A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  Mrs Platt dreamed a sweet and blameless sleep, and it was watched over by a legion of kind spirits. They swilled and tangoed around her head, and they murmured their comfort to her. They offered to carry her away with them, to cradle her in their invisible arms and soothe her troubles. She nodded and smiled in her sleep, and whispered her assent. Her heart slowed and her blood slackened in her veins. Her memories met her pain and calmed it, her thoughts tumbled and fell to nothing. The spirits stroked her forehead and touched the tips of her fingers; she turned over, and tried to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t move. She wasn’t troubled, she felt less trouble than she had ever felt, she felt free and sweet. There was music in her room, bells and strings, and the soft tap of a foot. A spirit whispered, ‘You are mine,’ and another whistled a medley of songs from the 1920s. It was half-past five in the morning, the snow lay on the roof of her house and covered the branches of her garden trees. Mrs Platt did not stop smiling, and she was not afraid.

  ‌17

  At half-past seven in the morning, the thief visited Lisa, and her embryo gave up and slipped from her body. She felt the miscarriage as an echo against the wall of her womb, a hot and stabbing thud, and then her body began to collapse from the inside out. She yelled for a nurse, and one came running. ‘I’ve lost it!’ she wailed.

  ‘Have you?’ said the nurse.

  Lisa nodded.

  The nurse smiled indulgently, adjusted her glasses, clicked a pen and put it in her pocket. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said, as if she could do something about it, and she began to peel the bedclothes back.

  Lisa grabbed them and held them to her chin, and hissed, ‘What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you believe me? Why do you have to treat me like an idiot, like I don’t know what’s happening to my own body?’ She took a breath. ‘You take a couple of exams, get to wear a uniform and you think you’re God.’ She put a hand between her legs, dabbed at the mess and held it up. Mucus, blood and fluids ran down her fingers, slid across her wrist and dripped on to the sheets. ‘I think I know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  Now the nurse paled, nodded and ran for help. It came a minute later; one doctor and two more nurses, flapping down the corridor and through the ward door, wiping biscuit crumbs from their mouths and adjusting their glasses. Lisa had collapsed back on to the bed, and her face was streaked with blood. She opened her eyes and saw the blurred outlines of faces, and then they were gone, the baby was gone, Frank wasn’t there, the pain was sliding in and around her, she felt as though all the fluid in her body had been sucked out and frozen into a block. She put her arms out and thought she felt it on the bed beside her. It burnt her fingers and blistered their tips; she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her breath dropped on to the bed and nestled against her body; then it was lost as she felt her body being lifted up and laid on fresh sheets. She heard the sound of metal on metal, a syringe filled and a sudden rush of beeps from a monitor. Adrian’s face floated by, then her father’s, then some face she didn’t recognise. It had big teeth and pale cheeks; it leaned towards her and said something. Then she felt the needle, a quick rush and then silence, a big quiet that came wrapped in warmth and covered her completely.

  Inspector Evans waited in vain. He scratched his head. He had tried to phone his sergeant but his sergeant wasn’t answering the phone. He rubbed his shoulder and went to see the Superintendent.

  The Super was standing in his office, watching the snow, drinking a cup of tea and thinking about golf. He was a quiet man, and shared his inspector’s concerns. ‘Give him another day; if he hasn’t called in, go round and see him.’

  ‘It’s not like Davis.’

  ‘No,’ said the Super, and he moved to his desk and sat down. ‘But there’s a lot of flu around. I expect he’s gone to bed, taken the phone off the hook and decided to ignore the door.’

  Evans nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. He was going to say something else about Davis, something about recent behaviour, but the Super changed the subject.

  ‘What’s the score on the Austin case?’

  Evans shook his head. ‘Three nil.’

  ‘Any chance of a score draw?’

  ‘We’re going nowhere. No witnesses. Any motives were lost before we had a chance to speak to the victims, and the only people who might have had an idea turn out to have no idea at all.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘A couple of privates Mr Austin hired to follow his wife.’

  ‘They’re not in the frame?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  Evans thought about Frank and Bob, he pictured their faces, and then nodded. ‘They’re not even close to it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We’ve got the mother down to identify the bodies, but I don’t think she’s going to shed any light.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Evans shrugged. ‘Why should she?’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Mmm…’ The Super put the tips of his fingers together and pressed them together until the whites of the knuckles showed. He leaned back, stared at the ceiling and imagined a perfect approach shot to the eighteenth green at Wentworth, a full house rising to him, the sun shining, a six-foot putt remaining for victory.

  Evans coughed and waited. He thought about Frank and Bob again, then stopped.

  The Super crouched and lined up the shot.

  Evans stood up.

  It was only six feet, but the green had an awkward camber. This was pressure golf, but he had been born for this moment, and was not going to let himself down. You get one life and if you don’t live it the way you want, then you’ve only got yourself to blame. Discover your own faults and you discover yourself — cure the faults in your swing, your approach play, your putting — golf is life. You get one ball and one course, and the most satisfying courses are the most difficult ones. He tapped the green with his putter, and concentrated.

  Evans recognised the look in his boss’s eyes. He wished he was at home with Mrs Evans, fixing the Christmas-tree lights and helping to hang paper chains across the living-room. The ones you buy in a newsagent’s and make yourself by gluing coloured strips of paper together. He turned and went to the door.

  The Super felt his arms go rigid; he did some deep breathing, then presented his club-face to the ball.

  Evans put his hand on the doorknob.

  The spectators hushed.

  Evans turned the knob and opened the door. It was stiff, and squeaked on its hinge.

  The Super drew back his putter and hit the ball. It began to roll towards the hole.

  Evans stepped into the corridor as the ball dropped into the hole and two thousand people stood and cheered. The Super looked down from the ceiling, called, ‘Do your best,’ to Evans, and then buzzed for his secretary.

  Davis woke with a fresh head. As he ate his breakfast, he missed Chips so much that he started to talk as if the dog was there. ‘What shall we do today?’ he said. ‘Go for a walk or watch some telly?’ He looked at the floor, imagined an answer and said, ‘Okay.’ He carried his bowl of cornflakes to his sitting-room, switched on the television and sat down.

  A smooth man was talking to a roomful of people about legalising drugs. ‘So the Dutch experiment appears to have some merits…’

  ‘I’d disagree.’

  ‘That’s to be expected.’

  ‘As is that.’

  ‘Let’s try and keep this discussion on an even keel.’

  ‘Control the supply and you control the use…’

  ‘Control the supply and you criminalise the state…’

  ‘The state’s the biggest criminal of all!’

  ‘Decriminalisation is the first step…’

  Davis hopped to another channel. A thin woman with red hair and a lopsided smile was talking about how the key to body fitness was ‘little and often’. Then she stood up, stepped into a cleared space and demonst
rated a series of exercises that involved stretching and twisting from the waist. She was wearing a tight leotard; Davis blanched, hopped again and found a schools’ programme about dam building in Brazil. A tribe of natives and thousands of unique species were threatened by the construction, but the hydroelectric power that the dam would generate was needed if Brazil was going to modernise its industry and infrastructure. A politician explained that sacrifices had to be made; his arguments were contradicted by an environmentalist, who stood on a hill overlooking a devasted rain forest and waved his arms. He wished that his arms were wings and that he could fly away, but he couldn’t so he stayed and fought against the chaos in his country. He had survived an attempt on his life, and vilification in the press, but he laughed at the politician. He was a brave man, and wore shorts. The politician had small, green eyes and his hair was too big for his age. ‘Brazil,’ he said, ‘is meeting the challenge of the twenty-first century with courage and vigour.’ The environmentalist shook his head and said, ‘Brazil is heading for disaster. Unless we listen to our hearts, we will not even reach the twenty-first century. The thief is at the gate, and it has stolen the key.’ Then the programme switched to a studio, and a small man with a beard and an easy smile who said, ‘So, there we have it. First of all, we must decide if we’re going to take sides, or are both these men making valid points?’ ‘Fuck knows,’ said Davis, and he hopped to the next channel and a round-up of the previous day’s financial news.

  A mobile-phone company had gone under; the company had either been ‘very stupid, or made a brave attempt to break into a very competitive market. And now, let’s take a look at the markets.’

  ‘Let’s not,’ said Davis, and he flicked the television off, finished his cornflakes, and said, ‘Come on,’ to the floor, ‘let’s go for a walk.’

  Evans met Mrs Austin at the Atlas and drove her to the mortuary. He attempted small talk, but she was frank and direct. ‘What happened,’ she said, ‘exactly?’

  ‘You haven’t been told?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well…’ Evans had told hundreds of people the worst news, but the job never got easier. Every time he had to do it, he felt his throat freeze and his ears began to sing.

  ‘Please.’ Mrs Austin reassured him. ‘I lost my husband in a car accident, my sister was killed in the war.’ Her voice was flat. ‘I can take it.’

  ‘Mrs Austin, your daughter-in-law…’

  ‘Sandie…’

  ‘Yes. She was found with her throat cut; our first thought was to interview your son, but before we got to him he was found floating off the Palace Pier. He’d drowned.’

  ‘Drowned?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mrs Austin shook her head. Evans stopped at traffic lights and looked at her. Her hands were lying in her lap, she stared ahead, she didn’t blink. ‘You think Cyril murdered Sandie?’

  ‘No,’ said Evans. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘But you wanted to interview him.’

  ‘We wanted to interview anyone connected with your daughter-in-law.’

  ‘So you spoke to Diana, before…’

  ‘No.’ The lights changed. ‘She was dead before we met.’ Evans looked at Mrs Austin. ‘She…’ he said, as a car honked behind him. He dropped into gear and moved off.

  ‘She?’

  ‘She threw herself off Beachy Head.’

  Now Mrs Austin rummaged for a handkerchief. She balled it in her fist; they turned left, then right, then right again. When they reached the mortuary, they sat and stared at a sign that read ‘Official vehicles only’, and the atmosphere in the car drifted between pain and fear. Evans said, ‘I’m sorry.’ The words slid down his chin and smeared the front of his shirt. He felt disgusted with himself, angry with everything and humbled by Mrs Austin. She looked calm, absolutely in control.

  She felt numb and very old, though a lively guilt was biting her gut, nibbling its edges and folding the corners. ‘I should have been with them,’ she said.

  ‘What good would that have done?’

  Mrs Austin didn’t answer. She stared ahead and then she climbed out of the car and walked to the mortuary.

  Frank sat on Lisa’s bed and held her hand. She smelt of almonds and antiseptic, and her face looked as though it were snowing. A phone was ringing in another part of the hospital, and feet clattered down the corridors, but Frank heard nothing. He saw something in the shape of her mouth and the scatter of her hair on the pillow, the hint of a wish he’d had years before. Janet Black and a flat on the top floor of an old house, a view of the sea, long Friday nights in a comfortable pub, Saturday-afternoon walks on the Downs, Sunday morning in bed. Boots that didn’t pinch. A baby in his arms, and now, Frank thought, I hold my baby’s hand. He said a prayer to the bed, slow words he pulled from some forgotten loft in his head.

  A nurse he hadn’t seen before came and tapped Lisa’s monitor, looked at a chart, checked her watch and ticked the chart. She looked at Frank and said, ‘Still here?’

  ‘I love her,’ he said. He felt a hole in his heart, and put a hand to his chest. ‘She’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘She’s going to be fine,’ said the nurse, and she gave an encouraging smile that leapt into Frank’s eyes, sat down and did not betray itself.

  ‘Is she?’ he said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Frank let out a deep sigh.

  ‘All the signs are good. She’s lost a lot of blood, and of course the miscarriage gave her body a shock, but she’s strong. Don’t worry,’ she said, and she put her hand on Frank’s shoulder. ‘Be positive, that’s the best thing you can do for her.’ She smiled again. ‘You’re the best dad she could have.’

  Frank opened his mouth, but then he stopped himself. He turned back to Lisa and stroked the back of her hand. All his wishes gathered in his mind and smiled at him. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Davis stood opposite his chosen bus-driver’s house, and leant against a lamppost. The day had changed the place. The night before, when he had stood at the same spot and watched the driver let himself in, the house had looked smaller, and had matched his mood. Now the domesticity of the scene bothered him. There was a bird-table in the man’s front garden, a bicycle by the front door and Christmas lights in the front-room window. A pint of milk was standing on the doorstep, and snowy footprints were scattered up and down the path. How easy was it to kill a man? Did it become more difficult as you learnt more about your victim, or easier? When he was face to face with the driver, and when he held a knife to the man’s throat, would saying ‘Goodbye’ help expunge the guilt? A man with a dog walked by and nodded ‘Hello’; Davis grunted and shaded his face beneath the brim of his hat. When he looked up again, the milk bottle had been removed from the step, and a curtain twitched in an upstairs window. He imagined; the blonde he had seen in the pub rubbing the sleep from her eyes, staring at the winter and then walking to the bathroom. The driver padding about in his dressing-gown, scratching his head, holding up his pyjama trousers with one hand. A warm and comfortable kitchen, a pot of tea on the table, toast browning under the grill, a shelf of healthy pot-plants, condensation running down the glass. A fresh newspaper. A radio warbling in the background, and the smell of hot water and soap drifting downstairs. Did the driver have a pet? Maybe a dog was waiting for a cornflake, or a cat was prowling for a bowl of milk, rubbing itself against a leg or the side of a kitchen cabinet. Or there was a goldfish called Henry, and it lived in a bowl by the microwave. The driver pursed his lips at it and crumbled some food into its water; the perfect animal for the age, with rubber weed, a rubber castle and coloured glass. Davis was jealous, and this jealousy hardened his resolve. Some people had all the luck, some people didn’t appreciate their lives. And when he remembered Chips, and all the things they had done together, this resolve solidified. The equation was immutable. Guilt did not affect it. All Davis’s instincts were buried in the pain of his loss, and the loss of
sense. He walked fifty yards down the street, and went into a café for a cup of coffee. He sat at the window and drank slowly, and he watched the driver’s front gate with dull, flat eyes.