Obviously I hadn’t shut the window properly. That was my thought – until I went back to the bathroom to get another towel for my hair. On the other side of the bathroom was another door, to an airing cupboard. On this, unnoticed before as I’d gone to the bedroom, in red spray paint, that one word again: MURDERER. The shock of it sent me lurching into the bathroom where I puked into the toilet.
Eventually I sat back on my heels, my brain reeling, my throat harsh from vomiting, a foul taste in my mouth, my heart pounding. Someone, while I was showering, had been in my flat – someone who wanted, at the very least, to terrify me.
The thought of going back to the police did cross my mind. Now they’d have to take it seriously, surely? Someone with evil intent had actually broken into my house. Anything might have happened. But nothing had happened. And at that moment all I wanted to do was get away from Eve Rawlins and put her behind me, once and for all.
I managed to get to my feet. I swilled my mouth out with water at the tap. Then I hunted through every room. My flat isn’t big: bedroom, lounge, kitchen, bathroom. There was nobody, of course. They were long gone. I checked the door and the windows: all secure.
I made myself a cup of coffee and sat all the rest of that long night in an armchair in the lounge, dozing and twitching awake and dozing again, pursued by chaotic dreams, until at last the thin light of dawn shone into my weary eyes and woke me to the grim reality of my life.
It was still far too early to set out, because I knew there was somewhere I had to go before I could truly escape. Exhausted, barely caring if every lunatic and hooligan in the city were on my doorstep, I fell back into bed and slept. By the time I awoke it was after nine. I had another shower and forced down a piece of toast. Then I rang the Harries’ number.
Bridget answered. “Hello, Rachel dear, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks, Bridget,” I lied. “I’ll be leaving soon, but I may not go straight to Brant today. I forgot to ask you for the Axtons’ phone number. I might need to ring them.”
“Of course.” She reeled off the number and I stored it in my phone. “Good luck, Rachel. I do hope and pray this will be a good move for you. We’ll miss you, of course.”
“You’ve been more than kind, Bridget. I guess Malcolm’s at work. Say goodbye for me, won’t you?”
On Friday 16 March I left Porton for Brant. I took the A road as far as the turn-off that led to the sheltered flats where my mother lived. I had no idea how long my exile might last; and whatever happened I was unlikely to be keeping the next monthly appointment. I had no great desire to see my mother but thought I’d better tell her that I wouldn’t be around for a while, even though I felt certain that she wouldn’t welcome an unscheduled visit. True to lifelong habit, she still preferred to be well prepared – hair done, makeup immaculate, on top of her form. Too bad, I thought. It’s now or never. I glanced at my reflection in the wing mirror as I parked outside the building and gave a bitter little smile. At least she’ll have something to comment on – I look a wreck.
I made myself known to the concierge and went to the large lounge where I thought mother would be holding court over morning coffee. There she was, sitting at a round table with several of her permed and cardiganed cronies, playing cards. She had her back to me, and I heard her say in her usual plummy and ringing tones, “Doris, dear, it’s your turn. Do keep up.”
At this point the woman opposite looked up and saw me, and her jaw dropped. “Frances, it’s Rachel, your dau –”
Mother cut her off. “I’m trying to concentrate here, Edna,” she said severely.
I pulled up a chair and squeezed in between Mother and the woman beside her, who obligingly and with the sweetest smile moved sideways to accommodate me. “Morning, ladies. Morning, Mother.”
To say she was surprised would be an understatement – her expression was more horrified. “Good heavens!” she said, gathering herself. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Sorry to intrude, Mother,” I said with heavy sarcasm. “Sorry, ladies, to interrupt your game. I thought I’d better come and say goodbye. I’m going away.”
My mother frowned, as only she can do. I remember, as a child, thinking of her frowns like black clouds massing on the horizon. “Oh. And what about your work?” How anyone could load that small word with so much disdain has always amazed me. I honestly believe she thinks me barely better than a butcher with a side of beef.
“I’m taking some leave,” I said. “I haven’t had a holiday in a long time, so I have a lot left.”
“I see.” She looked at me up and down. “You certainly do seem… well, a bit ragged. Exhausted, I dare say. In need of rest. Not to mention a good hairdresser. So where are you going? And how long will you be away?”
“I don’t know yet, to both questions,” I said. “So if you need to contact me you’ll have to use my mobile number.”
One of the ladies cut in. “Rachel, wouldn’t you like some coffee? I’m sure there’s some in the pot.”
“Thank you, Doris, I’d love some.”
Doris got up and bustled away to where the cups and saucers and coffee pot stood on a nearby table. My mother tutted under her breath. Her card game was not to be interrupted – especially as she was winning, judging by the small pile of coins by her elbow. And clearly she had no plans to be upstaged. As Doris returned and put a cup of coffee in front of me my mother said abruptly, and loudly, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
She never fails to wrong-foot me, even now when I am no longer a tongue-tied child. “What?”
Some of the other ladies gasped and tittered. Mother was wearing the blackest of disapproving frowns, but suddenly, like the sun after a spring shower, it cleared, and she laughed, her expression all sweetness and charm. “Oh but no, of course you aren’t! You don’t have time for such frivolities as men friends, do you? Silly me!”
Doris – braver than most – murmured, “Now, Frances, do behave! Rachel has come to say goodbye. Be nice.”
“My dear! When am I not?” Mother turned to me and patted my hand. Her rings were heavy and scratchy. “Keep in touch, then, dear. Have a nice trip. We’ll no doubt see you at some point.”
“No doubt,” I repeated. I shook my head. Truly, she was impossible. I downed my coffee. “Cheerio, then, ladies,” I said, pushing my chair back. “Nice to see you all looking so well.” They chorused goodbye. “Cheerio, Mother,” I murmured, and bent and brushed her powdery cheek with my lips. “Keep up the good work.”
I left, duty done.
I decided to leave the main highway for less frequented, and more rural, roads. Up till now I’d barely registered the arrival of spring; now as I drove at a steady pace I noted daffodils in gardens, and trees in bud. After an hour or so I felt my concentration slipping, and I realized just how tired I was. I had an idea that somewhere along this road was one of those cheap hotels where you don’t need to book and which offer a clean, characterless room with coffee-making facilities and complete anonymity. At that moment the notion of fresh white sheets, coupled with the radical possibility of turning off my phone, was little short of heavenly. True enough, at the third roundabout the place I remembered appeared on the right-hand side. I indicated, slowed, and turned into the car park. For a while I simply sat, almost nodding off as I listened to the ticking of the engine as it cooled. With an effort I gathered up a few necessities in a supermarket carrier bag, locked the car, and went inside. There were plenty of rooms, and after a bit of form-filling I found myself in one of them, no doubt identical to hundreds more across the country. I made a cup of coffee and put it on the bedside table. Then I flopped down onto the bed, feeling the mattress give beneath me and mould to my weary limbs.
I awoke more than three hours later, and for a moment I had no idea where I was. When I remembered I also recalled what had driven me here. I was glad to be away from it, but at the same time I felt adrift: cut loose from my normal moorings of work and routine tasks, from everything
that had given me purpose and a sense of who I was. It was a strange thought that nobody knew my whereabouts – stranger still, that even I didn’t really know either.
Putting aside this disturbing and unproductive train of thought I heaved myself off the bed and went in search of food. There was a pub on the site and I bought a sandwich and a glass of juice and found a quiet corner. Apart from the large and rather sleepy barmaid the place seemed deserted, and it added to my sense of dislocation. It was almost as if I was a survivor of some global disaster which had left the world intact but robbed it of life.
Back in the room I keyed in the number that Bridget had given me. A bright, friendly voice answered after just a few rings. “The Pines, Angela Axton speaking.”
I introduced myself and had a brief conversation with Angela Axton. We arranged that if she had to go out she would leave a key to the flat under a white flowerpot. I could arrive when I liked.
The sense of dislocation faded, and I began to feel free. It was an odd, unfamiliar feeling.
In the late afternoon I checked out of the hotel and drove on through the countryside. A bank of cloud blew in from the west, bringing squally rain and premature darkness. Wanting to take the journey slowly, I found another, similar hotel and checked in, this time taking my backpack with me. I showered and ate dinner in the hotel restaurant, content with my own company and looking forward to sleep, uninterrupted and peaceful. As I got back to my anodyne room my mobile rang, and I was reminded that the world was never very far away, however hard I strove to escape from it.
A familiar voice, as clear as if it were in the same room, standing beside me: “Hey, Lizzie! How’re you doing?”
Only one person in this world calls me Lizzie: my brother Martin. Dad used to call me this too, a long time ago. He told me he wanted me to be named Elizabeth – he was a great supporter of the monarchy – but Mother wouldn’t have it. She wanted Rachel after some thespian idol of hers, so Elizabeth was relegated to second place; but for me, Lizzie is the name of a loved and cherished child, and hearing it brought tears to my weary eyes.
“Hey, bro! Where are you?”
A brief pause, then a throaty chuckle: “New Zealand. About to get on a very small boat.”
“What’s the time there?”
“Whoa, I dunno… just after ten in the morning.”
“So what’s all this? Why the honour of a phone call?”
“Ha, well, I’ve been talking to our beloved parent. Says you’ve taken off somewhere.”
“You make it sound like I’ve gone walkabout. Just taking some overdue holiday, that’s all.”
“OK, as long as you’re all right.”
“Of course I am.” I spoke brightly, and hoped he didn’t hear how false it was.
“Gotta go, sorry; the skipper is waving to me, looks a bit agitated. I’ll call you again when I get settled.”
“OK. Good to hear your voice! Bye.”
I lay on the bed, propped up by pillows, and thumbed through the photos on my phone. I knew it was probably not a good idea, but I did it anyway. There weren’t many, because I rarely took any; but there was one I’d kept, of Martin the last time I’d seen him, almost two years ago.
In the photo he was leaning up against a bollard, a bulging backpack slung over one shoulder, and at his back a sparkling sea. He’d come back to the UK for a short while, and we’d gone to the seaside for the day and pretended to be kids again. I zoomed in on his smiling face. His eyes were – are – bright blue, his wayward hair very fair, his stubble slightly ginger. Apart from being built on a slightly smaller scale, he is a dead ringer for our father, and that’s my problem. I have no photos of our father himself. I am sure that if I asked my mother for one she would hoot with laughter and make me feel like an idiot, and I can’t risk undoing my armour even one chink when she’s around. She’d be in for the kill with whoops of glee.
I don’t know why I sought that photo of Martin, when reminding myself of Dad is so uselessly painful. Just sometimes I feel, perhaps masochistically, impelled to bring Dad back, even though it’s not him at all, and remember the laughing six-foot Viking who so dominated my childhood and then left me bereft. Perhaps this time it was because I felt so unreal; perhaps because in this anonymous wasteland between two lives I had little to lose and could be free, for a while, to be that naïve and vulnerable kid again. But these memories, though so old, were still raw, bringing up painful sobs that hurt my chest and stung my eyes to blindness.
Apart from my mother, nobody really knew how it had been when my dad finally gave up the struggle. Martin is five years older than me, and he was away at college for most of that time. I’m sure he was concerned, but his freedom was precious, and he wasn’t going to risk losing it. I was not even fifteen, and had nowhere to go. Even now, Martin’s chosen career – as a wildlife photographer – took him all over the world, and he was rarely at home – wherever that was. As far as I knew he had no partner, no settled roots, and no desire for any of the usual things people work for. We couldn’t have been more different; and yet there was, despite everything, a bond of sibling solidarity between us, and perhaps he, like me, had decided to bury his memories of Dad very deep where no one could trample on them.
One day, I thought. Perhaps one day I’ll take Dad out of that mental closet and say hello. Maybe one day I can empty all pain and anguish out of my thoughts of him, and survey them with calm. One day.
PART TWO
BRANT LYON
The first time I came to, in an unfamiliar room full of shadows, I was calm, no doubt drugged to the gills. From a distance I was aware that I had no idea where I was, but it didn’t seem to matter. My eyes closed all by themselves, and my brain shut down with them.
The second time consciousness was sharper, and as I tried to focus my eyes a wave of panic shot through me. I heard a shout, and I wasn’t sure if it came from me. Someone came into the room and spoke softly – a woman. “Hush, Rachel; don’t worry, you’re OK. Go back to sleep.” I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing happened. She laid a hand gently on my shoulder. “Not time to wake up yet,” she whispered. I obeyed, because I couldn’t do anything else.
The third time I opened my eyes, I knew where I was, and my body prickled with fright. The skin of my face felt tight and stretched. Behind me thin curtains let in morning light, and I could see the room – a familiar room, complete with a familiar smell, recognizable anywhere, and for a medic, home from home. I was in hospital, but what hospital, and why? I seemed incapable of moving my head, but I swivelled my eyes and saw the dripstand and a monitor with blinking lights. This time I know I cried out, wordlessly, a moan of utter terror, fuelled by incomprehension.
The door opened, and a nurse came in, perhaps the same one that had soothed me hours – minutes? months? – before. Or had I dreamed that? “All right, Rachel, you’re awake.”
She looked at the monitor, checking, then back at me. Her eyes were light brown.
I tried to speak, but my voice was harsh and my throat hurt. “What – where? What happened?”
“You don’t remember? Don’t try to talk, Rachel. Best if you rest, try to sleep again. Mr Wells will be along later. I’ll give you something for pain.”
Pain? Yes, now I felt it: a stinging within the tightness in my face. I tried to lift my hand to touch my cheek, but it wouldn’t move.
“Whoa, try to keep still,” the nurse said. She put an arm behind my shoulders and gently raised me up. “Just drink this. It’ll help.” She put a small plastic cup to my lips and tipped a pink viscous liquid into my mouth. I choked a bit, and swallowed. She wiped a dribble from my chin. “There.”
Before she let me down again I saw them – my hands, resting on the white sheet, immobilized by bandages and plaster splints. I looked up at the nurse, my eyes wide and frantic. “What –?”
“Try not to get upset, Rachel. Sleep now. Mr Wells will talk to you later. Try not to worry.”
When she closed the doo
r behind her, wild ungoverned thoughts raced through my mind. Why are my hands bandaged? Why can’t I move them? What’s wrong with my face? Am I in the grip of some horribly real nightmare? Have I lost my reason? And who the heck is Mr Wells?
***
I had a week, maybe ten days, when I first arrived at Brant before the authorization came through and I was allowed to start work. Malcolm had obviously been busy, but no doubt there were rules and protocols to be followed. I didn’t bother even to think about them; I focused on preparing for the new life I had been forced to adopt. I was determined to make the best of it, to climb and shine and conquer. It was the only way I knew to be, and so far it had served me well enough.
The granny-flat which the Axtons had lent me was more homely than I was used to with its comfortable lounge, galley kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. Their house, a sprawling building with two wings, was set in an acre of garden whose lush lawns sloped down towards the bank of the river that wound slowly round the city. On the other side, across water-meadows dotted with trees and ponds, stood the hospital – a huge futuristic edifice of glass and steel. I could walk to work, across one of a number of little bridges, some alarmingly rickety, and along footpaths frequented by cyclists and dog-walkers; the car was no longer a necessity and at the Axtons’ invitation I parked it in one of their empty outbuildings.
The Healing Knife Page 7
