Constance was shaking her head. ‘What are you saying, Nick?’ She was also trembling. ‘What are you implying?’
‘New-born babies have always been in demand by infertile couples. Even all those years ago they fetched a high price. I’m just wondering, Constance, if that’s how Wisbeech grew rich. Setting up PERFECT REST must have cost a small fortune.’
‘The house belonged to his family,’ she protested.
‘But converting it to a nursing home must have been costly.’
‘Leonard has a wealthy brother who financed everything.’
That stopped me in my tracks. I recalled that Constance had spoken of Wisbeech as having a dependant relative, but I’d thought no more of it, assuming she meant someone older, a parent or uncle or aunt. A brother hadn’t come into my thinking at all.
‘So where is this brother?’ I asked a little too belligerently. I guess by then I had got carried away, not realizing how much I was upsetting Constance. ‘And who’s to say they weren’t both in it together?’
‘You’ve got it wrong, Nick. Leonard’s brother is an invalid. He hides himself away.’
‘Where? At the home?’
She nodded. ‘I haven’t even seen him myself for three years. Only Nurse Fletcher is allowed to take care of him these days. Oh God, Nick, how could you suggest such a thing?’
She broke then. She threw herself away from me and buried her face in her hands against the arm of the sofa.
Already regretting my persistence, I reached out to her and she flinched when my fingers touched her misshapen back. I didn’t pull away though: it would have made matters worse.
‘Okay, Constance,’ I said as gently as I could, my hand softly stroking, letting her get used to my touch. ‘I just got carried away. It happens sometimes when I’m desperate for a result in a case. I won’t do anything that could hurt you.’
She stirred from the sofa’s arm. ‘Do you mean that, Nick?’
She was weeping again and I felt like an all-time rat. ‘I’ll back off, if that’s what you want. You’re more important to me than any case I’m working on.’ And I meant it. I didn’t want to lose this woman, not after such a long search. Missing babies couldn’t compete.
Constance came into my arms once more, her forehead snuggling into the space between my neck and shoulder. Her arm reached around me and for the first time in my life I was in someone else’s embrace. Someone who might . . . eventually . . . learn to love me. My vision was blurred by welling tears and for a while I could not speak, too afraid my voice might break with a sob. I stroked her hair, her lovely neck, her arm, my hand finally falling to her waist so that I could pull her towards me. The pressure was soft and slow, because I feared she would resist, feared she might reject me. But she didn’t, she came with my urging, she committed herself to me. She pressed against me, lifting her face, offering her lips. And then, sweet God, we kissed.
The bliss was perfect. My head felt alive with light and my senses reeled and soared so that I felt giddy with the happiness of it. For a moment I felt I might pass out, so exquisite was the sensation, so rare was the occasion; but no, this was a pleasure from which I had no wish to abscond. I maintained the pressure and went with the sensations.
We were equals: there could be no pity, and no condescension; our imperfections were a bond rather than a barrier.
Eventually, our lips parted, but not for long, only to give us time to draw in new breath; then our mouths brushed against each other’s again, softly, searching, tasting the sweetness before developing into a second kiss. I relished the moistness there and almost gasped when her lips opened, inviting me to taste more, to explore with my tongue, the intimacy almost overwhelming to a novice like myself, the gentle probing that followed intoxicating to such a fledgling lover. When my tongue met with hers, every nerve seemed to tingle, every part of my body came alive, and when her hands moved over me, caressing, touching me in a way I’d never known before, I felt another part of me stirring. Although her touch was innocent and our kisses pure, the arousal was inevitable.
‘Constance . . . ?’ I said, pulling away a millimetre or so.
She murmured something as she kissed my cheek, my nose, my chin.
‘Can we . . . ?’
‘It’s difficult for me, Nick.’
‘I know, but . . .’ It was just a ‘but’, nothing I could follow it with.
She took my hand and slid it over her body so that it lay upon her small breast. I breathed something, probably her name, this new intimacy sending me into rapture. My fingers – surprisingly not trembling – found buttons, undid them, lay material aside. I touched the wonderfully soft skin beneath the thin cotton of her underwear, felt the tiny mound that swiftly grew into a nipple, and heard Constance catch her breath. She gave a little moan.
‘No, Nick, not yet.’ She seemed close to tears once more.
‘It’s all right, Constance. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m a learner too.’
But she had tensed and the glow had gone from her eyes to be replaced by that shadowy veil I had observed before. I understood her fear, but wanted her to know it was mutual, that I was just as afraid of exposing my twisted body to another, that a lifetime’s shame could not be overcome in a moment. I wanted to tell her it was an experience we could go through together, our nervousness shared, and that would make it even more special; but instead I slipped my hand from her breast and drew her into my embrace once more, because I was just as scared that my body might offend. I dare not risk repulsing this woman I loved so dearly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice muffled against my chest. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I soothed. ‘Nothing’s going to happen, nothing that you don’t want to happen.’
‘But I do.’
‘Then . . .’
She huddled even closer.
‘It’s all right, Constance, it’s all right.’
‘Let’s wait, Nick. Let’s get to know each other first.’
Get to know each other . . . ? I soared, I wept, I smiled, I moaned (all inwardly, apart from the smile). The implication was that there was a future for us, we, together. Friends, lovers. I can’t remember a time, a moment, when I was happier.
We stayed that way for a long time, holding each other, our pleasure coming from compassion rather than passion, our joy from whispered intimacies rather than sensual caresses. How long we would have remained that way, locked in sometimes tight, sometimes loose, embrace I’ve no idea, but it was that stark, interfering sound of the bloody telephone that shattered our peace.
23
The Ford’s tyres squealed, burning rubber as I pulled to the right and jammed on the brakes, the car coming to a juddering halt by the kerbside. Strolling pedestrians turned in alarm to see what the emergency was, then continued on their way, shaking their heads and muttering something about idiot drivers who should never have been given a licence. A figure detached itself from the shadow of a doorway and hurried over to me.
Louise Broomfield peered into the open side window. ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ she said, taking in short breaths between words. ‘Thank God you’re all – ’ She noticed my companion.
‘Louise, this is Constance Bell,’ I said quickly, already beginning to open the car door and forcing the clairvoyant back on the pavement. ‘Constance, this is Louise Broomfield. She’s a friend of my client.’
Still crouched, Louise’s gaze lingered on Constance a moment longer than necessary. She straightened as I emerged from the car.
‘What the hell is up?’ I almost barked at her, annoyed that my precious moments with Constance had been interrupted, but concerned with the urgency in her voice when she had phoned.
Louise grabbed my arm. ‘I thought it was you! The voices weren’t clear, but I was sure they meant you! It was only when I spoke to you on the phone that I realized the trouble was here.’
‘You’ve never been to my office before.’
‘I didn’t need to. Once I heard you speak and you told me you were all right, I understood the message.’
I was rapidly losing patience. ‘Come on, Louise, what’s this all about? You didn’t explain anything, you just said there was a problem at my agency.’
‘You didn’t hear them yourself? The voices, the whispering?’
‘Maybe I was too preoccupied with other things.’
It was meant as a jibe, but I immediately wondered if it were true, that my thoughts had been directed solely on Constance to the exclusion of all else that night. Could everything else from outside sources, other thoughts, other sensings, be blocked by the sheer power of a person’s emotions? In the light from a nearby café’s windows I could see Louise’s eyes were wide and staring, her trepidation genuine; even the fierce grip on my arm was an indication of her inner turmoil. Further along the street, people were spilling from the old Regency theatre’s open doors and for a moment I thought I might be going crazy. Among the departing audience were odd figures, people so bizarrely garbed they might have escaped from one of my own weird dreams. They played and giggled amidst their ordinary companions, masked and painted faces grotesque in the streetlights. Fishnet stockings and sequined cloaks, humped backs and demented eyes – the exotic adornments of fools and funsters. With relief I remembered that the all-new, revised and improved Rocky Horror Show was back in town. Even so, even though I knew this was the audience’s ritual pantomime of affinity with the show, I shuddered at the sight of all those grotesques mingling with the usual theatre-goers.
‘The warning was linked to you,’ Louise was saying insistently. ‘I saw shadows and shapes moving among them and I sensed that they hid because they were ashamed to be seen. I couldn’t understand, Dis, it was all so confusing. But there were no wings this time.’
My right leg felt weak, anxiety rather than fatigue taking its toll, and I leaned back against the car, one hand resting on its roof.
‘I tried to see them more clearly,’ the clairvoyant went on. ‘I tried to see into those shadows, using all the power I possessed, but each time I focused on one it seemed to dissolve before me. It was as if they didn’t want to be seen. I sensed fear and shame, but most of all I sensed that you were being threatened again.’
‘But I wasn’t. I was with Constance.’
‘That’s why I asked you to meet me here. It had to be connected to you somehow. This is the only other place . . .’
I was already looking up at the windows of my offices, two floors above the street. A dim light shone from one of them. Louise was still talking as I broke away and limped across the pavement towards the front door.
‘Be careful, Dis. Please, I urge you to be careful. Let’s call the police.’
I whirled on her. ‘And tell them what? That you think there might be something wrong, that I’m being threatened by shadows in your own mind? Come on, Louise, get real here.’
I turned back to the street door, fumbling for the right key on my keyring. The buzz of conversations and music came from the cafés and the Colonnade Bar next to the theatre, and people strolled the pavement; vehicles were parked diagonally to the kerbside on the other side of the broad roadway, behind them the dark area that was the small park, gardens that led to the Royal Pavilion and museum. All appeared so normal on this warm summer’s night, yet my hands shook as I found the right key. I could not be sure if I had been contaminated by the clairvoyant’s panic, or whether my own inbuilt alarm system had been triggered by something else, a feeling that something was horribly amiss.
‘Nick?’
Constance had followed from the car and was standing behind me, a tiny figure relying on metal crutches for support.
‘Stay here with Louise,’ I told her and heard the shakiness in my own voice.
‘Please tell me what’s wrong.’ Under the glow from streetlights and windows she looked delicate and appealing. I wanted to take her in my arms again.
‘I don’t know myself,’ I said to her. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ She had insisted on accompanying me after the clairvoyant’s phone call and for some reason I was glad she was there with me even though I didn’t want her involved in anything unpleasant or dangerous. I guess she made me feel braver than I really was. ‘Will you stay here with Louise while I go up and check out my offices?’
‘No, I’d rather come with you.’
I had to resist embracing her and smothering her face with kisses. I’d never had someone to show that kind of concern for me before, not in this way.
‘Constance, my agency is on the top floor and it’s a long haul. I can do it more quickly on my own.’
I could tell she didn’t like the condescension, but at least she saw the sense in it. She remained quiet as I turned back to the front door.
Even as I inserted the key into the lock, I realized it wasn’t necessary: the door was already open, the latch off, the heavy wood only resting in the frame.
‘Be careful.’ It was Louise who gave me the warning as I pushed the door.
I entered and waited for a moment in the darkness of the short area before the stairs, a feeling of déjà vu coming over me. Hadn’t I been through this that very morning, or had that merely been some kind of presage of what was to come? Was this now the real thing? Outside, I had noticed the dull light shining from the window of my office and I realized that the reason it was dull was because it came from next door, the outer office whose windows did not overlook the street. But I always closed my door each evening before leaving, so who had opened it again?
Reaching for the light-switch beside the door, I flicked it on. The bulb over my head had never been efficient, throwing more shadows than spreading light. The turn in the stairs above me was just a pitchy void which did not look welcoming. Unfortunately, the second light-switch was on the next landing.
Telling my two companions to remain outside until I called, I moved to the first step and began to climb. This was almost becoming tedious, I said silently to myself. These days I was climbing too many flights of stairs with dread in my heart and lead in my shoes. The unnatural events of the past few days had put the fear of God – well, the fear of something – into me, and tonight Louise Broomfield’s over-reaction had reinforced it. Exacerbated it, in fact, because now as I climbed, I was twitching, my legs soft at the knees, a tic under my good eye, and my breathing kind of shivery. This is ridiculous, I informed myself, and so it was: I was a fully-grown – okay, almost fully-grown adult sneaking tremulously up a creaky staircase to my own office, expecting to find – what? That Henry had forgotten to turn off the light when he’d decided to work late just so he could get the books straight and please his boss? The VAT returns were due soon and Henry always got into a tizz about that. Some women suffered from pre-menstrual tension, Henry suffered from pre-VAT tension. VAT, the accountant’s PMT.
My hand scrabbled over the wall in the darkness of the first-floor landing for the light-switch I knew was there. I found it, clicked it. Nothing happened, no light came on, and I remembered that the light-bulb had needed replacing for at least two months, the light summer evenings the reason for our tardiness. At least there was enough street-light coming through the window for me to see my way. The atmosphere wasn’t improved though.
‘Henry? Are you up there, Henry?’
I waited in silence. Deafening silence.
‘Henry!’
I was forcing myself to get angry. Still nothing.
‘Okay, I’m coming up!’ It was meant to sound threatening, but my voice cracked on the last word so that ‘up’ had two syllables. Nevertheless, I hoped that if there was an intruder in the offices above, he realized he’d received fair warning. I rushed the next flight of stairs, boldness my friend, exclusion of further trepidation my ally. My limp slowed me a little, but I quickly reached the half-way mark, V1 to air pilots, the point of no return, full take-off an imperative. I couldn’t go back, but when I saw the half-open office door, light from it brightening the way, I came
to a breathless halt.
I supposed I was sick and tired of being a victim, fed up with being intimidated by things beyond my control, because I paused for only a second or two before rage boiled again, sending me clambering onwards, stomping stairboards to show I meant business. I barged through, slapping the door with the flat of my hand so that it banged against a filing cabinet behind, then bounced back. I blinked against the light’s full blast.
I blinked against the horror that was laid out before me.
24
I’d smelled the blood even before I’d entered the office and it should have forewarned me, but my fear had made me reckless, had given impetus to my charge, knowing that to falter was to stop and that to stop was to turn around and scurry back down those stairs like a coward from confrontation, a rat from a wreck.
My feeble leg nearly gave way completely and I think I swooned as I grabbed the doorhandle for support. The sour, coppery stink of liberated gore was almost overwhelming and the sight before me was almost heart-stopping. I caught my breath and held it there somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
The half-naked body was lying across Henry’s desk, one grey tartan-patterned sock hanging loose from the toes, the other covering a foot, but ruffled around the ankle. The legs were long and skinny. They were hairy around the calves and thighs. They hung over the desk, the toe of the loose sock touching the floor.
The body’s head was out of sight over the other edge of the desk. The pink shirt was sopping with still-shiny blood and it was pulled back over a smoothly stretched belly, a belly so rounded it would have been a paunch in a standing position. The flamboyant shirt and socks should have been my clues, but I was still in the first stages of utter shock, where the mind is numbed and the senses insensible. Another clue was the charcoal-grey trousers neatly folded over the back of the visitor’s chair, flashy red braces a tangle on the chair’s seat, but, although I’d taken them in along with everything else in this newly-appointed charnel chamber, my attention now was concentrated on the blood-bubbles softly erupting from the well of pumping liquid trapped between the body’s closed thighs. The groin’s pubic hair appeared thickly gelled with red dye and more blood trickled over the fleshy walls to join with other flows, the main ones from below, from under the upper legs, forming a surging lake that expanded towards the desk’s cliff edge, flowing around objects, making an island of a glass paperweight, a jetty of the yellow pencil that jutted from the open crimson-soaked accounts book, one side of this squashed by the mutilated corpse’s buttocks.
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