The Consequence of Love

by Sandra Howard

  He should have told Nattie just to go, drive home. Shit, why hadn’t he thought of that? He could have got to a train station, a police station.

  If he made it to the car he’d tell her to drive on. But suppose she argued? Suppose he didn’t make it? The alley actually came out into the car park. He couldn’t believe his luck. He weaved in between the parked cars, ducked under the exit bar and pounded down the short steep lane that led to the main road out of Lyme.

  Nattie was there with the car, but a policeman was too, beside the driver’s window. Ahmed panicked, trying to imagine explaining to a local copper who was sure to think it an excuse. Shit, would it mean Nattie being seen by the guy chasing? Was he hard behind? Would she have time to duck down unseen?

  Racing up to the policeman, he prayed for a lucky break. Nattie was waiting on double red lines. ‘Terribly sorry, Officer,’ he panted, trying to regain some breath.

  ‘I was just explaining that you’d left something behind,’ Nattie said, taking the chance to drop a hint. She was keeping well within the car. Ahmed raised his scrunched-up carrier in confirmation and pleaded with the copper. They’d had their children to collect, been in such a tearing hurry . . .

  ‘So your good wife has been saying. I’ll let you off this time, just this once.’

  Ahmed thanked him excessively. Glancing back, he saw the copper approach a small white van that had drawn up at a discreet distance behind. He could see the two guys in it; one must have gone for the van. Ahmed memorised the numberplate. He willed the policeman to detain the men for a vital few minutes while Nattie ducked down. He opened the driver’s door; she’d already climbed over, she was crouched down in the floorspace, passenger side, and he threw the car into gear. Roaring off, he saw the van doing the same, following, leaving the policeman standing. Would he put the word out? Get the van stopped? But that would take time. It was a wishful thought, Ahmed knew.

  He was thinking fast while concentrating on speeding through the outskirts of town. The van would be souped-up. He knew about cars, with his father a minicab driver, knew all the wheezes. ‘I’m stepping on it, Nattie, but I’m a good driver. Try not to worry, just stay down out of sight.’

  He shot through a traffic light on amber, the van followed on red. He put his foot down, eyes skinned for any child running out between parked cars. He drove faster still on the open road, overtaking on bends, taking crazy risks. The Mazda was up to it, hugging the bends.

  He swung right and left with no warning, back onto the main road. He tried to drive in circles, feeling the closer he stayed to Lyme, the more chance of the van being spotted – assuming the policeman had put out the word.

  Was the van closing the gap? Shit, shit. He had to get Nattie out of this somehow, somewhere safe while he shook them off; he had to. He saw a big garage in the distance. It would have a shop, a wide turning area. If he went to a pump and Nattie raced out . . .

  ‘I’m turning into a garage,’ he said.

  ‘But we filled up in Sidmouth – surely you shouldn’t stop?’

  ‘I’m going to a pump, not for petrol, for you to race out and into the shop. Call William, give him the van number, GK10TWL. Tell him to contact MI5 – he’ll know how – and say they’re after me. Wait in the shop and I’ll be back or in contact. Call William again if there’s no sign of me in half an hour – but I’ll make it somehow. Go, darling. Now!’

  She tumbled out and was in the shop with its shoppers and till queues, just as the van turned into the forecourt. Ahmed breathed out; her safety was all. The van drew up hard behind, expecting him to need to fill up, he hoped. He saw the man he recognised open the passenger door – preparing to come and discreetly slip a knife into his heart at the pump? Ahmed tried to time it right, waiting till the guy was out of the car before revving hard, swinging the car full circle in the turning area, and shooting off in the opposite direction.

  The van was following, catching up. It would have a small tank. How long before it spluttered and lost speed? Hours? He was on the road back to Sidmouth. If he could make it to the hotel where he was known, he could order a car to pick up Nattie, take her to a station. Ten miles to Sidmouth – not many minutes, the speed he was going. He overtook a lorry on the brow of a hill. The driver flashed furiously and leaned out of his cabin shaking his fist. ‘Fuck you! Fucking lunatic!’

  The van overtook the lorry too. There was a great screeching of brakes, but it still kept following. They were on an open stretch. Was the van gaining on him?

  Then it happened. Ahmed heard the bang. A miracle, too good to be believed; the van had burst a tyre. He saw it slew off the road, braking at such speed, and nosedive into a ditch.

  He punched the air and set course for the garage, calling Nattie on the way. He’d done it, shaken them off, and without even a scratch on Jake’s precious car.

  Nattie felt in a state of nerves on the way back to London, however positive Ahmed was being and jollying her along. He’d been dicing with death and his calmness after such an experience left her in awe. His nerves were steel; he’d protected her, yet she was the one still in shock and wobbly. She was fearful of the chance of a miscarriage too, which would break both their hearts. To be having his baby was a wondrous longed-for dream, but she worried guiltily how it could have happened.

  Had she got in a muddle, forgotten to take the pill? She’d had two cards on the go, stupidly, and hadn’t been faithfully following the dates. But had that in fact been a kind of subconscious deliberate accident on her part? She genuinely didn’t know. Ahmed hadn’t asked questions, simply assumed it was an accident, she believed, the fates working in mysterious wondrous ways.

  His reaction was her greatest joy, yet it threw what they’d just been through into even sharper focus. He couldn’t stay in the country much longer now; they both knew that. And she knew it was time for some serious decision-taking.

  As they reached the Chiswick roundabout he turned with a smile. ‘Looks like we’ll be in plenty of time for you to pick up the Ford and get to Queen’s Park. You’ll be there before Hugo’s back from Oxford. That’s not bad going, all things considered!’

  29

  Lily’s Birthday Party

  Hugo was on the A40, nearing London. He arched back his shoulders, impatient to be home and feeling badly in need of a drink. After the immense stress of the weekend, his parents’ infuriating questions and sighs, he wanted to get home. He felt mentally and physically wiped. The children had worn him out too, but that was just from giving his all when every whoop and grin cracked the mask. His hands had been twitching, he gagged on the smell of the nappies, failed to put the lid of Thomas’s spouted mug back on properly while he was feeding him.

  ‘Not far now,’ he called back behind him. ‘I think Mummy’s there already.’ He’d glanced at her text at a traffic light. ‘She says she’s fine waiting, though.’

  No response. Lily was bored and grumpy and Thomas was asleep.

  It had been impossible to get away with two of his aunts coming to lunch, inquisitive, smothering him with sympathy and cooing over Lily and Thomas. He’d been saved from too many prying questions with the children there, had quite enough of those from his mother, but lunch had taken an age and with all the sidelong commiserating looks he’d almost lost it and let out a few expletives.

  He drummed his fingers at another red light, still sore about his mother’s inquisition. She hadn’t been sympathetic like his aunts, no chance; she’d even tried to suggest he was to blame in some way, which was rich. She was never prepared to give him the benefit, always instantly assuming he was the one at fault.

  ‘I just can’t believe Nattie would walk out like that for no real reason, Hugo dear. You must have done something to upset her. She’s such a good, kind, sensible girl. Some long-ago boyfriend coming back from abroad, she might want to see him and catch up, but to take the children and go? It doesn’t make sense.’

  The way she’d hesitated then, looking a bit uncomfortable. �
�There hasn’t been a girl, has there, Hugo? You haven’t had an affair?’ God, her look of shock, horror at the very idea, he’d had a job not to crack up.

  Fucking typical of her all the same. Any truly caring parent would have instinctively taken his side. Why couldn’t his parents accept that he was no great achiever and simply love him for what he was? Where was the warmth and spontaneity? He’d never felt more alone and loveless in his life.

  Dad at least had been a bit more even-handed. ‘It is only a trial separation, you say? I’m sure she’ll be back. Stick it out, I would, stiff upper lip and all that.’ What did his father know? ‘Would you like your mother to talk to her? Tell her the state you’re in?’ Adam had seen the expression on his son’s face, he’d let that drop. ‘But for Christ’s sake, Hugo, ease up on the bottle. All that wine and you’ve been at the whisky too, I see. I know this is home, but you could still ask. Take my advice. It’s not going to solve anything and it’s highly irresponsible too when you’re on duty with the children all weekend.’

  Hugo gave a sarcastic sniff. He’d hardly had a drop all weekend; it was surprising his father hadn’t locked away the whisky in the safe. He shifted tiredly in his seat, thinking ironically of how desperate he was for a stiff drink.

  He wondered about his mother talking to Nattie; it had its attractions. Nattie deserved to be put through it, much as he cringed to imagine the conversation. Nattie would say charmingly it was only a trial separation, though, and for all the embarrassment it would achieve nothing. She knew the state he was in; she’d caused it.

  ‘I need to do a wee wee badly, Daddy. Can we stop?’

  ‘We’re only minutes from home. Can you hang on, Lily, there’s a good love. Count the days till your party!’ He turned to smile and nearly crashed into the car in front. Jamming on the brakes woke up Thomas who started to wail, more loudly by the minute. Hugo tried every cajoling ruse to calm him. The last thing he wanted was Thomas bawling away when they arrived. Nattie would think he hadn’t stopped crying since the handover at the school gates.

  He turned the corner into the street. ‘We’re there, Lily, we’ll have you inside in no time.’ He saw the blue Ford parked outside the house, pretty basic as cars went – Ahmed wasn’t making a statement. Was he pushed for cash? Hugo felt mildly cheered by the thought, though Nattie had never been motivated by money.

  At that moment, Nattie got out of the car and smiled in his direction, brushing back her hair as the wind caught it. He loved her hair, its sweet-smelling softness, the sensuous feel of it against his cheek when her head rested on his shoulder, when she leaned over his body, hair grazing his stomach . . . it set every nerve in his body alight. And that smile, it was teasing, questioning, sexy, savvy – he’d never known anyone whose smile so exposed the person they were. And it was always focused; she knew how to direct it.

  She waited while he parked and opened the car door for Lily, who raced along the pavement to the house. ‘She’s bursting for a pee. Can you get Thomas out while I let her in? You needn’t have waited in the car like that,’ he complained. ‘You’ve got a key.’

  He opened up for Lily and Nattie soon appeared on the doorstep with Thomas who was still grizzling, despite his father’s best efforts. Nattie was carrying him, coaxing him into good humour. ‘Who’s just woken up then, grumpy old thing! It’s nearly your bedtime. You can go back to sleep again just as soon as we’re home.’

  They were bloody home. Hugo fastened his eyes on her, but she set Thomas down and avoided eye contact. ‘I’ll leave him with you for a mo, if that’s okay, while I transfer over the kit from your car. Then we must scoot off. It’s quite late.’

  Not his car, their car, he wanted to scream at her as he took Thomas’s hand, their house, their home. Lily shot past him, still hitching up her pants. ‘Hands,’ he yelled angrily. ‘You come back here!’ She only wanted to run to Nattie and be gone, back to being influenced and indoctrinated by a thieving interloper, slipping off the noose of his love for her, his precious, beautiful child.

  Hugo held her up to reach the tap; she splashed water and raced off without drying her hands. ‘I want to ask about Moppet,’ she yelled back, as he picked up Thomas and went after her, catching up in time to hear her eager questions. ‘Is he all right, Mummy? Did you leave him lots to eat when you and Dan were at the seaside?’

  ‘Lots! He’s fine; we’ve been home and his little gold eyes were shining brightly in the dark. We really must go now. School tomorrow. Give Daddy a big goodbye hug.’

  Hugo squatted down to Lily’s level feeling searing jealousy. Nattie had told him she’d be away, a weekend in the West Country, she’d said, but he’d somehow assumed she was going to see her old friend from university who lived in Exeter. To think of her snuggled up with Ahmed in some seaside resort, a romantic, lovey-dovey weekend . . . It was too much to bear. God, he needed that drink.

  Lily flinging her arms round his neck and planting a kiss was reassuring. She smelled hot and peachy. His heart was breaking in two. ‘Only six sleeps till your party,’ he said, smoothing her hair.

  ‘My party, my party,’ she chanted, climbing into the car. ‘Bye, Daddy, bye, bye!’

  He waved after the car, went back indoors and poured himself half a tumbler of neat Scotch. He could do with a joint, he decided – anything to help with the hell of an empty house. Drink and dope were a good combo, relaxing taken together; Shelby’s stuff was too high-concentrate without the slowing-up effects of the booze. Concentrated dope was too trippy – and what was the use of feeling hyped, alone in the house?

  It was one thing to smoke it with Shelby, easier to pace himself and keep count of the joints. But too much at that potency on top of his black depression and he’d end up with a full-blown paranoia.

  Would Shelby show up later? He’d said he would. It would depend on his sex life, probably, who he was seeing, who needed buttering up. Sex for Shelby had to be dual-purpose, a means to an end, pulling pretty girls who opened doors. Hugo wondered at him, being back dealing again, amazed he’d take the risk; mad, dangerous and bad. Shelby had brushed all that aside, saying with that sly appealing grin of his that he knew the scene – all the more so now – who to avoid, how to keep clear of the fuzz. He was only spreading a little pleasure, bringing people together, facilitating and taking a tiny cut.

  Spreading a little pleasure. Hugo sighed. It was a whole lot more than that, it was a symphony in bloody space. He wasn’t going there again, he’d told Shelby; he had two children and it was almost ten years on, he was old enough to know better. A bit of dope was one thing, he could handle Shelby selling him that, and liked the excuse to have the guy back in his life. They got on. Shelby manned him up, made him feel less of a fucking useless, wifeless wimp.

  He quite enjoyed how opposite they were, Shelby with his nimble footwork, charming his way out of scrapes, the daredevil risk-taker; he had all the chutzpah and cheek that Hugo lacked. And Shelby hadn’t saddled himself with two children and the millstone of being achingly in love with his wife. Hugo reached for the bottle. He would hold off a while with the spliff, see if Shelby showed up.

  He sipped neat whisky, wallowing in misery and an immense sense of impotence while the mobile in his pocket burned a hole. Amber was waiting on a call. She was a bearable weekday fuck, a release of a sort, but it wasn’t the night. After the stress of a weekend with his parents, seeing Nattie, handing back the children, all the pain, Amber would grate on his nerves like nails on a blackboard. He owed her a call, though; it had to be done.

  ‘Hi! How’re you doing? Mother okay? I hope you don’t mind if I duck out tonight, make it tomorrow instead? My old mate Shelby is threatening to show and I’m pretty bushed, to be honest.’

  ‘Hardly surprising after the weekend you’ve had. Tomorrow it is then, lover-boy, and you could bring some of that weed. We’ll need a cheer-up if we haven’t won through with Bosphor. We should hear this week, they’ve taken long enough!’ She laughed, that loud, consta
nt, jarring laugh of hers.

  ‘See you tomorrow then,’ he said, clicking off before she could prolong things. She was coming on too heavy, acting like she owned him, being excruciating in the office. He’d leaned on her, though, she’d helped him to survive, fuck it, and now he was paying the price. How in hell was he going to find a way out?

  If they didn’t get that Bosphor account he’d be toast. Winning mattered to Brady, it had got him where he was. He was a sophisticated player, he had the ideas, the breadth of vision. He’d built up Tyler Consulting, persuading clients that perceptions were real, and created an aura of being simply the best. Others had talent and ideas, but it was Brady’s will to win that put him out front.

  Hugo heard the ting of a text and glanced down. Shelby was minutes away.

  He came in bearing a hulking great pizza in a box, which wasn’t Hugo’s favourite food and was oozing oil through the cardboard. ‘I’m starving,’ Shelby announced, ‘not sure if I can share it with you. It’s sex that does it. I’m always famished after sex. Swimming too.’

  Hugo snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you potter along to your local baths. When was the last time you went swimming?’

  ‘I had a nice little dip only last week as it happens – in the Bahamas.’

  ‘How’d you swing that? Tell me in a minute. Come into the kitchen first. That box is dripping all over. Wine? Vodka?’

  ‘Vodka tonic, ice and lemon. You’d better have some pizza, you look like no food has passed your pining lips in weeks.’

  ‘Not sure I run to lemons.’ Hugo went to the fridge. The only lemon was furry and blue with mould. How long had it been in the salad drawer? Two months? He held it up. Shelby flipped the swing-bin lid and he aimed it in. Shelby, he could see now, had an expensive-looking tan, quite the gigolo dandy in his uniform black jeans and black sweater. Easy to see why the girls fell for him with those Irish blue eyes and glossy jet-black hair. Ahmed, Shelby, Nattie went for dark brooding looks. Perhaps, Hugo felt, he could have solved all his problems by dyeing his hair.