He picked up the almost empty champagne bottle from where it stood abandoned in its melted ice and drained what was left in it, then he collected his things and left the expensive suite, the scene of his humiliation, and stalked downstairs.
By the time Roger reached Cardiff Road his anger had subsided somewhat. He pulled into the drive and as he did so he noticed that the landing light was on.
Chapter 11
Arabella climbed the familiar stairs and pausing on the landing, looked up at the ceiling. The entrance to the loft was a trap door with a built-in ladder which could be lowered with a rod. The rod was in the cupboard in her old bedroom. Arabella hadn’t intended to go in there, but needing the rod, she had no choice. She switched on the light and saw that the room was in much the same state as the kitchen, with the bed un-made and dirty clothes heaped on to a chair and in piles on the floor.
He must almost be out of clean clothes, Arabella thought. The mirror she had broken had not been replaced and the wooden door of the wardrobe hung half open, a piece of plywood where the glass had been. With distaste she went over and retrieved the rod from its place and hurried back onto the landing.
She lowered the ladder and scrambled up into the gloom of the loft above. Again she switched on the light, but it was a feeble, forty watt bulb which offered very little light in the recesses of the roof space. Only a small portion of the floor was boarded and Arabella had to clamber carefully across the rafters to reach the tank at the far end. There was almost no light here, but she knew roughly where she had stashed the oval jewel case containing the pearls. She felt about on the beams behind the tank, her fingers reaching into hidden corners that she could not even see. Then, at last, they felt the case and gripping the edge of it with the tips of her fingers, she pulled it clear. Carefully she balanced her way back across the rafters, bent double in places where the roof sloped steeply, and reached the open trap door. She was just lowering herself on to the ladder when she heard the front door slam. Her heart missed a beat and she froze, gripping the ladder to stop herself falling.
Roger’s voice. “Hallo? Karen is that you?” The sound of him dropping his brief case on the hall floor. “Karen? What are you doing upstairs?”
Arabella slid down the ladder and landed with an awkward thud on the landing, and when she had steadied herself she turned to see Roger standing at the top of the stairs.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, taking a menacing step towards her. Pam stepped behind the ladder putting it between herself and her irate husband. The long-established fear of him took hold of her and her voice came out as a croak.
“Just collecting something of mine.” She tried again. “I left something in the loft,” she said with more firmness.
“Oh?” Roger took another step nearer. “And what was that, may I ask?” His words were slightly slurred and she realised that he had been drinking.
“You may ask,” Pam replied, a flash of Arabella in her reply.
Roger glowered at her flip reply. “Well?” and seeing his fists clench, Pam flinched away.
“I came to fetch my grandmother’s pearls,” she told him. “I’d left them in the loft. Don’t worry, I shan’t take anything else, I want nothing to remind me of you.” She spoke with more bravado than she felt. She knew the danger signs of old.
She edged round the ladder, keeping it between her and Roger, but he moved with speed and reaching between the rungs, grabbed her wrist, his fingers biting into her flesh. Pam screamed and tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong, and he slammed her arm down hard on one of the metal rungs. She still held the leather jewel case in her other hand and she kept it well clear, though she cried out in pain as he smashed her wrist against the ladder.
“You took my money, you thieving bitch,” Roger roared at her.
“No!” Arabella broke through, leaving Pam behind. “You took mine. All the money from Mum’s house. Where’s that, Roger?” Suddenly without warning, Arabella bent her head and sank her teeth into his hand. With a cry of pain Roger let go, snatching his hand away as the shape of her teeth started in crimson on his pale skin. Arabella, released, made a dart for the stairs, but Roger stuck his foot out and tripped her so that she fell, hard, against the newel post, smashing her face on its shaped corner. Blood spurted from her nose and her vision exploded in a burst of stars, but though her head was spinning she struggled to her feet, still clutching her grandmother’s pearls. Roger was upon her again, grabbing at her, trying to prevent her escape. Arabella kicked out at him, aiming her flailing feet at his groin, but he avoided them and grasped her round her chest, spun her round against him, holding her in a bear hug. Fighting him every inch of the way, Arabella used his body behind her as a fulcrum and flung her head backwards, crashing her skull into his face. Once again his grip eased and Arabella struggled to pull free. Twisting and turning she could feel his hold tightening again and with one almighty effort she threw herself sideways, and then suddenly there was no floor. She was falling, tumbling, thudding on every stair until she landed on the hall floor in a heap. Roger, his feet whipped from under him by Arabella’s legs as she fell, bounced and bumped on every stair behind her, hitting his head on the newel post at the bottom and collapsing into a crumpled heap on the floor beside her.
Arabella lay still for a moment, unable to move. Blood continued to flow from her nose, and already one eye was swelling in an alarming fashion. Her head was pounding, but as she carefully, wincingly, tried out her arms and legs she found that she could move each individually. With a supreme effort she managed to co-ordinate her recalcitrant limbs enough to sit up. Roger was lying beside her, very still. She crawled away from him, putting as much distance between them as she could. She pushed open the kitchen door and crawled through. Grabbing the first thing she could see, which turned out to be one of Roger’s dirty shirts from the laundry basket, she held it to her nose in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. It didn’t stop.
Fear flooded through her again. I must get out of here, Pam thought frantically. Suppose he comes round again!
Then another thought hit her. Suppose he wasn’t going to come round? Suppose he’d broken his neck when he fell. Suppose he was dead.
Still holding the shirt to her nose she struggled to her feet and peered out into the hall. Roger still lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs. Beside him, open from its crashing fall with the pearls spilling out of it, lay the oval jewel case. Pam stared at it for a moment and then she inched her way across the floor. Reaching down, she snatched up the case and the necklace, but the sudden movement made her feel woozy, and she had to grab hold of the banister to save herself from keeling over. Drawing deep breaths she stood for a moment waiting to regain her balance, then she looked down at Roger. He was still not moving, but he was breathing. Definitely he was breathing, Pam could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. Once more she edged away from him, terrified he would make a sudden grab for her legs. Her right eye was virtually closed now, and though her nose seemed to be bleeding less freely, she could taste the blood running down the back of her throat and she felt decidedly sick.
I must get away, Pam thought. I must get away before he wakes up. She looked down at him again and even as she did so he groaned. That groan galvanised her into action. Zipping the necklace into the pocket of her fleece, she made for the front door. As she passed the hall table she saw Roger’s car keys, lying where he had dropped them when he’d come in. Catching them up, she opened the front door and slipped out into the cool of the night, closing the door softly but firmly behind her. The cool air made her eye ache, but eased the throbbing in her head. The car was standing in the drive; she unlocked it and slid into the driver’s seat. Moments later she was driving along the road and heading for the motorway.
Pam knew she shouldn’t be driving. She was in no fit state, but, all she could think of was to put as much distance between her and the no doubt furious Roger as she could. She headed throu
gh the town, anxious to get as far away from Cardiff Road as possible. The late evening traffic was light, and it wasn’t long before she was on the motorway and heading for the safety of Belcaster. Careful not to exceed the speed limit she drove steadily. If the police stopped her now, all battered and covered in blood there would be too many questions asked, questions to which she did not want to supply the answers. She pulled into a service area and in a dark corner of the huge car park and looked at herself in the mirror. Her right eye was puffy with a deepening bruise, and there was dried blood about her mouth and on her cheeks from her nose bleed. This had stopped at last and she did what she could to clean herself up, spitting on the edge of Roger’s old shirt and scrubbing at the dried blood. Dumping the shirt into the foot-well she turned her attention to her clothes. There was blood on her fleece, so she took that off and having put the pearls, into pocket of her jeans, she tossed the fleece onto the back seat. Her wrist was bruised and swollen from where Roger had crashed her arm against the metal ladder and her watch had become uncomfortably tight, so she took that off and dropped it on the passenger seat. Feeling she had done all she could for now to make herself more presentable, and slightly more comfortable, Pam started the car and pulled out onto the motorway. She forced herself to concentrate, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head and her minimal vision in one eye. To some extent she succeeded and as she drove sedately in the slow lane, she relaxed a little and began to consider what to do next. Once Roger came round and found she had hi-jacked his car he would be furious. The fear that had clutched her heart when she had seen Roger at the top of the stairs, retreated as the miles that separated them grew, and she was left with the same icy hatred she had felt the night she had left home. She hated him, and that hatred had grown over the weeks she had been with Sylvia, refining itself as, with bitterness, she came to realise exactly what he had made her. Sylvia had asked her once if she wanted revenge, and she hadn’t thought she did, but now, after tonight’s attack, any revenge would do…however small. Even the simple inconvenience of losing his car. She had taken the car purely as a means of escape, with no thought other than to get away from Cardiff Road as quickly as she could; now she considered what she might do with it.
Would Roger go to the police? she wondered. Would he tell them his wife had run off with his car? No, his pride wouldn’t allow that. He would, she decided, report the car stolen, but not admit that he knew it was his wife who had taken it. So, they would be looking out for it, but as Roger had been knocked unconscious, probably not yet.
And anyway, she thought, so many cars are stolen these days it is usually pure chance if they are spotted.
Still, she couldn’t keep it herself so she’d have to dump it somewhere. Where then? Should she simply leave the car parked somewhere public where it would soon be found and returned to its rightful owner? It must be a place from where she could get home easily enough, without giving any direct clue as to where she was living. Belcaster station car park, or the multi-story at the Crosshills shopping centre? Possibly, but she might be caught on CCTV or something as she left it. Too risky, so no, neither of those. Where else? Then she remembered the quarry.
On one of their jaunts into the country, Sylvia had taken Pam to a beauty spot called Spar Hill Lookout. It was a good ten miles from Stone Winton by road but less than five on footpaths across the fields. They had parked in the car park by a worked-out quarry, and walked up the hill. The disused quarry itself was flooded but the footpath they had followed ran up one side of it and round the top, before carrying on up the hill to the Lookout. The edge of the quarry was fenced for safety, for in places there was as steep drop to the water below. The Lookout certainly had a stunning view, the Belshire countryside laid out in sharp relief under the spring sunshine, its fields a patchwork of early green and rich brown interspersed with an occasional copse and the grey thread of a road. From there Sylvia had pointed out the roofs and church towers of five different villages tucked into the folds of meadow and hill, one of them their own Stone Winton.
From the Lookout a narrow path branched left, descending steeply down the hillside before winding off across the fields.
“That footpath runs all the way back to Stone Winton,” she said, pointing to it. “It’s a lovely walk, about five miles and none of it on the road. We’ll do it another day, you’d enjoy it.”
Pam hadn’t been at all sure she would; walking wasn’t her thing and she was relieved when Sylvia went on, “but we’ll take this one today, it goes back down to the car.”
Remembering the remoteness of the car park, Pam looked up Spar Hill in Roger’s road atlas, and decided to head for the quarry. It was remote enough for her purposes, but if she could find the path that led back to Stone Winton, it would be quite possible for her to get home safely without being seen and with luck it could be sometime before an abandoned car would reported. Anyone seeing it in the car park would assume that the owner was walking the footpath. Eventually of course someone would notice that the car had been there for several days, but there would be nothing to link it with any particular place in the area.
It took Pam quite a while to find the right lane leading off to the quarry, but when she finally reached the car park it was much as she’d remembered it. Her headlights picked out the little parking place, and beyond it an area of gorse and scrubby bushes which had grown up over the years at the quarry’s mouth.
Better than the actual car park, Pam thought with bitter pleasure, the car might not be found for ages hidden in that thick stuff.
She nosed the car through the outer bushes. The gorse scratched along the sides, but Pam drove on through the undergrowth, until it closed behind her, hiding the car from casual view. It was then that the car hit something, there was a loud clunk and it slumped forward into a dip. Pam switched off the engine. The headlamps died with the ignition and darkness and silence surrounded the car, broken only by the quiet tick of the cooling engine. She sat for a long moment resting her forehead against the steering wheel, as exhaustion hit her. It still felt as if there was a man with a jack hammer working inside her head, and she had the foul taste of stale blood in her mouth.
Move! she told herself. You’ve got to get back to Stone Winton before people are up and about. She shivered. It was cold now, but she didn’t want to be seen in the blood-stained fleece. There was an old sweater of Roger’s on the parcel shelf and reluctantly she pulled it on over her sweatshirt. It was then that she realised for the first time that she had not got her handbag with her. Her heart missed a beat as she realised she must have left it on the landing. She’d put it down while she went up into the loft and hadn’t picked it up again. When Roger appeared she hadn’t given it a second thought. Now she racked her brain, trying to remember if there was anything in the bag that might lead Roger to her. She had emptied most things out of it before she left. There was her purse, of course, but that only had enough money in it for her journey and her debit card, which she wasn’t using anyway. No diary, no keys, just some of her new makeup and a handkerchief. No, as far as she could remember there was nothing of importance. She could forget the bag, after all it wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford another.
Suddenly another, chilling thought struck her. Her return ticket. Where had she put that? Was that in her bag? If Roger found that, he might be able to trace her. No, not in her bag; surely she’d put it in the inside pocket of her fleece. Grabbing the bloodied fleece from the back seat, she felt in the pocket, the wave of relief dizzying when she found her ticket to Belcaster safely zipped inside. She took it out an stuffed it into her jeans’ pocket.
She found the torch that lived in the glove compartment, and sunglasses in the door shelf, then she forced the driver’s door open and scrambled out into the eerie darkness.
The gorse was thick and spiky, clutching at her hair and scratching her hands and face as she pushed her way through, back towards the car park. It was still pitch dark round her, and the wind sighing through th
e bushes sounded like somebody breathing. Even with the torch to guide her she found that branches and twigs touched her unexpectedly, making her catch her breath with fear. It was with great relief that she finally emerged from the undergrowth and reached the car park. It was lighter here, the pearl of dawn colouring the sky, and with aid of the torch she found the path up the hill easily enough. When she was half way up, she leaned over the restraining fence and tossed Roger’s car keys into the flooded quarry below, listening for the splash before going on. From there it was a steady climb, but the beam picked out the way and at last she reached the Lookout. The eastern sky was streaked with light now, and the countryside below her was emerging from its blanket of darkness, monochrome turning to colour.
Wondering what the time actually was, Pam glanced at her watch and then remembered with a jolt that she had taken it off her swollen wrist; it was still in the car.
Well, I’m not going all the way back for it now, she thought, and hastily checked the pearls were still in her pocket, breathing a sigh of relief when she found they were safe.
Using the seat on which she and Sylvia had rested, Pam orientated herself and found the path that led down the hill in the direction of Stone Winton.
I must be mad, she thought as she struggled down the steep track, slithering on the dewy grass. But even as she thought it, she was pleased she had dumped the car where she had. It was worth all the effort to make life difficult for Roger. It might not be found for weeks, and that would cause him a great deal of trouble. Pam smiled with grim satisfaction in the darkness, and Arabella, her metamorphosis complete, set off in the growing daylight across the fields on the five mile walk to Stone Winton.
A Dish Served Cold Page 9
