Death Before Time

by Andrew Puckett

  “Jesus,” Fraser said reverently as he straightened the car .

  “Did one actually go over us?” she asked faintly.

  “Aye.”

  “What a night.”

  “Amen.”

  The deer had driven Ranjid from their thoughts and they drove in silence down through gentle fields to the main road. Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside her house.

  She said, “You’d better come and have some coffee if you’re really set on driving back to Bristol tonight.”

  “I could use something stronger.”

  “Well, you’re welcome, of course, but …”

  “No, coffee’ll be fine.”

  They walked to the door, she opened it, shut it after him.

  “Sit down while I put the cafetiere on,” she said, switching on the living room light.

  He sat on the sofa a few moments, then, unable to sit still, stood up, pretended to look at the pictures on the wall. She came back in.

  “It won’t be long.” She sat on the sofa, next to where he had been.

  He hesitated.

  “Sit down Fraser, I won’t bite.”

  “You’ll talk to Philip then?” he said as he sat beside her, “About Ranjid?”.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “He bothers me.”

  “So you said.”

  He turned towards her, intending to expand on why Ranjid bothered him, but found himself instead brushing her cheek with his lips … she turned, they tentatively nibbled for a moment, then he was kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, nuzzling her through the thin dress … she put her hands behind his neck and pulled him to her, exploring him with her tongue …

  “Are you sure it’s not too soon for you?” she whispered.

  “Yeah …”

  Time passed. He broke off, knelt in front of her and slowly pushed his hands under her dress along the outsides of her legs, she groaned … he slid his hands over the seat of her jeans, round her waist, her ribcage …

  “Put the light out,” she breathed.

  He was across the room in a stride, snapped the switch and was back.

  She raised herself as he eased her jeans and pants away, eased her to the edge and bent his head … she was salty and warm, like the sea in September.

  Suddenly, she cried out and pushing him away, got on her knees and clawed at his flies … his trousers went inside out as they snagged on his feet, she tore off his pants and pulled him on top of her –

  He plunged wildly with no finesse whatsoever and they both came almost immediately – “Oh Fraser,” he heard her say as he spilled himself into her, and then the regrets began.

  “Stay with me,” she said a little while later.

  “I have to get back,” he said. “I’m expected.”

  The truth was, he had to get away from her.

  He pulled on his clothes, kissed her and left.

  On the motorway, the wind thrummed tautly at the hood of the MG as the remorse ate into him.

  “I’m sorry, Frances,” he said, over and over.

  Only when he was at home with the first whisky inside him did it occur to him to wonder how she’d known it might be “too soon” for him.

  Chapter 7

  They were together again and everything was all right, then he woke and like Orpheus could only watch as Frances faded away in front of him … he buried his face in his pillow and vowed he’d never touch Helen again.

  He avoided her when he returned on Monday, yet felt a perverse disappointment when she made no effort to speak to him. Then, just as he was leaving for the day, he ran into her in the corridor.

  “You got back OK on Friday then?” Her smile dimpled the corners of her mouth and he remembered with a slight shock how attractive she was.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She said, “I was wondering whether you’d like to come to my house for supper tomorrow.” Her eyes, six inches below his, looked up so guilelessly that he felt himself hardening.

  “Yes, I’d love to.”

  So much for resolve, he thought as she walked away.

  *

  He was going into the Social Club that evening when he saw a familiar figure emerge from the Georgian building next to it.

  “Patrick?”

  “Oh, hello Fraser.” His voice sagged with weariness, although he was as immaculately dressed as ever.

  “Working late?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Fancy a drink?”

  “In there…?

  Fraser laughed. “They don’t bite.”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll take a quick one with you.”

  The buzz in the bar fell away as they went in, then rose again. They took their drinks to a table.

  Patrick said, “D’you know, I’ve worked for seven years next door and this is the first time I’ve ever been in here.”

  “All that time and you didn’t know what you were missing.”

  Patrick smiled weakly. “So what brings you here?”

  Fraser explained that he lived just over the way. He added,

  “I wanted to say thanks for Friday … “

  Patrick made an ‘it-was-nothing’ gesture.

  “Was there any bother after we left?” Fraser asked.

  “From Himself, you mean? Not really. He had a little hunt round for her, a little rant at me when realised the two of you were missing, then he left himself. What about you – have you had any trouble?”

  “He just ignores me, looks through me as though I wasn’t there. But I think I can live with that.”

  Patrick smiled again, a twist of the lips, then said, “Forgive me asking, but are you and Helen … what’s the expression now? An item?”

  After a pause, Fraser said, “The strictly truthful answer to that is – I don’t know.”

  “Well, whatever your relationship is – I wouldn’t rub it in if I were you. I know he’s difficult, but the world’s too small and life’s too short to make enemies you don’t need.” He finished his drink. “And now you’ll forgive me if I leave – I’ve had it for today.”

  After he’d gone, Fraser thought about what he’d said. Not the words he’d used so much, but the way he and the others all seemed to be in each other’s pockets. It seemed … incestuous, almost.

  *

  “Come in.” Helen shut the door after him and put up her face for a kiss. She was wearing an apron and her face was slightly flushed. “Like some wine?”

  “Why not?”

  She showed him into the sitting room. “I’ll bring it to you here so that I can finish without any distractions.”

  Something made him choose an armchair rather than the sofa they’d used before. She came back in with a glass of white wine.

  “It’ll be about ten minutes.”

  She was wearing a mini skirt under the apron and the different lengths accentuated the shape of her legs so that they seemed to twinkle at him as she went out.

  He glanced round the room, at the pictures he’d pretended to look at on Friday. There were a couple of French impressionists, a Dutch landscape and a painting that was completely unfamiliar, not that he was any kind of expert. He got up for a closer look and found to his surprise that it was an original. It was another landscape, or rather, a shorescape – a stony, inhospitable beach in winter. A grey sea slopped sullenly over the rocks while the wind tugged at some scrubby bushes on the shore. Ominous clouds scurried overhead. A figure, female and forlorn, gazed out to sea, her hair streaming from her head. The colours were muted but the detail and brushwork intense and the whole effect was disturbing, even depressing. At the bottom right hand corner was the signature “St John”.

  Helen put her head round the door. “It’s ready.”

  “Did you do this?” He indicated the painting.

  “Oh, that. No. It was my mother.”

  “Does she still paint?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

 
She said, “It was a long time ago. You’d better come through, before it gets cold.”

  The kitchen had a dining area set to one side. The dark wood table was laid for two with a glass vase containing a single red rose. She poured more wine.

  “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. He raised his and she touched it with hers to make a slight ring.

  “Is it all right?” she asked a few minutes later. “It” was lemon chicken with rice and mange tout peas.

  “It’s wonderful,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He told her how he’d run into Patrick the night before, how exhausted he’d seemed.

  “He works harder than people give him credit for,” she said.

  He asked her how she’d got to know him and George Woodvine so well.

  “Patrick’s ubiquitous,” she said. “You must have noticed that yourself by now.”

  “What about George?” he asked. “What does he do? The chairmanship can’t bring in much.”

  “He’s got money of his own and does all sorts of things. You know – ‘Good Works’”. She gave the last two words emphasis.

  “Landed gentry?”

  “No, not really. His father and grandfather were more ‘Captains of Industry’, both knighted for services to the realm.” She explained how she and Philip had been to his house once and seen portraits of them hanging in the hall. “Pillars of Victorian rectitude,” she said.

  “But not George?”

  “No. He’s laid-back, doesn’t care for that kind of thing.”

  They chatted about nothing very much through pudding (baked bananas in ginger sauce) and he waited until they’d finished before asking the question that had been nagging at him since Friday.

  “Did you know about my wife?”

  She paused a moment before meeting his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Philip.”

  “He had no right.”

  “No, I suppose strictly speaking he didn’t.”

  “So why did he tell you?”

  Again she paused, then said, “I was talking with him after he’d offered you the job. To be honest, I was sceptical as to why someone of your age and background should want it. I told him he’d been too hasty and that he should find out more about you. It was then he told me and I understood why he trusted you.”

  “Why? Why should that make you understand why he trusted me?”

  She said, “Because Philip lost his own wife when he was about your age and never remarried. He would have felt it made a bond between you.” She paused. “I’m only sorry I let it out when I did.”

  He looked at her a moment before saying, “It’s all right.”

  “How long ago did she die? Philip just said recently.”

  “A bit over six months.”

  “Leukaemia, I think he said?”

  “Yes.”

  Realising he didn’t want to talk about it, she said, “What made you want to work with older people?”

  He explained how he’d wanted to do something worthwhile, how Mary had shown him the newspaper articles after he’d come back from Africa. “It seemed to come under the heading of worthwhile.”

  “And has it been?”

  “No, not in the sense I was thinking. Your hospital seems to be a model of how such places should be run.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Please. I’ll try to savour it a bit more this time,” he added.

  She laughed as she got up to make it.

  He looked around. She’d managed to make the two parts of the room, the functional and the leisurely, distinct from each other, and yet somehow to blend together. Perhaps it was the pictures she’d chosen – yes, they were all on a theme of domesticity … his mind turned back to her mother’s painting …

  “D’you have any other pictures by your mother?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She had her back to him as she spoke, but he knew somehow she was lying ... Why, he wondered?

  “Did she paint for a living?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Knowing she didn’t want to talk about it, he said anyway, “I’m no expert, but I think she could have done.”

  The silence hung for a moment, then she said, “I think she’d have liked to.” She brought the coffee to the table.

  “How old were you when she died?”

  “Very young. Six. Hardly old enough to remember her, really.”

  “That’s sad,” he said, certain that she was lying again.

  “As I said, it was a long time ago. What about your parents? You’ve never said anything about your family.”

  He allowed her to change the subject as she clearly wanted and told her how his own father had died and his mother had brought him and his brothers up on her own. “Not the easiest thing to do in Rutherglen …”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It was when I was a bairn. I was regarded as an academic star because I managed to become a lab technician.”

  “How did you get into med school?”

  “With a little help from some friends ... ” He told her how his boss, Dr McCloud had helped him become a doctor.

  She listened, leaning her chin on her folded hands, looking at him so demurely from under her eyelashes that he leaned over and kissed her.

  “D’you want to go upstairs?” she whispered.

  At the top of the stairs, he said self consciously, “I’ll – er – just use – “

  “There,” she said, smiling and pointing – “No – “ as he tried a door that was locked, “That’s the junk room. The next one.”

  Why lock a junk room? he wondered idly.

  Her bedroom was light and fresh, cream on cream, duvet cover on carpet. She pulled the curtains.

  He undressed her slowly. Her skin was smooth, supple, lightly tanned, her body ripe. She lay on the bed with one knee bent, her arms above her head so that the contours of her breasts were barely discernible, yet somehow more desirable.

  “You look really good,” he said.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said.

  He’d intended taking things slowly, to make up for last time, to savour her, but to his surprise, she made it clear she didn’t want to tarry. She came quickly in a series of gentle gasps and he found himself left behind.

  “Why don’t you stay tonight?” she said later.

  He pressed his lips together, said, “I can’t. I need time and space around me at the moment…” God, that sounds pretentious, he thought…

  “I understand,” she said.

  *

  He was walking back from the Social Club the next evening when they came out of the shadows in front of him. They were always going to be bad news for someone but by the time he realised it was him, it was too late…

  “Got a light, mate?” Four of them, their faces hidden by hoodies, only their eyes gleaming faintly in the lamplight … he had to stop because the speaker had planted himself in front of him.

  “Sorry, don’t smoke.” He stepped to one side but the speaker stepped with him …

  “Well ya fuckin’ well should then, shouldn’t ya?”

  Run for it … but two of the others were either side of him … Play for time …

  Then a bottle smashed against the lamppost and the sweetheart holding its neck grinned at him – “See, you’re not wanted round here, mate”.

  The others grabbed his sleeves as the glass weaved and glinted in front of him – he ducked, slid out of his jacket and bolted head down for the darkness of the playing field …

  “Geddim!”

  They were just behind him, at his heels –

  One of them slipped in the mud –

  He heaved in air, tried to make his legs go faster …

  Risked a glance behind – nearest twenty yards back now but they weren’t giving up, must think he was cornered …

  And they were r
ight – ahead lay the dark curtain of the copse, beyond it the high brick wall –

  He burst into the trees, switched left, dodging trunks and bushes… a crashing behind as they followed – then his foot caught a root and he toppled through the air and sleighed into a clump of bushes …

  He wriggled around and lay still, winded … pushing his white hands under the dead leaves, he lowered his face into them …

  They were running straight at him, they must have seen him, then they were running past –

  “Old it …”

  They stopped, the speaker just beside him … he could see his boots six inches in front of his eyes, knew he should shut them but he couldn’t …

  “Where is ‘e?”

  “Shaddup an’ listen …”

  Complete silence save the breath whistling in their throats …

  “’E’s ‘ere somewhere …” The speaker shifted and his heel came on the tips of Fraser’s fingers … “Kel, gedover by the wall … Zit, over ‘ere …”

  They moved away. Kel found a stick and prodded at the base of the wall. They tried staying still again, but got bored. One of them lit a fag and a few minutes later, they started back over the playing field to the path.

  He crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the copse and watched them against the light of the hospital. They got back to where they’d left his jacket, went through the pockets and then made a big deal of tearing it into as many pieces as they could. Then they wandered off.

  Just the flower of English youth having a few laughs, he thought. No point in going to the police. He limped back to the flat to get cleaned up.

  Chapter 8

  The old man arrived the following week. He was called Harold Carter and he had advanced bowel cancer with secondaries, some of them in the brain, which were making him vomit on top of the pain.

  “How are you feeling, Mr Carter?” Philip asked him.

  “Not too special, truth be told, Doc.” His speech was slurred but Fraser could tell he was a Londoner.

  “We’re going to treat you with dexamethazone,” Philip told him after he’d examined him, “You should start feeling better by tomorrow. After that, we’ll think about radiotherapy.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” He swallowed and lay back. He was a small man anyway, less than five and a half feet, but was made smaller by his disease. His face was wizened, like a monkey’s, his hair brittle white, his eyes dulled.