2
6 July 1951
Lucy was in shallow sleep when Tim woke screaming. Immediately, she could detect the rank smell again.
They had recently chosen to sleep in separate beds, but at least they were in the same room. She dragged herself up and took Tim’s hot, sweaty hand.
‘The angels are dying,’ he muttered.
Lucy shivered apprehensively in the cold room. He hadn’t mentioned angels before. His bad dreams had always ended with incoherent shouting.
Tim sat up, his pyjamas soaked, the perspiration standing out on his forehead, his hair matted and damp. His lips were working but no sound was coming out.
Suddenly Lucy felt deeply afraid. Was his breakdown reaching a new peak? Would he need to be hospitalized?
‘Don’t make me,’ Tim said abruptly. He was staring ahead at the chintz curtains, as if he was watching something crawling on them.
She tried to keep calm herself. ‘No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to.’ But Lucy knew she sounded like some unctuous nurse. Her fear surged.
He was coming to now, blinking his eyes, gazing at her in bewilderment. Shaking his head Tim pulled his hand away. ‘I’m not fit to be his father,’ he said muzzily, but he was watching her, as if waiting for some kind of reaction that she wasn’t giving. ‘That’s why I won’t adopt,’ he added, licking his lips, saliva caked into the corners of his mouth.
‘Tell me what you were dreaming.’ It was a fatal question and Lucy cursed herself for she could see the shutters coming down in his eyes.
‘Don’t worry, old girl.’ His jaunty tone was forced as he continued to watch her closely.
‘Don’t you remember?’ Lucy didn’t want to repeat what he had said, but now she had gone this far, she realized that she might as well keep going. The damage had been done.
‘Damn dreams.’ Tim smiled ruefully. ‘Can’t seem to get rid of them. Any chance of a cup of cocoa? That’ll send me back to sleep so the bedbugs don’t bite.’
Lucy was still not prepared to give up. ‘What do you see?’
He laughed impatiently. ‘Running on the spot, pursued by demons, that kind of thing.’
‘French demons?’
He said nothing, but looked as if he was trying to remember. ‘That poor lad,’ he commented slowly. ‘The gardener I mean.’
Lucy realized he was using guile, trying to change the subject. To ease the tension, she decided to go along with him.
‘It was horrible. Were you dreaming about him?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Don’t make me,’ she heard the sleep-slurred voice again. Lucy turned Tim’s words over in her mind, increasingly afraid. ‘Do you reckon someone round here did it?’
He started and then shrugged. ‘What nonsense.’
‘Apparently May saw the gardener with a stranger.’
‘Where?’ His voice was querulous.
That’ll teach him to get off the subject, thought Lucy, and then realized how petty-minded she was becoming. Let me in, she pleaded with Tim in her mind. You’ve got to let me in.
‘On the Davises’ land. She was walking up the Cut to the High Street. She saw them in the woods.’
‘Couple of unsavoury customers.’ He spoke slowly, as if trying to establish something. Tim cleared his throat. ‘How about that cocoa?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Lucy got up reluctantly and went to the door, aware that she hadn’t finished, couldn’t finish. She knew she had to confront him, shock Tim into some kind of submission. ‘These dreams can’t go on,’ she said, deciding to risk everything, turning back to face him.
‘I’m fine,’ he asserted. ‘Nothing wrong with my cricket, is there? Nothing wrong with my work?’
‘Of course not.’ She knew Tim was on the defensive now. He had that familiar questioning, agitated, obsessive look, as if he thought she had information that she had not revealed to him, rather than the other way round.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘No one been saying anything?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Saying things about me?’ He was determined to worry away at the problem, dropping his defences at the same time.
‘I’d have told you if they had. There’s nothing wrong with your work.’ She knew the reason for this particular concern. Her cousin gave Tim only the lightest possible tasks. A little filing, checking a few details here and there, taking minor or weekend clients round.
‘He’s a sick man,’ Bruce had told her. ‘Over-conscientious in the office, and that’s an understatement. He’s driving the staff crazy with his neuroses. I respect what he did in the war and what happened to him. But some of the younger girls –’
‘And there’s nothing wrong with your cricket either.’ That was certainly true for Tim remained a very competent sportsman. Presumably it was automatic, a habit, an inheritance that couldn’t be tampered with.
‘What did I say in that darn dream?’ he asked suddenly, gazing at Lucy intently, almost threateningly.
‘Something about angels dying. And then you said, “Don’t make me.”’ Lucy paused, shocked by the look of betrayal in his eyes. ‘You also said you weren’t fit to be a father, but I think you were awake then,’ she added awkwardly.
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘It’s all nonsense, of course –’ His voice tailed off ineffectively.
Lucy said nothing, hoping she had unsettled him enough.
‘Had a grenade chucked at me. Thing is I got blasted. Do you see?’
She was thrown by this unexpected confidence. Could they be getting somewhere at last? Sometimes she imagined the old Tim beckoning to her from a doorway halfway up a street in France -and then slamming it in her face. She saw the evasion back in his eyes. He was trying to outwit her.
‘Fortunately I was at the tail end of the blast. Got bumped and bruised of course. It was the worst incident we had. No wonder I keep dreaming about it.’
Tim’s voice was stilted and he stared at her glassily. He’s trying to convince me, Lucy thought as he paused for breath. He’s made it all up.
‘This debriefing’s for you only, old thing. I don’t want you to go and burden the other chaps. We all had a bad time and I know it’s got to me, even if it was years ago. So it’s for your ears only. Eh?’ Tim was speaking fast now, his words falling over each other.
‘Of course I’ll keep it to myself,’ said Lucy with assumed gentleness. ‘But Tim, you’ve got to get help.’ Now she was all sweet reason. She would defeat these lies, this veneer. Tim was in there but she had to outmanoeuvre his determined facade, his instinct to destroy himself still further.
He gave her a little-boy-lost cheeky grin. ‘What shall I do then?’
Lucy could feel the contest between them sharpening. Was the old Tim nearer the surface, fighting to break out?
‘See the doctor.’
‘You mean the shrink. Well, I won’t do that again, old girl. We’ve been through this before.’
‘You won’t be hypnotized.’ She tried to make a joke of it.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll be in control,’ she promised, but was immediately aware that Tim was mentally scanning ahead.
‘Do I need to be in control?’
‘Can’t you talk to me about it?’ she countered.
‘I’m afraid I’m bound by the Official Secrets Act. Isn’t that enough for you?’
He look so smug that Lucy could have hit him. ‘And the aftermath?’
‘I can deal with that.’
‘You’re not at the moment. You’ve got to get help from someone, so if it’s not the shrink then it’ll have to be me.’
‘Have to be? Are you giving me orders?’ Tim tried to smile, but she could sense that he knew he was losing.
‘Yes, I am. For your sake.’
‘And if I don’t obey?’ He gazed
at her calculatingly. ‘What will you do?’
Lucy’s mind went blank. Tim had suddenly cornered her. ‘I need you to get better,’ she said haltingly.
‘You’re not answering my question.’
Without thinking any further she blurted out the half-formed notion, just as she had done that afternoon when she had shattered the sanctity of the cricket. ‘Will you come to France with me? Take the car and retrace the route. Talk to me about what happened.’ Her words were running away with her.
‘That’s absurd.’ He was impatient now, before ducking down in the face of her unexpected fire.
But Lucy was already running across no-man’s-land, heading towards him, blazing unwelcome ideas. ‘You have to face up to – whatever happened.’
He’s so afraid, she thought. Lucy wondered why. Could it be that he had detected an ultimatum. Then she realized what it must be.
‘And if I don’t obey?’ he repeated, trying to mask his fear with sarcasm.
‘Why can’t you just agree to go to a psychiatrist? Give it another try.’ For a moment she put off the next part of the bout.
‘Because it didn’t work for me. However many more times do I have to tell you?’ He was sulky now, petulant, aware that she might have other weapons.
Lucy could see that he was adamant, that for some reason he now feared the psychiatrists. So could the return to France be an easier option? She knew that this was her moment and that if she dithered she might never regain it. The risk had to be taken.
‘If you don’t come to France with me, Tim, I’ll leave you.’
‘You’ll leave me?’ He sounded absolutely incredulous, but she could see in his face the slow realization that she meant what she was saying. You’ve got to get Tim on his feet, her father had said. Was this a way of doing it?
‘Yes.’ There, she had done it. Lucy was appalled, but she knew there was no other way. Why hadn’t she realized that before? She could have saved so much time. A sense of uneasy power filled her. Why had she been so flabby for so long? Why hadn’t she made up her mind?
‘I can’t believe this.’
‘I should start trying.’ Lucy deliberately made her voice cold, although she could hardly bear to see his distress.
‘For God’s sake – ‘ He was floundering now.
‘I mean it, Tim. We can’t go on like this. You’re like a shadow on a wall. I need you to be real again. I love you.’
‘And what do you think jaunting back to France will do?’
‘I want to hear about what you went through, share it. We always shared before. Now there’s months of your life that I know nothing about. Can’t you see?’ she shouted, wanting to shatter the aridity. ‘Don’t you want to see?’
‘All right.’ His shoulders sagged.
‘You mean you’ll come?’ Lucy was amazed that he had given in so quickly. Had he wanted this all the time? Had she been afraid to suggest it?
Tim nodded, but there was no hint of relief, only more anxiety. He lay back on the pillow, exhausted, his eyes on the ceiling.
Was he just agreeing to pacify her? Evade everything between them all over again?
‘I never imagined you would threaten me like this,’ Tim complained. His voice wobbled.
‘You know I can speak the lingo,’ she said brightly, trying to lighten the atmosphere and failing. ‘That’s more than you and your lot could. So you won’t have to do a thing but sit back and talk.’
Tim said nothing.
‘I’ll go and get the cocoa.’
Lucy walked self-consciously to the door. Before opening it she turned round again, wanting to catch him out, but Tim was simply staring at her blankly. She hurried down the stairs, dazed at her success but worrying about what she was going to do next.
Next morning, after Tim had left for the estate agents, Lucy set off up the Cut between Conifers and the stream without thinking.
Breakfast had been largely silent, and throughout the wearisome repast Lucy now realized she had given herself the role of blackmailer, with Tim as victim. ‘I’ll book the dates for France,’ she had told him and he had nodded acquiescently. ‘It’ll do us both good to have a break. We can cross Newhaven to Dieppe and then we won’t have so far to drive.’
Lucy realized she was gabbling, and after Tim had given yet another barely discernible nod, the silence returned, a barrier between them but at least a release from her chatter.
She had been so preoccupied with her daunting plan that she had completely forgotten to turn on the radio at breakfast or even remember what the vicar had said. Now, halfway along the dank little path that led uphill through thick foliage, Lucy remembered the murder at the Clump and what May had seen when she last used the Cut.
Lucy glanced back to the road and wondered whether or not she should retrace her steps. Traffic crawled past reassuringly. After all, how long was the Cut? Two or three hundred yards at most. Pulling herself together, Lucy hurried on.
The ground was covered with last year’s leaf mulch and she could smell its dampness, sharpened by dog excreta despite the official notice down by the road that read in stencilled ferocity DO NOT ALLOW YOUR DOG TO FOUL THIS FOOTWAY. STRICT PENALTIES.
Lucy suddenly realized how sharp her sense of smell had become and she laughed aloud, the sound breaking the silence, almost making her jump. Maybe it was she who should go to the trick cyclist. ‘I keep smelling foul smells,’ she would tell him, and he would reply, ‘Mrs Groves, the world, your father, your husband, are rotting about you. You can detect the decay.’
Lucy hurried on, refusing to look back. Like her father, she had always been an independent spirit. I’m not tramping all the way back to the road. I’m not being frightened off. But she also knew she was being stupid.
The fetid smell of the mulch and the swollen rain clouds above her made the Cut deeply claustrophobic, and Lucy increased her speed, dragging her trolley, the uneasiness building up inside her. She fancied she could also smell burnt wood and she saw that Peter had plugged the hole in the hedge again, this time with barbed wire. William Tell. The wretched boy’s name kept coming into her mind with a banal regularity. Hersham or not, it was an odd name. She saw the apple on his head again, split by the arrow.
Lucy turned the corner with relief. Now all she had to do was to reach Clive Road, flanked by large imitation Tudor mansions, all of which would contain house-proud wives cleaning their house-proud homes while the radio played Music While You Work. Nothing untoward could happen in Clive Road. All should be Electrolux energy. Hoover happy.
Then she saw the man in the hat and raincoat. He was striding down the passage towards her, a fixed smile on his face.*
Lucy stopped walking, gazing back at him, knowing she should turn and run, but finding herself unable to move. He came on relentlessly, polished shoes glinting in the gathering gloom, the smile rigid, arms swinging, hat pulled slightly forward over his forehead. Lucy looked to right and left, knowing there was no means of escape, realizing the hedgerows were far too thick and wiry for her to penetrate.
Penetrate? Would he rape her first? Throttle her or cut her throat? Lucy ran over the options, screaming inside, knowing she was a fool to stay where she was, hardly conscious of the first few droplets of cold rain. Slowly a pain spread in her stomach and her throat was so dry that it felt as if it was caked with soot.
Instead of clouding her senses, terror gave Lucy an unexpected mental clarity. The Cut stood out in sharp black-and-white relief, rather like a negative. She could smell woodsmoke and hear the slapping of the man’s polished shoes on the wet leaves. If only she could force herself to turn away from him, but any movement appeared to be out of the question. Her heartbeat became as loud as the sound of the slapping shoes.
The man was almost on her now and Lucy could see he was older than she had thought, clean-shaven, with lines round his mouth and under his eyes, his face long, his brow wrinkled, one of his eyes puffy, reddened with a sty.
Lucy tried to run ba
ck down the Cut, ludicrously banged into her shopping trolley, gave a little whimper and thrust it away.
‘Wait!’
She gave a rasping cry, almost fell, and then turned to face him.
‘Police.’ He had pulled out some kind of identification and Lucy froze.
‘Didn’t you hear me call?’
She shook her head numbly.
‘I’m sorry to have frightened you.’ His voice was soft, slightly nasal. ‘Really sorry. I’m Inspector Frasier.’ He was very close now, still holding out the card. Suddenly Lucy realized he must be authentic. ‘I’ve just been checking on the regular users of this path.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Are you a regular user, madam?’
Lucy nodded, the blessed calm spreading, indicating her shopping trolley. ‘It’s a short cut.’ She paused, and then added, ‘To the shops.’
‘Do you live down there? In Shrub Lane?’
‘I’m Lucy Groves,’ she said. ‘I’m married to – ‘
‘Timothy Groves? Who works at the estate agents in the High Street?’
‘How do you know?’ She felt foolish, as if she ought to have understood the police investigation was so far advanced, ought to have realized how comforting that might be.
‘We’ve already had a chat with him at the office. You know about the murder?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’re just eliminating as many people from our inquiries as we can. I gather you’re friends of Peter and Sally Davis at Conifers down there.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the victim, Graham Baverstock, was their gardener.’
Lucy nodded.
‘Did you – had you ever met the young man?’
‘No.’
‘Or seen him?’
‘I suppose I must have seen him in the garden. But I can’t remember when. I just took him for granted. He was their gardener.’ Lucy wondered if she sounded insufferably snobbish, but Frasier’s expression, now one of official interest, didn’t change.
‘Did you ever see Baverstock with another man?’
‘No.’ Lucy realized that May had rightly reported what she had seen. She didn’t feel so embarrassed this time. Frasier was like a doctor. These things could be made clinical.
The Men Page 4
