The Price of Retribution

by Sara Craven

  But just suppose that he means it, said a small sly voice in her brain. That, no matter what has happened in the past, you’re the one that he truly wants. How do you deal with that?

  I tell myself that it doesn’t change a thing, she whispered under her breath. And I keep saying it.

  Because if he was genuine, why didn’t he tell me about Evie? Express some remorse for the way he treated her. Why didn’t he say, ‘Darling, I have something to confess. I was engaged once before to a sweet girl, but it didn’t work out, and, although it’s over, I know I hurt her terribly, and I shall always regret that.’

  But he’d said nothing. Instead he’s simply airbrushed her out of his life, she thought. And he could do the same to me. I must not ever let myself forget that.

  She tried to divert herself by watching television. One of her favourite films was showing, something so familiar that she could almost repeat the dialogue by heart, but this evening it totally failed to engage her.

  The scene on the beach unfolded, frame by frame, over and over again in her mind, eclipsing anything on the screen.

  ‘Oh, to hell with it,’ she muttered eventually. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Her clothes were still lying on the bedroom floor, and she bent to retrieve them, tossing each item into the basket for laundering. Wondering, as she did so, whether she could ever bear to wear any of them again.

  Until, at the bottom of the pile, she came upon Caz’s sweater.

  For a moment, she stared down at it, then, obeying some incomprehensible primal instinct, she gathered up its soft weight with both hands and held it against her breasts, her throat, her mouth, breathing in the scent of his skin, and drawing it deep into her lungs as if, by this means, she could somehow capture the essence of him and hold it within her forever.

  A long, quivering sigh convulsed her body. A sigh of yearning, bewildering her with its strength. A sigh of loss and regret, and she felt her throat muscles tighten painfully as she tasted the first bitterness of tears. A low, animal sound rose from deep inside her and was torn from her parted lips.

  And with it came chaos.

  She sank down on to the carpet, still clutching the bundle of cashmere and pressing it to her face as if she hoped it could somehow staunch the tears that were pouring down her face, or silence the harsh, gasping sobs that were suddenly ripping her apart.

  She seemed incapable of movement or even coherent thought as she crouched there, her body shaking uncontrollably.

  I want him. I love him. Oh, God forgive me, I love him so much…

  The words, unbelievable, unutterable, ran crazily through her head, piercing her with their shame.

  When at long last there were no tears left, and her throat was aching with dry sobs, she got clumsily to her feet. She shed her robe and climbed naked into bed, spreading the damp sweater across her pillow and pressing her cheek against it. Knowing that it might be all she would ever have of him.

  ‘From that first moment…’

  His words, and she could see now that they were as true for her as he’d claimed they were for him. That she’d gone to the reception looking only to avenge Evie and come away with her mind in turmoil, no matter how much she might have tried to deny it.

  She could recognise now that she’d been in one form of denial or another ever since.

  Something which had to stop right here. Because there were choices to be made, and she would need a clear head to make them, she thought as she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink down into the mattress. Aware that very soon her physical and emotional exhaustion would take her over the edge into temporary oblivion, and let sleep work its magic.

  She woke the next morning feeling calm and strangely empty, but knowing exactly what she had to do.

  She would visit Evie at The Refuge that afternoon, no matter what obstacles were put in her way, and break the news to her that she had changed her mind and abandoned the planned revenge. At the same time, she would also tell her that she was leaving Britain, probably for good, and returning to her own life.

  Because Della had been completely right, of course, she told herself. She had no obligation to drop everything and run to their aid whenever Aunt Hazel or Evie sent out an SOS. As it was, her intervention, however well-meant, had led to her own heartbreak, and she would need time and distance for the healing process to begin.

  Evie, too, was receiving the best treatment and would also recover. And both she and her mother would eventually learn to stand on their own feet too.

  I’ve done them no favours by encouraging their dependency, she thought.

  Ironically, it was Caz himself who had shown her the only solution to this maze of lies and unhappiness she was embroiled in. After all, he’d said yesterday that she’d come out of nowhere and might vanish in the same way.

  And that was precisely her intention. To depart without trace. To find somewhere else to live and sink back into her work. To start over, a chameleon, invisible in her surroundings.

  A clean break, she resolved, removing the necessity for any tortuous and impossible explanations which would not reflect credit on either Caz or herself. ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ she thought wryly, and all the other comforting clichés, which were no comfort at all.

  And if, at the moment, the break felt more like an amputation, she knew that once the numbness had worn off, the pain would start in earnest.

  But maybe she could arrange to be long gone by then.

  And in the meantime, ordinary life pursued its prosaic path.

  She showered, dressed, and breakfasted on toast and coffee before making a bacon and sweetcorn quiche for Della’s return at suppertime, just as she’d intended to do before her life skidded sideways to disaster.

  She had also determined to return Evie’s engagement ring anonymously to Caz. A padded envelope with a London postmark would give no clues. It was a reminder of unhappiness that the younger girl didn’t need, she thought as she looked down at the cold glitter of the stones, as well as an awful warning of how easy it was to be dazzled into believing the improbable.

  A danger that she herself was avoiding by a whisker.

  While Caz—he can hand it on to the next lady who takes his fancy, she thought sinking her teeth into her lower lip, as she closed the box.

  Professor Wainwright regarded Tarn with open disfavour. ‘I thought we had an agreement, young lady. No visits without a prior appointment.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I really do need to see her.’

  ‘You are not the only one. Her visiting time today is already reserved.’

  ‘I could wait…’

  ‘Miss Griffiths may well find the experience—unsettling, and will need to rest.’ He looked at his computer screen. ‘Perhaps next week.’

  ‘That’s too late. I may not be here.’ She paused. ‘Please, Professor. I must at least be allowed to say goodbye to Evie.’

  ‘But not today.’ His tone was final. He began to put papers into a file. ‘Now you must excuse me. I have a meeting.’

  ‘Is there really no other time for me to see her?’

  He sighed, and looked back at the screen. ‘Tomorrow afternoon might be a possibility.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’

  ‘But telephone first,’ he cautioned. ‘Her condition will need to be carefully assessed.’

  ‘Very well,’ Tarn said tonelessly, and rose.

  ‘Miss Griffiths.’ She was halfway to the door when his voice halted her. ‘Since our last meeting have you told anyone of Evelyn’s whereabouts? Mentioned it inadvertently in conversation, perhaps?’

  Tarn frowned. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then there must be some other explanation.’ He gave a brisk nod. ‘I regret you’ve had another wasted journey.’

  ‘Not really wasted,’ she returned. ‘Because I shall see Evie tomorrow.’

  She could have walked back to the Parkway, but when she got to the main door, an elderly coup
le were paying off the station taxi, so she decided to ride there instead.

  She had just settled herself into a corner of the back seat when another car came up the drive and stopped in a swirl of gravel.

  More visitors, thought Tarn. And aren’t they the lucky ones?

  Then she saw the driver emerge and walk round to the rear passenger door, and stiffened incredulously.

  Because she knew him. And the car. Knew, as well, with sick foreboding, exactly who his passenger must be.

  She shrank back in her seat, every nerve-ending jangling, and pressed a clenched fist against her lips, stifling any hint of shocked and aching sound, as Caz got out and stood for a moment in the sunlight, clearly giving Terry instructions.

  He was back to formality today, in a dark suit, and even carrying a brief case.

  Legal documents? Papers for Evie to sign, enjoining her silence? Drawing a line under the past so he could look to the future with a free mind?

  How can he? she whispered silently. Oh, God, how can he do this to her? Force himself back into her life when she’s trying to recover from the way he treated her. When what she needs more than anything is to wipe him from her memory forever.

  And I—how could I possibly have forgotten what he was and let myself be tempted by him, even for a moment?

  She felt physically ill as she watched him walk up the steps and disappear inside the building. She hadn’t been allowed in, Aunt Hazel was still barred, yet Caz, the man responsible for Evie’s pitiful condition, as the staff must know, was apparently allowed unrestricted access. It made no sense. It defied reason.

  ‘Unsettling’ might have been Professor Wainwright’s word for Caz’s visit, but Tarn could think of so many others that were far more apposite. ‘Cruel’ for one, she told herself as her taxi moved off. ‘Monstrous’ for another. And, ahead of them all, ‘Unforgivable’.

  Because that changed everything. It had to.

  I was going to leave her, she castigated herself, gazing at the passing hedgerows with eyes that saw nothing. Abandon her to the mercy of someone who plays games with women’s hearts and minds in order to save myself.

  But she’s not a survivor as past events have proved. And I am. So I’m going to stay and keep my promise, no matter what the cost. There’ll be no unfinished business on my watch.

  ‘My mother sends her love,’ Della announced exuberantly as she tucked into the quiche. ‘Also a Dundee cake, which we could have for afters.’

  ‘Your mother’s a saint.’

  Della gave her a shrewd look. ‘And how are your equally sanctified relatives?’ she queried. ‘I ask because you’re looking a little worn round the edges, my pet.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Tarn managed an approximation of a cheerful grin. ‘All’s well.’ She’d already decided to say nothing about the day’s revelations, telling herself it would solve no useful purpose.

  ‘If you say so.’ Della took more salad. ‘And the publishing tycoon? Seen much of him lately?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ Tarn said lightly. ‘We drove down to the coast yesterday.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Della raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I can only hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Tarn said with quiet emphasis. ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’

  ‘Fine,’ Della said equably. ‘Then there’s no need for me to remind you of the old saying that it’s much easier to ride a tiger than it is to dismount?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Then I won’t mention it.’ She waved a fork. ‘The cake, by the way, is in that tin over there.’

  They spent a companionable evening watching television and chatting on a variety of deliberately non-taboo subjects, but Tarn was conscious there was a distance between them and regretted it.

  But Evie had to matter more, she told herself.

  She went to work as usual the next day, but just before noon complained of a severe headache and said she was going home to drawn curtains and painkillers.

  She arrived at The Refuge prepared to do battle, but it was unnecessary. The nurse she had met previously took her straight to Evie’s room.

  ‘How is she?’ Tarn asked, and the other woman pulled a face.

  ‘Yesterday did her no good at all, but it couldn’t be avoided, and it probably won’t be the last time. But it may cheer her up to see a friendly face.’

  Evie was crouched in her chair, wan and red-eyed, nursing a box of tissues.

  ‘Tarn.’ She straightened. ‘Oh, Tarn, it’s been so awful. I’m so scared. You have to do something. You have to keep him away from me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tarn pulled the other chair up beside her, and sat, taking her hand. ‘I’ll do my best, I promise, so try not to think about it. About him.’

  ‘I thought I was safe here.’ Evie swallowed. ‘That he wouldn’t know where I was.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone about him—what he did. Truly I wasn’t. He ought to know that. He seemed so kind, as if he wanted to look after me. I never realised what he was really like.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Tarn said gently. ‘Why should you?’

  After all, I knew, she thought, and it made no difference. I still wanted him in spite of everything. So how can I blame you when I really ought to be disgusted with myself?

  Tarn dragged herself back to the here and now. ‘Evie—what actually happened yesterday? What was said?’

  ‘I can’t talk about it. I’m not allowed to. And, anyway, I’m sick of questions. I won’t answer any more.’ She began to cry weakly. ‘I just want to get out of here. I know I’ve been a fool, but I don’t see why I should go on being punished like this. You have to do something, Tarn. You have to take me home.’

  Easier said than done, Tarn thought as she sat on the train back to London. Evie had continued in much the same vein for the entire visit, alternating recrimination with bouts of self-pity. Tarn had done her best to make her think more positively about the future, talking of new jobs and a possible holiday in the sun, and being careful not to mention Caz by name, but her foster sister had just stared at her, wounded, and told her she didn’t understand.

  It was almost a relief when the nurse appeared and said that visiting time was up.

  ‘I’ll deal with him, Evie,’ Tarn said softly, as she rose to her feet. ‘When I’ve finished, he won’t bother you again.’

  ‘And tell them I won’t answer any more questions,’ Evie called after her, her voice sullen.

  I won’t be telling ‘them’ anything, thought Tarn. Whoever ‘they’ were.

  She sighed to herself. If she was honest, she could see no prospect of an early release for Evie. From what the younger girl had said, she was still confined to her room. Yet the other residents seemed to move round the house and gardens easily enough, under the watchful eyes of the staff, and the big board in the hall was crammed with notices about the various activity groups on offer. Surely joining with other people and finding new interests would contribute towards Evie’s rehabilitation.

  Whereas being made to confront her erstwhile fiancé would not. Especially as it seemed he might be exerting pressure on her to keep quiet about their relationship. And what were these so-called experts like the Professor thinking of to allow it?

  Couldn’t Caz see the state she was in? Tarn railed inwardly. Did he truly have no compassion or sense of guilt over the havoc he’d created in the life of someone who’d simply been too trusting and gullible for her own good?

  And how, she asked herself almost helplessly, is it possible for him to be so different with me? Unless, of course, he’s simply biding his time. Waiting until he’s tired of me too.

  And felt her whole body clench, as if warding off unbearable pain.

  As she walked into the flat, the telephone was ringing.

  ‘I heard you’d gone home sick,’ Caz said. ‘I was worried.’

  Tarn took a deep breath. Steadied her voice. ‘It was just a headache. It’s gone now.’ />
  ‘Then would you be free for dinner tonight—if I promise not to mention anything stressful?’ There was a smile in his voice.

  Tarn had the strange sensation that she was teetering on the edge of an abyss.

  But it’s not too late, she told herself desperately. Even now she could save herself. Step back to safety or…

  Instead, she heard herself say huskily, ‘I’d love to have dinner with you, Caz. And we can talk about anything you want.’

  And threw herself into the waiting void.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HE TOOK her to the Trattoria Giuliana, as he said, ‘For old times’ sake.’ They even had the same table as before.

  As they sat down, he looked at her, his smile faintly rueful. ‘Or am I being overly sentimental?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely idea. I always hoped we’d come back here sometime.’

  ‘Then why not make it a regular date,’ he said, the hazel eyes caressing her. ‘For the rest of our lives.’ Then checked. ‘But perhaps I’m being too optimistic. After all, I haven’t had your answer yet.’

  Tarn stared down at the tablecloth. ‘I think you know what I’m going to say already.’ And wondered how she could possibly sound so quiet and steady with the maelstrom of emotions raging within her.

  ‘Or else you wouldn’t be with me tonight?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But I suppose I could be coy, and say I was still making up my mind.’

  ‘You could.’ His hand reached for hers across the table. ‘But you won’t. Will you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t.’ In spite of herself, the warm clasp of his fingers round hers was sending tendrils of sensation throughout her entire being. She paused, looking at him, and allowing her lips to part a little as if she was breathless. Except, she realised with shame, she did not have to pretend, because his lightest touch could do that to her. ‘I—I will marry you, Caz. If you still want me.’

  He said softly, ‘More than I’ve ever wanted anything, my darling.’ He signalled, and a beaming waiter arrived with champagne.