“Yes, we were.”
There was a diabolical glint in Cracker’s eyes.
“Reckon she could kill someone?”
Paul stared at him and a shiver ran down his spine.
“That’s a very good question”, he said.
Chapter 31
“Dear Paul, My Dearest Darling Paul, as you can see from the number at the top of the page, this is letter number 37. As I have not received any replies, I have to imagine that you have not received my previous letters, although, of course, there are other possibilities. So I shall just repeat what I have said in the other letters.”
He looked at the date: March 13th 1997. The address was written in the top corner. The Morinval Academy, Morinval, Switzerland. And the number 37 was written next to it and underlined.
“I know that my parents have done everything they can to prevent me from receiving your news. I have no doubt that you have tried to contact me, but there seems to be no way to convince them to permit any correspondence whatsoever. I am guessing they are also doing their utmost to ensure you do not receive any mail from me. But perhaps one letter may slip through their net. I do not know what your parents’ attitude is, and I hope they will allow just one letter to reach you. I suppose all four of them have their reasons to prevent us from being together, even if only through the written word, but despite what they may think, those reasons only go against nature and defy what is meant to be.
I cried for two whole weeks when I arrived here, but then I decided to be strong, and to work and make friends and to do what I have to do and to wait until we are old enough to act on our own.
I probably don’t need to tell you, because you always know, but I miss you more than I can say. I think of you all the time, and of the shilling, and of your kisses and of what we shall do when we are free.
I know you are in prison somewhere, but not where. I hope you can be strong and hold on and believe in everything that has held us together and makes us full.
I have only heard rumours and biased reports of what happened and why, and so I refuse to believe any of them. I know you. You are my Paul. If you did something others see as wrong then I know you had a good reason.
As well as the letters to the Cottage, I have also written letters to Linda, who you know, and have asked her to pass them on to you. But perhaps she too is on the blacklist, or she doesn’t know where you are. It is so frustrating not knowing what is happening. I feel like a prisoner. Perhaps I should write a diary, like Anne Frank.
I shall let another week go by and then write number 38.
I love you
Your Princess.
xxx
Chapter 32
Saturday April 27th 2013
He read the letter a second and then a third time.
It was a full twenty minutes before he got up and washed his face at the kitchen sink and dried it on a paper towel and poured himself a large vodka and drank it.
He wanted to call Linda Deighton and tell her what a fucking bitch she was but there was no point. He knew she was a bitch, and probably so did she. It wasn’t as if he was informing her of anything, it would just be petty. Cathartic maybe, but petty.
He’d found the letter in one of the boxes lying on the kitchen floor at the Cottage.
He’d driven home from Cracker Booth’s place and stopped off at Sainsbury’s to buy some supplies. His headache was worse than bad so he took a couple more pills and noticed he was running low. Maybe he should get his head checked out, get a scan, at least another prescription, but he knew he might not have time. There were things to be done.
The Cottage looked a lot better with a few lights on. The electricity had been hooked up and he’d bought a couple of lamps, and the orange glow made the place feel a bit more homely. He switched the fridge on, but by the buzzing it was making he thought a new one might be in order.
The same went for the cupboards. He started to clean them, but soon realised they were worn and warped and liable to collapse. They’d make good firewood.
He suddenly felt very tired. His head was spinning.
He sat down and poured himself a drink and stared at the boxes on the floor.
The first one was filled with kitchen stuff: tea-towels and crockery and glasses. The second one contained some old clothes and a few knick-knacks that he vaguely recognised, souvenirs of holidays and trips, but he couldn’t remember the story behind each one. They didn’t mean much to him. Not as much as what he found in the third box.
This was his box. Inside were his old school reports and some books and comics and an ancient teddy-bear that he kissed on the nose and set aside on an armchair so he could watch. There was a scrapbook and an envelope stuffed with photographs. There were some board games and his first watch and his jersey from cubs with the merit badges stitched on the sleeve. And there was the letter. It was folded between an old football shirt and shorts he had worn at school. A single letter, out of how many? And why had this one slipped through? He imagined his mother, hiding it among his clothes, perhaps still in a wardrobe somewhere at that time, as she waited for him to come home… But he didn’t know if it had happened that way… He could only hope, he thought.
He looked through some of the photographs.
There were school photos, the whole class lined up, looking well-groomed, with cheesy grins and innocent optimism in their eyes.
He saw himself ageing, from perhaps 3 to 9, at various birthday parties with candles on cakes and presents being opened. He saw his father wearing a Santa Claus outfit, raising a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale for the camera, while he himself sat on the floor playing with some Lego bricks.
There was a photo that had been taken in the Castle grounds on a sunny day, a deep blue sky spotted with small puffy clouds. The shadows were short and Paul guessed it had been taken at lunchtime, around one o’clock. It was a family shot, in a way… The composition of the figures in the frame looked almost staged, but it had probably been taken by one of the gardeners, or perhaps Chrissie, the maid, and it was no doubt a spontaneous accident. It was a wide angle shot, a panorama, with part of the Castle on the right of the frame and the Cottage in the background to the left. In the foreground, a woman and two young children were sitting on a rug on the ground having a picnic. The woman was Paul’s mother and the children were Sarah and Paul, aged about 5 and 4. To the right, a few yards away, Rebecca sat in a deck chair, reading a book. Behind them, perhaps fifty yards further back on a low mound of bright green grass, Greville was standing in the roofless Jeep, his arm raised, pointing at something. It reminded Paul of a picture of Mussolini haranguing a rally… A few yards to Greville’s right, Paul’s father was kneeling on the ground, looking at something closely. Perhaps he was setting a trap for a mole or a rabbit, or something had been lost or found…
Paul looked closer… He remembered the rug they were sitting on, a dark green tartan affair that he and Sarah had often borrowed to take to the island… He had burnt a small hole in it once with a magnifying glass… There were a few Tupperware boxes on the rug and a thermos and a bottle of lemonade, and it looked like they were eating sausages on cocktail sticks… His mother was wearing shorts and a yellow T-shirt and she was smiling. She appeared to be looking to her left, towards Rebecca. At first, he had thought Rebecca was reading the book she held in her hands, but she wasn’t… she was returning his mother’s gaze and she wasn’t smiling.
Paul didn’t remember the occasion captured in the snapshot, but he had hazy memories of similar events, of sitting on rugs and blankets on freshly-cut grass on the banks of the lake or in the orchard, eating crisps and apples and scotch eggs, drinking fruit juice and lemon barley water… reading stories and drawing pictures. He could see his mother, brushing Sarah’s hair while he played with toy cars at her feet. He could remember his mother swatting at a wasp that was drawn to a smear of jam or something else, sweet and sticky, around Sarah’s mouth, and Sarah was immobile, petrified, and Paul had laughed and
teased her, and then the wasp flew away and disappeared until Paul put his hand down on the rug and on the wasp and it had stung him.
He put the photos down and felt a wave of fatigue run over him and he wanted to curl up and fall into a deep sleep.
He resisted the urge and got up and stepped outside into the back garden. It was dark, but there was a sliver of moon and no cloud. He kicked at the cold ashes of the fire he and Morgan had made. He looked over at the Castle and saw light slanting over the front terrace. His stomach tightened. He remembered his thoughts of the night before, or was it two days ago? He suppressed them, or perhaps he couldn’t quite focus on them, but he started walking over towards the Castle, not really sure of what he was doing or who would be there or what he might say. His headache was pounding again and he felt like he’d felt in the tunnel, walking towards a dull glow and not knowing what lay at the end of it.
As he approached, he saw Morgan come out of the front door carrying a suitcase. The Lexus was backed up against the steps leading to the terrace. He placed the suitcase in the boot and went back into the house. He thought he heard a voice, perhaps Morgan’s, and then Morgan reappeared with a small holdall in one hand, and a mobile in the other, which he put into his jacket pocket. He watched Morgan put the holdall in the boot and go back into the house. He heard the door close.
He stood there for a moment listening. All he could hear was a vague drone of traffic sounds from down in the valley, and a fox barking in the woods off to his left.
He turned round and went back to the Cottage. He took some more pills.
He was gathering up his belongings and preparing to go back to the pub when he heard a noise outside. He peered out of the back door. He couldn’t see anything. He opened the door and Morgan was standing there.
“Hello”, Morgan said. “I saw a light…”
He looked at the bandage on Paul’s head but didn’t remark upon it.
“Surprised to see me?”, Paul said.
“Well, yes, I thought you were planning on staying in Amsterdam at least until Koninginnedag?”
Paul turned back into the kitchen, sensing Morgan behind him.
Koninginnedag, not Queens Day.
“I got homesick.”
Morgan looked ill at ease.
“How was your hotel, the Pulitzer, wasn’t it?”
Paul suddenly realised he should be scared, or at least worried, but he wasn’t.
Although he knew the tension in his muscles wasn’t just from fatigue.
He wanted to fuck with Morgan’s head.
“Actually, the Pulitzer was full. I stayed somewhere else.”
He thought he saw five different expressions flick across Morgan’s face in half a second. Then he controlled himself and Paul thought he was a very good actor.
“Really? So where did you stay?”
“A scuzzy motel by the airport. They had a pool and I dived in, but it was empty. Thus the head injury.”
Morgan stared at him. Paul stared back.
He didn’t know why he wasn’t more wary of the man. In the circumstances.
He saw Morgan’s eyes flick to the bread knife on the table and then back at him.
Paul realised he was smiling. Morgan feigned concern.
“You seem to be slurring your words a little, Paul… have you been drinking or is your head injury affecting your speech?”
“Both probably. I’m certainly having visions. I keep seeing things that I shouldn’t be seeing. I should probably see a doctor. Or a shrink.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Any news of Sarah?”
There was a flash of something in Morgan’s eyes.
“No”, he said, “No, I’m afraid not.”
“You should take a trip”, Paul said. “Get away for a few days. Get your mind off things.”
He could see Morgan working out what to say or do.
He was much closer to the knife than Morgan was and he felt his weight on the balls of his feet.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we could all do with a little rest. Try and see things in perspective.”
Morgan put his hand in his pocket and Paul froze.
Then there was a knock at the front door. Paul turned to see a shadow through the glass.
“Looks like you have a visitor.” Morgan said. “I’ll let you go…”
Paul turned back and saw Morgan smiling at him. But his eyes were cold.
“Keep well, Paul. Mind how you go.”
The same words Terry Booth had said to him one November night. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
“Right. You too.”
Morgan opened the back door and started to leave.
“Goedenavond”, said Paul.
Morgan stopped and half turned.
“Pardon?
“Goedenavond. It’s Dutch for good night.”
He heard Morgan breathe out slowly.
“Good night.” And Morgan stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
There was another tap at the front door and Paul went over and opened it. A shadow stepped forward into the light.
It was Linda Deighton.
“I owe you an apology”, she said.
Her hair was tied back and she had no make-up on. She looked tired and frazzled.
Paul looked at her. She could barely look him in the eye.
“Come in”, he said.
“No, I won’t come in. I’ll just say what I have to say.”
She opened her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of letters bound with an elastic band.
“These are yours. I’m sorry.”
Paul took the bundle and looked at the postmarks on the envelopes: they were all from Switzerland, except for one from New York.
“There are two things you should know. When Sarah was 18, she left school and tried to find you. She hired a private detective, but you were gone. There was no Paul Boyd to be found. Then after Greville died, her mother, Rebecca, told her that you were dead. She even showed her a cutting from a newspaper to prove it. A fake, obviously. Sarah was inconsolable. That was when she… Anyway. It’s all been such a fucking mess. And I’m sorry I played any part in it. Really sorry. It’s unforgivable, but…”
She looked up at him. The corners of her mouth were twisted and twitching and her eyes were red and moist.
“I’m sorry.”
She turned away, head down, and walked towards a small car twenty yards away across the grass towards the lane. Paul watched her open the door and get in and put her handbag on the passenger seat and wipe her eyes. He watched her fasten her seat-belt and drive away and then he listened as she turned into the lane and drove down the hill until he couldn’t hear the car any more and there was only a faint breeze rustling through the trees. And he stood there and listened for a long time and he thought about what she’d said and what it all meant until he couldn’t even hear the wind in the trees.
Phone Intercept 4
Saturday 27/4 23.44
- Is it done?
- Yes.
- Everything set?
- As planned.
- Have a good trip (NB: In German)
- Thanks. You too. (NB: In Italian)
Chapter 33
Sunday April 28th 2013
He slept until the alarm went off at 9.45. He didn’t want to miss the breakfast special, only available until 10.30.
His head was heavy and foggy, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the injury, the vodka overdose or the sleeping-pill he’d taken to try and stem the flood of bitter ‘if-onlys’ that had ripped through him after reading Sarah’s letters.
He picked them up off the floor and bundled them together and sniffed them. There was a faint trace of something, other than dust, but it wasn’t vanilla.
He took the last of the pills and washed them down with tap water and looked at himself in the mirror above the basin.
She had done more to find him than he had done to find her.
&nbs
p; As soon as she had the chance, she had looked for him.
But he was gone. Paul Boyd didn’t exist any more. He had done all he could to make it impossible for her to find him.
He couldn’t remember why he’d done that.
If only…
He smacked himself on the cheek and swore never to use those words again for as long as he lived.
And now she thought he was dead.
And so she’d married Neil Morgan…
Poor Sarah.
He pulled on his pants and socks and shoes and went down for breakfast. Heads turned as he walked into the room and he felt a flush of paranoia until he remembered the bandage on his head and he mugged an embarrassed smile. But the looks continued and he noticed a couple of frowns and heard mutters and then realised he’d forgotten to put a shirt on.
He thought about asking for room service but then thought ‘fuck it’ and he went back upstairs and finished dressing and then back to the breakfast room where he did a little twirl showing off his best M&S Easy-Wear Drip-Dry as he went in and people laughed.
There was no news of Sarah Hartley in the Sunday papers.
He pulled up outside the cottage and thought about his conversation with Neil Morgan the night before. He had been stupid to come here and face up to him, if he believed what he thought he believed.
He should have been more scared, more alert, and more careful.
Analysing Morgan’s reactions and attitude didn’t help much in retrospect… nothing seemed too clear cut.
He opened up the Cottage and made some coffee and drank it in the back garden. He looked across at the Castle and wondered if Neil Morgan was there, perhaps watching him. Or maybe he had gone away for a few days. To Amsterdam?
In the distance, he saw a man walking up the drive towards the Castle.
The King's Shilling Page 19
