The Four Last Things

by Taylor, Andrew

  The telephone rang.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Yvonne was already on her feet. She picked up the phone. She listened, then said, ‘I’m a police officer, sir … Yes, Mrs Appleyard is awake … I’ll ask her.’ She covered the mouthpiece of the handset. ‘Someone called Derek Cutter. Says he’s your boss. Do you want to talk to him? Or he says he’d be pleased to come over.’

  Sally opened her mouth to say that she didn’t want to see Derek, or talk to him; and if she never did either again, she for one would not waste any tears. Instantly she restrained herself. This wasn’t Derek’s fault. She had a duty both to him and to the parish. And, more selfishly, it was important to create the illusion that she was in control; otherwise they might starve her of information.

  ‘Ask him to come over if he can spare the time.’ Sally decided to kill two birds with one stone: Derek could take Miss Oliphant’s belongings.

  Yvonne relayed the message and put down the phone. ‘He won’t be long. He’s over at the community centre in Brondesbury Park.’

  ‘What’s that phone doing? It’s not ours.’

  ‘No. We’re taping and tracing all calls.’ Yvonne stiffened. ‘It’s standard procedure. Nothing to get worried –’

  Sally pushed back her chair and stood up. She was shaking so much that she had to support herself on the table. ‘You’re sure Lucy’s been kidnapped. Aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

  Derek took both Sally’s hands in his and said how very, very sorry he was. He had ridden over from Kensal Vale on the Yamaha. Sally thought he fancied himself in motorcycle leathers. As she introduced him to Yvonne, he loosened the white silk scarf around his neck, revealing the dog collar beneath.

  With unnecessary tact, Yvonne retreated to the kitchen, leaving Sally unwillingly alone to savour the experience of Derek in full pastoral mode.

  ‘We are all praying for you, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sally didn’t want prayers, she wanted Lucy.

  Still holding her hands, Derek went on to say that there must be no question of her coming into work until Lucy was safe and sound. She need not worry, they could manage perfectly well.

  ‘Would you and Michael like to come to stay with us? Margaret and I would love to have you. The bed’s made up in the spare room.’

  Sally’s mind filled with an unwanted picture of Derek in his pyjamas. Would the hair of his chest be as white-blond as the hair on his head? Had he any hair on his chest at all, or just pink skin stretched over his bony ribcage, with the two nipples as the only points of interest to break the monotony? She wanted to giggle and she felt sick. She heard herself thanking Derek for his (and Margaret’s) kind offer, and promising to discuss it with Michael. Certainly, she said, they would bear it in mind.

  ‘Lots of people send their love. Stella in particular.’

  ‘Stella.’ It was little more than twenty-four hours since Sally had driven her to the hospital. ‘Has her daughter had her baby?’

  There was a pause. ‘Yes. Last night. It’s a girl. Mother and baby are doing fine, I gather.’

  Sally concentrated very hard on Stella’s joy. ‘Lovely. Tell Stella how pleased I am.’ She made an intense effort to blot out the rising hysteria and the knowledge that Lucy needed her. ‘Audrey Oliphant?’

  ‘Eh?’ Derek released her hands. ‘Who?’

  ‘The woman who tried to kill herself. You remember? You asked me to see her yesterday.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘She died before I reached the hospital.’

  ‘Was she one of ours?’

  ‘Yes. In a sense.’ Sally sat down. ‘She was the woman who made a disturbance when I preached my first sermon.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Poor woman. Where did she worship?’

  ‘I don’t know if she went anywhere. Her landlady thought not. But I think we should see she gets a proper burial.’

  ‘Better make sure it’s a man who conducts the service.’ Derek began to smile, then stopped, remembering why he was here.

  ‘Anglo-Catholic for choice. Her room was like an oratory. I’ve got a bag of her clothes.’ She looked wildly round the room, wondering where the bag was. ‘And also some books.’ Had she taken the books out last night? If so, why?

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. We’ll sort it out.’

  Derek’s voice was so soothing that Sally realized she must be sounding overwrought. She made an effort to turn the conversation back to the parish and the arrangements which needed to be made.

  Derek slipped from the pastoral mode to the managerial. Here he was in his element; his efficiency was a virtue. He had already arranged cover for her services. Margaret would see to the Mothers and Toddlers and the Single Mums for as long as needed. As he went through her responsibilities, Sally had a depressing vision of Derek rising unstoppably, committee by committee, preferment by preferment, up the promotional ladder of the Church. It wasn’t the meek that inherited the earth but people like Derek. She told herself that the Church needed the Dereks of this world, and that she had no reason to feel superior in any respect.

  ‘And if there’s anything that you or Michael need,’ he was saying when she pulled her mind back on course, ‘just phone us. Any time, Sally – you know that. Day or night.’

  He stood up, tied the silk scarf round his thin neck and slipped the strap of his helmet over his arm. In its way, it had been a polished performance, and part of Sally was able to admire its professionalism. It made her squirm. Yvonne had almost certainly been eavesdropping through the open door of the kitchen.

  ‘Look after yourself, my dear.’ He seized her hands again and pressed them between his. ‘And once more, if there’s anything I can do.’ Another, firmer squeeze, even the suggestion of a stroke. ‘You have only to ask. You know that.’

  Good God, Sally thought, as her skin crawled: I think he fancies me. With a wave of his hand, Derek called goodbye to Yvonne and left the flat. Too late, Sally remembered Miss Oliphant’s bag but could not bear to call him back.

  Yvonne came into the living room. ‘Quite a charmer.’

  ‘He does his best.’ Sally forgot about Derek. ‘Who’s in charge of the case?’

  ‘Mr Maxham. Do you know him?’

  Sally shook her head.

  ‘He’s very experienced. One of the old school.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be asking me questions? Shouldn’t someone ask me something?’ She heard her voice growing louder, and was powerless to stop it. ‘Damn it, I’m Lucy’s mother.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love, they’ll send someone round soon. Maybe Mr Maxham will come himself. They’re doing everything that can be done. Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll make us a nice hot drink, shall I?’

  ‘I don’t want a drink.’

  Sally sat down and started to cry. Yvonne dispensed paper handkerchiefs and impersonal sympathy. In a while the tears stopped. Sally went to the bathroom to wash her face. The reflection in the mirror showed a stranger with moist, red-rimmed eyes, pinched cheeks and lank hair. She went back to the living room. Being with Yvonne, with anyone, was better than being alone. Solitude was full of dangers.

  The minute hand crawled round the clock, each minute an hour, each hour a week. Everywhere Sally looked there were reminders of Lucy – photographs, paintings, toys, clothes and books.

  The worst reminders were those which were coupled with regrets. Lucy had wanted her to play Matching Pairs on Thursday evening, and Sally had said no, she needed to cook supper. Lucy had demanded another chapter of the book they were reading at bedtime, an enormously dull chronicle of life among woodland folk, and had thrown a theatrical tantrum when Sally declined. Lucy had also wanted Michael to kiss her good night, but he had not been at home; she had not cried on that occasion, but her silence had been worse than her tears and screams. Lucy had wanted to bake gingerbread men the other day, Lucy had wanted the conjuring set from Woolworth’s, Lucy this and Lucy that. Sally sat placidly at her desk and pretended to read a magazine while, all around he
r, the flat hummed with lost opportunities and reminders of her failure to be the mother that Lucy needed and deserved.

  Suffering had a monotonous quality; Sally had never known that before. Only the phone broke into the tedium. Each time it rang, Sally willed it to herald news of Lucy; or, failing that, that it should be Michael. Yvonne answered all the calls. Sally held her breath, digging her fingernails into the palms of her hands, until it became clear that the caller was just a time-waster – or rather, worse than that, someone who might be preventing news of Lucy from reaching Sally.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Appleyard aren’t available for comment …’

  Sally’s fingernails left raw, red half-moons on her palms. Some of the calls were from friends but more were from journalists.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ll soon be camping on the doorstep.’ Yvonne went to the window and looked down at the road below. ‘Not a lot we can do about that except move you somewhere else.’

  ‘Why are they so interested?’ Sally made an enormous effort to be objective about what had happened. ‘Thousands of children must vanish every year. They aren’t news.’

  ‘They are if their dad’s in the CID and their mum’s a vicar. Let’s face it, love, that makes it a news story whether we like it or not.’

  Michael did not ring. She wanted him very badly. What the hell was keeping him? Sally tried to prise information out of Yvonne but had no success: either the policewoman knew no more than Sally or had been forbidden to discuss the case.

  By ten-thirty, there were three journalists outside the front of the block. Sally felt sorry for them: though they were well wrapped up against the weather, they looked pinched and cold. One of them tried to sneak into the service entrance at the rear and was indignantly shooed out of the communal garden by the owner of a ground-floor flat.

  Sally tried to phone Carla, but there was no reply. Sally wondered how the child minder was feeling. Did she blame herself? Sally perversely wanted to monopolize the blame.

  At eleven o’clock Sally made some coffee. By then she and Yvonne had stopped trying to talk to each other. Sally sat at her desk in front of the window, nursing the steaming mug between her hands, and waited for something to happen. In her mind, the pictures unfolded: she saw a pool of blood sinking into bare earth under trees; Lucy’s broken body half-concealed under a pile of dead leaves; a man running. She heard laughter. Fire crackled; a bell tolled; there was snow, straw and excrement on the cobbles. Briefly she glimpsed the dream that had filled her mind just before waking. Had there been a woman screaming? In the dream or in reality? Another or herself?

  ‘Do you do crosswords?’ Yvonne asked.

  Sally hauled herself out of the confusion. ‘No – well, I used to, but I haven’t had much time recently.’

  Yvonne was working on the crossword in the Daily Telegraph and had already completed a respectable number of clues. ‘It passes the time. Do you want a clue?’

  Sally shook her head. She tried to read but it was impossible to concentrate. Her mind fluttered like a butterfly. She pushed her hand into her pocket and touched Lucy’s sock, her talisman, her Jimmy.

  Please God, may Lucy have her Jimmy. Please God, bring my darling back to me.

  It was important to act normally, otherwise they might sedate her heavily or even put her in hospital. But what was normal now? Reality had lurched into unreality. The substantial was insubstantial, and vice versa. Sally felt that if she poked her forefinger at the surface of the pine table in front of her, the finger might pass straight through the wood and into the vacancy beyond. It was unreal to be sitting at home doing nothing; unreal not to be helping at the Brownies’ jumble sale in St George’s church hall; and most of all unreal not to know where Lucy was. Like a small hungry animal, Lucy’s absence gnawed at Sally’s stomach.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a tablet?’ Yvonne’s voice was elaborately casual.

  ‘No. No, thanks.’

  There was shouting in the street outside. Sally looked down, and a second later Yvonne joined her at the window. A man was shouting at the journalists, waving his arms at them.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Yvonne asked. ‘Anyone you know?’

  ‘It’s Michael. My husband.’

  Michael was very tired. When Sally hugged him, he leaned against her but otherwise he barely responded. His face was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot; he wore yesterday’s clothes and smelled of sweat.

  ‘The bastards won’t tell me anything,’ he muttered fiercely into her hair. ‘And they won’t let me do anything.’

  Sally heard footsteps in the hallway. And the sound of voices, Yvonne’s and a man’s.

  Michael raised his head. ‘Oliver brought me home. Maxham phoned him up; someone told him we were friends. I want to do something, and all they can think of is to give me a fucking nanny.’

  Oliver Rickford hesitated in the doorway. He was wearing a battered wax jacket over a guernsey and paint-stained jeans. Yvonne bobbed up and down behind him. Yvonne was short, and in thirty years would be stout, whereas Oliver was tall and thin. Sally saw them both with the eyes of a stranger: they might have belonged to different species.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Oliver spread out his hands as if intending to examine his nails. ‘Maxham really is doing everything he can.’

  ‘And those bloody vultures outside,’ Michael went on. ‘I could kill them.’

  ‘You need to rest,’ Sally said.

  Michael ignored her. ‘If they’re still there when I go down, I’m going to hit one of them. Tell them, Oliver. It’s a fair warning.’

  Sally stepped back and shook his arm. ‘Why don’t you have a bath and get into bed?’

  Michael’s eyes focused on hers. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Sleep? Now? You must be out of your mind.’ The hostility ebbed from his face. ‘Sal, I’m sorry.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’

  ‘Sally’s right.’ Oliver had a hard face and a soft voice. ‘You’re practically asleep on your feet. You’re no use to anyone like that.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not one of your bloody minions.’ Michael looked wildly from Oliver to Sally. His face crumpled. ‘Oh shit.’

  He stumbled out of the room and into the bathroom.

  Oliver peeled off his jacket and dropped it on a chair. ‘Can I help?’

  She didn’t answer, but he followed her into the bathroom. Michael was sitting on the side of the bath with his head resting on the rim of the basin. Sally turned on the taps. Between them, she and Oliver persuaded him through the bath, into pyjamas and into bed. Yvonne dispensed two sleeping pills from the supply the doctor had left behind. Sally sat with him until he went to sleep.

  ‘When they get the man I’m going to kill him. I could kill Maxham, too. Devious little shit.’ As time slipped by, Michael’s words grew less distinct. Once he opened his eyes and looked straight at Sally. ‘It shouldn’t be like this, should it, Sal? It’s all our fault.’

  She bowed her head to hide the tears. Michael was being unreasonable and part of her feared that he was right.

  He wasn’t looking at her now but talking to himself. ‘For Christ’s sake. Lucy.’

  He drifted into silence. His eyes closed, and after a while his breathing became slow and regular. Sally stood up. She tiptoed towards the door. As she touched the handle, the figure on the bed stirred.

  ‘It’s always happening,’ Michael mumbled, or that was what it sounded like to her. ‘It’s not fair.’

  She closed the bedroom door softly behind her. The living room was empty. She found Oliver Rickford stooping over the sink in the kitchen, scouring a saucepan.

  ‘Where’s Yvonne?’

  ‘She went out to buy sandwiches.’

  Sally automatically picked up a tea towel and began to dry a mug. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’

  ‘I’m on leave. How’s Michael?’

  ‘S
leeping.’

  ‘This is very hard for him.’ Oliver hesitated, perhaps guessing Sally wanted to yell, And don’t you think it’s hard for me too? ‘I mean, even worse than it would be for many other fathers in the same position. As you know, he’s worked on similar cases.’

  Jealousy twisted through her. Sally busied herself with the drying up. Michael rarely talked about his work to her. It had been different for a few months around the time of their marriage. Then the barriers had gone up. Michael was made that way, she told herself fiercely; it wasn’t her fault.

  Not for the first time she had a depressing vision of her husband’s life as a series of watertight compartments: herself, Lucy and the flat; his job and the friendships he shared with men like Oliver; and the past he shared with his godfather, David Byfield. Cutting like a sword across this line of thought came the fact of Lucy’s absence. Sally turned away, pretending to put the mug in its cupboard. Her shoulders shook.

  A moment later she heard Oliver say, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  She turned round to him. The kitchen was so small that they were very close. ‘It’s not your fault. What’s Michael been doing?’

  ‘Getting in the way. Mounting his own private investigation. At one point he was hanging round the house where the child minder lives and trying to question neighbours.’

  Sally wished he had come home instead. ‘He had to do something.’ It was a statement of fact, not an argument for the defence.

  ‘Maxham was not amused.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘There’s not much we can do except wait. Maxham’s said to be good. He gets results.’

  Alert to nuances, Sally said, ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know him. He’s one of the old school. Must be coming up for retirement quite soon. The important thing is that he’s good at his job.’ Oliver hesitated, and she sensed that he was holding something back. ‘They’ll probably ask if you’d like psychological counselling,’ Oliver went on. ‘Might be sensible to say yes. Good idea to take all the help you’re offered. No point in making life harder for yourselves.’