And there was Julia too. Julia, his new wife. Julia whom Maureen, of course, never ever mentioned. For that was another bone of contention and bitterness – that Jeannie was daily coming to love Julia with all her heart.
As he moved away from the window, Maureen entered carrying dishes of vegetables which she set down on the cork mats. ‘This is the last time Jeannie will be at lunch with Mum and me, so I want it to be special,’ she said. She waved a hand towards the table. ‘Please – sit down.’
Greg took a seat in the corner of the recess, and a moment later his heart leapt with joy as he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He was about to rise but then decided to stay where he was; he’d surprise Jeannie.
But to his surprise a dog came bounding in. Greg didn’t know they’d kept a dog. The animal, a black labrador, sought him out immediately, thrusting a wet, cold nose against his hand and his thigh. Greg shifted his leg irritably, at the same time straining his ears for the sound of Jeannie’s voice, but he could hear nothing above the raucous voice of his ex-mother-in-law as she talked animatedly to Maureen in the kitchen. Why, he wondered, didn’t someone tell Jeannie that he was here, waiting for her . . . ?
Sitting hidden from the main lounge and from the kitchen, he sorted out the noises that came through to him, listening to the scrape of feet on the linoleum, the slam of the bathroom door. Then Maureen appeared again. Taking in the look on his face, she said with a sigh:
‘You can relax now. She’s here.’ Depositing the tray on the table she called over her shoulder in the direction of the bathroom, ‘Come on now. We’re ready. We’re waiting for you.’
As she set down the dishes of vegetables, Greg realised that in spite of his impatience to get moving, he was hungry.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
Greg looked around to see Mrs Cavendish looking coldly at him as she approached the table.
‘Hello.’ He tried a smile, but it didn’t quite work. ‘Were you expecting somebody else?’ he said.
Maureen said to her mother, ‘You should have seen him, Mum. Like a cat on hot bricks. Just couldn’t wait for his darling little girl to get back.’
The older woman sniffed. She had a hard, deeply seamed face. Her eyes were the same colour blue as Maureen’s. Greg saw them flash as she looked towards him – a quick, hate-filled glance. ‘Typical,’ she said.
‘He brought me chocolates,’ Maureen said. ‘A peace-offering of sorts, I believe.’
‘Oh, him and his peace-offerings,’ Mrs Cavendish said. ‘Did you accept them?’
‘Yes, of course I did.’ Maureen sneered across the table at Greg who sat there hot with embarrassment. ‘Of course I took his chocolates. And he agreed to accept my peace-offering in return.’ She turned to Greg then, addressing her next words to him. ‘Perhaps then there’ll be an end to it.’
Greg said into the sudden silence: ‘There are only three place settings.’
Maureen began to laugh, and Mrs Cavendish joined in and they sat there rocking. Then Mrs Cavendish mimicked him, sneering:
‘There are only three place settings. Huh, typical.’
Maureen pushed the meat tray towards him. ‘You can be man of the house for the last time,’ she said. ‘We’ll let you do the carving.’
Greg found himself taking up the fork and carving knife. ‘Where’s Jeannie?’ he asked.
‘Where’s Jeannie?’ Mrs Cavendish mimicked again, then, turning to Maureen, she said, ‘Oh, go on, Maureen. He’ll never be satisfied. We’ll never get any peace.’
‘I told you she’d be here,’ Maureen said, sighing, leaning over the table. With a cool, graceful movement she lifted the domed cover of the huge meat dish. ‘You see? Pink ribbons and all, look.’
And there was Jeannie. As Greg stared aghast at the dreadful thing before him, Mrs Cavendish said, smiling:
‘Just look at him, Maureen. He looks as if he’s lost fifty pence and found five.’
TRAVELLING LIGHT
‘But you said you’d be arriving tomorrow . . .’
The little woman behind the reception desk looked more and more flustered and bewildered. Gideon turned to the tall stranger who stood nearby, shrugged helplessly, then turned back to the woman. She was looking at him anxiously through her thick-lensed spectacles.
‘No,’ Gideon said patiently, ‘ – I wrote to say that I would be getting here today. My wife would be arriving tomorrow, I said. But I’d be here today. I told you. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear . . .’ His voice trailed off in the face of her helpless, wide-eyed inadequacy.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured. She seemed almost on the point of tears. ‘I really am very sorry. I don’t know how there came to be such a mix-up.’ She shook her head. ‘And there’s nothing at all available for tonight . . .’
‘But what am I supposed to do?’ Gideon said. ‘It’s late. How do I find something else at this time of night?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman said.
As she spoke these words the tall stranger took a step forward, opening his mouth to speak. At once the woman, obviously recognizing him as a former guest, forestalled him.
‘Oh, we’ve got your room, Mr Travers,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
The man nodded and murmured his thanks. The woman went on:
‘Though it looks as if they’ve given you a double room, a twin instead of the single you booked . . .’ Weakly, she smiled away the inefficiency. ‘Of course, though, you won’t be charged the full rate.’
During this brief exchange Gideon, irritated and annoyed at the inefficiency and inconvenience, stooped to pick up his suitcases. Now he’d have to start searching other hotels in the area. It was a bloody nuisance.
And then the stranger, Travers, spoke.
‘My room,’ he said, turning to the woman behind the desk, ‘ – the double you’ve given me – it does have two beds in it, yes?’ He spoke with a strong Scottish accent. ‘If so, maybe we can work something out.’ He turned, smiling towards Gideon. ‘I really don’t like the thought of this poor gentleman having to search the town at this time of night looking for somewhere to sleep.’
As his suggestion hung in the air, the woman looked from him to Gideon.
‘Sir,’ Travers said to Gideon, ‘you’d be most welcome to share my room. After all, it’s only for a night – and I certainly don’t mind.’
‘Well – ’ Gideon said, ‘that is really most kind of you. Are you sure it wouldn’t be putting you out?’
‘Not at all. Not in the least. I’d be glad to help.’
A feeling of relief swept over Gideon. He beamed at the older man. ‘Well – if you’re quite sure.’
‘Perfectly.’ Travers gave him a gap-toothed smile. ‘As I said, I’m only too glad to help.’
A little while later, up in the room, Gideon sat on the edge of his bed clipping his fingernails and waiting for Travers to finish in the bathroom. Carefully he placed the nail-parings in a nearby ashtray. Already, from the bedside table Carole smiled out at him from the narrow leather frame of her photograph. Tomorrow, Gideon thought. Tomorrow . . .
Travers had left the bathroom door open, and now, as Gideon turned, he could see the other man as he stood at the wash-basin, a towel about his naked waist. He was shaving with an old-fashioned, open, cut-throat razor. Gideon watched, admiring the dexterity with which he handled the cruel-looking instrument.
‘I never before saw anyone use one of those,’ Gideon said, ‘ – not outside those old Mafia movies anyway.’
‘Oh, you can’t beat it,’ Travers said, smiling. Neatly he skimmed the blade over his prominent Adam’s apple. ‘It does the best job. By far.’
Gideon said, grimacing: ‘Seeing you doing that makes me think of those terrible murders that have been going on. The papers are full of them.’
‘Oh,
yes, those terrible wife-slayings,’ Travers said. ‘Yes, very strange business.’
‘Just ghastly,’ Gideon said. ‘Seven killings – all practically identical in pattern. All carried out in full view of reliable witnesses, and in each case by the victim’s husband.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s like some awful disease. Imagine – seven of them.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Travers said. ‘There’ve been eight. There was another one last night. I heard it on the news.’ He carefully circumnavigated a large wart on his chin. ‘Just like all the others. Her throat cut from ear to ear. Head almost severed from the body. Took place in the street this time. In Brighton. Husband arrested again. There were plenty of witnesses. As usual.’
Gideon continued to watch as, with sensitive fingers, Travers tested the smoothness of his jaw. The man was not a particularly attractive specimen, Gideon thought. His skin was unusually pallid. It had a wan, preserved look about it, as if it was rarely exposed to the sun. Over the pale flesh of his chest grew a mat of short, spiky hair – like his eyebrows, eyelashes and the hair on his head, all of a light, sandy redness.
All at once, becoming aware of Travers’s eyes upon him, Gideon, embarrassed, looked away.
‘So your wife’s joining you tomorrow,’ Travers said.
‘Yes.’ Gideon nodded happily. He and Carole had been apart for three months now, and these last days had sometimes seemed never-ending. ‘We’ve had to be apart for a while,’ he said. ‘I’ve been doing this course up in the north. It’s not over yet, but at least we thought we could spend my holiday together – in a nice place.’
‘I guess you’ve been missing her pretty badly.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gideon said, ‘ – so much. I can’t wait for her to get here.’ He thought of Carole, pictured her soft features, her bright, clear blue eyes. Marrying her had been the best thing he had ever done. All pride, he shrugged, smiled. ‘She’s . . . just great . . .’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Travers said. ‘A happy couple – it’s very nice to hear.’ He shook his razor dry and slipped it back into its case. ‘Save me shaving in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’m not so fussy.’ He put the razor-case into a plastic toilet bag. ‘You people who go around with loads of suitcases – I believe in travelling light.’ He came to the doorway. ‘You want to come in here?’
‘Yes – thanks.’ Gideon rose from the bed. ‘I think I’ll take a shower.’
With the bathroom door closed behind him, Gideon stripped and stood before the mirror. Unlike Travers, he had a handsome body, tanned golden brown by the sun. His hair grew thick and black, its darkness contrasting with the whiteness of his smile. And today he had a real reason to smile: tomorrow he would be seeing Carole again.
When he emerged from the bathroom a while later he found Travers lying back smoking a cigarette.
Gideon lay down on his own bed, his towelling robe around him. ‘God, I’m tired,’ he said. ‘All that travelling. I think I’ll sleep for a while.’
‘What time are you expecting your wife to arrive?’ Travers asked. He had picked up and was studying the photograph of Carole. ‘Early?’
‘About ten o’clock,’ Gideon said. Somehow he resented Travers handling the picture. He watched him anxiously.
‘She’s very pretty,’ Travers said.
‘Yes . . .’
‘You meeting her at the station?’
‘No. Here. Down in the foyer. She wasn’t sure which train she’d manage, so . . .’ He paused. ‘I’ll just wait downstairs for her. It was her idea.’
With a little sense of relief he watched as Travers replaced the photograph on the bedside table. He gave a yawn, and Travers nodded, and said,
‘You do look a little tired. You should take a nap maybe.’
‘Yes, I am,’ Gideon said. ‘The travelling – like I said. That always does it for me.’ He yawned again, then lay back and, smiling in his relaxation, stretched out full-length on the bed. Minutes later he was asleep.
When Travers leaned over him to clip from his head a small lock of hair, Gideon almost awoke. For a moment he stirred uneasily, a frown briefly creasing the smoothness of his tanned brow. His mouth opened slightly in a silent, unknowing protest, and then he sank again, back into his slumber. Travers, standing above him, held the lock of hair in his hand for a moment, then added it to the little collection of nail-parings he had taken out of the ashtray. He smiled. Yes. It would be quite enough. It would be perfect.
In the morning, when Gideon awoke, he saw that Travers was still asleep. In the dim light the shape of him was just visible as he lay bundled up under the bed-covers.
Moving into the bathroom, Gideon turned on the water to shave. He felt a little odd and not quite his usual self, almost as if he was suffering from a hangover. But that couldn’t be – he’d had nothing to drink last night.
The hot water gushed from the tap, clouding the glass. Yawning, Gideon switched on the light and rubbed a clear circle on the glass. And then his heart turned over.
In the glass he looked in horror at his white skin and the short, sandy-red hair that grew on his head and chest. He opened his mouth in a short, silent cry of fear and saw that two of his front teeth were missing. The hand that leapt to his face felt the ugly wart that stood out on his chin. It couldn’t be. How could it be? Gasping for breath, he leaned over the basin, clutching at the rim for support.
Minutes passed, and eventually he straightened, looked into the glass again and saw, as before, Travers’s reflection. It could not be possible. It could not.
Breath trembling in his throat, he turned to the door and opened it. From the bedroom before him came the sounds of Travers stirring as he got up from his bed. Gideon watched as he pushed aside the covers and got to his feet.
Through sandy-coloured eyelashes Gideon took in the man’s dark, waving hair, his smooth, tanned cheek – the cheek that Carole had so often kissed. Aware of Gideon’s eyes upon him, Travers smiled at him, showing white, even teeth.
‘Don’t look like that,’ he said. ‘It won’t be for long.’ And the voice was Gideon’s own voice.
Standing in the bathroom doorway, Gideon continued to stare, uncomprehending, eyes wide with horror. After a moment Travers said, with a note of impatience:
‘You’re not going to stand there all day, are you? I need to use the bathroom.’
‘Oh God,’ Gideon said – and spoke his horror-stricken words with a Scottish accent. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God . . .’
Travers smiled again, his cheek dimpling in the way that Carole had always loved. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘ – the time’s getting on, and I’ve got an appointment at ten.’
With his words he stepped towards the bathroom, and Gideon dumbly moved aside to allow him to enter. And then he stood there, open-mouthed, as Travers opened his toilet bag and took from it the razor-case.
Lifting out the razor, Travers tested it on his thumb, carefully trying the keenness of its shining blade.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Perfect. Now – I must get dressed. I’ve got to meet a pretty lady downstairs. Down in the foyer.’ He turned to Gideon and gave him a grotesque, conspiratorial wink. ‘She’ll be expecting me to be there, and I mustn’t keep her waiting.’
MOMMY’S PROGRAMME
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Laurie, will you hurry up!’
Sarah Rooney shifted the shopping bags more securely into the crook of her arm and snatched roughly at the hand of her three-year-old daughter.
‘But the kittens,’ Laurie protested. ‘You said we could stop to look in the window. You said we’d go by the pet store. You promised.’
‘Well, there just isn’t the time. Next time. It’ll have to be next time.’
‘But you promised.’ A whine crept into Laurie’s voice and Sarah released the hand to slap at it wildly in her anger and impatience.
�
��The TV repairman’s coming round to fix the set,’ she snapped. ‘We’ve gotta get back for when he arrives. I told him four o’clock so we must be there. I’ve got to get it fixed before my soap. I can’t miss that.’
‘Oh, that silly old TV,’ Laurie pouted. ‘That silly old programme.’
At this, Sarah slapped her again, but harder this time so that Laurie began to cry in a tiresome, peevish way.
‘Oh, shut up!’ Sarah felt hot, sticky and irritable. The store had been so overcrowded and they’d had to wait ages at the check-out. And it would be today, of course, just when she was anxious to get back to the house. ‘And hurry up!’ she added, yanking at the small hand clutched in her own. ‘You’re just like your father was. You’d be glad if I never got any fun at all!’
Opening the car door she dumped the bags of groceries onto the back seat. Laurie carried a smaller bag and Sarah grabbed at it unceremoniously and placed it along with the others. She turned to the child.
‘Well, get in. Get in. Don’t just stand there. Dummy.’
As they drove out of the parking lot she took a quick glance at her watch. With luck they would just make it in time. She pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator, pulled out swiftly, precariously in front of an oncoming Pontiac, overtook – with inches to spare – a pale blue Ford, and sped off along the highway. They’d make it; she was determined.
Scraping through on the tail-end of an amber light Laurie clutched at her mother’s arm. ‘Oh, Mommy, don’t drive so fast. Please. It’s scary. You’re driving too fast.’
Sarah didn’t answer, but shook off the hand. She was concentrating on the busy road and the intersection up ahead. Laurie spoke again.
This Is Midnight: Stories Page 16
