Dangerous Things

by Claire Rayner

  Thirty-four

  There were snowdrops and crocuses pushing against the frozen earth of the little front gardens they passed, and she thought, How absurd! How can they have flowers in their gardens when they have a man like Gordon Barratt living so near them? How can this whole street of mock-Tudor houses with fibre-glass black beams and white plasticized paint and tidy front paths adorned with dripping tired privet hedges actually exist with a creature like Gordon Barratt amongst them? There should be visible signs of the evil that he spread around him, proof to the whole world that Harry had told her the truth. And then she shook her head in an effort to clear it of such stupid thoughts.

  But she couldn’t. It was like being in a dream; not a nightmare, precisely, but the sort that filled her with uneasiness and confusion. Indeed, she had felt dreamlike all through the long tube journey here, sitting opposite Harry and Genevieve who whispered to each other as they sat with their arms entwined, unable to keep their hands off each other, trying to think what she should do next.

  She should of course have told Sam all she knew, she thought mournfully, staring out at the stations that slipped by in all their bright garishness and then at the patterns of house lights as they went through the overland part of the journey, out beyond Wembley far to the north; she should have insisted that he be allowed to come along on this mad expedition. She should have gone to the police and told them what Harry had told her.

  But that would have been a waste of time because what had she to say to them? That a boy at the school had told her blithely that he’d deliberately fired a gun at a master and then fed acid to another? As Harry himself said, it would be her word against his, and since the police had convinced themselves the shooting episode was an accident, and had heard nothing from anyone of the acid event, they’d be unlikely to take her hearsay as any real evidence to follow. As for reporting Gordon to them, what after all could she do about him? The only people who could put any pressure on him were sitting opposite her now, giggling and murmuring as lovers always do and always have; and they’d both made it very clear to her that there was no way they would ever make formal charges against him.

  ‘Harry’s way’s much better,’ Genevieve had said, smiling brilliantly when Hattie tried to talk to her about the possibility of making some sort of formal complaint against Gordon. ‘He’ll sort all that out, you see if he doesn’t.’ Once she’d been assured by Harry that Mrs C., as he still persisted in calling her, knew all about everything, she’d been a changed girl as far as Hattie was concerned; relaxed, friendly, happy, full of excitement and interest. Her previous self had been like a badly blurred photograph of her in comparison, and Hattie had watched her for the last couple of days at school as the term creaked at last to its end, furtively seeking for signs that she was still ill, needing reassurance that Harry was wrong to be doing what he wanted to do, that she was wrong to allow herself to be used as part of his scheme; but it had been clear that there was no escape that way. Genevieve was totally in accord with Harry and his plans for her future.

  Hattie had tried on the last day of term to explain to Genevieve that she was at risk of continuing under the control and manipulation she had always known, only exchanging one jailer for another, but she had looked at her in such incomprehension that Hattie had given up the effort. And anyway who was she to try to push the girl into a different pattern of behaving and feeling? Wouldn’t she be being just as manipulative as Harry — almost as bad as the hateful Gordon — by doing so? Let Genevieve make her own choices, Hattie had said to herself, watching the girl hurry away down the corridor to meet Harry at the end of the last afternoon at school for the term; her idea of freedom may have been warped and her choices made for her, but was that so dreadful? Had she, Hattie, been so badly off in those years with Oliver who had been, she could not deny it, rather more masterful than Hattie had liked, and had led her firmly along the roads he wanted her to go? She missed Oliver and his strength still; she couldn’t begrudge Genevieve the finding of Harry and his warm protection.

  And now she walked alongside the two of them on a dark afternoon in the spring of the year going to meet a man who, if Harry was to be believed, was as evil a person as any she had ever had to deal with. She had to sit and support this boy, now walking rather more silently and with less absorption in his companion than he’d shown all afternoon so far, in his attempts to be a blackmailer. That his blackmail was meant to be benevolent, saving not only Genevieve from the actions of the man being threatened, but also any number of small boys whose future could be destroyed by him, was almost irrelevant. She was going to do things she could never have imagined herself doing.

  And she stopped and looked at Harry in the darkness and tried to say, I can’t do this, I’m going away! But he looked at her, his eyes wide and glittering a little, and she caught her breath and started to walk again. There was no way out. She had to go through with it all.

  Genevieve was, amazingly, the one of them who seemed most calm. She scrabbled in her bag for her front-door key as casually as though she were doing nothing in the least out of the ordinary, unlocked the door and shouted, ‘Mum!’ in the most normal of voices, and then stood back to usher them into the house; and feeling cold all the way through to her middle, Hattie went in.

  The house was chilly. There were radiators in the poorly lit hall, but they must have been turned off, for the air bit at the end of Hattie’s nose as she stood and looked about her. The hall was looming and narrow, carpeted but unfurnished except for a small table with a telephone on it, with two doors off to the right and another door at the end beyond the single flight of stairs that ran up to the left. All the doors were closed and there was a smell of disinfectant and floor polish in the air; and Hattie thought, Maternity wards and dead bodies and drains, and shivered a little.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit cold,’ Genevieve said. ‘I should have warned you to wear a sweater. He’s mean. Makes a big row when the gas bill comes in, so she keeps it turned down till he gets in. Then she turns it up, because he makes a row over that if she doesn’t.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Hattie managed. ‘I’m fine.’ And Harry caught her eye and grinned. His teeth were very white in his face and he looked happy. His face was alight with laughter.

  The door at the end of the hallway opened and she came out: Stella Barratt, in a dress in some dark cloth which she was smoothing over her hips as she came towards them.

  ‘Hello, darling!’ she said with a brightness so sharp it set Hattie’s teeth on edge. ‘So glad you could bring your friends — Oh!’

  She had gone very white as she looked over Genevieve’s shoulder and saw Harry. She stared at him, her eyes seeming to darken as she looked.

  ‘This is Harry, Mum,’ Genevieve said cheerfully, not taking her eyes from her mother’s face. She was smiling a little. ‘I told you about Harry.’ And she slid one hand into the crock of his elbow and squeezed hard and Harry put his other hand over hers and turned his head and kissed her cheek swiftly before smiling at Stella with practised charm.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Barratt,’ he said. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite us to tea. I’ve been looking forward to this.’ His voice sounded more cultured than ever, the sounds rich, the accent precise and the warmth in him self-evident; and when he held out a hand to her she automatically responded and shook it, but when he let go stood looking down at her hand almost in surprise to find it still as it had been before his touch.

  ‘And you remember Mrs Clements, Mum,’ Genevieve said. ‘We thought we’d ask her to come too. Seeing we’ve got things to talk about.’

  ‘Things?’ Stella said sharply, and looked for a moment at Hattie. ‘What sort of things? If you’re here to go on again about what she eats and — Well, I’ll tell you now, he’ll go mad. He won’t talk to you. And I’m —’ She looked at Harry, opened her mouth to speak to him and then closed it again and looked appealingly at Genevieve.

  ‘Jenny, can I have a quick word?�
� she said, wheedling a little, and backed away towards the door that Hattie now saw led to the kitchen. ‘Just for a moment.’

  ‘No, Mum!’ Genevieve said loudly. ‘No need to talk on our own at all. It’ll all be explained when he gets here.’

  ‘Genevieve!’ Stella cried and there was real terror in her voice. ‘You can’t let him come in and find him here!’ And she flicked a glance at Harry and then looked away. ‘You can’t!’

  ‘I can,’ Genevieve said and laughed and hugged Harry’s arm even closer and Harry smiled and said ingenuously, ‘Why not, Mrs Barratt?’

  ‘Genevieve?’ Stella cried again but Genevieve said nothing, looking up into Harry’s face.

  ‘Because I’m black, Mrs Barratt? Or because I’m a young man, Mrs Barratt? Or because — well, you tell me why.’

  Stella shook her head and said nothing, still looking at Genevieve, who suddenly seemed to be bored by what was going on.

  ‘Come on in,’ she said loudly. ‘Let’s go into the living room. We don’t use it nearly enough. Come on in and I’ll turn on the fire and to hell with him.’ And she pushed open the door that led to the room at the front of the house and reached for the light.

  The room opened its eyes, it seemed to Hattie, and stared back at them sulkily. A dull room, over-furnished in the old-fashioned way and with an electric fire standing in the tiled grate. Genevieve shuddered a little and went to switch it on.

  ‘Well, Mum, how about some tea then?’ she called, and Stella, who was still hovering in the hallway, looked at Hattie and Harry with a frightened air and then, amazingly, went into the kitchen. Hattie saw her put the kettle on and then turned away to follow Harry into the living room. How feeble could a woman be? she asked herself. If I were she, and my daughter brought two people I didn’t want in my home for whatever reason, there’s no way I’d be so docile about it. I’d push them out with my own hands. I wouldn’t be putting kettles on for them —

  ‘Wouldn’t you? whispered her secret voice. But suppose you’d been married for so long to a man who did the sorts of things this man is supposed to have done? How would you be then? And she stared at the fire, at last glowing and beginning to warm the dank room, and deliberately hardened herself against the pity she felt for Stella Barratt. If what Harry said was true this woman was as much a part of it as the man himself. She might have been bullied, might have been brutalized, might have been frightened, but that didn’t give her the right to let her children suffer as she had. They deserved better of her than that.

  The three of them sat there in the living room as the air warmed, and waited, Hattie in a chair beside the fire, the others side by side on the small sofa that faced it, and none of them said anything until Stella came in with a tray, carefully set and obviously prepared some time ago, for the sandwiches on the plate were curling at the corners and the cake looked tired on its lacy doily.

  She dispensed tea, murmuring about milk and sugar and offering food as though this were just an ordinary tea party, and Hattie accepted the cup, needing it to deal with her over-dry mouth, and marvelled. How could this woman be as she was? How could these two children — for that was all they were, after all — be so composed and comfortable? How could she be sitting here like a sacrificial lamb waiting for the butcher?

  When he came in it was so unexpected that he was there amongst them almost before they realized he was in the house. The front door had opened in response to a short and sudden scratching at the keyhole and then slammed and there he was standing in the doorway and saying loudly, ‘What on earth are all these lights blazing in here for —’ And then he stopped, standing staring back at them with his face smooth with amazement.

  For a long moment they stared back at him and then Harry leaned forward, set his cup and saucer neatly on the coffee table and smiled up at Gordon Barratt.

  ‘Hello,’ he said softly. ‘How are you, old friend?’

  Barratt looked back at him and still there was no expression on his face. But then his mouth opened and he said carefully through lips that were clearly stiff with control, ‘Get out.’

  ‘Oh, come now!’ Harry said. ‘You don’t mean to be so unwelcoming, surely! Not to me, an old friend like me!’

  ‘Old friend!’ Stella said in a high voice and Barratt flicked a glance at her.

  ‘Why are they here?’ he said, and still his face showed no expression.

  Stella said nothing, shrugging helplessly and looking at Genevieve. But she didn’t speak either. The self-assurance that had been so much a part of her since they got here seemed to Hattie to have diminished or at least withdrawn somewhere inaccessible inside her, and she sat close beside Harry, her hand once more tucked into his elbow, staring at her father with her eyes dull and her face still and closed.

  ‘Come and have some tea,’ Harry invited. ‘It’s only just made, isn’t it, Mrs Barratt? We should have waited for you — how ill mannered of us! But the girls were thirsty. You know how it is with girls and their tea?’ And he winked at Barratt, every inch the indulgent male forced to spend time with lesser creatures.

  ‘I told you, get out,’ Barratt said and now his control was creaking. ‘You stinking nigger, get out of my house —’

  ‘There, what did I tell you?’ Harry said in a pleased tone, and looked at Hattie and clapped his hands together in mock applause. ‘Now do you believe me? It was all right for him to use me, to torment me, to fuck me, but not all right to call me anything but nigger.’ He turned his head and looked at Barratt. ‘Sit down. You’ve got some listening to do. To me. Come and hear what this stinking nigger’s got to say to you.’

  And amazingly he came in. He stood on his own rug in front of his own fire and after a moment turned and looked down at the fire and its glowing bars and then, with a sudden violent movement, bent and yanked the flex so that the plug came out of its socket and the glowing bars began to die. That seemed to comfort him and to give his some added strength, for when he straightened and looked at them, his face had lost its tension and seemed to bear only a faint sneer as the lips lifted in one corner.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said, staring at Hattie. ‘Meddling again? I told you once before, you’re not wanted here.’

  ‘I may not be welcome,’ Hattie said, startled to hear the words come out of her mouth. ‘But I think I’m wanted.’

  ‘Attagirl,’ Harry said softly. ‘Attagirl.’

  ‘And you?’ Barratt looked at Genevieve. ‘What do you think you’re doing bringing this garbage into my home? Do you want street filth ruining it? She’s no use. Are you as bad?’ And though he didn’t look at Stella, they all knew whom he meant.

  Genevieve looked at him and lifted her chin. The first time she started to speak no words came, only a breathy croak, and she swallowed convulsively and tried again.

  ‘You’re the bad one,’ she said and stared at him and for the first time he seemed to show some real emotion. His face crumpled and there was pain there, but it had no sooner appeared than it had gone.

  ‘Bad, me? Not me, honey bun,’ he said, and the endearment sounded so incongruous and ugly, hanging in the air of the crowded little room, that the back of Hattie’s neck seemed to creep.

  ‘You,’ Harry said, and leaned back on the sofa and looked up at Barratt with an air of consideration. ‘I wonder if you ever saw this day coming? Ever thought you’d be caught and stopped? Or was it so easy in the early days to frighten the shit out of kids so that they never said a word to anyone about what you did to them that you thought it’d be like that for ever? Well, it isn’t. That shit you frightened out of them has hit the fan. That’s a saying I rather like and it certainly fits in here. It’s hit the fan and it’s your turn to get spattered. The worms are turning so fast they’re almost giddy with it. Hmm, Jenny?’ And Genevieve looked up at him and some of her courage came seeping back into her; Hattie could see it happen and it cheered her enormously. The boy had told her the truth, obviously, and he was going to make it work just the way he
said he would. She felt suddenly light-headed with excitement and her pulses began to thicken and thud in her head.

  ‘Shut up,’ the man said, but it was just bluster and they all knew it.

  ‘Oh, no. Not any more. I’ve been shut up for years. My Jenny’s been shut up all her life. Now it’s got to stop. It has stopped, eh, Jenny?’

  ‘Yes!’ Genevieve said loudly and with a suppressed excitement in her voice and Hattie thought, She feels as I do, and smiled at her, and Genevieve smiled back.

  ‘I’m here to tell you my Jenny’s coming away with me. We’re leaving that school. We’ll be doing our exams somewhere else. You won’t know where. Either of you. We’re going away.’

  ‘Don’t leave me, Genevieve! Don’t leave me — I never did anything to you, don’t leave me!’

  It was Stella but her voice was so altered that Hattie wouldn’t have known it as hers if she hadn’t been looking at her, seeing her lips move. ‘Don’t leave me! I’ve done nothing!’