Echo of Barbara

by John Burke

  Comfort. The smell of pipe smoke, wood smoke and tweed. The rough surface of his hand against her cheek.

  She pulled herself away. If you want help, said his voice distinctly, as though still resounding in the enclosure of the fireplace. But there was a more distant yet clearer voice. In her head she still heard Sam; heard his command: Keep your mouth shut. That’s all I ask.

  ‘I must go now,’ she said.

  He looked absurd but likeable, hunched under the beam. He had to back away in order to stand upright, and by the time he had done that she had slipped past him into the middle of the room. A few steps away from the fire, and the chill of the morning struck up from the flagged floor.

  ‘Barbara —’

  ‘I must be getting back,’ she said.

  ‘You can stay a bit longer. It’s nearly opening time.’ He produced an awkward laugh.

  ‘No. I promised — I only came out for a breath of fresh air.’

  She looked round for her coat. He helped her on with it, then his arm went around her and drew her closer. She tried to turn her head away, but his lips moved swiftly and trapped hers. For a moment she stood motionless, as though frozen; then her mouth opened slightly, and one arm crept up as though of its own accord to his shoulder.

  ‘Barbara, I didn’t know . . . Barbara, you don’t really have to go?’

  She fastened her coat. It was a heavy winter coat, muffling and enfolding her — an armour against the cold and against life.

  Adam said: ‘Perhaps you’re free this afternoon? I could call for you. We —’

  ‘No.’

  She heard herself sounding almost angry. This afternoon: what would have happened by then? What would Sam Westwood have told her by then, and what would they feel towards one another by then?

  ‘Tomorrow,’ urged Adam. He seemed to be reaching out imploringly to her as she stood at the door. ‘If I call for you tomorrow morning, or afternoon —’

  ‘Make it the afternoon,’ she said. Anything to get away. And she did want to see him again: even if it added complexity to the trouble she already had to face, she wanted to be with him again. ‘If you happen to be going past at about three o’clock, or thereabouts.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.

  As she walked out from that spurious warmth into the cold outer world, shame returned. This time it was worse than before. It had been accumulating all morning without her realizing it, and now it poured over her. It was as though the opening of her mind to the consciousness of shame, when she walked away from Sam Westwood’s house, had led to a wider breach: all the amassed wrongs of the last few years came flooding through, foaming one on top of the other.

  She hugged her coat about her, hiding her body away in it — the body that she had exposed indifferently to the lascivious, snapping eye of the cameras, and that now had become real to her.

  If only she had in fact been Sam Westwood’s daughter; but without Barbara’s stiffness and the corrosiveness of her pride. If only she had met Adam Collier somewhere else, and had come to him clean and unsullied.

  They were new thoughts, and their unfamiliarity shocked her.

  She tried to dismiss these twisted ideas, to shake them off; but their talons had driven deeply into her. Unthinkable that she should be disturbed by Adam Collier, whom she hardly knew; yet this was what she was thinking. Ridiculous that she should be revolted by the idea of her nakedness spread over a thousand bookstalls, captured forever on thousands and thousands of sheets of glossy paper. To have saved this revelation for one man . . .

  But how could she have known? And how, if she had not suffered as she had done, would she have got to this place? Without the degradation leading her step by step towards that house, this hillside, there would not have been this tremor in her heart.

  She blundered towards the road, heading back to face Sam Westwood. The question was still there, ready to be repeated. This time there would be an answer. There must be. And after that she must be patient. With Roger satisfied and Mrs. Westwood satisfied, she must stick it out for a few more days. Then, as Roger had said, she could throw a fit of temperament and walk out once more, never to return.

  She thought of what another desertion might mean to Sam. After giving in to her, after giving up his secret, still to learn that she was leaving: how would he look, what would he say?

  Her vision was blurred. She was straining so intensely into the immediate future that she saw nothing of the winter countryside about her. The wind sang a dirge that wove itself into her mood. She was even talking to herself in disconnected snatches that the wind, sighing, carried away with it. Sam Westwood and Adam Collier. Sam, with whom she must stay for a while after she had tricked him. Adam, who was coming to see her tomorrow — Adam, with whom she must spend as much time as possible if the next week or so were to be even tolerable.

  But would Adam help? Would it not be worse with him there — another man to be betrayed?

  She whimpered as she reached the road. A wild impulse to run away seized her. She had enough money in her pocket to take her to London, where she could disappear. The filthiness of Roger’s plan and the mounting importance of Adam Collier could be brushed aside and forgotten. It would not take long. She would become Paula Hastings again.

  Who was Paula Hastings?

  She stood irresolute for a moment, knowing that she could not go. Not yet. Not until she knew that Sam Westwood was safe.

  She turned towards the scattering of houses along the last stretch of road. It was then that she saw the car. It had been parked off the road, partly sheltered by one of the squat bushes that made dark tufts all over the fields and saltings. Now it bumped up on to the road and swung in towards her.

  Paula stepped back. The car slowed, and the back door opened.

  ‘Come on inside,’ said the Northern Irish voice.

  ‘I don’t —’

  ‘Inside.’ The gun was in shadow, but she saw it clearly enough. Desperately she looked round. There was nothing; nobody. The nearest house stared blankly into the wind. The sea was deep-throated and mocking today. The man with the gun leaned forward. ‘Inside.’

  She stumbled, and fell rather than stepped into the car. They dragged her in, the door slammed, and the car jerked forward.

  *

  Roger arrived just before lunch. There were strips of plaster across his torn right cheek, and his mouth was puffed up. He came into the house stooping slightly, as though suffering from some gnawing pain in his stomach. Around the swollen, discoloured patches on his face he looked white and sick.

  Mrs. Westwood was the first to see him. She let out a thin cry that brought Sam into the hall.

  ‘So it was you,’ he said. ‘They got it out of you.’

  ‘They’ve been here?’ breathed Roger.

  ‘They’ve been. And gone.’

  ‘You didn’t tell them —’

  ‘I told them considerably less than you did,’ said Sam.

  ‘I tried to stick it out. Honest, Dad, I tried. But there were three of them.’

  ‘There were three of them here, too.’

  ‘They got me by surprise. Last night — it took me time to get patched up and get down here. I wasn’t able to move until this morning.’

  ‘All right,’ Sam shrugged. ‘Sooner or later they’d have found out, anyway. They didn’t get anything out of me, so it doesn’t matter. It’s just that I’d hoped for a few weeks more of quietness; even a few months. But it can’t be helped.’

  Roger slumped into a chair and groaned. He put his hands across his stomach and held on to himself.

  Ten minutes later he asked: ‘Where’s Barbara?’

  ‘She went out when my visitors came. She’ll be back soon. We were talking when they got here.’

  Roger’s hands relaxed their pressure. ‘Talking?’ he said softly, casually.

  ‘Yes. We were interrupted.’

  Roger got up and slouched out into the dining-room. He found a bottle of brandy, and pou
red himself a drink.

  When lunch was on the table he began to worry. There was still no sign of that girl. Surely she would not have walked out. He wished he knew how far that talk between her and his father had progressed. Had his father cut her short, or had those men scared her away? She couldn’t have cleared out; she simply couldn’t have done it — not at this stage.

  He ventured: ‘Barbara —’

  ‘She’s probably having a drink with her boy friend,’ said Sam.

  ‘Do you mean she’s hanging about with that fellow from the pub? I can’t say I’m struck on him. And she ought not to go off and leave you. To go off when those men were here —’

  ‘I coped with them,’ said Sam. ‘I told her to go. Told her to keep quiet. Told her I could cope. She believes in me.’

  It was not until the middle of the meal that a faint uneasiness began to show itself in Sam’s manner. Roger became aware of it: it intensified his own; but he did not want to be too earnest, too anxious about a sister he had always treated with indifference and even contempt. The act could not be changed at a moment’s notice.

  ‘She might at least have given us a ring,’ said Sam at last. He got up from the table. ‘I’d better check whether she’s coming back to lunch or not.’

  When he came back from the telephone the alarm in his eyes was tense and urgent.

  Chapter Twelve

  Adam Collier drove his sports car down the sea road at a speed that wrenched at the wheel under his hands. The crumbling edges and cracked surface of the road threatened to turn the car over.

  He ought to have driven down earlier. He ought to have insisted on bringing Barbara home. He had known there was something wrong; but she had refused his offer, and he had not wanted to arouse suspicion by being too insistent, too curious.

  Suspicion. In trying to carry out his job cleverly and unobtrusively, he had let this happen. And right now he didn’t give a damn for his job: that wasn’t what counted.

  His brakes cried faintly as he jolted to a stop outside the Westwood house. He ran up the path and knocked at the door; knocked again when it was not immediately answered.

  Mrs. Westwood came to the door and stared at him with weary resentment.

  He said: ‘Sam in?’

  ‘Yes, he is, but . . .’

  She let the vague rebuff fade out, and stood aside to let him in. She had grown tired of trying to cope with anything any more.

  He heard voices through an open door on his right.

  Roger was whining: ‘But you don’t know. You’re only guessing. And you’re not going to do anything silly — I won’t let you.’ The whine rose, high and unsteady.

  ‘Who the hell are you to tell me . . .?’

  They stopped as Adam came in. He saw the dark, ugly mess of Roger’s face before Roger twisted away and flounced into a corner of the room.

  Adam said: ‘What’s happened? I had to come down. What’s happened to him — and to Barbara? Have you heard anything?’

  He might have known that he would not get a direct answer. His entry had brought a new element into the situation. Instinctively the Westwoods adjusted to it — and resisted him.

  ‘Who should I hear anything from?’ said Sam.

  ‘You know what I mean. I saw Barbara this morning, and she was very upset about something. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but I could tell that she was in quite a state. Something had frightened her, and you know it. You must know all about it, or you wouldn’t have been worrying yourself, telephoning me.’

  ‘I only wanted to know —’

  ‘Whether she was coming back to lunch. Yes. But your voice sounds much more revealing over the phone, Sam, than it does in ordinary circumstances.’ None of them were sitting down. They stood as though anxious to move away, to go into action . . . to do something. Roger chewed at the skin round his thumbnail. Sam was limp, his arms dangling, his eyes watchful — and yet still, in some perverse way, grateful to Adam for being here. Adam said: ‘What’s happened? Where’s Barbara — where could she be? You know. I’m sure you know.’

  ‘What are you so steamed up about?’ demanded Roger. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Something’s happened to Barbara,’ said Adam stubbornly.

  ‘We don’t know that anything’s happened to her,’ said Roger. ‘Just because she’s decided to stay out for a while . . . Dad was only ringing to ask you. That’s all. We know what she is. She . . . she does things like that. It’s not the first time.’

  ‘Don’t try to tell me —’

  ‘She’s stayed away from home a long time before now, just because she was in a . . . a mood about something.’ The idea pleased him. He turned triumphantly to his father. ‘You know that’s true,’ he cried shrilly.

  It was as though Roger wanted nothing to be done about his sister. He was not merely trying, nobly but vainly, to reassure his parents: he seemed to be hysterically anxious to dismiss the whole thing, to play it down.

  Adam turned to Sam. ‘For God’s sake, man, tell me the truth. I want to help. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘We’re not in need of help,’ whispered Sam.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Adam. ‘I know your whole story. And I know that something has gone wrong, somewhere.’

  ‘So you are a policeman,’ said Sam mildly.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  He recalled the conversation, so recent and yet so far away; remembered Barbara flinging the same question at him.

  The telephone rang.

  Roger swung towards it with a faint sob. Sam moved past him, plucking the receiver up in his left hand.

  ‘Westwood.’

  Roger lifted both arms imploringly, waving in a ludicrous sign language. Sam turned away from him.

  ‘Yes. Yes. You’re to bring her back . . . Legat, I’m warning you. This isn’t going to help you . . .’ The voice at the other end overrode his whisper. He stood there impotently. At last, with deadly calm, he said: ‘If anything happens, Legat, I’ll kill you. If you don’t bring her back. Kill you — all three of you.’

  There was a laugh that the others in the room all heard. Then a click.

  Sam replaced the receiver and stood hunched over it.

  Adam said: ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Get out of here,’ said Roger. ‘Go on, get out. This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘It concerns me,’ said Adam.

  Roger giggled wildly. ‘Goodness . . . if he isn’t in love with her! That’s rich, that is.’

  Sam drew his hand away from the telephone. He looked up. ‘Who are you?’

  Adam told him.

  ‘Insurance,’ said Sam with a little nod. ‘Yes, of course. Any company that had had to pay out a tidy little sum like that would want to know where the stuff had gone. And you thought you’d stick it out down here until you’d got it out of me?’

  ‘I had a deadline. I couldn’t stay for ever. But I thought I was getting very close. I felt something was going to break soon.’

  ‘Something has broken all right,’ said Sam grimly.

  ‘What? You’ve got to tell me.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Roger. ‘You don’t think —’

  ‘I’m not here because of my job,’ insisted Adam. ‘I swear it. It’s Barbara — I want to know where she is, I want to get her back . . . What did they tell you on the phone just then?’

  ‘Only that they’ll be phoning me again,’ said Sam. ‘They . . . just didn’t want me to worry!’

  Roger’s breath hissed in through his teeth. ‘Dad, don’t say any more. Don’t be a fool.’

  Sam said to Adam: ‘Thanks for coming. But you’d better go now. There’s nothing you can do. This is my business, and it’s going to stay my business.’

  ‘But you can trust me. I swear you can trust me.’

  ‘I believe you. But I’ll handle this.’

  Adam said: ‘You’ve got to call the police.’

  ‘It’s not been a habit of mine in the p
ast.’

  ‘Good God, man, is this any time for that sort of attitude? You can’t get her back yourself. You’ve got to get the right people on the job. The police —’

  ‘Legat told me what would happen to Barbara if I called in the police.’

  ‘You mustn’t do it,’ breathed Roger. ‘You mustn’t do it. For Barbara’s sake,’ he said.

  The whole sound of it was wrong. All wrong.

  Adam pleaded: ‘Let me come in with you, then. You’ve got to have somebody. I’ve got contacts — I can use them without making a fuss. Anything you want doing . . . I want Barbara back.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Sam. ‘I want her back.’

  Mrs. Westwood, who had been standing helplessly just inside the door, not moving and not speaking, suddenly lurched forward and fell into a chair. She began to cry, at first whimpering to herself and then rising to a howl.

  Neither her husband nor her son made any move towards her. She might not have been there. She did not look towards them for comfort; did not cry her daughter’s name; simply howled.

  Adam said: ‘Sam, you’ve got to take me along with you on this. The moment you hear from those scum —’

  ‘I’ll see,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll see.’

  ‘Who are they? The men who were with you on the job? If you’d let me start work now, maybe we could have them picked up right away. Take them by surprise. Sam, let me try. Don’t just sit here waiting.’

  ‘There are risks I won’t take. When they contact me again, I’ll find out how to get at them.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘I know that world,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve lived in it. I know that men who don’t want to be found take a lot of finding. I’m not taking risks until I’ve heard from them — until I’ve got something to work on.’

  There was icy certainty in his voice. Roger, quivering towards a protest of some sort, lifted one hand and then let it fall again.

  Adam said: ‘And when you hear, you’ll let me know.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘You’ve got to.’

  ‘I shall know what to do when the time comes,’ said Sam. ‘And then I’ll do it. And I’ll get Barbara back.’