Stick or Twist

by Diane Janes

  Hang on, though, don’t be a moron. Once you reach the car, you can drive somewhere until you find a signal. That was it. He’d be OK once he reached the car. Jude would never know that he’d been anywhere, because she couldn’t see or hear the car from the cottage – not even from the upstairs windows. Better still, he could fake up an excuse for going back to the car which had nothing to do with using his phone. He could tell her that he’d forgotten something. What? What would be in the car? Road map. That’s it. He could say that he needed to look at the map because he was planning to take her somewhere special next day, and without an internet signal, he couldn’t check the route online. Where? Where was there in Cornwall to go? Land’s End. That’s it. I wanted to stand at Land’s End and look out across the ocean with you, because … because that’s how wide our love is. Bugger – was that a spot of rain?

  He glanced down at the phone in his hand again, and saw the bars in the top left-hand corner blossoming upward, like the answer to a prayer. He stopped and attempted to gather both thoughts and breath, while he waited for the phone to connect him to Chaz. It rang at least half a dozen times before Chaz’s familiar voice came on the line, the clarity of it surreal somehow, as if Chaz was standing just behind the nearby hedge, spying on him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. It’s Mark Medlicott.’

  ‘I know who it is. What do you want?’ Chaz’s impatience betrayed the fact that the call had come at an inconvenient time.

  ‘I need a couple more days—’

  ‘No chance.’ Chaz cut him off mid-sentence. ‘Time’s up. Where are you? It sounds like a fucking wind tunnel.’

  ‘I’m in Cornwall. On honeymoon. Jude and I got married this morning, which is why I need a couple more days. Until I can get back up to London. After that I can pay the first instalment no problemo.’

  ‘I told you. Time’s up. I’ve got a contact in Cornwall. Where are you?’

  ‘Sorry. You’re breaking up.’

  ‘Don’t try that one with me, you—’

  Mark pressed the button which ended the call. He stood looking at the phone for a few seconds, then quickly turned it off, just in case Chaz pressed the recall button. At that moment the isolated spots of rain turned into a sharp shower. Mark swore under his breath and began to retrace his steps towards the cottage, but he had only gone a matter of yards before he could feel that the back of his shirt was already drenched and adhering to his back. This sodding rain would ensure that he was soaked through by the time he got back and that meant Jude would know that he’d been out to make his phone call. The road map – that was it – his excuse for going out to the car. He turned and headed for the lane again, which meant that the rain was pelting in his face.

  In his enthusiasm to gain the shelter of the car, he broke into a run. It only took him a couple of minutes to reach the parking space, but he was out of condition and snorting like an old cart horse before he had gone more than fifty yards. He kept his head down for most of the way, watching out for his footing on the uneven ground and trying to keep the water out of his eyes, and it was not until he had almost reached the edge of the field that he slowed and felt for the key fob in the pocket of his jeans. It wasn’t there.

  He stopped in his tracks, scarcely aware now of the uncomfortable sensation of icy raindrops meeting bodily heat, overwhelmed instead by a wave of confusion, shock and something he did not want to acknowledge as closely akin to fear, because in the same moment that he discovered the loss of his car key, he had also seen that his black BMW was no longer standing in the centre of the double parking bay, where he had last seen it when making a second trip to unload luggage. Since then, someone had repositioned the car to one side of the gravelled area, leaving room for a second vehicle.

  What the hell was going on here? He turned back along the path, his mind in turmoil. The car was not where he had left it. How could that have happened? Was he going out of his mind? Well of course not. She must have moved it.

  He had hoped to get his phone call made without her knowing about it, but now that he was soaked through, there wasn’t much chance of that. Nor did he know what to say to her about the car. He was reluctant to confront it head on, because there was a definite risk that he might lose his temper with her and it was important to avoid a row. He was still in a quandary when he got back to the cottage, letting himself in via the kitchen door, and finding the room was empty. She was probably still upstairs, putting her things away.

  Jude entered the kitchen a couple of minutes later, just as Mark was towelling his hair dry with a clean tea towel, which he’d found in a drawer. He had abandoned his wet shoes on the mat, but his operations with the tea towel were cascading droplets of water across a wide radius.

  ‘What on earth – have you been swimming or something?’

  ‘No. I went to get something from the car, but I couldn’t get into it, because my car key has gone from my pocket.’

  Was that the briefest flash of alarm in her eyes? He was giving her a chance to explain, but the fleeting expression of anxiety seemed to confirm that he had something to worry about. He noticed that instead of explaining the absence of his car key, she countered with a question.

  ‘What did you want from the car?’

  She was trying to divert him, but he wasn’t having any of it. ‘Never mind that. Where’s my car key? And why have you moved the car?’

  ‘There’s no need to shout.’

  As they faced one another across the kitchen, he sensed that for once she had nothing at the ready. When she spoke again, it sounded lame.

  ‘You know I said that we liked to leave space for another car … I mean, suppose we needed an ambulance or something—’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped. ‘You took the key out of my pocket when we were making out, then you sneaked down to the lane and moved the car without telling me. Which not only takes some doing, but is a pretty funny way to carry on. I didn’t even hear you go out. You’re expecting someone.’ He jabbed an accusatory finger at her. ‘Who’s coming? It’s not Rob, is it? And where is my key?’ He cast around the room as he spoke, but the missing key was nowhere in sight. The feeling of alarm which had gripped him on first observing that the car had been moved, returned like a cruel hand, twisting his guts. The situation was too weird. Jude’s initial insistence that they needed to leave room for another car had been distinctly off-beam, but her behaviour in moving the car without telling him was seriously worrying. A variety of factors, including the unknown distance between himself and the nearest other human habitation flooded into his mind, muddying his thought processes.

  ‘Don’t let’s make a big thing of this. Get your wet things off and I’ll pour us another drink. There’s plenty more champagne. Or – I know – why don’t I make some really good martinis?’

  His mind was racing, but he tried to steady himself. Two possibilities, he thought. Either she’s a complete, bunny boiling nutter, or there’s something much more sinister going on that I haven’t got a handle on at all. In the same instant that she was speaking, he recognized her persuasive tone for the one she had always used when she needed to divert him, manipulate him. He had never really picked up on it before, but this was the second time she’d tried it in the space of a couple of hours. Again that sense that there was something very wrong with all of this. His instinct was to get the hell out of it, but of course that was ridiculous and anyway, not an option until he could access his car.

  ‘Where is my car key?’ he asked again.

  ‘What on earth do you want your car key for? It’s pouring with rain out there. Tell you what, let’s go upstairs together and I’ll help you out of those clothes.’

  The seductive note in her voice only served to set off more alarm bells. ‘Get away from me.’ He spoke so sharply that she instantly withdrew the arms she had reached out in his direction.

  ‘Mark, please. What’s wrong? We’re on our honeymoon.’

  That pulled him u
p short as the implications flooded through his mind. The need to keep her onside. Chaz with his blasted contacts in every corner of the UK. It was all going wrong. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what to do next. He was standing in damp socks, on a chilly slate floor, his clothes soaking wet, trying to dry himself with a ruddy tea towel of all things. For a second, he was afraid that he might give way to tears.

  As he hesitated she began to speak again. ‘I’m sorry I moved the car. I didn’t think it would upset you. You know I’m a bit OCD about stuff sometimes.’

  ‘So where’s the key?’ He took his cue from her, softening his tone, affecting to be apologetic.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said airily, making a big show of patting herself down. ‘I must have put it down somewhere upstairs. It’ll turn up. I’ll come upstairs and look for it, while you change out of those wet things.’

  ‘I hope you haven’t lost it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t brought the spare down with me.’ He knew that his acting skills weren’t up to much. She wasn’t convinced. She knew that he knew that the key was not lost. She knew perfectly well where she had put it, but was unwilling to tell him for some reason.

  ‘It can’t be lost. The key’s just mislaid somewhere in the house. We’ll probably find it somewhere really obvious in the morning. I don’t want to waste ages looking for it now.’

  ‘It won’t take ages, will it?’ His words came out far too loudly, the way fake jollity always did. ‘Not if it’s somewhere obvious.’

  He headed upstairs to the master bedroom, where he divested himself of his shirt, dragging it over his head when he’d undone half the buttons, then peeling the cold, wet denims from his legs. She had followed him upstairs and was making a big show of hunting for the missing key.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ she began. ‘I shouldn’t have moved the car. I know it was stupid. And now I’ve gone and mislaid the key.’

  The word ‘mislaid’ jarred. It sounded to Mark like a lift from a script – an expression she wouldn’t normally use in ordinary conversation. At that moment she turned to face him, holding out her arms, and he could see why she had been easy to fall for. She had such a kissable mouth, and he might have been tempted to forget all about the moved car and missing key, to ignore that sense of impending danger which continued to nag at him, but was surely based on nothing more than a spell of nerves after talking to Chaz, but then the remembrance of Chaz brought him up short. There had been a reason for all those hours spent wooing her, making love to her, and the time was fast approaching when he had to start making it pay. The fact that she appeared to be genuinely contrite about the stunt with his car, coupled with Chaz’s absolute refusal to countenance any further delay made it time to act.

  ‘I’m sorry too.’ He advanced to meet her invitation, enfolded her in his arms and held her close. He could feel her breath on his left shoulder. ‘The truth is that I’m a bit uptight.’ He spoke softly, his breath coming back at him, out of her hair. ‘That call I had to make. I’ve had a terrible run of bad luck and I desperately need some ready cash …’ He paused, aware that the rhythm of her breathing had changed.

  There was a silence, during which he slid his right hand upwards and began to gently caress her neck with his fingertips. He noticed that contrary to his usual experience, she neither moaned, nor relaxed at his touch.

  After what seemed like a long time, she said, ‘Are you asking me for money?’

  ‘Only temporarily. I’m ashamed – really embarrassed – we’ve only been married a matter of hours …’

  ‘Can’t you ask your own family?’

  Her query threw him off balance. He couldn’t decide whether it would be better to move towards an increasingly intimate situation or not. He was already undressed. Was it more or less sleazy if he pressed his financial claims while they were in bed together? Would bringing her to the state of frantic desire which he had so often achieved in the past make her more easily persuadable?

  ‘But you’re my wife. My very closest family.’ He took her chin between his finger and thumb, intending to tilt her face to a better angle for another kiss. In moving her head, he caught a glimpse of them both in the long mirror, every inch the honeymooners, heading for an early bed, but the vision was abruptly altered when she pulled away.

  ‘You never mentioned before that you had money troubles.’

  ‘It’s only a short-term problem.’

  ‘How much of a problem?’

  ‘Jude …’ He attempted to kiss her but she took another step back, putting several feet between them.

  ‘How much of a problem?’

  ‘I only need a few thou to see my way clear.’

  ‘I’m not in a position to lend you any money.’

  He dropped his hands to his sides and stared at her. He had been expecting some sort of resistance, but something in the way she spoke suggested that she meant what she said. It was not that she needed persuading, because she was reluctant. It was because she genuinely couldn’t give him the money. But that surely wasn’t right?

  He tried again. ‘Is it Robin? Does he have a controlling interest in things?’

  To his surprise and alarm, she laughed out loud.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Peter had offered to drive to the hospital as a matter of course. He reckoned that a single G and T would not have put him over the limit, and even if it had, so long as he didn’t do anything stupid, he was unlikely to be breathalysed if he flashed his warrant card and explained that he was taking a colleague to the hospital, to visit a relative in a critical condition.

  Hannah told him not to wait for her, but accepted gratefully when he said that of course he would, telling her to take as long as she needed – all night if necessary. He watched her disappear towards the main entrance, then sat in the car, on the hospital pay and display, watching other people come and go, while trying to divorce his mind from what Hannah and her family would be going through inside. It was a private, family time into which he had no intention of intruding. ‘A matter of hours,’ the consultant had said.

  Hannah’s sister was the reason they had come together in the first place and her dying would make a difference. Or would it? He and Hannah fitted comfortably together. Physically and generally. He had grown to like Hannah as a person, rather than as a colleague. The private Hannah was far more sensitive, intuitive and gentler, than the workplace Hannah. He might – given time – grow to love her. Maybe that was how these things happened. Or not. Hannah was an unknown quantity. They had never talked about what was happening between them, except to reach a vague understanding that he would stick around and be supportive in the short term. Was that all she wanted of him? A comfort blanket to tide her over a difficult time?

  For all that he had got to know her better, he had no idea what was going on in her head. The job forced you to cultivate a public face. In the course of his service, he had learned to suppress any visible sign of all kinds of emotions, including horror, disgust, surprise and even mere curiosity. Whatever your head was saying, you could not afford to let your face give you away. So yes – she had let down her guard and cried on his shoulder, but she had given away very little apart from that.

  How long did it take to get over the death of a beloved sister? Forever, if the relatives of murder victims, hit-and-runs, fatal accidents were to be believed. But Hannah was not banking on him sticking around forever. She had even encouraged him to accept Ginny’s offer and join the band. That didn’t exactly sound as though her heart would be broken when the time came to say goodbye.

  For all that they got along, perhaps they didn’t have that much in common? He had his music and vaguely supported Arsenal, whereas Hannah liked watching Ipswich Town and occasionally played netball with some sporty friends. Netball! He remembered when glimpses of the Year Eleven girls playing netball in those short skirts had provided the highlight of a school day. Come to think of it, a glimpse of Hannah’s long legs, and her skirt flying up as she jumped to
catch the ball … steady boy. Don’t want to turn into a dirty old man before you’re thirty. He put Hannah, netball and women in general out of his mind, watching as an elderly woman coped with a wheelchair-bound man, a few vehicles away from him. He thought of going over to help, but he knew that people did not always welcome an offer of assistance from a stranger.

  The sky had grown darker and a few isolated spots of rain appeared on the windscreen. It had not been the best of summers and looked as if it might turn out to be a wet autumn. Peter turned his mind back to the conversation they had been having before Hannah received the summons to the hospital. With the arrival of the call from her brother-in-law, they had abandoned the topic of the Thackeray kidnap, focussing instead on the practical issue of reaching the hospital as soon as possible, and accomplishing most of the drive in silence. It had been hard to know what to say. Platitudes about everything being all right were inappropriate. As he continued to observe the steady trickle of patients and visitors returning to their cars – the more able-bodied quickening their steps at the impending threat of a shower, the aged or infirm making much slower progress, turned in on themselves, their need to focus completely on the operation of moving from A to B all absorbing – he found himself wondering where Jude Thackeray and her brother were at that precise moment.

  He had never particularly liked the brother. Not that likes or dislikes meant anything very much. You couldn’t like everybody and Ling had always tutored them to accept that gut feeling and instinct were double-edged swords. A copper persuading himself that someone was a wrong ’un had led to many an unsafe conviction, and the point about an unsafe conviction was not only that an innocent person got locked up, but what was worse in the long run, a guilty one went free. ‘Never mind, “I think”, or “I suspect”, get me some hard evidence,’ Ling always said. ‘“I think” is no bloody use at all.’