shut up.’
‘Reg is right,’ said Stratton dully. ‘He said she was dangerous.’
‘Forget it, Ted,’ said Donald. ‘You weren’t to know. None of us were.’
‘I should have known,’ Doris burst out. ‘I’m sorry, Ted…I’m so sorry.’
Stratton stared at her hopelessly. ‘No, Doris. It’s my fault. I was late back from work,’ he said. ‘I went to fetch her. I thought we could walk home together. I thought we could go to the pub…talk…but then I saw the man. If I’d listened to him, we’d have gone after her, we’d have been in time…But I didn’t. It’s all my fault.’
Sixty-Five
Dacre fled the Rest Centre, stopping only to grab a woollen pullover from the pile of clothing he’d seen when he’d asked for Mrs Stratton, and ran for it. When he’d left the sirens far behind, he found a park and pushed his way into a clump of trees where he stripped off his bloodstained jacket and shirt and yanked the jumper down over his head. It was a little on the small side, and stank of mothballs, but it would do. Then, he boarded a bus back to the centre of London and found his way to the Black Horse in Fitzrovia, and, under the maternal eye of the friendly barmaid, finished the – very much interrupted – process of getting extremely drunk. In a packed pub, surrounded by rowdy men – some uniformed and some not – who barely apologised when they jostled him, and brazen girls who ignored him completely, he sat, thinking of the dying Jenny Stratton and trying to block from his mind the expression on the big policeman’s face. He’d failed. If he really had been a doctor, Stratton wouldn’t have been intent on arresting him, and would have gone to his wife at once, and she would not have been killed. He’d done everything he could think of to save her, but it wasn’t enough…If only he could have saved her…Then he would have proved himself, once and for all, and everyone would know…But he’d saved Stratton, hadn’t he? That had been automatic, pushing the madwoman out of the way then binding up his arm. He should have let Mrs Ingram do it for him, then grabbed her, kept her there – he’d have been the hero of the hour and Stratton would have been dead, with his wife. But he couldn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to him. Even though it would have meant the chance to keep Dacre, to keep Fay…Funny, he thought, how well you think you know yourself, but, in a crisis, you never really know how you’ll behave…If only—
There was a crash of glass from somewhere behind him, and shouts, and a young RAF corporal with a whore staggered into him, almost knocking him over. He mopped the beer from his jacket, deposited his sodden handkerchief on the bar, and walked away from the pub, stiff with squinty-eyed concentration. His life was in ruins. Any job that he could legitimately expect to hold, with no qualifications, would be far beneath him, and there was no hope of ‘going straight’ because, officially, he was dead. If he tried to resurrect himself he would, in all probability, get caught.
Lurching down the street in the dusk, heedless of the crowds that surged around him, he cast a sour look at a soldier and his girl – or somebody else’s girl – embracing in a doorway. He’d never see Fay again – he couldn’t. There was nothing he could do for her, and nothing for it but to collect his belongings from Eversholt Street, and – provided of course, that the police weren’t waiting for him – then…what? At that moment, he found he really didn’t care whether they were waiting for him or not. In some ways, it would be a relief. If they weren’t, he could spend the night in an air-raid shelter, and in the morning…? He’d leave London, anyway. There was nothing here for him but prison, if he were caught. As Dr Dacre, he’d had a position, responsibility, self-respect. Now, he had nothing. Before, whenever he’d had to make a run for it, it had been a blow, but not like this. Never had he fallen so far. Now he was empty and rotten, through and through.
He made it back to Eversholt Street, and was attempting to tiptoe up the stairs when he lost his balance and fell, heavily, against the banisters. Mrs Draper, voluminous in a candlewick dressing gown and spiky with curlers, appeared in the corridor below and peered up at him from between the spindles. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she hissed. ‘I’ve had the police here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Draper.’ Feeling unable to conduct a conversation while remaining upright, he sat down on the stairs and gave her what he hoped was a winning smile through the banisters. ‘When did they come?’
‘This afternoon.’ Mrs Draper glared at him. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing. They wanted to speak to me about,’ Dacre hiccupped, ‘one of my patients.’
‘Then why were they asking about you? They wanted to know when you’d come to stay here.’
‘A matter of routine, Mrs Draper.’ Dacre hiccupped again. ‘That’s all.’
Mrs Draper shook her head. ‘You’re drunk. And there’s something going on, I know there is. I won’t have my name dragged into it.’
‘There’s no risk of that, Mrs Draper. I’m leaving.’ Producing a fistful of notes from his pocket with a flourish, he said, ‘I’ll give you an extra week, so you won’t lose out.’
The landlady sniffed. ‘That’s all very well, but I don’t want another visit from the police. This is a respectable place, and—’
He held up a hand. ‘Mrs Draper!’
‘Keep your voice down. There’s people trying to sleep.’ She had to raise her own voice for the last part, to make herself heard over the crump of a distant doodlebug.
‘For Christ’s sake. Take this,’ he thrust a couple of notes at her, ‘and let me go upstairs and pack.’ Clutching the banister he hauled himself, unsteadily, to his feet.
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.
Mrs Draper stood in the doorway of the room, arms folded and radiant with disapproval, watching, eagle-eyed, in case he tried to pack anything that wasn’t his. He collected his things as quickly as he could, closed his case, and carried it to the door, where Mrs Draper barred his way. He moved half a step forward, but she failed to retreat so that they stood face to face, or nearly (her hairline was on a level with his nose).
‘You stink of beer,’ she said.
He averted his face and his mind raced, gunning like an engine that fails to spark, trying to produce some appropriate words. ‘I’m sorry to have caused you trouble,’ he said, slowly. ‘I’m afraid I am not…able…to explain. It’s nothing terrible, I can assure you of that. Now, if you wouldn’t mind…’
‘Your keys, Dr Dacre.’
He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Sorry. There you are.’
‘Thank you.’ The landlady moved aside, and followed him across the landing and down the stairs to the front door.
He turned on the threshold, and found her directly behind him. ‘I’ll say goodnight, then,’ he said, awkwardly, backing into the street.
‘Goodnight. And don’t come back.’
He made a sketchy, forlorn gesture, half wave and half salute, and began lugging his case towards the Euston Road.
Waking at dawn, stiff and sour after a night spent in fitful sleep on a hard bench in a shelter, with a foul mouth, a queasy stomach and a thudding head, Dacre felt as if his brain had been shrunk to the size of a walnut, and, with every move, was banging against the inside of his skull. He sat, fearing to move, while the other occupants of the shelter packed up their belongings and trudged out into the morning. After a another couple of hours half-drowsing in hideous dreams, the nausea was starting to recede, and, finding himself alone, he took his remaining money from his pocket and began to count it. There was, he thought, enough for a train ticket out of London, and a couple of weeks’ board and lodging somewhere. After that…
He’d worry about ‘after that’, he thought, getting slowly and gingerly to his feet, once he’d got settled somewhere. Euston was the nearest station – he’d make for there and see where the trains went. North, he thought. He’d board one, and then he’d consider his next move.
At Euston, he obtained a cup of coffee – pretty filthy, but he kept it down – from the station buffet, together with a bun, which he put in his pocket for later. Queuing at the ticket office, he found, when it came to his turn, that he had no idea of where he wanted to go, and said the first place that came into his head, which was Northampton. ‘Train’s in ten minutes,’ said the clerk. ‘Change at Bletchley.’
He stood amongst noisy groups of soldiers in the corridor, flattening himself against the window as harassed-looking women towed protesting children past him, their luggage banging against his legs. Sweating in the prickly woollen jumper, he felt as if he were in the muzzy horror of a nightmare. As the coffee settled on his stomach, the action of the train made him nauseous again, and he wondered if he would be sick, and whether he could manage to find his way to the lavatory in time, or if he should try to open a window.
A soldier, attempting to turn round in the cramped space, whacked him on the chest with his rifle. ‘Sorry, mate…Here, you all right? Had a skinful?’
He nodded, afraid to open his mouth, and pushed towards the WC at the end of the carriage, where he vomited. He managed to wrench open the small window and stood, sucking in the fresh air, until somebody started banging on the door. It occurred to him that this would be as good a place as any to lose Dacre, so, holding his ID card and ration book, he thrust his hand out of the window and let the wind snatch them away. He opened his case and checked for anything else that might reveal his identity. There were two medical textbooks, so, reluctantly, he launched them from the window, too. They hung in the air for a moment, covers wide open like stiff, ungainly birds, and then, craning his neck, Dacre saw them plummet to earth as the train roared on. Now, emerging from the WC into the cramped corridor, he was nobody: just a face in a crowd.
At Bletchley, he was waiting on the sparsely populated platform, staring at the advertisements – Bovril, dried eggs, Bile Beans – when an old man in a worn suit limped up and stood dejectedly beside him, as if standing in line for some unwelcome parade. He had the ammoniac stink of an unwashed body and sweat-rotted socks, one fixed and one moving eye, and one corner of his mouth was uplifted in a snarl, as if pulled by an invisible hook, exposing rotten teeth. ‘Got a fag, mate?’
‘Here.’ Trying not to look at the man, Dacre pulled his cigarette packet – only two left now – out of his pocket, and offered it.
‘Thanks, mate…Got a match?’
‘Yes.’ Dacre produced a box and handed it over.
The old man lit up, took a pull on the cigarette, and grinned horribly. ‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘I know you!’
Dacre took a step back. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t you remember me?’ the old man’s voice was wheedling. ‘I remember you.’
‘I’ve never seen you before.’
‘But I know you,’ the man insisted. ‘I do. Wait a minute…No, that’s not it…’
Gripped by a sudden, bowel-clenching panic, Dacre said, ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Yes…’ said the old man. ‘Let me think…I know you, all right.’
‘No!’ Dacre was backing away, almost shouting now, and heads were swivelling in their direction. ‘I. Do. Not. Know. You,’ he muttered.
The old man shuffled towards him again, and thrust his face upwards, into Dacre’s. The vile lips opened, and a fetid cloud seemed to engulf him. Vomit rose once more in his throat and he clapped one hand over his mouth.
‘Man is born to trouble,’ said the old man. ‘Born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards.’
Dacre just managed to swallow back the contents of his stomach. He gasped. Was this some sort of message? An angel – a devil – a portent? Feeling a fresh bloom of sweat break out on his skin, he turned on his heel and, feeling that he might faint at any moment, walked away as fast as he could down the platform. The old man pursued him, plucking his sleeve, the voice querulous now, plaintive, ‘I do know you, I do, I know—’
Dacre looked down at the hand with its yellow nails, long and thick, like horns, that clutched at him. ‘Leave me alone!’ he said, jerking his arm away. ‘You’ve got your fag, now go away.’
‘Oh no,’ said the old man, head on one side and grinning atrociously. ‘I can’t leave you, because I know what you are.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dacre was shouting now. ‘Get away from me!’
‘Born to trouble,’ said the old man. ‘Born to trouble…’
