Rooted in Dishonour

by Christina James

  “You take care, Miss,” the porter called as they disappeared from view. Once they’d gone, he chuckled to himself.

  “’Reaction to medication he’s taking’,” he mimicked in a high voice. “That’s a good one, that is.”

  He’d almost forgotten about the soiled doormat until his nose alerted him to its continuing presence.

  “Fucker!” he muttered.

  Chapter 24

  The small man was lying on his bed where they’d dumped him, afraid to close his eyes, motionless. He was so sore that the pain scared him when he tried to move. Two of them had brought him home to his shabby little studio flat, one hissing at him that if he made a sound it would be his last, and waited while he fumbled for the key. The other one had snatched it and eased open the door. They’d pushed him down onto the bed and disappeared, clicking the door to gently behind them. For a couple of seconds, he could hear them as they moved with stealth back down the stairs. Then all was quiet. As he lay in a vacuum of silence, it dawned on him that they’d stolen his key. He had another – they’d probably guessed he would have – but now they would be able to come and go as they pleased. He daren’t ask the landlord to change the locks; he was already pissed off about the rent. Painfully, the small man understood that the innermost fabric of his life had been invaded by an evil over which he had no control.

  He knew he ought to get up and bathe his wounds, then try to sleep. Somehow he couldn’t summon the energy. The same words kept reverberating through him, as if a tape had been implanted in his brain.

  “You’ll do it if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll tell you. But first I want you to promise that you won’t tell anyone. And, whatever it is, that you’ll do it.”

  “Do what?” he’d repeated. His interrogator had smacked him across the face with the flat of his hand.

  “Don’t you get clever with me. Now, listen . . .”

  He’d listened.

  All his life he’d been a fraudster. He liked to think that he’d always carried his chosen profession with panache, even with an unconventional sort of honour. He’d been popular in prison, met men in there who’d appreciated him. Being an adventurous type, he’d always pushed at the boundaries and he’d have been the first to acknowledge that sometimes he’d come unstuck. Some of his lovers had turned out shadier than he’d suspected and he’d had people coming after him more than once. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d discovered he was out of his depth, but it was the first time he’d had no clue about how to get back to dry land.

  On previous occasions, if no other solution had presented itself, he’d put discretion before valour and simply scarpered, but he knew this time there was no hiding place. They would find him: their networks were too extensive and too enmeshed in his world for him to be able to find a safe haven in which to lie low. He knew, too, that they would kill him without a moment’s pang if he ceased to be useful; and he would only be useful if he delivered.

  He screwed up his dulled black eyes and rubbed them with grubby fingers. He let out a small sob at the enormity of it all. What was that atrocious American expression he was always hearing these days? ‘It’s not who I am’ - that was it. He’d got involved in something that made him into a monster, but deep inside he knew he was only a likeable rogue.

  He unclenched his eyes and stared at the drab wall of his room. He could always say no. He could refuse, go to the police, ask them for a new identity. He’d seen that policeman yesterday, the one he’d had a brush with a few years ago. He could ask him for help.

  The small man smiled bitterly, flinching as the action caused liquid to ooze anew from his cut lip. The man had been quite a talented policeman, but was he really a match for them? There could be only one answer to that question.

  He sighed. Would he continue to do as they demanded? There could be only one answer to that question, too.

  Chapter 25

  I’m not surprised that Tim doesn’t phone and after I’ve called Juliet back I decide to go to bed. I unhook the office phone from its cradle and take it with me, just in case. I’m tired and know I need to be in good shape for tomorrow, but I can’t sleep. I lie awake for an hour, watching the red tip of the hand on the digital clock jerk from second to second until it’s eleven-thirty and my mind has reached that state of frozen alertness that always heralds insomnia. My eyes ache. There’s a burning behind them, as if they’ve been scrubbed with bleach. I consider turning on the light and trying to read, but I’m too exhausted. I lie there in a kind of waking stupor.

  I’m desperately worried about Tim. It’s not because he hasn’t called – that’s merely annoying – but because I don’t understand what’s happening to him. He seems to be falling apart. Juliet’s too kind to say so, as well as being too discreet, but I know she believes his work is deteriorating. If she’s right, and I trust her judgment, Superintendent Thornton must have noticed. He’s lost interest in everything except this case and he doesn’t even seem to be handling that well. As for Sophia, he’s barely taken an interest in her for weeks. I’ve tried to talk to him about it but he says I’m imagining things. I’m going to have to make him open up before he goes to India. I’m inclined to agree with Juliet that the trip to India’s a wild goose chase, anyway. I can’t decide whether he’s really hopeful of trapping a suspect or just looking forward to a bit of escapism. I’m astonished that Superintendent Thornton has agreed to it.

  I hear Sophia stir in the next room. She cries out once. I lie there, rigid, listening, until all falls quiet again. The second hand continues its futile circular walk.

  I must have dropped into a doze. I’m suddenly snatched awake by the telephone. I fumble for the switch on my bedside lamp and stare blearily at the display panel. It’s Freya’s number. I look at the clock. Half past midnight.

  “Hello? Tim?”

  “It isn’t Tim, it’s me,” comes Freya’s clipped voice, not as well-modulated as usual. “But it’s about Tim.”

  “What about him? Is he ill again?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping he’d been in touch with you. I haven’t seen him at all today. He left the house before I got up and called me later to say that he’d be out to dinner. He said he wouldn’t be late, but if he ate in London he’s missed the last train now.”

  “He did call late this afternoon. He said he was having dinner with Derry Hacker and someone.”

  “Yes, that’s what he told me.”

  I wonder why Freya didn’t mention Derry before I did. She probably knows I don’t like him.

  “Do you think he’s decided to stay the night at Derry’s?”

  “I suppose that’s the most likely explanation. I don’t have a number for Derry, so I can’t check. I’m sorry I’ve bothered you. I didn’t mean to worry you. I wouldn’t have called if he hadn’t been ill yesterday.”

  “I think you were right to call me. I’m sure Tim’ll explain it tomorrow,” I say. I know better than to trust Freya’s apologies. I congratulate myself on keeping my voice steady.

  “I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”

  “Likewise,” I say. “I’m sorry he’s not being a very good guest.”

  “Oh, I know my brother. I’m used to him!”

  Freya produces one of her trilling little laughs. Running true to form, demonstrating her superiority despite her feigned anxiety.

  “Good night, Freya,” I say firmly.

  “Good night.”

  “Cow!” I shout, hurling the phone to the floor. It lands with a crash. There’s a burst of howling from the room next door.

  I hurry to comfort Sophia. Her whole body is shaking with sobs; it takes fifteen minutes to settle her down again.

  I creep back to bed. I try to fight back the tears, but they keep on coming.

  Chapter 26

  Tim woke
with a searing pain in his head. For a moment he felt totally lost. He discovered that he was lying on the floor of a strange room, covered with a rough synthetic blanket. He was too hot. His head was resting awkwardly on a hard square cushion piped with cord: he could feel it digging into his neck. The room was in darkness but a dull orange light was vaguely penetrating the curtains, which had not been fully drawn, from outside. A street lamp, he guessed. He hoisted himself on to his right elbow and held up his wrist, squinting at his watch. It was 2.30 a.m. He guessed at rather than recognised his surroundings. Patti’s hotel room.

  “Christ!” he muttered to himself. “Freya will make hay of this.”

  He groaned and sat up, relieved to find that he was still fully clothed. The indignities and embarrassment of the previous evening came flooding back. His throat was dry and his mouth tasted as if he’d been chewing old newspaper. He’d thrown up in the foyer of Patti’s hotel. What had happened next? He remembered being manhandled into the lift by her. Everything else was a blank.

  But Christ, Freya! He hoped she hadn’t gone tattling to Katrin. That they didn’t like each other offered a glimmer of hope, but Freya’s desire to make mischief would almost certainly outweigh her ability to remain aloof. His failure to turn up at her house as expected two days running would have provided her with the ideal opportunity to do a bit of stirring. Tim fumbled in his jacket pocket for his mobile and fished it out. The bill for last night’s dinner slid out with it. He groaned again. He’d certainly have to keep that from Katrin, whatever else he told her.

  He stood up shakily, holding on for support to the seat of a small sofa from which the cushions had evidently been removed. He pushed the curtain back a little further and leant against the sill while he typed his password into the mobile. There were five missed calls from Freya and one from Derry. Nothing from Katrin. Her silence alarmed him: were she and Sophia ok? He should try to get hold of her immediately. He would have called her if he hadn’t glanced back at the bed and seen the outline of Patti’s body, curled into the foetal position. His brain wasn’t so addled that he didn’t know that phoning Katrin from Patti’s bedroom in the middle of the night would be tantamount to marital suicide. He groaned again.

  “Tim?” Patti sat bolt upright in bed, holding the quilt up round her neck. Her voice was clear and incisive, as if she hadn’t been sleeping at all. “You’re not feeling sick again, are you?”

  “No. Just dazed. I didn’t know I’d stayed here. I must have been out cold.”

  She turned on the small lamp set into the garish padded plastic headboard that adorned the bed.

  “You were. The night porter thought you were drunk. I couldn’t blame him, really. You were behaving as if you were. How are you feeling now?”

  “As if I’ve been hit over the head with a skillet. I don’t know what you’re laughing at. I wasn’t drunk and I haven’t done anything wrong – at least, I hope I haven’t.” Tim eyed her with foreboding. “But I’m certain I’ve succeeded in getting myself into trouble with just about everyone, you included, probably.” He pushed back his hair with sweaty hands. “I seem to remember you saying something about getting a taxi back to Surbiton. Why didn’t we do that?” His voice was petulant now.

  Patti laughed again, but this time her voice rang with irony.

  “You’re not having the cheek to suggest that I tried to seduce you, are you? Get real, Tim. You passed out. It was all I could do to get you through the door and help you to lie down without hurting yourself. You were unconscious. There was no chance of getting you into a taxi, even if we could have persuaded one to take you. Do you think I wanted you to spend the night here?”

  Tim was immediately contrite.

  “I’m sorry, Pats, I’m just worried about Katrin, that’s all. I can’t trust Freya not to have put the wind up her when she realised I wasn’t going home.”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Patti tensely.

  “Call you what?”

  “Pats. It’s what you used to call me. I think you and I are long past trotting out the pet names, don’t you?”

  “Sorry,” said Tim again. “Can you suggest anything that might help? With Katrin, I mean.”

  “I’m the last person to be able to help you. What do you expect me to do, call Katrin tomorrow and tell her you spent the night in my hotel room but it was all purely platonic? I don’t like encouraging people to be deceitful, but on this occasion I think the only thing you can do is pretend you were somewhere else.”

  “Like where, for example?”

  “I don’t know. You could try telling Derry the truth, ask him to cover for you by pretending you stayed at his place. That’s a bit of a risky strategy, though, as you can’t rely on him to be discreet and he’ll certainly think you owe him one if he agrees. Or you could say you missed the last train and had to stay in a hotel overnight.”

  “She’ll think that’s odd. She’ll know that a taxi would be cheaper.”

  “You’re right, she will. And if she’s suspicious, she’ll want to see the bill. Probably best not to ask me. I’m no good at lying, and it’s true what they say: for every lie you tell, eventually you have to think up half a dozen more. I’ll tell you what, though. Although it’s against my better judgement, I’ll go along with whatever story you come up with. I may not have to get involved at all, as only Derry knows we were together yesterday evening. But just in case.”

  “Thanks, Pats – Patti. I think you’re great.”

  “I can’t say the same for you. You look absolutely terrible. I suggest I make us both a cup of tea and then we try to get a few more hours sleep.”

  She leaned forward and reached across to the foot of the bed, where she’d draped the hotel’s towelling dressing-gown. Seizing it, she threw it around her shoulders with a deft movement and eased her arms quickly into the sleeves before drawing the fabric across her chest.

  Tim didn’t try to look away. He caught a glimpse of two pale breasts, deeper and rounder than you’d expect for a woman of Patti’s build. He remembered the first time he saw them and how he’d been surprised by the curviness of her figure when unclothed. Patti caught his eye and he had the grace to feel ashamed. She got out of the bed slowly and sat on the side of it for a moment before she stood up, brushing at her cheek. Tim was horrified to see that she was wiping away tears. His first impulse was to rush across the room and take her in his arms, but common sense prevailed.

  “What’s the matter?” he said in a low voice.

  “I think you know,” she answered. “I also think it would be very unwise to talk about it now. But one day, Tim, when we’re both feeling a lot braver and stronger than we do at the moment, I’d like to sit down and have a frank discussion about what went wrong.”

  “With us, you mean?”

  She’d lifted the doll-sized kettle from the tray on the vanity unit now and was heading for the bathroom to fill it. She gave him such a steadfast look that he felt like collapsing into tears himself.

  “Yes. With us.”

  “OK,” he said shakily. “I think that’s a good idea. I should have suggested it myself, long ago. Too cowardly, I suppose.”

  She nodded and disappeared. Tim heard her snap open the lid of the kettle and switch on the tap. She’d be back in a minute or so. He sank down on the cushionless sofa and tried to think. What had happened to them? Was it just that Tim had met Katrin? That’s what Derry believed, but Tim wasn’t so sure. He’d thought that he and Patti had been drifting apart before that: he knew he’d been astonished by the depth of her grief when he’d broken the news. But right now he could remember few details about that summer. Had he edited them permanently from his mind, or was this bloody drug he was taking screwing up his mental processes again? He leaned forward and held his head in both hands as the pounding behind his eyes started again. When Patti came back with the kettle, he suddenly lurched to his feet a
nd rushed past her, only just making it to the bathroom before he vomited copiously into the toilet.

  Chapter 27

  After yet another visit to Sophia to soothe her, I sit for a while watching her sleep before going back to bed myself. The night is warm, but I feel cold. My feet are blocks of ice and, however much I huddle under the quilt, my shoulders remain chilly. I’m unable either to sleep or read. I won’t call Tim. I tell myself that it’s up to him to call me, to explain to me what he thinks he’s doing. A niggling voice at the back of my mind tells me to worry that he might have had an accident. A yet more insidious whisper suggests that a call from me might embarrass him, that perhaps he isn’t spending the night alone.

  I must have slept at last, or dozed at least, because I’m startled by the tinny scream of the alarm clock. It takes me a few seconds to recognise what it is. I swat at it with my hand, then peer at the clock face: 6.30 a.m. I wonder why I set it so early and remember that I’ve agreed to work today. I need to get up, now, if I’m to dress myself and dress and feed Sophia and take her to Mrs Sims before the office opens.

  My head is throbbing, but I haul myself out of bed. Through the wall I hear Sophia’s early morning babble: evidently last night’s upset wasn’t too traumatic. On non-working days I shall enjoy listening to her until the chatter gradually becomes more querulous, as she makes it clear that she’s ready to start the day.

  I pick up my mobile to look for texts and missed calls. There aren’t any. There’s no time now to think about what that might mean. I throw on my dressing-gown and head for Sophia’s room.

  Despite my headache, the morning routine goes smoothly. We arrive at Mrs Sims’ at 8.25 a.m. I’m glad: it means I won’t have to dump Sophia at the door and rush off immediately. I’m unhooking Sophia from her car seat straps when I hear the door open behind me. Mrs Sims is standing on the doorstep, holding by the hand the small boy that Margie was playing with yesterday. I lift Sophia and her bag out of the car and smile as I walk towards the childminder. She smiles back, but she’s looking worried.