Toward the middle of the book were pictures of derelict houses facing an empty horizon. The lines of the houses were graceful, the walls thick and sturdy. But desert sand showed through the broken panes. The desert was stealthily, insidiously, claiming these houses as its own.
Something was written in the margin. She turned the book sideways and saw that the handwriting was the same as on the title page. He had written these words himself. They were in pencil and very faint, but she was still able to read them:
Is this redemption?
For a few minutes she simply sat there, staring at the words. It was very quiet. The heavy curtains across the windows shut out all sound. Only the fire hissed.
Redemption. To make amends. To atone. To buy back freedom and a release from captivity and bondage. He had pored over this book, his hands had turned these very pages, had touched these images forever captured in pristine silence. And something about their awful beauty had spoken to him and had held the promise of redemption.
He must have written these words before he had taken his brother’s life. Mason had told her he had fled on the night of the murder. So did he know in his heart that he would one day make a journey that would require atonement? Adam Buchanan believed in destiny, Reverend Wyatt had said. He believed in it absolutely. So maybe he had sensed that he was walking down a road that was drawing him inexorably toward a certain fate.
There were more images in the book to explore, but as her hands moved to turn the page, she suddenly stilled their movement.
She looked over her shoulder at the doorway. Empty.
Windows? No, the windows were shut and curtained. So what was it then? Why did she suddenly have this disconcerting feeling that she was being watched?
The murals. Of course, that must be it. She was surrounded by paintings from which limpid-eyed, slyly smiling figures were watching her quizzically. And it was stifling in here.
She slammed the volume shut. She needed to get away from this room with its smothering colours and avid eyes. But as she left the library she still felt as though the house, with its empty spaces and inky corners, was closing in on her. She was feeling severely claustrophobic. Why?
Opening the heavy front door, she walked into the darkness outside. The night was cold and chilled her body through her flannel nightshirt. But she did not stop walking until she reached the long avenue of trees.
She turned around. The sky was so clouded that the outline of the house was only slightly darker than the surrounding blackness. The heavy velvet curtains in the library did not allow the escape of even a chink of light.
For a long time she simply stood there, aware of her heart beating in her throat. The clouds thinned and the moon broke through. And still she waited, staring up at those unlit windows as blank as empty eyes.
• • •
FROM INSIDE the house, upstairs, the Watcher could barely make out the slight figure standing so motionless outside in the dark. Even with the moon glowing through the wispy clouds, she was just another black shadow in a garden filled with blacker shadows. He could hardly see her and he knew she wouldn’t be able to see him—not at that angle and without any light behind him.
Finally. She was starting to walk back toward the house.
He pressed his head against the cold glass pane and stared down at her. He had given up trying to fathom what she was doing out there. But he did find it quietly exhilarating that they had changed roles; he looking out, she looking in.
His breath was condensing on the glass pane. He lifted his finger and wrote in the grey-white cloud one word only:
Hello.
EIGHTEEN
‘HOW CAN YOU be sure?’
‘It’s her. I found her. I know it.’
Mark looked at the photography magazine lying open on the coffee table between him and Adam. ‘You know she’s your soul mate because she has two tattoos on her arm and knows a quotation from a two thousand-year-old religious text?’
Adam leaned forward. He spread his fingers open and placed his hand on top of the page. ‘I know it’s her when I look at her photographs. I know it from the planes of her face and the shape of her mouth. I know her.’
Mark pushed his chair back from the table as though to put distance between them. ‘For God’s sake, Adam. You don’t know her. You’ve never met her.’
For a moment it was quiet between the two men. From the kitchen where Rita was doing the laundry came the sound of the radio tuned to a request program. ‘The next request is from Lydia for her darling Simon on their wedding anniversary. Love you lots, pumpkin. Thank you for eight wonderful years…’
Adam spoke slowly. ‘Why are you so uncomfortable with this? I don’t understand. I thought you’d be happy for me.’
Mark grimaced, looked away. The truth of the matter was he was indeed uncomfortable with this development. It was totally outside his frame of comprehension. But, more than that, he was apprehensive, concerned for Adam. His friend was setting himself up for one almighty fall. What woman would accept a murderer on the run in her life?
‘Adam…’ Mark made a helpless gesture with his hand toward the magazine. ‘It’s wishful thinking.’
‘It’s faith. You should know all about that.’
‘So what are you going to do now? She’s on the other side of the world.’
‘There is something called a telephone, you know.’
‘What?’ Mark’s voice rose sharply. ‘You’re going to call her?’
‘I called international inquiries from the post office this morning. She’s not listed. But I got her number through the magazine. Told them I’m with a news agency and I want to commission her for a feature piece. They gave the number to me, no questions asked.’
‘Have you lost your mind? What are you going to tell her?’
‘The truth.’
‘The truth! Oh, OK. Let’s see. “Ms Callaway—or may I call you Justine? You don’t know me, but I’m your soul mate and have been searching for you through the ages. Oh, and by the way, I just happened to kill my brother ten years ago. But let’s not allow that to keep us from our destiny, shall we?”’
‘Something like that.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘I need to use your phone. The post office isn’t private enough.’
‘You’re really serious.’
‘I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.’
Mark looked into Adam’s dark eyes. They were burning, the gaze too intense to hold with his own.
‘All right then. Take it in the study. You know where it is.’
‘Thanks.’ Adam got to his feet. ‘Mark…’
‘What?’
Adam smiled and for a moment he seemed to Mark heartbreakingly defenceless. ‘This is the first time I’ll hear her voice.’
• • •
THE WOMAN’S VOICE on the phone was screechy and so unpleasant it took Adam completely aback. For a moment he even had difficulty speaking.
‘Hello?’ The woman said again impatiently. ‘Who is this?’ Her voice was sharp-edged and the underlying irritation made it worse.
He took a deep breath. ‘Justine Callaway?’
‘No. I’m her tenant. She doesn’t live here any more.’
Thank God. He felt tremendously relieved. ‘Do you have a new phone number where I can reach her?’
‘I think she’s abroad or something.’ In the background a baby started crying. ‘Denise,’ she suddenly roared, ‘get that bottle away from him, for Christ’s sake.’
He held the receiver away from his ear. ‘Abroad?’
‘Yes. Look, I can’t help you, I’m sorry.’
He persisted. ‘As her tenant, you must be able to get in touch with her somehow.’
The woman sighed with exaggerated impatience. It sounded like a valve blowing off steam. ‘You could try her mother. Patricia Callaway. She lives in St John’s Wood. She’s in the book.’ Without giving him a chance to respond, she hung up and
he was left with a dead tone in his ear.
Abroad. Abroad where? She could be in the middle of a war zone for all he knew. His only hope now was her mother. Fortunately, the razor-voiced one had spoken the truth. Patricia Callaway was indeed listed and he managed to get her phone number from international inquiries without any problems.
He dialled the number and listened as the phone started ringing. As he waited, his eye fell on a framed poster on the wall. It was a print by Magritte of a man staring into a mirror and seeing only the back of his own head. Adam looked away.
‘Patricia Callaway.’ The voice was that of an elderly woman; soft-spoken, cultivated.
‘Mrs Callaway, my name is Adam Williams. I wonder if you can help me. I would like to get in touch with your daughter.’
‘What about?’ The tone was suddenly distinctly frosty. It made him pause.
‘I’m a friend of Justine’s, but we’ve lost touch. I thought it might be good for us to catch up again.’
This time Patricia Callaway’s response was even chillier. ‘If you give me your phone number, I’ll ask her to call you, Mr Williams.’
‘I understand she’s abroad.’
‘She’s back. So, if you’ll give me your phone number?’
He thought quickly, remembering the article in the magazine. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend Jonathan’s funeral, Mrs Callaway.’
‘You knew Jonathan?’ A definite crack in the armour.
‘Yes.’ He decided to improvise. ‘I’m a musician as well. I was a great admirer of your son’s work.’
‘Thank you. Yes, he was very talented.’ Her voice was suddenly heavy with tears and it made him feel like a heel. But it couldn’t be helped. He had to discover Justine’s whereabouts and this woman held the key. If he had to resort to this kind of underhanded tactic to make her tell him where her daughter was, so be it.
But even though her tone was now much warmer, she still wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s for Justine’s own good, Mr Williams. Please don’t take this personally, but some of Justine’s friends… Well, let’s just call them overnight friends. And the next day it would be very difficult to get rid of them. I’ve made it an absolute policy not to give out contact information over the phone. It would be much better if she called you. I promise to deliver the message.’
It was no use. He was going to have to face the fact that she was not going to help him out. But he certainly wasn’t going to give her Mark’s number. He couldn’t drag his friend into this.
But perhaps she’d be willing to give him an address.
‘I’m actually going abroad myself. It might be best if I write to her. I also have some photographs I want to pass on to her. If you could give me her address…’
But even this was not going to fly. Patricia Callaway was having none of it. ‘Why don’t you just send the letter to my home, Mr Williams? I’ll be sure to pass it on to Justine.’
He sighed, defeated. ‘All right. Where shall I send it to?’
She spelled out the name of the street meticulously. At the end she said, ‘Have a good trip, Mr Williams. And I’ll give Justine her post. You have my word.’
He felt like banging his head against the wall, but he managed to keep his voice even. ‘Thank you. I’ll be writing soon, then.’
He hung up the receiver and turned around to find Mark staring at him. ‘You’re going to write to her?’
‘Maybe it’s for the best. I’ve been writing her letters for the past nine years, after all. So I’ll simply write her another one. And this one I’ll send.’
‘Adam… What if she takes the letter to the police?’
‘She won’t.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘It’s a chance I’ll have to take.’
‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’ Mark’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Exactly.’ Adam was imperturbable.
‘At least don’t tell her everything. Don’t tell her about Richard’s death. Don’t give her your real name. That’s putting yourself in needless danger. If she takes the letter to the police, they may be able to trace it by the postage stamp. They’ll know where you are.’
‘She won’t take it to the police.’
Mark opened his mouth to protest again, but the next moment Rita had entered the room. She looked from one man to the other, and Mark knew his wife had sensed the tension between them. She smiled hesitantly. ‘Adam, are you staying for dinner? Bubble and squeak only, I’m afraid.’
‘You know I love your bubble and squeak, but I have to go.’ Mark watched as Adam leaned over and kissed the top of his wife’s head. He was always slightly startled to see how gentle Adam could be. He was such a large man, he made the room feel small, and he towered over Rita. But his hands with their long fingers and broad knuckles rested on Rita’s shoulders with the delicacy of a moth.
‘Let me see you out.’
The two men walked in silence to the front door. As Adam took his leather jacket from the hook on the wall, his eye fell on a long sheet of paper covered with signatures, which was lying on the entrance table next to a bowl of potpourri.
‘What’s this?’
‘A petition. To stop Yuri Grachikov from building his hotel on Pennington’s Island—for good. I’m circulating it among my patients. The more signatures I can collect before the commission sits, the better.’
‘Grachikov won’t like it.’
‘I don’t care what he likes or doesn’t like.’
‘Don’t play with him, Mark.’
‘I’m not playing, Adam. He needs to be shut down.’
Adam pulled the jacket over his shoulders. ‘I had a rather disturbing conversation with him the other day. I bumped into him at Giant’s Castle and he wanted me to give you a message. He says you’re making trouble for him.’
Mark pushed out his chin pugnaciously. ‘I sincerely hope so.’
‘He also said that you don’t want him to make trouble for you.’
‘Oh, please. First he offers me money and now he’s threatening me? It just confirms my belief that this man needs to be stopped.’
Adam sighed. ‘Just be careful, all right? Even the loss of an entire marine terrace isn’t worth getting hurt for.’
Outside the day was dying in a streak of scarlet and gold. Mark and Adam stepped through the door into a lukewarm dusk. Rita’s attempt at a garden was not very successful—a tiny patch of dusty grass flanked the front door, the borders struggling against the encroaching desert sand.
Mark watched as Adam and his shadow—all broad shoulders and long spidery legs—moved quietly toward the front gate.
Suddenly Adam stopped. ‘Look.’ He lowered himself to his heels. Close to his shoe, caught in the yellow light spilling out of the hallway, was a black tenebrionid beetle. Called tok-tokkies because of the sound the female of the species makes when she taps the back end of her tiny body against the ground, these beetles were hardy little survivors. The male sometimes travelled for miles in his quest for a mate, following the tapping sound like a siren’s call.
Adam touched the black beetle lightly with his fingertip and it scurried off into the growing darkness. Adam looked up at Mark and smiled with delight. ‘It’s a sign, don’t you think? Don’t you think it’s a good omen?’
NINETEEN
‘GOOD GRIEF. What a strange room.’
Justine looked up. Her mother was standing in front of one of the murals in the library—Leda and a very lascivious swan—the expression on her face outraged.
She pursed her lips. ‘Really, it’s positively grotesque.’
Justine shrugged. ‘De gustibus…’
‘Nonsense. There is such a thing as good taste, and this is not it.’
She shrugged again. She actually agreed with her mother, but she certainly wasn’t going to say so.
Her mother turned away from the offending mural to look at her daughter. Her expression didn’t change noticeably as far as Justine could see.
<
br /> ‘You’re too thin, Justine. Are you eating properly?’
She didn’t answer, merely opened the drawer of the writing desk where she knew she had left a packet of Dunhills. Her mother’s lips tightened as she watched her light the cigarette but she said nothing.
She drew the cigarette smoke deep into her lungs. God, that felt good. Exhaling, she watched her mother through a cloud of smoke. Patricia Callaway was impeccably dressed, as usual. A beige and russet-coloured cashmere two-piece. Tasteful, expensive. In her hands she held a pair of suede gloves, which matched the suede uppers of her high-heeled pumps. Underneath one arm was clasped a Ferragamo clutch bag. Her mother was plump but her legs were still shapely. Her face was smooth and rosy, and her hair a stylish cap of silver. But, since Jonathan’s death, sharp lines bracketed her mouth.
Justine looked away.
It would be fair to say that she and her mother had always disappointed each other. Her mother did not approve of her lifestyle or her choice of career. And when Justine was a teenager, the battles between them were epic. For the greater part of the year she had lived with her father, of course, but for six weeks every summer she and her mother would live under the same roof. It was only Jonathan who had been able to keep any peace between them.
On one level she knew she resented her mother for allowing her father to take her away after the divorce. Even though, if asked, there was no question that she would have chosen to roam the world with Sam rather than be cooped up in her mother’s house in St John’s Wood. Still, it hadn’t made her feel any less abandoned. Her mother should have put up a fight, for God’s sake. And so, ever since she could remember, she had delighted in tormenting her parent. Everything her mother wanted her to do, she would do the exact opposite. It was a compulsion. A childish compulsion, to be sure, but one she could not seem to break. Not that she tried very hard.
The only thing she and her mother had ever had in common was their adoration for Jonathan. Now he was gone. She knew her mother blamed her for his death. And of course, her mother was right. She was to blame. And so guilt had been added to the witches’ brew of resentment, damaged trust and failed expectations that made up this particular mother–daughter relationship.
Writ in Water Page 79
