The Skull Beneath the Skin

by P. D. James

  She raised herself and pressed with all her strength against the wood. She bent her head and strained against it with her shoulders. But it didn’t move. She knew that it wouldn’t. She was aware of Simon dragging himself up beside her, of his palms beating ineffectually against it. She couldn’t see him. The darkness was thick and heavy as a blanket, an almost palpable weight against her chest. She was only aware of his terrified moans, long drawn out and tremulous as the waiting sea, of the rank smell of his fear, of the harsh indrawing of his breath, of a thudding heart which could have been his or hers. She reached out for him with her hands. They moved in what was meant to be comfort over his wet face, knowing only by the warmth which of the drops were seawater and which were tears. She felt his trembling hands on her face, her eyes, her mouth. He said: “Is this death?”

  “Perhaps. But there’s still a chance. We can swim for it.”

  “I’d rather stay here and have you close to me. I don’t want to die alone.”

  “It’s better to die trying. And I won’t try without you.”

  He whispered: “I’ll try. When?”

  “Soon. While there’s still air enough. You go first. I’ll be behind you.”

  It was better for him that way. The first one through would have an easier passage, unhampered by the leader’s thrusting feet. And if he gave up there was the hope that she might have the strength to push him through. For a second she wondered how she would cope if the passage narrowed and his inert body blocked her escape. But she put the thought away from her. He was now less strong than she, weakened by cold and terror. He must go first. The water was now so high that only a fragile ribbon of light marked the exit. Its beam lay pale as milk on the dark surface. With the next wave that, too, would go and they would be trapped in utter darkness with nothing to point the way out. She tugged off her waterlogged jersey. They let go of the ladder, joined hands, and paddled to the middle of the cave where the roof was highest, then turned on their backs and gulped in their long last lungfuls of air. The rock face almost scraped Cordelia’s forehead. Water, cool and sweet, fell on her tongue like the last taste of life. She whispered, “Now!” and he let go of her hand without hesitation and slid under the surface. She took her final gulp of air, twisted and dived.

  She knew that she was swimming for her life, and that was almost all she knew. It had been a moment for action, not for thought, and she was unprepared for the darkness, the icy terror, the strength of the inflowing tide. She could hear nothing but a pounding in her ears, feel nothing but the pain above her heart and the black tide against which she fought like a desperate and cornered beast. The sea was death and she struggled against it with all she could muster of life and youth and hope. Time had no reality. It could have been minutes, even hours, that passage through hell, yet it must have been counted in seconds. She wasn’t aware of the thrashing body in front of her. She had forgotten Simon, forgotten Ambrose, forgotten even the fear of dying in the struggle not to die. And then, when the pain was too great, her lungs bursting, she saw the water above her lighten, become translucent, gentler, warm as blood and she thrust herself upward to the air, the open sea and the stars.

  So this was what it was like to be born: the pressure, the thrusting, the wet darkness, the terror and the warm gush of blood. And then there was light. She wondered that the moon could shed so warm a light, gentle and balmy as a summer day. And the sea, too, was warm. She turned on her back and floated, arms wide spread, letting it bear her where it would. The stars were companionable. She was glad they were there. She laughed aloud at them in her joy. And it wasn’t in the least surprising to see Sister Perpetua there bending over her in her white coif. She said: “Here I am, Sister. Here I am.”

  How strange that Sister should be shaking her head, gently but firmly, that the coiffed whiteness should fade and that there should be only the moon, the stars and the wide sea. And then she knew who and where she was. The struggle still wasn’t over. She had to find the strength to fight this lassitude, this overwhelming happiness and peace. Death which had failed to seize her by force was creeping up on her by stealth.

  And then she saw the sailing boat gliding towards her on the moonlit stream. At first she thought that it was a sea phantom born of her exhaustion and no more tangible than the white-coiffed face of Sister Perpetua. But it grew in form and solidity and, as she turned towards it, she recognized its shape and the tousled head of its owner. It was the boat which had brought her back to the island. She could hear it now, the swish of the waves under the keel, the faint creaking of wood and the hiss of the air in its sails. And now the stocky figure was standing black against the sky to fold the canvas in his arms and she heard the splutter of the engine. He was manoeuvring to draw alongside. He had to drag her aboard. The boat lurched, then steadied. She was aware of a sharp pain tugging at her arms. And then she was lying on the deck and he was kneeling beside her. He seemed unsurprised to see her. He asked no questions, only pulling off his jersey and folding it round her.

  When she could speak she gasped: “Lucky for me you were still here.”

  He nodded towards the mast and she saw, buckled round it like a pennant, the narrow strip of leather.

  “I was coming to bring you that.”

  “You were bringing me back my belt!”

  She didn’t know why it was so funny, why she had to fight the impulse to break into wild hysterical laughter.

  He said easily: “Oh well, I had a fancy to land on the island by moonlight, and Ambrose Gorringe is none too keen on trespassers. I had it in mind to leave the belt on the quay. I reckoned you’d find it soon enough in the morning.”

  The moment of incipient hysteria had passed. She struggled upright and gazed back at the island, at the dark mass of the castle, impregnable as rock, all its lights extinguished. And then the moon moved from behind a cloud and suddenly it glowed with magic, each separate brick visible yet insubstantial, the tower a silver fantasy. She gazed enchanted at its beauty. And then her numbed brain remembered. Would he be watching for her, there on his citadel, binoculars raised, eyes scanning the sea for her bobbing head? She could picture how it might have been; her exhausted body dragging itself ashore through the squelch of the shingle and the drag of the receding waves, her bleared eyes looking up only to meet his implacable eyes, his strength confronting her weakness. She wondered if he could have brought himself to kill in cold blood. She thought that it would have been difficult for him. Perhaps it would have been impossible. How much easier to kick shut the trapdoor, to shoot the bolts and leave the sea to do your work for you. She remembered Roma’s words, “Even his horror is second-hand.” But how could he have let her live, knowing what she did? She said: “You saved my life.”

  “Saved you a bit of a swim, that’s all. You’d have made it. You’re close enough to the shore.”

  He didn’t ask why, almost naked, she should be swimming at such an hour. Nothing seemed to surprise or disconcert him. And it was only then that she remembered Simon. She said urgently: “There are two of us. There was a boy with me. We’ve got to find him. He’ll be here somewhere. He’s a very strong swimmer.’

  But the sea stretched in a calm, moonlit emptiness. She made him wait and search for an hour, tacking slowly up and down the shore line with the sails furled, the engine gently purring. She lay slumped against the gunwale and stared desperately, watching for any movement on the sea’s calm face. But at last she accepted what she had known from the beginning. Simon had been a strong swimmer. But weakened by cold and terror and perhaps by some despair which went beyond them, he hadn’t been strong enough. She was too tired now to feel grief. She was hardly aware even of disappointment. And then she saw that they were making slowly for the quay. She said quickly: “Not to the island, to Speymouth.”

  “You’ll be wanting a doctor, then?”

  “Not a doctor, the police.”

  Still he asked no questions, but put the boat about. After a few minutes, with warmth a
nd energy flowing back into her limbs, she tried to get up and give him a hand with the ropes. But she seemed to have no strength in her arms. He said: “Better go into the cabin and get some rest.”

  “I’d rather stay here on deck if that’s all right.”

  “You’ll not be in my way.”

  He fetched a pillow and a heavy coat from the cabin and tucked her up beside the mast. Looking up at the pattern of unregarding stars, hearing the flap of canvas as the boom swung over and soothed by the swish of the waves under the slicing hull, Cordelia wished that the journey could go on forever, that this respite of peace and beauty between the horror passed and the trauma to come might never end.

  And so in a companionable silence they sailed together towards the harbour, feeling the peace of the night flowing between them. Cordelia must have slept. She was dimly aware of the boat gently bumping the quay, of being carried ashore, of his hands under her breasts, of the strong sea smell of his jersey, of a heart beating strongly against her own.

  9

  The next twelve hours remained in Cordelia’s memory only as a confused impression of time passing but disorientated, of a limbo in which individual pictures and people stood out with startling and unnatural clarity as if a clicking camera had spasmodically recorded them, fixing them instantaneously and for ever in all their capricious banality.

  A huge teddy bear on the desk at the police station, humped against the wall at the end of the counter, squint-eyed, with a tag round its neck. A cup of strong sweet tea slopping into the saucer. Two sodden biscuits disintegrating into mush. Why should they produce so clear an image? Chief Inspector Grogan in a blue jersey with frayed cuffs wiping egg off his mouth, then looking down at his handkerchief as if sharing her wonder that he should be eating so late. Herself huddled in the back of a police car and feeling the rough tickle of a blanket on her face and arms. The foyer of a small hotel, smelling of lavender furniture polish with a lurid print of the death of Nelson above the desk. A cheerful-faced woman, whom the police seemed to know, half supporting her up the stairs. A small back bedroom with a brass bedstead and a picture of Mickey Mouse on the lampshade. Waking in the morning to find her jeans and shirt neatly folded on the bedside chair and turning them over in her hands as if they belonged to someone else; thinking that the police must have gone back to the island the night before and how odd they hadn’t taken her with them. One old man silently sharing the breakfast room with her and two women police officers, paper napkin tucked into his collar, a vivid red birthmark covering half his face. The police launch butting its way across the bay against a freshening wind with herself, like a prisoner under escort, wedged between Sergeant Buckley and a policewoman in uniform. A seagull hovering above them with its strong curved beak, then dropping to settle on the prow like a figurehead. And then a picture which jerked all the unrealities into focus, brought back all the horror of the previous day and clamped it round her heart like a vice: the solitary figure of Ambrose waiting for them on the quay. And among all these disjointed images there was the memory of questions, endless repetitive questions, of a ring of watching faces, of mouths opening and shutting like automata. Afterwards she could recall every word of the dialogue although the place had slipped for ever from her mind, whether it had been the police station, the hotel, the launch, the island. Perhaps it had been all of these places and the questions had been asked by more than one voice. She seemed to be describing events that had happened to someone else, but to someone she knew very well. It was all clear in the mind of that other girl, although it had happened so long ago, years ago so it seemed, when Simon had been alive.

  “Are you sure that when you first arrived at the trapdoor it was up?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the door itself resting back against the wall of the passage?”

  “It must have been if the trapdoor was open.”

  “If? But you said it was open. You’re sure you didn’t open it yourself?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “How long were you with Simon Lessing in the cave before you heard it crash down?”

  “I can’t remember. Long enough to ask about the key to the handcuffs, to dive and find it, to set him free. Less than eight minutes perhaps.”

  “Are you sure that the trapdoor was bolted? Did you both try to lift it?”

  “I tried at first, then he joined me. But I knew it wasn’t any good. I heard the scrape of the bolts.”

  “Is that why you didn’t try very hard, because you knew that it wasn’t any good?”

  “I did try hard. I pressed my shoulders against it. I suppose it was a natural reaction, to try. But I knew it wasn’t any use. I heard the bolts being shot home.”

  “You heard that small sound against the rush of the incoming tide?”

  “There wasn’t very much noise in the cave. The tide spouted in quietly like water into a kettle. That’s what was so frightening.”

  “You were frightened and you were cold. Are you sure you would have had the strength to push open the door if it had fallen accidentally?”

  “It didn’t fall accidentally. How could it? And I heard the bolts.”

  “One or two?”

  “Two. The scrape of metal against metal. Twice.”

  “You realize what that means? You understand the importance of what you’re saying?”

  “Of course.”

  They made her go back with them to the Devil’s Kettle. It was neither kind nor merciful; but then, they weren’t in the business of being kind or merciful. There were bright lights trained on the trapdoor, a man kneeling and dusting it for prints with the careful delicate strokes of a painter. Then they raised it, not resting it against the rock face but balancing it upright on its hinges. They stood back and, after no more than a couple of seconds, it crashed down. She shivered like a puppy, remembering another such crash. They asked her to raise it. It was heavier than she had expected. And underneath was the iron ladder leading down to death, the ray of bright daylight shining from a crescent exit, the slap of dark, strong-smelling water against the rock. They even made her go down, then shut the trapdoor gently over her. As they had instructed, she pushed her shoulders against it and was able without much strength to force it open. One of the officers climbed down into the cave and they closed the trapdoor and gently shot back the bolts. She knew that they were testing how much she could have heard. Then they asked her to balance the trapdoor on its hinges and she tried but couldn’t. They asked her to try again, and when she failed they said nothing. She wondered if they thought that she wasn’t trying. And all the time she saw, in her mind’s eye, Simon’s drowned body with its gaping mouth and glazed eyes, turning and twisting, sucked to and fro like a dead fish in the ebbing tide.

  And then she was sitting in a corner of the terrace, alone except for the unspeaking, unsmiling woman police officer, waiting beside the police launch which would take her away from the island for ever. Her typewriter and hand baggage were at her feet. There was still a wind but the sun had come out. She could feel its comforting warmth on her back, and was grateful. She had thought that, since yesterday, she would never be warm again.

  A shadow fell across the stones. Ambrose had come up silently to stand beside her. The waiting policewoman was out of earshot, but he spoke as if she were not there, as if they were totally alone. He said: “I missed you last night. I was worried about you. The police tell me that they found a hotel for you. I hope that it was comfortable.”

  “Comfortable enough. I can’t remember much about it.”

  “You’ve told them everything, of course. Well that’s obvious from the mixture of coolness, speculation and slight embarrassment with which they’ve regarded me since they made their untimely if not unexpected visit late last night.”

  “Yes, I’ve told them.”

  “I can almost smell their exhilaration. It’s understandable. If you aren’t lying or mistaken or mad, then they’re on to a very good thing. Promotion gleams like the H
oly Grail. They haven’t arrested me, as you see. The situation is unusual, requiring tact and care. They’ll take their time. At the moment I imagine that they’re still testing the trapdoor, trying to decide whether it could have crashed down accidentally, whether you really could have heard the bolts shoot home. After all, when they returned here last night, in a state I might say of some excitement, they found the trapdoor closed but not bolted. And I don’t think they’ll get any identifiable prints from the bolts, do you?’

  Suddenly she felt an immense and overpowering anger, almost cosmic in its intensity as if one fragile female body could hold all the concentrated outrage of the world’s pitiable victims robbed of their unvalued lives. She cried: “You killed him, and you tried to kill me. Me! Not even in self-defence. Not even out of hatred. My life counted for less than your comfort, your possessions, your private world. My life!”

  He said with perfect calmness: “If that’s what you believe, then a certain resentment is reasonable. But you see, Cordelia, what I’m saying to the police and to you is that it didn’t happen. It isn’t true. No one tried to kill you. No one shot back those bolts. When you reached the trapdoor you found it closed. You raised it just wide enough to slide through and climb down to Simon, but you didn’t prop it up completely. You closed that door after you; either that or you partly raised it and it accidentally fell. You were terrified, you were cold and you were exhausted. You hadn’t the strength to shift it.”

  “And what about the motive, the photograph in the Chronicle?”

  “What photograph? It was unwise of you to leave it in your shoulder bag on the business room table. A natural oversight in your anxiety about Simon but highly convenient for me. Don’t tell me that you haven’t yet discovered that it’s missing.”

  “The police are checking with the woman who gave it to me. They’ll know that I did have a press cutting. Then they’ll begin searching for a duplicate.”