Her world. A world in which pain was transformed, blotted out. Smack. Where the mind was released to roam free. Smack, Where every flower became a needle and every needle, salvation. Smack. Every vein a river of release and every breath a demand for more, where the hours could be stopped so that time no longer bore down like the lash of thorns.
Smack. Smack.
Where twisted love and memories dark were drowned in numbness. Smack. Where the hate for her father could be transformed into love of all mankind, where tears would be dried and agony end. Smack. Smack. Where she could reach out and be gathered in the gentle arms of a mother so cruelly torn away and regain a childhood so abruptly destroyed.
Smack.
Where nothing, nothing, not life nor death nor time nor Judgement Day nor her father, particularly not her father, would matter ever again.
Smack. Smack. Smack-smack-smack.
‘I don’t want you to go, Izzy. Not without me.’
They were sitting in the American Bar of The Stafford beneath its cross-Atlantic memorabilia, a thematic mayhem of ties, baseball caps, pennants, helmets and stag horns which hung down from the ceiling like ripe grapes from a vine. She had sought refuge in the corner beneath the framed aircraft carriers, feeling in distinct need of a drink – no more than a glass of Chablis, she would need her wits, though it had dawned on her that he never drank alcohol.
‘You know I can’t take you, Daniel. My husband’s supposed to be sewing mail bags somewhere the other side of the Rockies.’
‘But you don’t know what you’re taking on.’
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ she muttered. Too good an idea, she thought.
‘He’s a Coroner. A man of importance. Of power. He’ll fight ruthlessly if he thinks his position is threatened.’
‘But it’s more than that, isn’t it?’ she responded quietly. ‘I’ve been wondering why on earth a Coroner would get involved in an adoption scam. OK, it seems pretty safe. You run the system yourself, it relies on subjective judgements about suitable parents so you can always be seen to be playing within the written rules.’
‘What if people start asking questions?’
‘Who’s to ask? The kids aren’t in a position to complain. And who would doubt the integrity of the local Coroner? The facade is so drenched in respectability it’s practically perfect. But it’s more than that, has to be. So I’ve been putting two and two together, and it comes out in six figures.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Remember what the nuns at the Mission told us? Maybe twenty babies a year. Say only half of them, less than one a month, were involved in his scam. At twenty-five grand a time. That’s a quarter of a million pounds passing through his fat hands, tax free. A nice little earner, wouldn’t you say?’ She leaned forward. ‘That’s why we have to do this right.’
Her action in bending forward had served only to remind him of his other feelings for her. He looked wistfully into his Virgin Mary. ‘You look stunning. I wish you could stay.’
She had taken considerable care. An hour in the hair salon trying to regain some of the lost style, another hour soaking in suds and highlighting eyes, a dress of bright green which complemented her eyes and was supported by the thinnest straps that left no need to guess at the flawless skin of her shoulders and tops of her breasts, decorated with a trailing scarf of embroidered silk. She was down to a size eight again, cradle fat vanished, melted in the ferocious heat of her pain and fears. She looked good, her best, for Fauld, and hated herself.
‘Why is it,’ he said in a voice soaked in Irish charm, ‘that I want so much to tear every shred of clothing off your body?’
‘What’s the matter, you don’t like the dress?’
‘On a hanger, perhaps.’
‘Trouble is, Danny Blackheart, I know you say that to all the girls.’
‘True, very true,’ he grinned, ‘but I don’t go falling in love with them all, now, do I?’
‘I’m sure you only want me for my money.’
‘You know, my family used to have a lot of money, least by Blackheart Bay standards. Lost it all, so long ago that no one can truly remember why. But my dear mother used to tell me, beware of wealthy women. Their money can disappear, along with their looks. Then you’re left with nothing but misery and might-have-beens. So she told me to stick to women who make you laugh, with their clothes on or off.’ He winked. ‘I don’t know yet what makes you laugh, Izzy, but I’d like to learn. On or off.’
‘I don’t know if I shall ever be able to love you the way you want me to.’
‘I’m a gambler, I’ll take the risk. But if you pick me up, be careful. Don’t ever drop me. If I slip from your hands I’ll probably shatter. I’m a terrible Humpty Dumpty when it comes to emotions, and there are already far too many cracks in my shell. Another tumble and you’d better call for the omelette oil.’
There it was, the bruising again. Even though covered with a wry smile the words weren’t idle. Unhealed wounds. But from where? Of what sort?
‘I know so very little about you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been taking you for granted, haven’t I? Forgive me.’
‘Forgiven. You’ve enough problems, I don’t want to add to them. Just treat me gently.’
‘Even as you tear the clothes from my body?’
‘Especially then.’
‘Soon, Daniel, we’ll have the time for each other. The maiden and the Irish buccaneer, a voyage of discovery. I’d like that very much.’ And meant it.
He raised his tomato juice.
‘Fair winds, Izzy.’
The foyer was crowded. Airline crew and piles of leather baggage. A Japanese businessman gesticulating at two bored women, over-dressed and under-age, chewing gum. A fat St Nicholas leading a small choir of siliconized reindeer women whose dress struck a peculiarly unbiblical note. Scatterings of artificial snow. Christmas spirit laid on with a plastic trowel.
He was there, waiting for her, wrapped in smiles and a well-cut mohair suit. As he advanced to greet her the eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were like magnets, clinging tenaciously to her breasts. They never made her ankles, nor her own eyes until he was almost beside her. In spite of the hotel’s extravagant overheating, she shivered.
He offered banal compliments and a strong trace of men’s perfume, leading her by the arm through the confusion of revellers and scurrying concierge staff, away from the protection of numbers, into the lift. The crush forced them closer together, the difficulties and doubts crowding in, corrupting her confidence; already she felt dirty, soiled by association and the simple act of standing next to this man. Yet each passing floor, she reminded herself, led closer to Paulette, to Bella. She hoped.
They were not headed for the rooftop restaurant as she supposed; at the twenty-third floor he led her out and produced a key.
‘I have retained a suite,’ he explained. ‘More privacy.’
Of course.
The view was spectacular, overlooking Buckingham Palace, the Royal Standard snapping in the glow of floodlights while the brake lights of London’s nightlife danced around the Palace perimeter like a river of volcanic fire. The elevated panorama distorted perspectives, reducing the world they had just left to pygmy proportions, its associations and laws shrunken, discarded. He had chosen the territory where the gods peer down from the clouds and mock. Hunting territory.
He took her coat and she could feel him pause, ponder, his breath upon her shoulder; she felt her skin quiver. A table was set for two in the bay of the window. She knew what he wanted, but not when: before, after eating? Both perhaps?
He opened champagne and spilled it, standing above her to serve and gaze down upon the curves of her body.
It had started with the hors d’oeuvres. He had probed and she had revealed the pieces of her carefully prepared story, like Penelope weaving her tapestry, deceiving, for love, and he had made encouraging noises while rejecting all attempts by her to discover more about his own operati
ons. To her every question he responded by pouring more wine. ‘You are the adoptive parent, not me. I am of no interest.’ But he drank deeply, his temples beginning to glow, intently, and small pieces of his resistance flaked away like scales from a rotting fish. She discovered he was unmarried, had never been married, parents ardent Baptists, hence Gideon. Hints of an overly starched childhood. Two years of his twenties in Riyadh as the contracts executive for a Saudi ports project. Constant reference to his physical pursuits, most of which seemed to be dated, hints that he was/had been a marathon man. Undue emphasis on his stamina. Innuendo. He was turning out to be a slug.
He poured and drank, and his eyes grew more bloodshot as the evening progressed, the high forehead beginning to melt, a line of sweat appearing above his upper lip. The carefully trimmed hair was starting to dampen and sag, the fires stoking inside. He opened a third bottle but she declined, covering the crystal with her hand.
‘Enough. I must keep sufficient wits to finish your questions before I have any more to drink,’ she insisted.
‘Questions? I think I’m done. You’ve told me all I need to know, Fiona.’
‘And do I pass? Will you be able to help me?’
His tongue seemed to have thickened, getting in the way of some of his words. ‘I believe I can. On certain conditions.’
‘A baby? New born, no more than six months. That’s possible?’
‘Difficult. Easier with an older child. But possible.’
‘How soon?’
He chuckled defensively. ‘You’re remorseless.’
‘No. Determined. As you know.’
‘I’ll have to make some enquiries. Let you know.’
‘Look, for twenty-five grand I don’t expect to be kept hanging around London like a call-girl on a street corner. Babies don’t suddenly appear with the stork, they arrive pretty much when expected. So I’m asking. When is the next one expected?’
‘Feisty, I like that,’ he nodded. ‘But, my dear, you’re not the only parent looking to adopt such a child. There are others.’
‘You must have some idea,’ she protested.
He raised his hands. ‘I surrender, I surrender. Very well, let’s see if I can give you some idea.’ He rose and, feet floundering, walked unsteadily across the room to the bed, beside which he had laid a black document case. He fumbled inside and produced a wallet-sized object.
‘My little toy,’ he explained. ‘My travelling office. My world.’
It was a businessman’s electronic organizer.
‘Reminds me to pick up my clean shirts …’ he was mumbling.
And meetings, anniversaries, addresses. Contacts.
For the first time her spirits revived. A link to Paulette. Perhaps.
‘Mmmmm. Look, I can’t guarantee it,’ he muttered, ‘but I might be able to lay my hands on one in no more than … two months?’
She was mesmerized by the small plastic case he held. The sight of it refreshed her hopes, her mind floating across the room and attempting by sheer naked will-power to invade the organizer, to drag from it the information she needed, to open the door to Paulette. To avoid paying his price.
The jaws of the alligator snapped shut. He closed the organizer and placed it on the table beside the bed.
The bed. She knew – had always known – that the answers she sought would be found on or around his bed. She could prise loose the information she sought – from him, or from his organizer. Two chances, two doors waiting to be forced, both here, beside the bed. No painless route.
He returned to his seat. ‘Two months. If all goes well.’
‘I can get a baby? In two months?’
‘Oh, no. Not immediately. The baby must be under the care of the adoption agency and its local managers for at least ten weeks. For assessment and recommendations, you know the sort of thing.’
The local managers. Fauld. And, of course, Paulette.
‘And then?’
‘The papers go before the Fostering and Adoption Panel. A dozen or more people. Respectable. Upright. Honest.’ He leered. ‘So you understand that the paperwork must be in perfect order.’
‘What about the baby? And the mother?’
‘Good God, no. Do you really expect a meeting of the great and the good, of retired vicars and women in silly hats, to be disrupted by a bawling, incontinent child and overwrought parents? No, that’s for the adoption agency to deal with.’
‘And the panel trusts the advice of the agency? And its local managers?’
‘Wouldn’t be any point in having an adoption agency if it weren’t trusted, eh?’ He sank a long draught of wine. ‘So then we hand the baby over to the adoptive parents. Another three months, perhaps. More reports, paperwork. We must be very careful, you understand.’
He lusted at her, his eyes bathed in wine and mauling her body.
‘Then the Adoption Order is approved,’ he continued with thick tongue. ‘Court hearing in front of a local judge. On the recommendation of the adoption agency.’
An agency, she realized, run by a fellow member of the judiciary. Fauld and Paulette controlled the whole process. The paperwork. The reports and recommendations. The panel of the good and utterly gullible. Where the child went. The court hearing. Everything rubber-stamped. Above board. Beyond enquiry. Not that anyone would make enquiries.
With the identity of the child known to no one, except by means of paperwork. Just like the mortuary.
‘So you can let me have a baby!’
‘It’s … possible.’
‘What is this “possible” crap? You’ve just told me it’s possible.’
‘Trouble is, there’s a queue. Many people waiting. Others ahead of you.’
His red eyes slithered across her once more.
‘What would it take,’ she asked quietly, ‘to get right to the head of the line?’
He leaned across the table, getting closer to her. ‘My dear, you are asking me to take a tremendous risk. Not many people would accept your right to adopt a child, not in this country, at least. If a word of this leaked out I would be lost. Utterly lost.’
His whole face was aflame, fuelled with alcohol. She refilled his glass, hoping desperately that he might imbibe and simply expire, but his was a body practised in punishment and the wine was serving only to bring the first traces of feeling to his eyes. She did not care for what she saw.
‘You want me to take the most desperate personal risk for you,’ he continued. ‘In return I must insist you show me at least as much commitment, prove that this is not some mere whim …’ His sour breath stung her nostrils.
‘What is it you want?’
‘I have given my life to this work. Enabling women to attain fulfilment. Endless hours. A lonely life …’ His eyes were roving across her chest, his hands would soon follow. ‘I ask in return only a little comfort, a brief companionship. A few moments in exchange for what will be a lifetime of happiness with your new baby.’ His words came in breathless spasms; he had reached across to brush away the straps of her dress, knocking over the bottle as he did so, his clammy hand pawing down to her breast. ‘And with your husband so far away …’
Then he led her to the bed.
She did not protest, slipped off her shoes and dress and scarf while he ogled in a form of weird rapture. He was panting, tugging at his own clothes down to his underwear, his food-extended belly flopping absurdly downward, then he was tearing at her tights and all the rest until she was standing naked, trembling.
Her mind and soul were entombed in ice; she made no objection as he laid her on her back, grasping at her breasts and forcing her arms upwards above her head until her wrists rapped against the bedhead. Then he had her scarf, was tying her wrists, securing them to the bedhead with vicious knots that tightened still further as she struggled while he gazed down upon her, slavering, and pounced.
She did not resist, was unable to resist as his body lay across her like a great slab of whale flesh. He fell upon her like waves u
pon a shore, penetrating, withdrawing, to return again, and again, beating down upon her in a fury of wringing, sweat-soaked flesh which pounded incessantly until she thought he must certainly have expired. She had known what he would demand and what she must offer, had persuaded herself that it was a tiny price, a necessary price, for Bella, that he was claiming the most unimportant part of her body, and not her soul. She was a mature woman, no virgin, what did it matter?
It came as no consolation when she became aware that he was diminutive, minuscule. But as the pressure of his body forced its way relentlessly inside, so did the feelings of anger, of frustration, of rage that the world should conspire to rob her of the only part of her body that truly mattered, her children. Think only of Bella, she told herself in distraction, and suddenly she could see Bella again vividly in her mind’s eye, every detail, the curling hair, the bright eyes, the soft pursing of tiny lips, in front of her. She was reaching to meet the baby’s outstretched fingers, that satin touch of skin, together once more …
And then she was falling, uncontrollably, into the depths of an endless pit, tumbling over and over, with the image of Bella receding from her, falling away, vanishing, going. Was gone. Nothing.
From deep within Izzy let forth a long cry of fury and despair, a cry of pain that only a mother might know.
‘Pretty good, wasn’t I?’ His face poured sweat and self-congratulation just inches above her. ‘You seemed as if you really enjoyed it.’
‘Untie me,’ she whispered.
He leered at her before flicking at one cord until it was loose, leaving her to untie the other. ‘God, I need another drink,’ he exclaimed, rolling off her onto the side of the bed and modestly replacing his underwear. She groaned as the weight lifted from her body.
‘You were fine, really fine,’ he congratulated, slurping wine. ‘I was all right, too, wasn’t I? We’ll do it again in a minute. Something different this time.’
She forced a mouthful of wine past her lips to take away his taste. It failed. She tried to wipe away his sweat from her body with the back of her hand.
The Touch of Innocents Page 23
