Sculptress

by Minette Walters

  He fingered the spreading bruise.

  “Not far off,” he agreed.

  “And you? What ails you?”

  “Nothing,” she said lightly.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are.” His dark eyes rested kindly on her for a moment.

  “You’re half alive and I’m hail dead.”

  He drained his glass and filled it again.

  “What did you want with Sergeant Hawksley?”

  She glanced about the room.

  “Shouldn’t you be opening up?”

  “What for?”

  She shrugged.

  “Customers.”

  “Customers,” he echoed thoughtfully.

  “Now there’s beautiful word.” He gave a ghost of a chuckle.

  “They’re an endangered species, or haven’t you heard? The last time I saw a customer was three days ago, a skinny little runt with a rucksack on his back who was scratching about in search of a vegetarian omelette and decaffeinated coffee.” He fell silent.

  “Depressing.”

  “Yes.”

  She eased herself on to the stool again.

  “It’s not your fault,” she said sympathetically.

  “It’s the recession. Everyone’s going under. Your neighbours already have, by the look of it.” She gestured towards the door.

  He reached up and flicked a switch at the side of the bar. Muted lamplight glowed around the walls, bringing a sparkle to the glasses on the tables. She looked at him with alarm. The contusion on his cheek was the least of his problems. Bright red blood was seeping from a scab above his ear and running down his neck. He seemed unaware of it.

  “Who did you say you were?” His dark eyes searched hers for a moment then moved past her to search the room.

  “Rosalind Leigh. I think I should call an ambulance,” she said helplessly.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  She had a strange feeling of being outside herself, quite remote from this extraordinary situation. Who was this man?

  Not her responsibility, certainly. She was a simple bystander who had stumbled upon him by accident.

  “I’ll call your wife,” she said.

  He gave a lopsided grin.

  “Why not? She always enjoyed a good laugh. Presumably she still does.” He reached for a tea towel and held it to his head.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to die on you. Head wounds always look worse than they are. You’re very beautiful.

  “From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind.”

  “It’s Roz and I’d rather you didn’t quote that,” she said sharply.

  “It annoys me.”

  He shrugged.

  “As You Like It.”

  She sucked in an angry breath.

  “I suppose you think that’s original.”

  “A tender nerve, I see. Who are we talking about?” He looked at her ring finger.

  “Husband? Ex-husband? Boyfriend?”

  She ignored him.

  “Is there anyone else here? Someone in the kitchen? You should have that cut cleaned.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “In fact you should have this place cleaned. It stinks of fish.” The smell, once noticed, was appalling.

  “Are you always this rude?” he asked curiously. He rinsed the tea-towel under a tap and watched the blood run out of it.

  “It’s me,” he said matter of factly.

  “I went for a ride on a ton of mackerel. Not a pleasant experience.”

  He gripped the edge of the small sink and stood staring into it, head lowered in exhaustion, like a bull before the coup de grace of the matador.

  “Are you all right?” Roz watched him with a perplexed frown creasing her forehead. She didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t her problem, she kept telling herself, but she couldn’t just walk away from it.

  Supposing he passed out?

  “Surely there’s someone I can call,” she insisted.

  “A friend. A neighbour.

  Where do you live?” But she knew that. In the flat above, the young policeman had said.

  “Jesus, woman,” he growled, ‘give it a rest, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Is that what you call it? It sounded more like nagging to me.” He was alert suddenly, listening to something she couldn’t hear.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed by his expression.

  “Did you lock the door after you?”

  She stared at him.

  “No. Of course I didn’t.”

  He dowsed the lights and padded across to the entrance door, almost invisible in the sudden darkness. She heard the sound of bolts being thrust home.

  “Look-‘ she began, getting off her stool.

  He loomed up beside her and put an arm around her shoulder and a finger to her lips.

  “Quiet, woman.” He held her motionless.

  “But-‘ “Quiet!”

  A car’s headlamps swept across the windows, slicing the darkness with white light. The engine throbbed in neutral for a moment or two, then the gears engaged and the vehicle drove away. Roz tried to draw away but Hawksley’s arm only gripped her more firmly.

  “Not yet,” he whispered.

  They stood in silent immobility among the tables, statues at a spectral feast. Roz shook herself free angrily.

  “This is absolutely absurd,” she hissed.

  “I don’t know what on earth is going on but I’m not staying like this for the rest of the night. Who was in that car?”

  “Customers,” he said regretfully.

  “You’re mad.”

  He took her hand.

  “Come on,” he whispered, ‘we’ll go upstairs.”

  “We will not,” she said, snatching her hand away.

  “My God, doesn’t anyone think about anything except screwing these days.”

  Amused laughter fanned her face.

  “Who said anything about screwing?”

  “I’m going.”

  “I’ll see you out.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Why do you want to go upstairs?”

  “My flat’s up there and I need a bath.”

  “So what do you want me for?”

  He sighed.

  “If you remember, Rosalind, it was you who came in here asking for me.

  I’ve never met a woman who was so damn prickly.”

  “Prickly!” she stuttered.

  “My God, that’s rich. You stink to high heaven, you’ve obviously been in a fight, you plunge us into total darkness, moan about not having any customers and then turn them away when they do come, make me sit for five minutes without moving, try to manhandle me upstairs….” She paused for breath.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she blurted out.

  “Oh, great! That’s all I need.” He took her hand again.

  “Come on. I’m not going to rape you. To tell you the truth I haven’t the strength at the moment. What’s wrong?”

  She stumbled after him.

  “I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Join the club.” He led her through the darkened kitchen and unlocked a side door, reaching past her to switch on some lights.

  “Up the stairs,” he told her, ‘and the bathroom’s on the right.”

  She could hear him double-locking the door behind her as she collapsed on the lavatory seat and pressed her head between her knees, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass.

  The light came on.

  “Here. Drink this. It’s water.” Hawksley squatted on the floor in front of her and looked into her white face. She had skin like creamy alabaster and eyes as dark as sloes. A very cold beauty, he thought.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “What?”

  “Whatever’s making you so unhappy.”

  She sipped the water.

  “I’m not unhappy. I’m hungry.”

  He put his han
ds on his knees and pushed himself upright.

  “OK. Let’s eat. How does sirloin steak sound?”

  She smiled weakly.

  “Wonderful.”

  “Thank God for that! I’ve got a freezer full of the flaming stuff. How do you like it?”

  “Rare but-‘ “But what?”

  She pulled a face.

  “I think it’s the smell that’s making me sick.” She put her hands to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry but I really think it would be better if you got cleaned up first. Mackerel-flavoured sirloin doesn’t appeal over much.”

  He sniffed at his sleeve.

  “You don’t notice it after a while.” He turned the taps on full and emptied bath foam into the running water.

  “There’s only the one loo, I’m afraid, so if you’re going to puke you’d better stay there.” He started to undress.

  She stood up hurriedly.

  “I’ll wait outside.”

  He dropped his jacket on to the floor and unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Just don’t be sick all over my carpets,” he called after her.

  “There’s a sink in the kitchen. Use that.” He was easing the shirt carefully off his shoulders, unaware that she was still behind him, and she stared in horror at the blackened scabs all over his back.

  “What happened to you?”

  He pulled the shirt back on.

  “Nothing. Scoot.

  Make yourself a sandwich. There’s bread on the side and cheese in the fridge.” He saw her expression.

  “It looks worse than it is,” he said prosaically.

  “Bruising always does.”

  “What happened?”

  He held her gaze.

  “Let’s just say I fell off my bike.”

  With a contemptuous smile, Olive extracted the candle from its hiding place. They had given up body searches after a woman haemorrhaged in front of one of the Board of Visitors following a particularly aggressive probing of her vagina for illicit drugs. The Visitor had been a MAN. (Olive always thought of men in capital letters.) No woman would have fallen for it. But MEN, of course, were different.

  Menstruation disturbed them, particularly if the blood flowed freely enough to stain the woman’s clothes.

  The candle was soft from the warmth of her body and she pulled off the end and began to mould it. Her memory was good.

  She had no doubt of her ability to imbue the tiny figure with a distinct individuality. This one would be a MAN.

  Roz, preparing sandwiches in the kitchen, looked towards the bathroom door. The prospect of questioning Hawksley about the Olive Martin case unnerved her suddenly. Crew had become very annoyed when she questioned him; and Crew was a civilised man in so far as he did not look as if he’d spent half an hour in a dark alley having the shit beaten out of him by Arnold Schwarzenegger. She wondered about Hawksley.

  Would he be annoyed when he learnt that she was delving into a case he had been involved with? The idea was an uncomfortable one.

  There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge. On the rather naive assumption that another injection of alcohol might make Hawksley more amenable, Roz put it on a tray with the sandwiches and a couple of glasses.

  “Were you saving the champagne?” she asked brightly too brightly? placing the tray on the lavatory seat lid and turning round.

  He was lying in a welter of foam, black hair slicked back, face cleaned and relaxed, eyes closed.

  “Fraid so,” he said.

  “Oh.” She was apologetic.

  “I’ll put it back then.”

  He opened one eye.

  “I was saving it for my birthday.”

  “And when’s that?”

  “Tonight.”

  She gave an involuntary laugh.

  “I don’t believe you. What’s the date?”

  “The sixteenth.”

  Her eyes danced wickedly.

  “I still don’t believe you. How old are you?” She was unprepared for his look of amused recognition and couldn’t stop the adolescent flush that tinged her pale cheeks. He thought she was flirting with him.

  Well dammit! maybe she was. She had grown weary of suffocating under the weight of her own misery.

  “Forty. The big four-o.” He pushed himself into a sitting position and beckoned for the bottle.

  “Well, well, this is jolly.” His lips twitched humorously.

  “I wasn’t expecting company or I’d have dressed for the occasion.” He unbound the wire and eased out the cork, losing only a dribble of bubbly into the foam before filling the glasses that she held out to him. He lowered the bottle to the floor and took a glass.

  “To life,” he said, clinking hers.

  “To life. Happy birthday.”

  His eyes watched her briefly, before closing again as he leant his head against the back of the bath.

  “Eat a sandwich,” he murmured.

  “There’s nothing worse than champagne on an empty stomach.”

  “I’ve had three already. Sorry I couldn’t wait for the sirloin. You have one.” She put the tray beside the bottle and left him to help himself.

  “Do you have a laundry basket or something?” she asked, stirring the heap of stinking clothes with her toe.

  “They’re not worth saving. I’ll chuck ‘em out.”

  “I can do that.”

  He yawned.

  “Bin bags. Second cupboard on the left in the kitchen.”

  She carried the bundle at arm’s length and sealed the lot into three layers of clean white plastic. It took only a few minutes but when she went back he was asleep, his glass clasped in loose fingers against his chest.

  She removed it carefully and put it on the floor.

  What now? she wondered. She might have been his sister, so unaroused was he by her presence. Go or stay? She had an absurd longing to sit quietly and watch him sleep but she was nervous of waking him. He would never understand her need to be at peace, just briefly, with a man.

  Her eyes softened. It was a nice face. No amount of battering and bruising could hide the laughter lines, and she knew that if she let it it would grow on her and make her pleased to see it. She turned away abruptly. She had been nurturing her bitterness too long to give it up as easily as this. God had not been punished enough.

  She retrieved her handbag from where she’d dropped it beside the lavatory and tiptoed down the stairs. But the door was locked and the key was missing. She felt more foolish than concerned, like the embarrassed eavesdropper trapped inside a room whose only object is to escape without being noticed. He must have put the wretched thing in his pocket. She crept back up to the kitchen to scrabble through the dirty clothes bundle but the pockets were all empty. Perplexed, she stared about the work surfaces, searched the tables in the sitting-room and bedroom. If keys existed, they were well hidden. With a sigh of frustration, she pulled back a curtain to see if there was another way out, a fire escape or a balcony, and found herself gazing on a window full of bars. She tried another window and another.

  All were barred.

  Predictably, anger took over.

  Without pausing to consider the wisdom of what she was doing, she stormed into the bathroom and shook him violently.

  “You bastard!” she snapped.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at! What are you? Some kind of Bluebeard. I want to get out of here. Now!”

  He was hardly awake before he’d smashed the champagne bottle against the tiled wall, caught her by the hair, and thrust the jagged glass against her neck. His bloodshot eyes blazed into hers before a sort of recognition dawned and he let her go, pushing her away from him.

  “You stupid bitch,” he snarled.

  “Don’t you ever do that again.” He rubbed his face vigorously to clear it of sleep.

  She was very shaken.

  “I want to go.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  “You’ve hidden the key.”

 
; He looked at her for a moment, then started to soap himself.

  “It’s on the architrave above the door. Turn it twice. It’s a double lock.”

  “Your windows are all barred.”

  “They are indeed.” He splashed water on his face.

  “Goodbye, Ms Leigh.”

  “Goodbye.” She made a weak gesture of apology.

  “I’m sorry.

  I thought I was a prisoner.”

  He pulled out the plug and tugged a towel off the rail.

  “You are.

  “But you said the key-‘ “Goodbye, Ms Leigh.” He splayed his hand against the door and pushed it to, forcing her out.

  She should not be driving. The thought hammered in her head like a migraine, a despairing reminder that self-preservation was the first of all the human instincts. But he was right. She was a prisoner and the yearning to escape was too strong. So easy, she thought, so very, very easy. Successive headlamps grew from tiny distant pinpoints to huge white suns, sweeping through her windscreen with a beautiful and blinding iridescence, drawing her eyes into the heart of their brilliance. The urge to turn the wheel towards the lights was insistent. How painless the transition would be at the moment of blindness and how bright eternity. So easy… so easy… so easy…

  FIVE

  Olive took a cigarette and lit it greedily.

  “You’re late. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.” She sucked down the smoke.

  “I’ve been dying for a bloody fag.” Her hands and shift were ifithy with what looked like dried clay.

  “Aren’t you allowed cigarettes?”

  “Only what you can buy with your earnings. I always run out before the end of the week.” She rubbed the backs of her hands vigorously and showered the table with small grey flakes.

  “What is that?” Roz asked.

  “Clay.” Olive left the cigarette in her mouth and set to work, plucking the smears from her bosom.

  “Why do you think they call me the Sculptress?”

  Roz was about to say something tactless, but thought better of it.

  “What do you make?”

  “People.”

  “What sort of people? Imaginary people or people you know?”

  There was a brief hesitation.

  “Both.” She held Roz’s gaze.

  “I made one of you.”

  Roz watched her for a moment.

  “Well, I just hope you don’t decide to stick pins into it,” she said with a faint smile.