by Peter Watson
‘But he’ll come back. And –’
‘Don’t think about that now. I think we should move away from the river, don’t you? It’s bad luck. I’ve made a path through the nettles. Come on.’
Gently, he took her hand and led her into the meadow. They were both shivering badly now. ‘I see some roofs over there.’ Michael pointed. ‘Let’s hope the natives are friendly. I think we’re safe from Grainger for a while.’
There was still no sign of anyone else. It had now gone seven and the day was no longer as warm as it had been. Michael made Isobel hurry as much as she could, even though they were both racked with exhaustion, and Michael had no shoes. The meadow was pitted with thistles, spiky branches and half-hidden stones. In no time, Michael’s feet were bleeding. When they came to the gate, things did not improve. The lane beyond was made up of rough stones that helped a tractor’s tyres but still bit into Michael’s feet. Worse, when they came to them, the roofs turned out to be cowsheds and a barn. There was not a human soul in sight. More exhausted than ever, they were forced to trudge on up the farm track towards the road. Their clothes clung to them as if they had been vacuum-packed to their skin and their joints felt cold and stiff. They walked awkwardly, like robots, their clothes squelching in time to their steps.
After another ten minutes they came to the tarmac road and Michael could tread more easily. There were no signs but instinctively they both turned left, towards Dorchester and away from Grainger. A car passed them going in the same direction. Michael waved at it and the driver, a woman, slowed, but as soon as she saw their appearance close up she accelerated hard and was soon out of sight.
Isobel was still shaking, still in shock. Her mind was still focused on the moment when Grainger hurled the boat-hook at her. Michael gripped her arm to guide her along the road.
After a few hundred yards, they reached a pine forest on the right. Young trees, straight and thin as boat-hooks, stretched upwards by the thousand. At the end of the trees they saw three or four houses. ‘Thank God!’ growled Michael.
Leaving Isobel at the gate, Michael tried the first house. He rang the bell. There was no reply. He knocked hard on the door. There was no reply. He tried again. Silence: the house was empty. Coming back down the path, however, he saw that he was being eyed from across the way by a large man who was just wheeling a bicycle down the path from the house opposite. Michael walked across to him.
‘We had an accident on the river,’ he said. ‘Our boat sank. As you can see, we need a place to dry off and to make a telephone call.’
The man inspected him hard. He looked at Isobel, still standing where Michael had left her. Her shaking seemed to convince him that Michael’s story was true, for he said, ‘Hmm. That river’s trouble. Flooded last year and drowned thirteen sheep. Missy there looks poorly.’ He leaned his bicycle against the hedge. ‘Come on.’ He walked back to the house, opened a side door and looked out through it. ‘This way.’
Michael had fetched Isobel from the far side of the road and they followed the man. The door led into a conservatory that had soaked up sun all day and was wonderfully warm. Immediately Michael felt his body respond. The man had some towels in his hand. ‘There’s a bathroom in there.’ He pointed into the house. ‘You can wear these if you like.’ He fetched two old raincoats from behind the door. ‘Better than nothing.’
‘You go first,’ said Michael to Isobel, gently shoving her inside the house. He turned back to the man. ‘You’re very kind. If I could just use your phone . . .?’
‘No . . . This has to be reported first. I’ll call Frank Hilton – he’s our local PC. He’ll know what to do. Then you can phone. Hang on here.’
While he was gone, Michael started to dab himself dry with the towel. He took off his shirt and squeezed the water out of it. The conservatory was doing a wonderful job of reviving him. Michael had not been a direct target of Grainger, as Isobel had, and so his reaction to their ordeal was not as extreme. The image of her shaking, out there in the road, flashed into his mind. Her shoulders, her lips, her chin . . . tiny, rapid tremors. It brought back for him the vibrations he had felt in the water as Grainger had reversed towards them, the propeller of his launch twisting the water into white fury. Michael tried to think ahead but couldn’t. All he was aware of was that Grainger’s violence was getting worse. Money, big money, even the prospect of it, did that to some people, though he had never come across it personally before. Grainger’s viciousness gave him only one piece of comfort. They must be very close to the end, very close indeed.
The man returned before Isobel. He had a bottle with him, and some glasses. ‘Frank’s coming right over. Five minutes. Here, you’ll need this.’
Michael smiled as the welcome whisky was splashed into a glass. He swallowed hard and felt the familiar itch as the firewater warmed his insides, matching the effects of the conservatory on the outside.
‘I’ll show you to the phone.’
Michael followed the man, taking the glass with him. He found the number of The Yeoman in Dorchester in a book beside the telephone and called the hotel. Yes, they remembered him from before and, yes, they had two rooms. He sighed and finished his whisky as he put down the receiver. He could sort out everything else from there.
Isobel reappeared. She wasn’t shaking so much now, but she wasn’t recovered either. It was too soon for that. She accepted the whisky and sipped at it. The raincoat swamped her but at least it was dry and warm and, in a curious way, Michael thought it looked quite sexy. He didn’t say so, though, and went off to the bathroom to change himself.
While he was gone, he heard a car pull up outside: the policeman had arrived. When Michael returned to the conservatory it was to find the policeman writing down details of the ‘accident’.
Isobel spoke shakily, and scarcely above a whisper. As the constable was scribbling, she added, ‘We’re sorry to put you to this trouble. We were very foolish, trying to change places in midstream. Our own silly fault.’
Michael stared at her. What was this? But Isobel swallowed some whisky, glaring back at Michael over her glass, a fierce expression that dared him to contradict her.
The constable finished writing and looked up. ‘So there was no one else in this . . . skiff . . . with you?’
They both shook their heads. That was true, as far as it went.
‘And did the boat sink?’
‘Most of it,’ said Michael. ‘Bits and pieces floated away.’
‘Did anyone else see the accident?’
Again Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, we scrambled ashore along an overhanging tree. We weren’t looking out for spectators.’
‘What else did you lose? Personal things?’
‘I had to take my jacket off. My wallet, credit cards, pen, cheque-book, were all inside. I took my shoes off too.’
The constable continued writing in his book. ‘How did you get here?’
‘We walked. Up a track, past some cowsheds, then along the road by the pine wood. A woman in a car saw us, but didn’t stop. Can’t say I blame her.’
More scribbling in the book. Then the policeman closed it and put it away in a pocket.
‘If it’s all right with you, sir, I think I’ll drive you into Dorchester. Just to make sure all this has a tidy ending.’
‘Fine,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t know what my credit is like at The Yeoman but, if they will allow me, I’ll give you a bottle of whisky to bring back for this gentleman here.’
‘This way, then,’ said the constable.
Michael gathered up their wet clothes. He thanked the man whose house they had used and shook his hand. ‘We’ll need the raincoats as far as Dorchester. But the constable here can bring them back.’
The man nodded and they all got into the police car. The constable thoughtfully put the heater on so that the drive to Dorchester was both speedy and comfortable.
At The Yeoman, there was a certain curiosity about a couple who arrived wear
ing raincoats, and nothing else, but the receptionist recognised them, the hotel records confirmed the names and addresses which they had given to the policeman, so he was reassured. He said that next morning he would inspect the river near where the accident had taken place, just for form’s sake. Then he added, ‘How are you going to get home from here?’ asked the policeman.
‘With difficulty,’ said Michael. ‘I left my car near the boatyard, but my car keys were in my jacket. Isobel’s handbag is locked in the car. And it’s Sunday tomorrow.’
‘If you have any problems, give me a ring.’ The policeman handed Michael a card with a phone number on it. ‘You’ll probably have to ring your bank on Monday and they may need some convincing. They may trust me.’
Michael thanked the constable, gave him the whisky for the man whose house they had used, and then he and Isobel were shown upstairs. The hotel staff provided two towelling dressing-gowns and took away their wet things, promising to have them cleaned and pressed by the next morning.
They both took lingering baths, then climbed back into their towelling robes. Not having proper clothes, they could not eat in the dining-room. Dinner, plus the whisky and wine which Michael ordered, was brought up to them. They ate it in Isobel’s room. Michael swallowed ravenously, though Isobel only picked at hers.
As soon as she had eaten enough, she asked him to turn his back. She slipped out of the bathrobe and got into bed. It was not yet eleven o’clock.
Michael sat drinking his whisky. ‘Isobel?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Today wasn’t pleasant. We could stop now. We should stop now. We should have told that policeman about Grainger. Why didn’t you?’
She was lying on her side, her back to him. She pulled the sheets and blankets about her. ‘Get into bed.’
He hesitated, unsure what to do.
‘Get in. I’m cold.’
He took off his dressing-gown, put his whisky on the table at the side of the bed and slipped between the sheets. Isobel was indeed very cold. She pulled his arm around her, until his body cupped hers.
After a few minutes she said, ‘Put out the lights, please. Then come back.’
Michael finished his whisky and switched out the bedside lamps. Then he put his arm around Isobel again. When they had settled, and their breathing was regular, Isobel whispered, ‘Michael, I was scared today. Terrified. Terrified like I’ve never been before.’
As best he could, with one arm, Michael gave her a hug. Their bodies pressed together. Isobel was now not so cold. He was aware of the smell of soap on her skin.
‘I really did think, when I was floundering in that river, that . . . that he was going to kill me. I even imagined what it would feel like to have a boat-hook in your chest –’
Her body jerked involuntarily as the memory came back, and Michael tried another hug.
‘All the time I was in Beirut, I was never as frightened as today. Not in Nicaragua, the Philippines, Afghanistan. What got into Grainger?’
Michael, who had never had any ambition to see war, secretly thought he lacked the qualifications to comfort Isobel. His sister Robyn would be better; at least she had been to unusual places. Instinctively, he spoke softly and slowly, trying to reassure Isobel as much by his tone as his words. ‘That’s the wrong way to look at it. We don’t know him and, obviously, he’s a very violent man. Several million pounds are quite enough to make even the wisest owls cuckoo. He had several million pounds of cordite in him today. He was Megaton-mad.’
For a moment they lay quietly in the dark. Not that the room was very dark once their eyes became adjusted. Amber light from the streetlamps outside streamed around the edges of the curtains. Michael didn’t so much kiss Isobel’s shoulder as press his face into it.
Then Isobel said, ‘I’ve never known any really violent people. I mean, when you are a journalist and you go to places where there is a lot of political violence, you see the end results, the damage, the bodies, the blood. But you hardly ever see the people who do all that. When you meet the terrorists, you meet the leaders, people who may condone bloodshed but don’t exactly set off the bombs themselves. There must be a difference, too, between killing people at a distance with a bomb or gun and . . . well, like today.’
She paused, and Michael gave her another one-armed hug.
‘To kill someone, to stab them, close to, in the countryside, on a summer’s day, in England . . . disregarding the consequences . . . have you ever met anyone like that, Michael?’
Michael thought back. ‘No, not personally. But Greg has. When he was younger he was in one of those crack army units – you know, all parachuting and unarmed combat. He talked about it once. The most remarkable thing he said, the thing I remember most, was that violent people often have a remarkably good grasp of the psychological aspects of rough stuff. He said, for instance, that even quite stupid people, when they get into a brawl, will not spend any time arguing. They hit the other person straight away and as hard as possible. Violence is so rare in most people’s lives that when it happens to them their first reaction is surprise. They can’t believe that it’s happening and that it’s happening to them. By the time they do, it’s too late.’
‘Yes, I can understand that. But what makes people erupt, like Grainger did today? What makes some people violent in the first place?’
‘Genes? Drink? Then again some people seem to have violence bottled up inside them. Maybe Grainger’s like that. Don’t forget what happened to him at Oxford. It must have made him very bitter and angry and it’s been slowly coming out. He broke into your house but didn’t do much damage. He damaged the boot of my car. Then he attacked Helen and knocked her studio about. Then today . . .’
He left it unsaid. He waited and then whispered, ‘Talking might soothe you tonight, Isobel. But Grainger isn’t far away, don’t forget. He’s probably in some other local hotel, just like us. We may be equally close now but he’s got the advantage of being vicious. We can’t fight fire with fire. We need the police.’
‘Damn him! He’s not going to win! If we told the police, it would be out of our hands. The police would take ages, just to ask questions. We’d have to tell them everything, about the picture and the missing things. We’d have to – or they wouldn’t understand Grainger’s motives. He’s a respectable academic, after all. Unless we tell them everything, they might easily not believe us. Yes, we were in the river – they’d believe that. But no one saw Grainger attack us.’ She sighed. ‘If we did make them believe us, then the police would have to broadcast the details to other police forces . . . Who knows what would happen then? They might alert the papers. The picture would be evidence . . . Lots of people would get to know what we know.’
‘Better than a repeat of today –’
‘No!’
Michael had felt Isobel’s body tense. Now it relaxed and she spoke more softly. ‘No. After today, Michael, after today especially, this is personal. Between him and us. I was forced to give up in Beirut, over Tony. Not this time. I want revenge.’
Michael felt Isobel tense again. ‘It frightened me, Michael. Grainger terrified me. But you don’t know me very well. I don’t give up. I stayed in Beirut, remember? No, we’re going to catch Grainger and then overtake him. We know now what a vicious reptile we are dealing with. There’ll be no replay of today. I can be a reptile too.’
In the shadows Michael smiled. What sort of reptile did Isobel imagine she was? But at least it meant that her spirits were reviving. Again he tightened his arm around her. ‘This is my anaconda hug.’
She groaned in pleasure and took hold of his hand. She moved it back. ‘Ever since I was young, I’ve loved having my back stroked. It’s so soothing. I need soothing now.’
He pushed back the sheet, revealing the smooth sweep of her back, all the way down to the top of her buttocks. He touched her skin. He moved the tips of his fingers up the line of her backbone, across her shoulders and down to her waist. He scored a fingernail back up her sp
ine. Around the base of her neck, he softly massaged the tops of her shoulders. Then all the way down again.
‘Mmmm.’
She manoeuvred on to her front so that he could stroke more of her back. He traced arabesques with his fingertips, lozenges, figures of eight, loops, parabolas, swans’ necks.
‘Mmmm. We can’t stop now.’
‘If you feel sure. I don’t think Grainger will have done any more searching tonight. You can’t dig in the dark but he’ll be at the castle at first light tomorrow. We won’t – there’s no way we can be. We’ve no money, hardly any clothes, no car until I find a key that fits. All that will take two or three hours to fix at the very least. So the reptile might still win – but, yes, I agree that we can’t stop now. It’s a risk, not bringing in the police – but I suppose I’m glad you feel that way too.’
She twisted her head and looked at him, then reached over her shoulder and grasped his fingers as they brushed her neck. ‘Michael,’ she said, kissing the tips of his fingers. ‘When I said we can’t stop now, I wasn’t, actually, thinking of Grainger.’
Chapter Twelve
At breakfast Michael again raised the question of whether they should proceed. Isobel’s lovemaking had been tentative at first but, in response to Michael’s stroking, the shapes he continued to draw, deeper down her body, barely touching the skin, she had grown more and more demonstrative. So responsive he was distressed that her release, when it came, turned quickly into a sob – stifled, but unmistakably despairing. He had not said anything but had lain in the amber light with his arms around Isobel as she cried and cried. He felt the warm, sticky tears fall into the crook of his elbow until they both fell asleep.
Michael kissed her awake before phoning down for breakfast but she did not move until the tray was brought into the room.
‘Coffee,’ Michael said, putting the cup down on the table at the side of the bed. ‘Eggs, tomatoes, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, toast . . . Eat it all – you need nourishing . . .’ He spoke more softly. ‘I’m sorry you were so upset last night . . . but it was natural.’
