by David Barry
He tilted his head slightly in the direction of the door to the living room. ‘Mind if we go and sit down? I’ve had it. I’m knackered.’
She led the way and he followed closely behind her. He cast his eyes round the room until they alighted on the phone on the occasional table by the window. He went over and unplugged the jack from the socket. When he straightened up, he saw the desperate look in her eyes and he felt sorry for her. He wanted to reassure her. Perhaps he could do this by making her feel special, by telling her she was the only living person now who could possibly understand him. But he couldn’t. Not just yet. Instead, his voice little more than a whisper, he said:
‘I told you. It’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘It’s not that. It’s my daughters. They’re in Canada - with their father. They might ring.’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t risk it. As I’ve unplugged it from the socket they’ll just get a ringing tone. They’ll think you’re out. I’m sorry.’
Gwyneth stared at him, keeping her expression neutral. Had he meant it about not harming her? Why had he come here? Was it because of her letters? She regretted writing to him now. She should never have become involved. He smiled slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. She was sure of it. Putting her at ease?
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, his voice soft and sympathetic.
They stared at each other across the room, the dining table between them. She wondered if she should make a break for it, into the kitchen and out of the back door. It was only a matter of twenty yards to her nearest neighbour’s cottage. Perhaps not even that far. Her eyes wavered, flickered slightly towards the kitchen. She saw his eyes follow hers and knew he could see the thought running through her head.
‘I knew you’d come here,’ she blurted out. It was a lie. She wondered why she’d said it. Perhaps it was to reassure him, make him think they were on the same wavelength. But he took it the wrong way.
‘You haven’t called the police?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Why not? If you knew I was coming here, why didn’t you call them?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I...I didn’t think there was any need. I know you’ve killed someone, but I don’t think you’re a violent man, Gary.’
She could have kicked herself. It had sounded patronising, as if she was trying to humour him.
‘So, are you trying to tell me you guessed I might come here, but you were still willing to take a risk that I don’t mean to hurt you?’
‘I didn’t really believe you’d come here. It’s just something that was in the back of my mind, I suppose. You know, stuck somewhere in my subconscious.’
She could see him thinking about what she had said, mulling it over carefully.
‘Perhaps it was because of our relationship,’ she added. ‘Our letters meant a great deal to me.’
He nodded slowly, and she saw the present of his eyes vanish into the past, sifting through the shadows for some significant echoes from a primitive existence. Something mystical. And, as if to confirm her thoughts, he muttered:
‘Destiny.’
She waited for him to elaborate, aware of her heart pounding out an ancient drum beat and of a strange high-pitched electronic humming inside her head. She stared closely at him, searching for any small clue that he might have been saying it for effect. But his unblinking gaze remained distant.
‘What did you mean,’ she said, ‘by “destiny”?’
Slowly, his eyes sought hers again. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’
She saw him glance at the wine bottle.
‘Would you like a drink?’
He nodded. ‘I could murder one.’
Gwyneth felt a cold hand brushing her spine at the unfortunate choice of words. She told herself not to be so stupid. It was only an expression. She was sure he had meant nothing by it. She got another glass from the dresser and filled it with wine. As she approached him, she noticed his eyes had softened and he seemed calm, sympathetic, trying to show he cared for her; wanting her on his side. Their fingers touched briefly as he took the glass and she felt a slight thrill, the sensual butterfly touch of nervous would-be lovers, a touch that was tantalisingly significant. Had he felt the same? Or had she imagined a chemistry that was entirely one-sided? It was absurd. Held hostage by a ruthless killer and she starts imagining the beginnings of a romance. Behaving like an irrational teenager. Been watching too many films.
She fetched her glass from beside the fireplace and topped it up. Then she asked him, ‘Have you eaten?’ Calmly. Matter-of-fact. Just as if he was her partner home late from work.
‘Long time ago,’ he replied.
She smiled, feeling safer in his company now. ‘I expect you could eat a scabby horse, hooves an’ all.’
He stared at her for some time and she wondered if her reply had confused him. She became aware of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and a sheep bleating far away. Time had gone into slow motion, every action and thought was sharp and clear but unreal. Eventually he smiled. There was irony in the expression, as if he too saw how ludicrous this cosy, domestic situation was.
‘I expect I could,’ he agreed. ‘I’m starving.’
‘I’ll go and see what I can cook you.’
As she started towards the door, she noticed the sharp, keen glint in his eyes and froze.
‘I’m not going to dash out into the night screaming for help. Something tells me I wouldn’t get very far. You can come out to the kitchen with me, if you like.’
He seemed to relax then and followed her out. She lit the gas under the deep fryer, took four large potatoes from the vegetable rack and began to peel them over the sink.
‘Pile of chips and a cheese omelette do you?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
Evans stood and watched her, admiring her shape in the tightness of her denims. From the corner of her eye she became aware of his interest and wondered how she would cope if he tried to force himself on her. But somehow he didn’t seem to be the rapist type. And what is the rapist type? she asked herself.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve never taken a woman by force.’
As if he could read her mind.
She turned, looked deep into his eyes, and in that flickering instant they both knew. If he wanted her tonight, she would say yes. Yes and yes again, just like Molly Bloom.
***
As he began to unbutton his shirt, Lambert glanced apprehensively around the bedroom for evidence of change. There was none that he could see. It was exactly the way he remembered it. Yet it felt peculiar. Different. He couldn’t pin it down. He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped his socks and trousers off. Then he realised why it felt so strange. It was her bedroom, and hers alone. He was history. No. Not even history. He’d been airbrushed out of it.
He felt nervous. His stomach danced tremulously, reminding him of their first time together. He felt excited, much too excited, by the memory, and he prayed that he wasn’t going to disappoint her. Then she came in from the bathroom. She had stripped off completely and her body glowed in the light from the bedside lamp. Her legs were still attractively firm and slim. He stood up as she came towards him and slid his arms around her waist. God! How soft she felt. He’d forgotten just how good it was. His throat clammed up. He felt like an awkward teenager again. She looked into his eyes. Hers were smiling, aware of his predicament. He cleared his throat softly before speaking.
‘It’s been a while since...’
Her eyebrows rose quizzically, almost mockingly, waiting for him to continue.
‘Since I’ve had sex,’ he lied. It wasn’t as if she had asked about any other women he’d been with since they had parted, so why did he feel it was necessary to lie? Perhaps it was b
ecause he wanted Helen to believe he’d been behaving himself, deliberately saving himself for a night such as this.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked, a trace of suspicion in her voice.
‘Well - I hope I don’t disappoint you.’
‘Oh, God! The ego of the man,’ she laughed. ‘Worried about his performance.’
***
Gwyneth sat across the table from Evans and watched as he swallowed the last mouthful of food.
‘You were hungry.’
His knife and fork clattered onto the plate. He looked up at her expectantly. Almost like a little boy waiting for his pudding, she thought. She smiled back at him.
‘So what happens now?’
He shrugged and remained silent.
‘You know, I worked it out from the ley lines where you were heading. And if I can work it out, so can the police.’
‘I don’t think so. At least, not for a while. ’
She raised her eyebrows questioningly, soliciting an explanation.
Smiling confidently, he said, ‘I altered the maps. Changed them. It’ll take them some time to put two and two together.’
Like a stomach-churning roller coaster drop, her heart swooped fearfully. The effect of his words must have shown, because he frowned understandingly and reached across the table and patted her hand reassuringly.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.’
The touch of his hand was brief. But it was instinctive, signifying the habitual tactility of a long-standing relationship, like a mother and son. She swallowed before she spoke. It seemed loud and intrusive in the clock-ticking silence.
‘You’ve been through a great deal, Gary. What are you searching for?’
‘Nothing. What makes you think I’m searching for anything?’
‘Because of what you said in your letters. All that stuff about the Celtic Otherworld.’
Embarrassed, he dropped his eyes. ‘Well, that was just...’
‘Stringing me along? To get the ley line charts?’
He shrugged slightly, pursing his lips, unable to look her in the eye. ‘Maybe.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
He remained silent, his face deadpan, so she asked him anyway.
‘How many men have you killed? I don’t mean the farmer. I mean when you were in the SAS.’
‘I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more. I lost count.’
‘And did you feel any--’
‘Guilt?’ He shook his head. ‘They were soldiers. You live by the sword, you die by the sword.’
‘These soldiers you killed, presumably in Northern Ireland, were fighting for a cause. What’s your cause, Gary? Who are you fighting for?’
She saw him inwardly struggling against her question, searching for an answer.
‘I’m a soldier,’ he murmured after a long pause. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘Did you have a girlfriend? A lover? Someone special?’
‘Not permanent, like. I’m not queer, if that’s what you mean.’
She laughed, stood up and started to clear his plate. ‘No, I’m not suggesting you are.’
As she moved close to him, her thigh brushed against his arm. Her nerves were sharpened by the sensation, and the touch of their bodies was like warm soothing water. She felt his hand moving gently over her buttocks and he tugged her towards him, letting his head sink into the contours of her thighs and stomach. She put the dinner plate back onto the table and ran her fingers through his close-cropped hair. She felt the heat from his hands on her thighs and the sensation startled her. She caught her breath, realising she was being swept along helplessly, giving in to her instinct and pleasure. For the briefest of moments, she questioned her actions, wondered if she was hurling herself into the most dangerous of encounters. But already she seemed to have passed the point of no return. There was no going back now.
‘If you want,’ she whispered, ‘we could go upstairs to bed.’
He took his head away from her lap and looked up at her. How young he seemed. She was at least fifteen years older than him.
‘I’ve been on the run for three nights now. During the day I’ve been sleeping rough. I probably smell.’
She smiled and ruffled his fine hair like she would a little boy.
‘You smell of nature and the wild.’
‘Even so: I’d like to take a bath first.’
The request reassured her, made her feel safe.
Chapter 26
Lambert lay propped against the pillow, Helen curled up close beside him. Her face looked peaceful, like a child’s, reminding him of Natasha. He wanted so desperately to give his daughter a home to which she could occasionally return, but he knew it was too late. There would be no duty-bound visits on Christmas Day any more. He had given Natasha the excuse she needed to stay at her boyfriend’s parents during the festive season. They were respectable, middle class, and lived in a large house in a trendy part of Barnes in south-west London. The boyfriend’s father was the head teacher of an expensive preparatory school and his mother was a harpist. They were a family of five, the three children growing up fast, all artistic and all would no doubt be successful. A devoted, perfect family. Unlike his own upbringing. His father a cowboy builder, boozy and lecherous. Lambert becoming a copper hadn’t gone down well with the old man at first, but at least he felt he could change his life for the better. But the change was superficial. Beneath the surface, he was just as bad as the old man. Worse, probably. It was like Melanie had pointed out: he was the charmer, the smooth operator, that kills through love.
His eyes suddenly moistened with small tears of self-pity. His shame and his guilt heightened his loss, the empty feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. He looked down at Helen and stroked her hair gently. She moaned softly, blinked sleep from her eyes and stretched her legs out like a cat uncurling itself.
‘What time is it?’
‘Early.’
She pulled herself into a sitting position, plumped the pillows, then lay back against them, exhausted by the effort. He placed a hand on her thigh.
‘How early?’ she demanded, irritation creeping into her voice.
‘Half six.’
‘Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘Couple of hours maybe. I’ve been awake for ages. Been thinking about us.’
She stared straight ahead. She could guess what was coming and braced herself for it.
‘Sweetheart?’ He wanted her to look at him, to see the tears in his eyes before they dried up. They were so insignificant, though. Would she notice them?
‘The answer’s no.’
Helen could feel his eyes boring into her and pictured his affronted, puzzled expression, the one that used to make her laugh all those years ago. Now she found it irritating.
‘I don’t understand,’ he emphasised slowly.
‘I can still fancy you, can’t I?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘It wouldn’t work. I think I still love you. But it’s hopeless.’ She turned her face towards him and hit him harder with the next sentence. ‘You won’t ever change.’
‘I can try. I’ve always loved you. And there’s two things that need to be said, to clear the air between us.’
She stared at him, her face an impenetrable mask but the expression in her eyes severe and suspicious.
‘In our earlier days, I want you to know I was never unfaithful to you. Never.’
Her eyes narrowed as she waited for him to continue.
‘Then when you had the miscarriage. . .’
Her mouth opened as she was struck by the force of his accusation. She removed his hand from her thigh, and turned away as if ready to leap out of bed. He grabbed her shoulder.
‘No, please, Helen - let me finish. It was all my fault. I just want you to
know. . . even before that happened I always flirted shamelessly and always wanted to have a bit on the side. Then, after the miscarriage, you gave me the excuse I needed. I used it to indulge myself. But I still loved you. I never stopped loving you. I just want you to know, it was entirely my fault. Don’t they say marriage is for better or worse? Well, I should have stuck by you and not become a bastard like my old man. I just want you to know that I’m so sorry. I never meant to harm you. It’s been all my fault, and I’m deeply sorry.’
She leaned back against the pillow, her anger dwindling. ‘Well, I appreciate your telling me this, but it still doesn’t alter the fact. . .’
‘I love you, Helen. It’s never too late, sweetheart. I can change.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like a stuck record. Where you’re concerned, change is impossible. Too late, sweetheart. The last bus has gone.’
‘Let me at least try.’
‘Try’s not good enough, Harry. It’s too late. Can’t you get that through your thick policeman’s skull?’
Lambert sighed gently. He thought about moving closer to her, holding her tight and perhaps trying to make love to her again. But somehow the extravagant mood of the night had disappeared, leaving him with a fumbling awkwardness he hadn’t felt since the loss of his virginity. To compensate for the stilted atmosphere, he chuckled and said,
‘We sort of got sidetracked last night. What was it you rang about?’
She threw him a sideways look. ‘Getting back on the job, are you? That’s if you were ever off it.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Those ley line maps Evans had. They were fake.’
‘What?’
Suddenly alert now, Lambert shifted in the bed. His knee came in contact with Helen’s thigh.
‘Ouch!’
‘What do you mean they were fake?’
‘They were photocopies. And they’ve been changed. I compared them to some others I found. You know those books of Natasha’s? She’s got loads of stuff about Celtic legends and...’
