Deep Sleep

by Frances Fyfield

  Deep Sleep

  A Helen West Mystery

  Frances Fyfield

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Also by Frances Fyfield

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  SINCE she had shut the window, the room was stuffy. She liked the central heating fierce, imagined the night air would infect her. Please, she said, I know you prefer it open, but ugh, winter cold out there, honestly. And all the dust from the building works, please … She had a way of drawing out the ‘please’ to make a whole sentence, a series of pleas which ascended to a whine. He should have been sorry for her; but all he could summon up was a rage as hot as heartburn, a furious discomfort which made him smaller and smaller until he felt he might disappear in the smoke of his own anger. One free weekend in a hotel, the chance to breathe and open his own window, but she had called him back, saying Pleeeas, come home, I’m frightened, don’t leave me. I’m not leaving you, he had said down the phone; I’m simply staying here, talking, drinking, sleeping, at someone else’s expense, for Christ’s sake, I can come back tomorrow afternoon if you want, for an hour. I shan’t half look a fool …

  And even then, back across the city with his teeth gritted, very slightly sloshed, he did not think of how angry he could be. Thought of nothing but keeping the peace while she nagged him about the stock, told him how to run the place, and then finally on top of everything else, Will you please close the window?

  He could not breathe. Mother had once bound him so closely into his bedclothes that he had lain like a swaddled baby, his face purple. Now Mother was dead and still he could not breathe.

  She had settled herself in all right, his little wife. Drew clearly for him, with the blunt pencil of her voice, the extent of his reliance and her control. She had moved the settee, and an ugly cushion had been added to destroy the effect of the worn, Edwardian brocade; two of his favourite pictures had been removed; there was a coffee ring on his mahogany table. All of it so old-fashioned, she said. Why can’t we ever get anything new? Like your waistcoats, precious one, light of my life, that make you look like a fella from My Fair Lady. I sometimes think you live in that age, hmm? But I do love you, sweet pea, oh, I do. Do you love me? Go on, tell me you do, ’cos I really love you.

  And she did, of course. Couldn’t live without him, neither he without her since she owned so much of the business. Though he never resented that since greed was not his weakness. Standards slipped, that was all, in the loneliness of relief after Mother’s death, that vacuum filled by no one until this woman appeared, like a miracle, offering position, self respect, the chance of popularity and influence, all gifts Mama had denied. He had leapt into these skinny arms. Never mind the love; love grows like roses, don’t you know, with desire blooming up among the weeds. Or not.

  Oh, my love, my dear love. He closed his eyes to see that other womanly girl, standing in the shop all day, with her gorgeous, worried face; big in front, big behind; so fabulous from every angle he wished he could see each facet at once. Tight cotton shirts in summer, a scent he could smell from fifty paces: worse in winter when she wore bright sweaters stretched over a generous bosom. She never even saw him looking and never guessed how much she visited his dreams. Respectful, undemanding, an angel.

  Oh my love … If I do not find out about love, I shall die. I shall never know it here.

  Ostensibly, wife slept. Please, dear, please, go to sleep, wife, you’ve done enough damage for one day. Especially mentioning the window in the same breath as the plan to clear out his back room, the only place where he could exist alone, reigning supreme with his secret knowledge. No, not that. Please. Leave me alone, sometimes, please.

  She had no idea what he had in mind as he brushed his teeth, looking in the old mirror. Finding her there alongside his own, tired reflection, a tiny, startling vision, scantily dressed in a translucent nylon negligée which gave a view of nothing, no hills, no valleys, but sagging muscles and a face made up with black eyebrows, dyed hair in curls and a very red mouth, smiling. Crimson lipstick disfiguring large teeth, the only things in that face she could call her own.

  C’mon, she said. You’re being so mumbly. I love you, sweety pie. Give us a kiss.

  Not now, darling. Pleees. Had a bit too much to drink, see?

  She was always ordering, even before the window was shut while he himself wanted to scream, and clutch his own throat in suffocation. Soundless, in case she awoke and asked silly, obvious questions such as, what’s the matter? A man was not even allowed to claim a headache. She would talk; she was going to shame him. She talked too much, was bound to tell soon.

  Oh, my love; wait for me. Let me know what love is.

  ‘You awake, sweetheart?’ A simpering, anxious voice in the dark. He kept his lips pursed shut, breathed in and out with less speed and more noise through his mouth, counting between each breath to keep the sound regular. She sighed, adjusted, breathed louder herself.

  So many nights like these. Days in which work achieved for him those irresistible rewards of love and authority, trust and credibility, nights where that alternative manhood was crushed in this dreadful intimacy. Sweat began again. The negligée generated heat, and in his pretend sleep, clutching his own side of the bed, he realised she was crying, little snuffling sounds without dignity, pathetic as a puppy shown rejection. She could cry in this fashion for hours, knew only the gross comfort she had anticipated when donning the nylon nightie. The reassurance of sex was what she wanted, that bloodless pleasure she mistook for love, and believed in, no matter what aid he employed. Making love fun for both of them, he had said, and she had laughed, immoderate but co-operative. A waft of sickly perfume filled his nostrils. Rage exploded like a quiet set of fireworks in his head, no noise, simply a terrible intimation, a crystal clear picture of what he was going to do.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he mumbled. The bird body lay rigid.

  ‘That window’s not properly shut. Please shut it. Like I said.’

  He checked the window, but the unbearable sobbing continued and suddenly the idea was fully formed, plucked out of cold storage into the stuffy heat. The window was shut. No ventilation, no moving air as he returned to bed and took her stiff little body in his arms.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, there, there, there.’ She clutched him so hard he could feel her long nails digging into his shoulders. His sweating had stopped and his skin to her touch felt as cold as ice.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart, come on then. I’m here. Let’s have a bit of fun, shall we? Come on, like last week, eh? You liked that, didn’t you? You know what gets me going.’ Her head, buried against his chest, nodded gratefully. As long as he loved her she would put up with all the incentives he seemed to need, and if his needs were insulting she did not mind. Do as your husband does: that way you keep him.

  ‘There we are, sweetheart. Deep breath … Oh nice, nice … Hold me …’

  When he opened the bedroom window some time later, there was a vague suggestion of light in the sky. Looking out over the back road, leaning right out in order to breathe long and deep, he watched the lamps on the watchman’s hut in the building site glow weaker as a cloudy pink grew visible on the horizon behind the crane. Man-made city lights, a false dawn. He watched the buildings come into blurred focus, a hotch-potch of ugly styles, the view marred by experiment and the destruction of a global war which h
ad coincided with the more important event of his birth. The site below lay empty, a vast muddy field, scratched out for a new square, new houses, new people, more customers; a brave new world. For once, this scene of desolation made him shiver with joy. Beneath a jungle of foundations and piecemeal plans, high rise in the distance, low rise next door, there might have been hell and destruction, but at that moment, he found the view perfectly beautiful.

  Then, in strict accordance with his plan, he closed the window carefully as his wife would have done, seeing under his outstretched hand a brief hint of familiar movement in the street below: someone else stirring too early, even for market day, a shape in the distance which was disturbingly recognisable, shuffling along by the hoardings which protected road from mud. Let them crawl, let them shuffle like crabs: he did not care. He was jubilant, pushed the window back wider, tempted to shout greetings, then shut it quietly instead. He moved to the next room, where his clothes lay folded precisely over a chair, dressed carefully, exactly as he had been dressed the night before, taking nothing new from any cupboard. He crossed to the opposite window, tidying away all traces of the recent present, careful this time to remain out of view while he heard a familiar rumble in the street below. Market day; one old man beginning at five-thirty to drag out the wheeled stalls. A grand time to leave, the whole of London an empty shell and himself buoyant, brave and free. There was in these movements nothing of the small man schooled to perfection in all domestic tasks: he was a tiger, full of mysterious power. Rejoice, said the radio. Christmas cometh. Rejoice in rebirth.

  Ice cold outside, but rejoice; the saviour is born; a tune bubbling out of his throat. The car was parked one whole street hence, near enough still for the building site dust to freeze on the screen. As he sat inside, turned on the lights, and leant forward to straighten his hair, he saw how his face was smiling serene, like a carol singer on the sleeve of a record, mischief still in the face. And also, fat, wet tears, stinging his cold cheeks and descending slowly and steadily into the mouth which smiled and smiled.

  Oh my love. Wait for me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HELEN West lay in a big, high bed, slightly too wide for one: passenger on an institutional mattress which could perform contortions. Despite the ungainliness of her couch and in the haze of post-anaesthetic, she could envisage the stainless steel framework dancing across the floor, this way and that to the tune of a Strauss waltz, drawn by the company of other beds swishing in the corridor outside. Her own bed could be wheeled, raised, lowered in whole or part for anything but titillation; an expensive couch, but never sexy. The thought of the word, a very fleeting thought, made her shudder as she might at the mention of necrophilia. Helen found it very difficult indeed to see how a person could feel as bad as this without being dead; and if anyone entered now, it would have to be an undertaker. In which case, the bed would be able to spill her into a box and take her away, quietly.

  The door opened on oiled hinges as she closed her eyes, denying the existence of anyone who might wish her to respond. But manners did not take wings, even in extremis. They remained buried in the bones, forcing her to follow some bloody-minded instinct for politeness even in the face of an impulse to tell the visitor to … She surely had the right to be rude? But, although resentful, Helen began to haul herself upwards, out of the fog and the imprisonment of the stiff sheets. Smiling.

  ‘Well! Well! Well! And how are we feeling then? Fighting fit? Ho ho ho. Sorry about that. Had to do a little more than we intended. Oh dearie, dearie me. Nasty little cyst, left ovary. No, the other one. Had to take it off.’

  ‘What, the ovary?’

  He laughed as if he had been told an extraordinary joke. ‘Oh, my dear me, no, only the cyst. Jolly good.’

  The goodness of anything remained beyond Helen’s comprehension, but she battled with the question of why she should be so protective about an unemployed ovary. Odd, the human response, and oh how painful intellect, in a subdued form, coming back, and why did they all talk like imbeciles? He was so loud, and why did he have to speak to her as if she were deaf, while the nurse towered above his shoulder with a face like a smiling but slightly apologetic sphinx, professionally concerned. The surgeon reminded her of the small boy at school who drilled holes from the boys’ to the girls’ lavatory out of curiosity, but the nurse leant forward with surprising tact.

  ‘You’ll feel better soon,’ she said. ‘You might not think so, but you will, believe me. Your husband called five minutes ago. I told him to go away.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Helen. ‘Thanks very much.’

  For all small mercies. The one portion of brain which would appreciate her hand being held and her blankets tucked was absurdly disappointed, the rest enormously relieved, sinking, eyes closing, still smiling. ‘Thank you.’ For nothing. Push off, whoever you are. Leave me alone.

  Comforting darkness after they left. Nestling into it, descending slowly again into the mattress of that bed, all of her a strange feeling shape, tiny and large in silly proportions and nothing to do with real life. The buzz of distant traffic a comfort to the ear, warm in here, deliciously warm, almost comfortable as long as she did not move, and a smell, tugging at distaste. Something there was, scrabbling for entry, while somewhere, shortly after this descent, there was a dim memory of a kiss on her hair, soft steps, someone going away. I happen to love you, darling. Very much. You do look small.

  Geoffrey Bailey, Detective Chief Superintendent, squeaked back down the polished corridor in what his sergeant called his brothel-creeping shoes, away from Helen’s room, his heart thumping lightly. Of course she would survive; women were tough, but they looked so vulnerable when asleep he always wondered if they would wake or shrink away. All right, said the Sister, not proof against his second attempt to visit. But only for a minute, mind, and don’t wake her, she won’t like that. I have to go in, you see, he had said humbly. Seeing her unconscious brings such memories my sleep will disappear if I don’t, and I must work tomorrow. His long frame was bent charmingly, recognisably a copper for all his distinction, something of the watcher evident in the eyes and the lines, the accent perhaps, but not in the cut of the suit. Oh go on then, but mind you behave.

  What exactly did Sister think he might do? Scream? Weep? Create a scene? But then strange things happened in hospitals, even private hospitals like this, an abnormal situation for the likes of Helen and him, except for the prudence of her almost forgotten insurance policy. The shiny efficiency of the place sniffed of privilege without any adornment and for once, Bailey approved. The sick should be fêted, although in his experience they rarely were, while all his own waiting behind screens for persons recovering from gunshot wounds, stab wounds, accidents or simply hiding, had rarely been in places like this. There was nothing here of the abattoir smell of the ordinary Casualty. A passing nurse caught his eye, smiled as he smiled back. He would have preferred sleep in the chair by Helen’s bed: discomfort was second nature.

  Out in the street, the cold struck like a cannonshot to the chest. His car, indifferently parked, felt icy to the touch. Going home alone, he mused on the business of being referred to as Helen’s husband and wondered how long it would be before she corrected that glib supposition. Wished, at the same time, that his borrowed status was real.

  The precious sleep was short-lived. Helen surfaced like a diver from muddy water granted only a confused glimpse of light. Thrashing through a dream of being in a chemist’s shop where music played while she searched for painkillers, finding nothing on the overcrowded shelves but cosmetics, hairbrushes, stockings, gift-wrapped powders. Moving to one side, the pain increased sharply and she was horribly aware of where she was. Four a.m., winter darkness seen through flimsy curtains, a face by the bed, her nostrils filled with the antiseptic hospital smell, but this time, a scent lightly flavoured with a different kind of alcohol and a whiff of nicotine which made her eyes open wide. Not a face poised to mouth clichés, but an old, disreputable face, quite differen
t from the surgeon who looked as if he washed on the hour and shaved three times a day.

  ‘God, you look awful, woman. If looks could kill, I’d be dead.’ The face moved round the other side of the bed and examined the drip. ‘I put you to sleep,’ he went on. ‘Like a baby. You wake up without any trace of nausea and then look at me as if I were a gibbon. Gratitude. This is your bloody anaesthetist, if you don’t remember. Do you hurt?’

  The head by the bed was grizzled and wrinkled, grey hair sticking out on end and large eyebrows arched in a permanent question.

  ‘Well … A bit …’

  ‘Don’t sound so bloody apologetic; so you bloody should. Only surgeons say otherwise. Operations hurt, also dangerous to health, they don’t seem to mention that either. Thank your God you’re alive, but never mind. One more injection in a minute, but the longer we leave it, the longer it lasts. Hurt? That you should be so lucky. Want a cigarette?’ There was a clipped Irish in the voice; platitudes were clearly anathema.

  ‘Oh, please.’ Despite herself and the ache, Helen grinned, full of that sense of the ridiculous which was never far from the surface. How idiotic to be thus, hung over, half alive and wanting nothing more than the cigarette proffered by a doctor, of all people. He read her mind and sighed.

  ‘The very height and depth of foolishness, like all addiction. Plus life in general. Sister’ll skin me; we’ll open the window after. Here.’ He passed her one lit cigarette. Helen knew why they used to be called gaspers. The right hand which took it felt spongy: the taste delicious.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Unwell. Disgustingly disembowelled. Lower end of me resembles an Easter egg wearing a goatee beard.’

  He chuckled softly. ‘I like that, now. Poetic description of postlaporotomy surgery as endured by the patient. Not a suicidal patient at the moment. I hope?’

  ‘Earlier, yes, but not now. Her friends would shoot her if she so much as thought of it.’ She gestured vaguely with the cigarette.