Second galling feature of the day had been Mrs Cartwright, reacting to Quinn’s appealing smile and extended hand with more gratitude than she had ever shown to Lawrence who had been her link with the world for months. Quinn’s second meeting with the client unbent her more than Lawrence had done in six, and it hurt. Labouring for two hours in an ill-ventilated room, he had watched Quinn taking apart Mrs Cartwright’s line of defence, and putting it back together again into a jigsaw puzzle of stronger if still imperfect fabric after his discreet and clever treatment. He drew it from her so nicely – she remembered better under his care – she had told Jaskowski why she had wanted Bernard’s wife followed, told him she was rich, might even have suggested Bernard might be better off without her. But Jaskowski may have come to her house, might then have taken his lethal direction himself, perhaps seen the rich pickings there could have been in a bereaved, unguarded home. Ah, yes, said Quinn, that explains it, I’m sure the jury will see the feasibility of that.
Lawrence wrote it all, wondering how it was Quinn could humble himself to the role of the client’s interpreter with such bland dignity, renewing the client’s confidence without ever making a promise or telling a single lie: full of innate reassurance, conspicuous authority. Not even taking off his bloody jacket, a fine, light-weight, well-fitting garment, probably made for him in Hong Kong out of his enormous fees for whatever enormous fraud, whilst Lawrence wilted in his ready-made synthetic, horribly conscious of the damp armpits, the slightly gluey smell of his deodorant. ‘Warm, isn’t it,’ was Quinn’s only soft complaint, while he himself scarcely glowed.
Ms Sissy Malton, junior counsel for the defence, had warned her learned leader from weeks of fussy experience, that Lawrence was, in her own words, a pain in the neck. Quinn had bent over backwards, contorted himself with charm and appreciation to relieve the pain, and failed. Lawrence, picturing Quinn in Chelsea with his gin and tonic, ordered another pint.
Used to his own fury when paired with the glamour of Quinn, Lawrence might have coped far better without that other debilitating worry of conscience. He had been told so often by his senior partner in no uncertain terms, that if the bloody woman insists about the money, don’t forget to tell counsel; he has to know. Lawrence had not forgotten and had not told. There had been the moment in prison when Quinn had asked, ‘Now is there anything more you would like us to do for you?’ and Mrs Cartwright had told him, ‘We have covered it all, Mr Lawrence and I. Thank you,’ his one triumph of the whole day, although her glance in his direction suggested conspiracy rather than gratitude. Too late to tell now: he had already done it, executed the first part of his suspicious orders to the letter, and met Edward Jaskowski. Thinking of it now quickened the desire for another pint which would leave him less relaxed than he had been before the first. Something there was with the junior Jaskowski which made oblivion impossible.
He did not like to call it reluctant admiration. Lawrence preferred the downtrodden; even liked his own wife best when she was thoroughly depressed, and before meeting Edward at all, his sense of romance was caught. Then Edward appeared, solid and surly to answer his appointment, and on sight of him, Lawrence found fellow feeling for all pale, unattractive teenagers everywhere, since at thirty-three he was still in the same mould himself. He admired Ed not only for a shared condition of life, but for Ed’s stubborn self-possession and stunning lack of gratitude in the face of it. No thanks for the Cartwright generosity; no expressions of surprise, anger or any one of the gamut of emotions Lawrence had expected. Instead, Ed shrugged his shoulders and sat volunteering nothing as if it were all his due, no more than could be expected, and why not after all, it was only money? At seventeen years and now, Lawrence still wore the imprint of the last person who had sat on him, while Edward did not, leaving Lawrence gabbling in response to the silence, repeating his message and all its strictures three times over, stung into volubility by the boy’s stillness.
‘You understand? Don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Lawrence cleared his throat. ‘Do you … do you wonder why my client is making you such a gift?’
‘No. Why should I?’
The lad was intimidating. Lawrence found himself copying the infectious shrug before he explained it all again. No contribution whatever from the boy apart from a promise that they would correspond after the trial.
‘You’d better open a bank account,’ said Lawrence, unable to allow Edward to escape without without some piece of advice.
‘I’ve got one already, thank you.’
The beer, fizzy and warm, inflated stomach and ego. He was like a ship, filled with water ballast to ride rough waves, stabilised by the intake, readier to sail. Bugger Quinn. Let him work it out for himself if he was so bloody clever, and besides, what harm in it, this rich Cartwright eccentricity? Maybe she would be free with her cash in his direction for the unquestioning loyalty of his service. Lawrence composed himself, fastened the top button of his shirt and straightened the tie, swayed from the pub fit for another quarrelsome evening.
Going home alone after dark was the essence of being single, the very nub of it; often pleasantly lonely, sometimes nostalgic, this evening, neither. For once, an evening on her own had been an unbearable prospect, driving Helen into another house as soon as the telephone gave acceptance. A restlessness incurable without pleasant company found and given before walking home alone, slightly ashamed to be seen in need. There was a moon above the trees in a newly dark sky, serenely decorative over the imposing Victorian houses she passed on the mile home. Ahead of her, a man walked slowly in isolation, reminder of the dangers of the night which made her develop her storm trooper walk suggesting resistance to any intereference, an air of confidence not always genuine but convincing.
Alongside the doorway of an ugly public house, a man and woman sat on a wall, arguing furiously in low, bitter tones – Go on, tell me, what have I done? – the quarrelsome voices undermining the order of words. Only as lonely as everyone else. Bypassing their misery and turning into the other tree-lined street which held her own home, she was impressed by the fully dressed branches, and recognised her own loneliness as preferable to most, far from unbearable by comparison, and in spite of that conclusion wished above anything else she had been able to speak to Geoffrey after the conference, wished she could speak to him now.
Stepping between the cars, eyes fixed on the ground, she found herself dawdling, avoiding the cracks in the pavement like a child, afraid of what might or might not happen next between them, angry with him for the mood he had created, knowing he would have all the same reservations, a badly bitten, twice shy pair of people, outwardly confident, inwardly terrified of ever again crying into the pillow. Wise to run before it was too late to restore the hard-won equilibrium of their lives, since this would be no peccadillo, no laughing kiss-and-tell, no one-night-stand. Fear and cowardice: she did not know which afflicted either of them, could forgive the first, not the second. The gesture would have to be his and his was the greater barrier to cross. If he did, for all her agonising, she knew exactly what she would do however much she might contemplate the opposite.
Opening the door to the flat, the telephone tailed into silence. She sorted clothes and papers in preparation for another day, wandering from room to room, silly with pointless sadness.
Then she heard the sirens. Looking through the window, she sensed movement in the garden, the same rustling, and a small sob of sound, coinciding with the sudden roar of engines in the street at the other side. Keep down, she told him silently, whoever you are, you little idiot. Hide …
It was his garden: his, hers, the cat’s, space also provided for birds, flowers and all those live creatures who belonged as naturally as himself; no one else’s garden, his second home in the few weeks since Ed had so effectively destroyed the remnants of the first. In Ed’s view, the confession had re-established the balance of brotherly discipline in allowing him to stay away until the early hours and remain as igno
rant of Peter’s whereabouts as he was of his mind. Peter’s silences were disguised in smiles and surface serenity and the deception worked well enough to allow him to adopt his resting place within view of Helen’s windows as often as he pleased. Familiarity bred carelessness: so did his sense of belonging, and although he needed no reminder that his presence was an intrusion, once hidden he immediately forgot he could be watched as well as watching or that his freedom was not one which all observers would take for granted. Down in the dark he could tell himself, no harm: the lady had given him prescriptive rights to admire her flowers, stroke her cat, mend the bird with the broken wing, wonder at the trees, anchor himself to her island, sometimes noisily.
Far too noisily on this occasion for the nervous couple one door down, two floors up, who saw him entering the garden to wait for Helen’s return. The intruder, they said to the telephone voice, might have left already, but he had been there, they had better look in case the lady in that flat is not in. Helen’s arrival within minutes had been visible, Peter no longer so, and the men in uniform, so many of them – what a waste – were referred to her doorbell. Her problem – we merely called you – nothing to do with us. They did not really care for the police.
Poor Peter. Siren sounds were not infrequent, but there had been a tone to these which marked them as the baying of his own hunters. He had been lying on the ground, the cat in his arms, kicking his heels, humming to himself, hoping she would come home soon, alive with sudden pleasure when she did, settling himself again when he first heard them and recognised the stiffening of fear. He might have run at the wall immediately, over and home by any route dark enough to take his shadow, but he could not. Movement was beyond him: peace had become the paralysis of a blacker terror than he had ever known, even at the hands of father, brother or baiting contemporaries, and it denied him the option of escape. By the wall farthest from the door he shrank behind a blooming camellia bush, his back to the worn bricks, curling his small body smaller, fist in mouth, the other hand pulling thin knees to thin chest, watching and listening for the car doors closing in the street beyond. High and low voices, calm and authoritative, and Helen at the window, appearing to whisper something before she disappeared from sight while he stifled a scream. Still time to run: too late to unfold such frozen limbs which he contracted instead into an agony of tension. Longed to close his eyes, unable to grant relief, watched instead for hour-long seconds until finally the door from the basement opened. From it she led three uniformed men, speaking to them cheerfully with an insistent politeness. In the light from the door which made his eyes as shiny as diamonds, the garden seemed tiny, bare and innocent.
‘I’m sorry you’ve been troubled, really I am, but there’s no one here. If there was, I’m sure I’d have known, but do look.’
She moved casually before them, and stood in front of his hiding place, almost touching him, brushing the blooms. The cat had emerged towards her, rubbing at her ankles as the men strolled a few steps, absurdly large in that smallish space, reassured by her nonchalant protest. One searched the edges, the others shuffled and gazed.
‘Nice garden, miss. How do you find the time?’
‘Well, I don’t really: you know how it is. I’m lucky, it just grows.’
‘Wish mine did. Mostly it just dies. Summer like this doesn’t help.’
Muted agreement and chat on the subject of plants. She managed to move without moving, pointing to things, talking quickly and easily, making them at home.
Another spokesman, ‘Your neighbour might be right. Someone’s come, and someone’s gone, by the looks of it. Nothing missing?’
‘Nothing to take.’
‘You’ll call us again if you hear anything?’
‘Yes of course; I’m sorry, they’re a bit nervous upstairs.’
‘Better safe than sorry. You do have window locks? Now those who won’t call, there’s the problem. Never mind. What plant’s that? My mother has one.’
Unhurriedly, conversationally, all four returned into the house. Peter heard them retreat without haste, feet on stairs, civilised goodnights, hunters heading towards another scent, no rush, no trouble, adrenalin on the ebb. He remained as still as before, aware again of the chance to run, equally unable, crouched like a statue with the silence hammering at his ears through a pounding heart, blocking even the rustle of leaves. Stay he must for the very horror of running; frozen by shame and the terrible end of all his dreaming. Peter bent further, sobbing into his fist for the sudden awareness of his own oddity, his freakish, silly presence in her garden as if he owned it, for the stupidity of hiding, fooling himself for all this time that she would not, could not, hurt him, knowing now how she would be the last of many to find him stupid, inadequate and naked to whatever she would inflict before sending him away. He was more used to being discarded first and only struck as last resort: the order of it did not matter, only the sickening familiarity of rejection.
He could not close his eyes even to compress the tears, but kept them fixed open, watching through the new dark as the basement door reopened. She emerged, slim and upright, her dark hair silhouetted by the light as she moved the two steps towards the flower tubs and stood with her arms folded, speaking softly and clearly without even looking towards him, addressing the night at large without hint of accusation or anger in the soft voice he remembered so well.
‘I think, don’t you, that it’s time we two met. This is silly. Can you stand up?’
Peter paused, betrayed into movement by a sudden shock of hope, quickly dismissed, still reluctant to face retribution, but without choice. He uncurled and stood by his lair.
‘Come here,’ she commanded.
As he moved into the light, she saw this clothes were damp from the earlier rain, streaked with the colour of the grass. Furrows of tears ran down the cheeks of a thin face rigid with pride and despair. He stood like a sad boy soldier, trained never to ask favours or expect either concessions or understanding, ready to take punishment without a word. She had known for the weeks since she had sensed his presence, that he was neither fully formed or capable of doing her harm, this friendly alien whose company her cat preferred. Apart from the first anxious curiosity, it had never occurred to her to be afraid of his presence, but faced with him now, she was simply surprised to find him as small and defenceless, so dignified and resigned in the defeat of his whole bearing. A beautiful child, larger than an infant, all the more pathetic for that, the saddest child she had ever seen, and her heart overbalanced. Even the pity puzzled her, but she could not have rationed it, could not have betrayed him, knew she would have lied for him more than she had done already, and should the need have arisen, pretended she knew him well. Which she did, in a manner of speaking.
Expulsion should be immediate, with a slap. She should send him home like a peeping Tom, full of threats and public disgrace. The thin body of him, held in control for too long, shook with cold: there was no shrug, no bravado, only exhaustion, which made strictly rehearsed words irrelevant. Of course she should send him away, now: tell him never to return, how dare he, to her garden or anywhere near it. Any adult with half a brain cell would do precisely that.
She fished in her sleeve for a handkerchief.
‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘You have the dirtiest face I’ve ever seen,’ gently wiping some of the grime from it. ‘And now, what do we do with you? It’s warmer inside, you know. And the front door much easier. Time we learned to talk, don’t you think? I don’t suppose you’re hungry, are you?’
The immobility altered, only to the extent of a nod. The eyes, fixed on her face, refilled with tears, brushed away.
‘Do you have a name?’
The head shook, anxious, but adamant.
‘All right. We’ll do without names then. Come on.’
He nodded, crumpled face alive with an awestruck smile as she took his hand and led him in through the glow of the doorway. The cat yawned, stretched, followed.
In the kitchen,
she invited him to sit while she continued a stream of soothing chatter. From another room the telephone rang, and she watched him poised for flight but yearning to stay, wondering if it was Geoffrey’s call she had missed again. Either speak to a precious friend, or cater for this frightened imp: no choice. The loneliness of the child, nothing else in him afflicted her more, the glaring loneliness of him, he wore it like a birthmark. Who had dared leave a small boy thus? Busy with hands, with food, with smiles, she boiled with anger, stroking with meaningless words, watching him calmer, eating with nervous haste, finally rewarding her with words.
‘I like it here,’ a quick earnest sentence, hands pressed between knees with the effort of it.
‘Well, I’m very pleased you do. I like it too. You must come here often. Is it better than home?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Where’s home?’
A shake of the head, a pleading look. Please, please, do not make me say …
‘Don’t want to say? Well, don’t then pet, if you don’t want to, but I’m worried for you … How do you get there? Walk?’
Nod.
‘Aren’t they worried about you? So late, I mean.’
He was puzzled she should think anyone worried. Why imagine anyone was concerned to look into his room, let alone notice? Helen suspected no one noticed: he had that look, the appearance of one neglected in clean clothes, not an obvious target for the indiscretion of Pity.
He stood, suddenly, pointed to the clock, this boy of so few phrases, apologetically anxious with a smile which transformed his features and she knew further questions would be useless. He was warm and fed now, little else she could do, and restraining him would destroy that little achievement like hitting a wounded dog in the first moment of recovery. Besides, he would manage: he had left alone before.
A Question of Guilt Page 18
