by Peter James
Nothing wrong … nothing wrong … nothing wrong. Her brain beat to the rhythm of the train, to the rhythm of the specialists they had seen over the years.
Nothing wrong, nothing wrong, nothing wrong.
She had ditched the acupuncturist, the funny little man with his strange ideas on celibacy and body balance and energy, and the pungent herbs he burned from time to time and applied against her body. ‘What are you trying to do? Conjure up a baby from black magic?’ she had said jokingly to him once, but he had not been amused.
Now she wanted to make love with Tom, wanted it more than at any time in years, and he was not responding.
On Sunday he’d gone off for the day, told her he had to go to the office to deal with an urgent problem. On Sunday night he’d smelled of Laura’s perfume.
The rooftops of Haywards Heath appeared and the train slowed. She stood up and lifted the smart Janet Reger bag down from the luggage rack. It weighed nothing, and for a moment she was worried the negligee had fallen out. She opened it and peeked in. She could see the black lace and the receipt and her Access slip lying loosely down the side. £145.
She began to smile as she stepped off the train and joined the queue at the ticket barrier. Tom would be mad as hell. Good. He hadn’t lost his temper for ages. Maybe it was time. Sometimes their lovemaking was at its most tender after Tom had come out of one of his tempers.
Outside the station a line of cars waited, engines running, wipers shovelling away the rain, dutiful wives in their Volvos and Range Rovers and Japanese runabouts with their Baby on Board stickers and children’s faces pressed against the windows.
She felt a twinge of sadness, as if there was some cosy family club from which she was excluded, barred.
It was nearly a quarter to eight as she turned into the lane. She’d had to go to Safeways in Lewes to get steaks, and she’d bought scallops there as well. His favourite foods, as the article in the magazine had told her to do. Scallops, steak, then vanilla ice cream with hot fudge sauce.
And sod the cost.
The memory of Apstead Road, Wandsworth, was beginning to fade. The new woman in there had rung up a couple of times relaying phone messages, but she hadn’t been very communicative, hadn’t said how much they loved the house. In fact, she’d sounded a little pissed off. Maybe they’d found damp or rot, though Charley knew there was nothing much wrong, apart from the leak in the roof of the utility room which she’d kept guiltily quiet about. It only leaked in heavy rain. It was probably leaking now.
Headlights came out of Yuppie Towers. It was Zoe in her Range Rover. ‘Charley, hi!’ She wound her window down and made a face against the weather. ‘We’re going to the George tomorrow. Do you and Tom feel like joining us?’
‘That would be nice, thanks — if he’s down in time.’
Zoe shielded her face with her hand. ‘See how you feel. Got to pick up the kids. Bye!’
Charley drove on down the lane. Hugh’s workshop doors were battened tightly shut, and a television flickered through the drawing room window of Rose Cottage.
She felt lonely as she drove down the steep hill, under the shadowy arches of the trees of the wood. Tom was playing squash and wouldn’t be home until after nine. Her headlights picked out the green hull of the upturned skiff, and the sign ‘PRIVATE. MEMBERS ONLY. NO FISHING’, nailed to the tree. They’d seen a few people fishing at the weekends, and one or two in the early evenings. There was a small card in the window of the grocery shop in Elmwood village with details of a name to phone for membership.
The surface of the lake was spiked by the rain, and an arc of grubby froth slopped against the bank. There was straw lying on the gravel and she looked at it, surprised for a moment, then remembered that today Hugh had been moving the old car out. The rain increased, stalactites of water hurtled down from the sky and shattered in tiny sprays on the ground. She sprinted with her carrier bag for the front door. She could hear Ben barking. ‘OK, boy!’ she shouted as she went into the hall and switched on the light. Then she stopped, staring at the hall table.
It was lying on its side in the middle of the floor, the mail scattered around it.
Ben? Had he knocked it over? She peered down the dark passage. There was a tremendous bang behind her. She spun round. The wind had slammed the front door shut.
Christ. Her nerves were shot to pieces. She switched the passageway light on, and, water running down her face, her clothes drenched, went into the kitchen. Ben barrelled out, jumping up. ‘Did Bernie look after you again? Take you for a walk, did he? Let’s go, outside!’
He loped down the passageway. She followed and stared uneasily at the table in the hall. How had it fallen over? Surely Bernie, or the other builders, or the plumber or electrician would have had the nous to pick it up? Clumsy fools. She would speak to them about it in the morning.
She let Ben out; he ran down the steps and cocked his leg on the polythene sheeting the workmen had left over their materials. She grabbed the groceries from the boot of the Citroën and rushed back in, Ben following.
A buckshot volley of rain struck the windows. Wind yowled down the inglenook and something scuffled about inside it, rapping against the chimney breast. Twigs of a bird’s nest dislodged, she thought, breathing out a little as whatever it was fell and rattled against the sides. The wind moaned like breath against a bottle top.
Ben pattered along the passageway unconcerned, his collar jingling. She heaved the heavy table upright and examined its sturdy legs. They were fine. It hadn’t fallen over of its own accord, and no one could have knocked it over without noticing.
She heard a scrape upstairs, and froze. She looked up the dark stairwell, listening. Ben drank from his bowl with a loud slurping. There was another volley of rain. A clank.
Kerwumph.
Just the new boiler. Water flowing through the pipes. The plumber wanted to leave it on for a few days, to check the system. It must be on low because there was a damp chill in the house. She replaced the mail on the table, another wodge of redirected letters from London, bills, circulars, a handwritten enveloped which she opened; it was a belated thank you from the Orpens.
She carried the groceries through into the kitchen and put them on the table. It was warm in here from the Aga. The red light on the answering machine was static; no messages. The goldfish drifted around in its bowl. She fed Ben, then boiled some water and took out the mug Tom had given her a few years back with ‘Happy Xmas Charley’ printed on it. She heaped in a larger spoon of coffee than usual to try to stop herself yawning, poured in the water, then put the steaming mug down on the table and emptied the scallops out of the white plastic bag into the sink.
Ben let out a low, rumbling growl.
‘What is it, boy?’
A blast of cold air, colder than a midwinter draught, engulfed her.
Ben barked at the ceiling, back at her, then at the ceiling again. The drying rack swayed. The chill passed as suddenly as it had come, leaving her hugging her arms around her body.
‘Shh, boy!’ she hissed, trying to keep her voice low, like a child keeping its eyes tightly shut in the dark. Her hand went to her mouth and she bit at the skin on her thumb, staring at the ceiling, at the drying rack, at the pulleys, listening, listening. She could hear nothing.
She picked up the mug, sipped, and jerked it away from her mouth with a start: the coffee was stone cold. It was the right mug — Happy Xmas Charley.
Ben sniffed the floor and the skirting board, making a whining sound. She touched the side of the kettle. It was hot. She lifted the lid and steam rose out. She dipped her finger in the mug to make sure she was not mistaken, but it was cold, so icy cold she could not leave it there. Nuts. Going nuts. Must have filled it from the cold tap. She frowned, tried to think clearly, but her mind felt fogged. Poured from the kettle. Surely she had. Surely —?
Ben growled. He was staring down the passageway, the hackles rising down his back. She felt the hairs on her own body rising too. He
padded out of the kitchen and she followed. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, glared up and growled again.
‘Tom?’ she called out, knowing he wasn’t there. ‘Hello?’ Her voice had risen an octave.
Ben’s gums slid back, his ears lifted. She switched on the light and the stairs became brighter.
Kerwumph.
The boiler again. She picked up her carrier bag and climbed the stairs, trying not to move too slowly, not to seem scared, but slow enough so she could hear if — if?
If anything was there?
She reached the landing. The bulbs in the sconces threw their shadowy light along the walls. The floorboards creaked and the beams seemed to creak too, like an old timber ship sailing through a storm.
The doors were all shut and she went into each room in turn. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Each time she turned the light off and shut the door with a defiant slam. She checked the attic too, quickly, attics always spooked her, then went down into their bedroom.
She thought vaguely that something seemed to be missing; it seemed tidier than usual. She checked the en suite bathroom, then lifted the black silk negligee out of the carrier, went to the dressing table and held it up to her neck.
As she did so she noticed the envelope lying flat on the table weighted down by her hairbrush. It had not been there this morning. It was marked simply ‘Charley’, in Tom’s neat handwriting.
She picked it up, and it fell from her trembling fingers back on to the table with a slap. She tore it open with her index finger.
Darling,
I love you very dearly, but it doesn’t seem to be working out too well down here.
I need a few days on my own. I’m sorry I haven’t been brave enough to say it to you face to face. You’ve got a cheque book and credit cards and there’s money in the account, and £500 cash in the drawer under my socks. I’ll give you a call.
Sorry if this letter seems clumsy, but you know I’ve never been very good at expressing how I feel. I need to think about my life and what I really want.
I know it’s going to hurt you. It hurts me too, more than I can write and you don’t deserve to be hurt. I’ve taken a few things I need.
Love you,
Tom
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sunlight streamed in the window, as Mr Budley had solemnly told them it would, and she felt good for a moment, for a brief moment, smelling the sweet air and listening to the early morning chit-chit-chit of the birds before the memory lying asleep inside her began to stir.
There was a smell of burnt paper in the room.
She sat up, disoriented and drenched in sweat. Tom’s pillows beside her were still plumped, undented, his side of the bed undisturbed. A swell of gloom rolled through her.
Darling, I love you very dearly.
She had dreamed it. It was a bad dream. Everything was fine. Tom was in the bathroom shaving, brushing his teeth.
‘Tom?’ she called out. There was no answer. Her hands were stinging and she pulled them from under the sheets and looked at them. Her eyes widened.
They were caked with mud and covered in lacerations.
A cut ran right the way down one finger and there was muddy, congealed blood around it. The skin was scraped off the top of three of her knuckles. More cuts criss-crossed the backs of her hands. They were hurting like hell. She turned them over. More cuts on the palms. Tension pulled her scalp. Ben? Had Ben attacked her? Never. A dream. Just dreaming. Just —
She swung her legs out of bed, put them on the wooden floor and then blinked in astonishment as she noticed her feet. A squall of undefined fear blew through her veins. Her feet were caked in mud, dried mud packed between her toes, spattered up her legs. She leaned over, touched them. The mud was damp; some came away on her finger. Her nightdress was filthy too, mud-spattered, sodden and streaked with blood.
She tried to think, think back to last night. Sitting at the dressing table; she had been sitting at the dressing table. Then — nothing. Blank.
A muscle twitched inside her throat. She stared hopelessly around the room as if somewhere in it she might find an answer. Dressing table. Hours. Crying. Maybe she had broken something, a mirror, a glass, was that why —? She shook her head. The mud, where had the mud —? Her hands and feet so sore, painful.
She looked at the dressing table, and it was then she noticed the small muddy object next to her hairbrush.
She staggered over. Rusty tin showed through the mud. She put her hand out slowly, hesitating, as if she were reaching out to a poisonous insect, and picked it up.
Something inside it rattled, slithered, clanked. She scraped away the mud with her raw fingers, ignoring the pain, until she could see enough to know what it was, to be certain what it was.
She waited, afraid, numb, then she pressed her thumbs up against the lid of the tin. It came off with a quiet pop, and there was the heart-shaped locket nestling inside. The same locket she had dug up then reburied at the Wishing Rocks.
Ben came over and stood beside her. The locket rattled as her hands shook. She put the tin down, knelt and patted the dog, squeezed him, put her arms around and hugged him, needing to feel something real, alive.
His coat was wet. His paws were wet too; wet and muddy. He wagged his tail. ‘Good boy.’ she said absently. ‘Good boy.’ She stood up. Her head was muzzy; the locket was muzzy too, a blurr. She lifted it out of the tin and the tarnished chain slithered down her wrist. She pressed the clasp, and prised the heart open.
A trail of fine black powder fell out. At first she thought it was earth, finely ground earth; then slivers of blackened paper floated out, zigzagged to the floor.
Dear Rock, I love him. Please bring him back. Barbara.
Someone had burnt the note.
The TCP stung her hands. The paint stung her eyes. She dunked the roller in the flat tray of paint, pressed it against the wall, ran it up, down, covering a little more of the lining paper on the panels between the oak beams with cream paint. Because she needed to do something. Anything.
‘You oughter do the ceiling first.’
Laura. Bitch Laura.
She’d rung Laura, got her answering machine at her flat, got her answering machine at the boutique, rung Tom’s private line which had not answered, rung his main number then hung up as the telephonist answered. Was he in Paris with bitch Laura?
‘Otherwise it goin’ run down the walls, innit?’
Bernie the builder stood in the doorway in his grubby overalls and his single gold earring, grinning cheekily.
‘Ceiling? Yes — I — I should, I suppose.’
Bernie ran his hands over the lining paper. ‘Not bad. You could turn professional. We’ll give you a job any time.’
She forced a smile.
‘Yeh, s’orl right it is, for an amateur!’ He rubbed his finger on the crack between two joins. ‘Got an overlap, want to avoid overlaps. Makes the paint bumpy.’
‘I don’t think it matters on these walls.’ Her voice sounded weak. She squeezed her hands together, trying to stop the pain.
‘Christ, wot yer done to yer hands?’
‘Glass. I broke — some glass.’
He glanced at the beams. ‘There’s some good stuff you can put on those, bring their natural colour right back. Can’t remember the name. I’ll ask Pete.’ He tugged his earring. ‘’Bout your table.’ He jerked a finger towards the hall. ‘The one what you said was knocked over. I remember the second post come, and I stacked it neat on the table.’
‘Who was here after you left?’
‘There wasn’t no one. I locked the dog in the kitchen like you said.’
‘The plumber wasn’t still here?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He went early.’
‘Did you see my husband when he came?’
‘Yeah, ’bout three. Going off on a business trip. Orl right for some, innit? Where’s he gone? Somewhere exotic? Leaving you to do the work, that’s
typical men, that is.’
There was a rap on the knocker. Ben barked. Charley wiped her hands on a rag and went to the front door.
Gideon stood there, well back, looking edgy. He touched his cap. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be coming any more, Mrs Witney.’ He handed her a grubby envelope. ‘That’s me hours for the last week.’
She took it, surprised. ‘It’s not because of the hens, is it? We don’t blame you for the hens, Gideon. It’s not your fault. You did a good job with the fencing.’
He shrugged and avoided her eyes. ‘I thought it would be different with ’er gone, but it’s not.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mechanically she opened the envelope.
‘I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’d rather you did say.’
His edginess increased. ‘You won’t have no problem finding anyone,’ he said as she took the handwritten sheet out. ‘Eight and a half hours last week.’
‘Have you been offered more money somewhere else? I’m sure we could perhaps give you a raise.’
He shook his head, and gazed at his boots. ‘No, that don’t come into it.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s the problem?’
‘I’ve made up me mind. I really don’t want to say.’
‘I’ll get my purse,’ she said, bewildered and angry.
She stood by the hall table and sifted through the morning post. There was a formal buff envelope addressed to herself and she opened it. Inside was a short letter, a leaflet entitled ‘Access to Birth Records — Information for adopted people’, and a form. She read through the leaflet, glanced at the form, then folded it back into the envelope, a thin stream of excitement, of hope, trickling through her gloom.
The electrician came down the stairs, a short chalky man with a goatee beard.
‘’Scuse me, Mrs Witney. Are you usin’ any unusual electrical apparatus in the house?’
