She drove fast, then swung away into narrow lanes where the meadowsweet lurched from the banks and touched the roof. She kept the coastline ahead of her as she bumped down tracks designed for smugglers and bird-watchers, until finally, land ran out. The map had led her to a place where no-one needed coke or icecream.
Two more cars were parked on the same spit of terra firma. Four people, muffled despite the heat, sat on shooting sticks, binoculars aimed towards the hinterland, each looking as if breakfast and lunch had passed while they waited so long for the sight of the rare bird which had drawn them, that they seemed to have become permanent features of the landscape themselves. Sarah ignored them as they ignored her, left her car unlocked, handbag and keys under the front seat, jogged towards the sea. A year’s rigorous punishment of her own body left it lean, shapely, hard. She stopped a hundred yards from the indifferent spectators, peeled off every stitch of clothing and left it with her shoes balanced on top as a marker, the bright purple of the silk shirt iridescent in the sun to guide her route back, then jogged on towards the flat horizontal of blue. The sand looked as smooth as baize, dipping into valleys which were velvet on the feet. She ran on and on, but the ribbon of waves seemed to recede. Then, when she stumbled into a narrow stretch of shallow water as warm as a bath, she gave up the pursuit. The water was soft as silk and the breeze a silent fan. Lying with her naked limbs tickled by salt felt utterly natural but at the same time blissfully decadent. The sand bank acted as a couch, moulded to the shape her body had designed for itself, while soft water crept up her neck into her hair. Some sybaritic millionaire would pay a fortune for this. As she lazily splashed water on to her flat belly and her thighs, she felt again, with a little frisson of disgust, the tiny white scars on her abdomen which mirrored those on her arms and her back and reminded her of maggots. She wanted to scrub at them with sand until they disappeared, but somehow, in the water, they were less offensive and she could no longer imagine them shifting and moving like the vermin on a carcase, eating away at sanity, and the will to live. The sun was hypnotic; she could not be sombre under the merciful glare, sprawled like a cat before the fire, dozing to the sound of soft breeze and silence.
Ten, fifteen minutes; she could not guess how long she had lain in her feline pose. Neither did she know what woke her, whether it was the sound of distant shouting or the sudden sensation of a deep chill curling round her. When she opened her eyes, she saw the greater expanse of water all around her, lapping greedily at her bare breasts, colder water mounting above her knees, pulling slightly as if inviting her to float away. For a moment she was tempted to let go, simply drift like a rogue vessel, but sat up, watched her pool expanding before her eyes, the surface corrugated by breeze as she scrambled to her feet, alarmed, disorientated, still in a muddle of a dream. From the rim of the rise on which she stood, the ribbon of sea seemed ominously closer and clearer, the wind on her face sterner. She looked back to the shore for her clothes and could not see them; two pin figures stood by their toy-like car, waving and shouting as if cheering some invisible team, dancing in a fury of agitation. They seemed a long way off and the rim of the sea even closer.
Sarah began to run. The route back bore no comparison with the careless route out, when she had imagined the golden surface flat beneath her feet. Now the sand dipped and rose before her into gulleys where water collected into swift rivers, pulling at her knees like an hysterical child. The first channel was easy; the second brought the breath to her chest and fire into her veins; the third rose against her like an engine fuelled by hatred. She did not pause to look again for her clothes, pushed through the skin-ripping flood with her hands above her head, bending into it, the tide tearing at her waist until it receded like a tease at the moment when she thought she could no longer fight the relentless, inland pull. The steps became firmer; she splashed through a dying current, shrinking to a gentle tugging at her calves, and walked unsteadily up the incline to her car. The prickling of thistle and sand grass marking the point where the tide did not reach and land began, felt like a blessing. A woman stood with a brace of binoculars round her neck, stout shoes on her feet and tears of consternation on her red face.
‘How could you be so stupid?’ she yelled. ‘He wanted to go for you,’ pointing to the man on her left who stood shivering, leaning on a stick. ‘Wouldn’t let him! We’ve been shouting for hours, you’ll give him a heart attack, you wouldn’t listen, I could kill you!’ Then her face crumpled into lines of relief. ‘Oh, you silly, silly girl. Don’t you know about tides? You must have been so frightened.’
Sarah stood before her dripping and shaking, humbled and ashamed.
‘I should have thought. I’m sorry I gave you such a scare. Thank you. You woke me. The shouting wasn’t wasted. Thank you both.’ The shivering grew worse.
‘Your clothes,’ the woman said, softening more. ‘Your pretty coloured shirt.’ So much for assuming they would not notice.
‘You’ll probably get them back,’ said the man, helpfully, needing to say something to control his own shock. ‘They’ll probably wash up in the harbour down the coast. Or somewhere.’
She felt a terrible desire to giggle, put her hand over her mouth.
‘I think I’ll get in my car where it’s warm.’
‘Do you want a blanket or something?’
‘No, thank you, thank you.’
She had to get inside, start the engine and move because until she did, they would watch, without prurience but with an honest concern which made her feel far more exposed. The heat from the driver’s seat spread through her buttocks, she dripped into the fabric, the steering wheel was warm on her white knuckles and through the windscreen she saw the advancing sea, marching inland like an enormous army with white halberds and a silent war cry, unstoppable, irresistible, the oldest enemy. She watched until the chill subsided and she could flex her fingers. From their own vehicle, the couple watched her.
The back wheels of the car spun in the sandy gravel, a satisfying sound. The bumping, jolting progress back to the main road made her want to sing. For the joy of survival and for the revelations it entailed.
First, if Elisabeth Tysall had lain in such a pool, warm, drunk, drugged, to make her own death simultaneous with blissful and uninterrupted sleep, she had chosen a tempting method, full of dignity, and that was an obscure comfort. The nature of Elisabeth’s death had always tormented her. Secondly, Sarah could now see how she had never possessed such a well-matured desire for death even though the number of temptations were beyond counting on the fingers of both hands. She had so often wanted to die. She found a cigarette, lit it awkwardly, and felt a moment of euphoria which was warm and wild.
Late Saturday afternoon, people trailing back from their beaches passed Sarah’s car, not looking, but seeing enough to notice a naked bosom level with the wheel. And that was another thing. Death and risk made clothes seem irrelevant. A man stalled and whistled as their cars paused alongside, each waiting to turn right. His children in the back giggled and squirmed. Sarah waved at them demurely, laughed at the minor traffic jam outside the amusement arcade as holiday-makers looked for places to park, and pulled into the side, still grinning. A small bullet of a head with hair on end appeared at the nearside window. The face of Rick appeared on the right. While the boy averted his eyes, he did not.
‘Lost again, are you?’ She had time to notice how the bruises round one eye had darkened into purply striations, well on the way to recovery.
‘What’s this then?’ Rick said grinning. ‘Legal services?’
‘Doubt it. They’ll fire me. I just went swimming.’
‘You go indoors like that,’ Rick said. ‘They’ll keep you for ever.’
The early evening was warm, but the sky had grown troubled. Edward loved that phrase, a troubled sky. When he owned his birthright, he would paint a troubled sky, with angels interrupting the clouds and coming down to bless him. He shut his eyes and thought of it, until Julian called everyone down
stairs into the horrid gloom of their Edwardian dining room, where the chairs cracked shins, and dead flies fell from the plum velvet of the curtains as soon as they were drawn. Edward stayed silent while Julian conducted the meeting like a headmaster in front of the assembly hall, telling them all, Mother included for all that she would either notice or care, how the solicitor sent by Father’s executor was not suitable for their purposes, did they not agree? Mother laughing herself sick, saying nothing except, No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Joanna upset, wondering if it was her earlier referrals to their guest as the cow, or the arguments at breakfast yesterday which had made Julian so obdurate. Edward merely nodded his agreement, thought of the easel waiting upstairs and the man waiting on the beach tomorrow. They did not need a disruptive lawyer who made his sister cry as she cried now.
When he watched Joanna weeping, he felt on his own skin a flush of irritation which was the very opposite of desire. If only he could, for a minute, imagine wanting someone else: boy, girl, woman, whatever the body was, as long as it was not this plump, snivelling, beautiful child.
‘We’re decided then,’ Julian said without turning it into a question.
Edward now sat facing the long windows where the paint blistered off the frame and the glass was cloudy with salt from the shoreline which they owned, travelling across the drab marshes, which they owned, to the house, which they owned, while he owned nothing. Bitterness rose like a painful cough. It was warm and airless: the windows were stuck in the dining room. Mother, giggling in her evening dress, plucking at the hem, finally picking it up so the fabric hung around her knees while she chewed at a thread, suddenly springing into life as a car drew level with the front door and she rushed to the window. They all followed.
‘Oh,’ said Mother in tones of wonder. ‘Oh my dears!’
Joanna and Julian moved to the window where Edward stood, languid but transfixed.
Whoever it is she needs a drink and so do I,’ Mother said. She stood very still, none of her normal twitching and constant adjusting, a wistful note in her voice, a hidden chuckle. You wicked old crone, Julian thought with more than a hint of fondness.
Sarah Fortune stepped from her car, presenting a perfect half moon of buttock with a well-defined swimsuit mark as she reached inside for her handbag, then stood up with the strap parting her bobbing bosom as she slung it across herself and stepped back, naked as the day, to slam the door with a careless foot. Her hair was a frenzied cloud, her shoulders tanned and she was perfectly controlled. Joanna felt she should not look, stared and held her breath instead. Sarah walked away across the lawn towards the cottages, resting one hand on the handbag as if she were wearing a suit and strolling to a business appointment, no hurry or anxiety in the stride, careless or oblivious of the scrutiny. Julian bit his lip in a rare moment of sympathy, Oh Lord, how terrible for her, not to know they were all there, judging her finest details with the scrutiny of a jury; she would be mortified. But then as he watched, Sarah stopped, looked at the ridiculous appendage of her handbag, flicked it off her shoulder into the long grass and raised her arms in the air. The grass was warm and moist; she seemed to enjoy the sensation of it round her feet. Expensive tan leather bounced on the lawn: still they watched. The sky was pink in an early sunset; she seemed to glow as with an unbearably slow and graceful precision the perfect figure turned a series of perfect cartwheels, hand over hand, twirling in front of their eyes with only the damp red hair marking where she was. Then she picked up her handbag, placed it on her head, walked towards the cottage where they had put her, strolling with her arms outstretched to keep her balance, her naked feet swishing through the grass. Hettie the sheep followed, keeping pace, bahhing piteously. There was a shred of bright orange nasturtium hanging from her jaw as she trotted after. The sun sank like a big, red stone into water.
They were spellbound, until Edward let forth a bellow of delighted laughter. Joanna expelled the breath she had held for a full minute, joined him in a frothing of mirth which made her eyes water.
‘Well,’ said Julian, shaking himself. ‘Proves my point. About her not being suitable.’ Edward caught on his brother’s face a terrible, naked look of despair.
Mother turned on him, dropping the hem she had chewed. Her voice was cooing and fluting, talking as she would talk to a baby.
‘Will my little boy sack a lady from her job for taking her clothes off? Would he? Would he be so silly? Should know better. No man got sacked for taking his off, not even a doctor.’ Her voice sank by a whole octave, emerged as a grim rattle, whining but perfectly articulate.
‘If Julian gets rid of this lady, his mummy will break everything in sight. Is that understood?’
He turned sharply, met for a moment a pair of eyes hard with purpose, moved towards her. She sprang back and began again her chewing of the hem, saying nothing, looking away. Then he looked towards Edward for moral support, found Edward also looking away, gaze fixed on the footsteps through the long grass of the lawn. Joanna evaded his glance, arms crossed resentfully, her ever-ready tears still in her eyes, but her body obdurate. He felt the meeting had passed without a definitive vote, but if asked, he would not favour the initial resolution. Oddly, he did not mind.
‘Look,’ said Joanna, desperate to break the ice, ‘I’d better go and ask if she’s all right. I’ll take her something to eat. I mean,’ she added, flustered, ‘she must have had an accident.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Edward drily.
‘Fuck off,’ Joanna replied with far more calm than she felt. Edward was always on the outside, never feeling anything, always analysing: he didn’t care if a person felt cold, and stared at her in the way she had found disconcerting for as long as she could recall. He moved nonchalantly to put an arm round her shoulder.
‘What would you give for a body like that, eh, Jo?’
She turned on him, furious and pink, picking the arm from round her neck and throwing it back as if it were inanimate.
From the kitchen came the sound of breaking glass. The Mouse was making her point.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Left you, has she?’
‘You could say so.’
‘Thought she would.’ Squinting across the table top towards Malcolm Cook, Detective Sergeant Ryan, his erstwhile colleague in many a case, neither looked nor sounded sympathetic, not through lack of affection for his friend, but simply a well-tried patience with the whole breed of men who called themselves lawyers, a breed deficient in common sense, particularly regarding women. Ryan knew his own record was far from perfect, his attitude to the fair sex ranging from possessive passion, through the straightforward lust which could not remember names, right down to daily fondness and the acceptance that there was nothing you could do to keep them, since life and women were in one great conspiracy. His own contribution to Malcolm Cook’s loss was going to be the provision of as much alcohol as he could get the man to take.
‘I have to say, Malc, you were more fun before you two got together. Was a time when you were a great big lad, liked a pint and never moved your bum off a chair. Then you took up running, fell in love with a redhead, lost all the fat and got serious. You never sit, you bloody well sprint. She’s worn you out, old son.’
‘Get me a drink.’
‘Surely. Doubles. Few packets of crisps?’ ‘No.’
Ryan didn’t like the way Malcolm stared into the middle distance like that, ordering a refill every five minutes and showing not a sign of Saturday-night fever, not a tremor as he raised his hand. All the makings of an expensive night even in the sort of downmarket pub they both preferred. Malc was a mate, as far as any lawyer could be, but that wasn’t the same as wanting him crying on your shoulder. It got your jacket all wet.
The drink went down quickly, not quite as quick as the last. Malcolm smiled. When he did that, he was a different man.
‘Look, I’m not here to weep, I’m here to drink, understand? And I want to raise an old, dead subject, OK? Charles Tysall, your
friend and mine. My father’s been nagging at me again. No, I don’t mean directly, just getting under my skin as usual. The man’s not well, supposed to keep calm, but as soon as I mention Charles, he has an apoplexy. He’s re-creating that man as a plaster saint, all because he’s dead and was a client. All clients are heroes, the hypocrisy makes me sick. I want to tell him what Charles did to Sarah – I told you we kept all the details from him at the time – and spell out to my honourable old dad what his client did to other red-haired women. I want him to know. People should know the truth, even sick old men.’
‘You really aren’t happy with him, are you?’ asked Ryan, mockingly.
‘He sent Sarah away. To Merton, of all places. He . . . precipitated things.’
‘Oh, I see. Revenge, is it? One good turn deserves another. You lose the girl and give the poor old git a heart attack. Come off it, Malc, it wouldn’t help anything, would it?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, what that Charles did to your bird never came to court, did it? She refused to give evidence of the attack. With your support. I wanted you shot.’
Malcolm raised a hand in protest, let it drop.
‘She had her reasons. I didn’t want anyone looking into her motives, still don’t. Besides, Tysall saved everyone the trouble. When his wife’s body was found, off he goes and follows her into the water. What I want to know is how did he come to do that? I never really understood. He never struck me as the suicidal type. All those times we tried to nail him for fraud, and you for the women he plundered . . . He always wanted to live.’
Perfectly Pure and Good Page 12
