A Fatal Verdict (30 page)

‘In the bathroom cabinet. Help yourself.’

Shit. ‘Okay. I’ll, um ... then I’ll have breakfast.’

He grabbed her right shoulder, pushed his face into hers. In his hand was a knife, she saw - table knife with butter on it, no harm there. ‘Wash yourself. That’s what girls do in the mornings. Or weren’t you brought up right?’

‘All right.’ If you can’t escape, humour them, she remembered from some self-defence course at journalism school. Defiance just provokes more aggression. She found a towel, and crossed the living room like a girl walking to her death. He was still in the kitchen. She entered the bathroom and bolted the door behind her. Now what? There in front of her was the bath that Shelley had died in. All clean and white with little fish and seaweed on the tiles and blind.

Her head throbbed, a tide of nausea rose in her throat. She fell to her knees in front of the loo, and retched. Her head felt like it would split apart. As she crouched waiting for the second wave which she could feel building inside her, she remembered how her mother used to hold a cool flannel across her forehead at such times, and wait quietly until the fit passed. Such a small thing to do, such a world of comfort. She vomited again. The door rattled behind her.

‘Are you okay in there?’

She struggled to her feet and flushed the bowl. ‘Yeah, I’m okay. I’ve been sick.’

‘Open the door if you need help.’

‘No, don’t come in, please. Make the breakfast. I’ll be better soon.’

To her relief he went away. She opened the cabinet above the washbasin, found some paracetamol, pressed two capsules out of the foil, and washed them down with water from the tap. Then she stared into the mirror on the back of the cabinet doors.

The face that looked out at her was pale and terrified. Her freckles stood out on the white skin, her eyes were huge and dark and smudged with mascara. She was puzzled to see her hair so short and spiky and blonde, then remembered how she had restyled it to deceive the monster outside. The mirror reflected her fear back at her, making it worse. Trying to encourage herself, she wrenched her features into the shape of a smile. Not much of a smile, it looked pretty awful, but better than the panic stricken rabbit face before.

She splashed water on her face until a trace of colour came into her cheeks. You can do this, kid, she told herself, you can get out of this alive; you must for Shelley and Mum. You’ve proved what a monster he is, get out now and you can do something later, get your revenge.

With trembling hands she undid the bolt and stepped into the living room. On the table by the window he had laid two places with orange juice, boiled eggs, toast and coffee.

‘Wash yourself properly?’

‘Yes. I found the paracetemol. That looks great.’ She picked up her jeans from the floor and put them on. He sat in the blue silk dressing gown, watching her curiously.

‘Been sick, have you? Probably drank too much last night.’

No, that’s not it, Miranda thought. Her mind was still fuddled but things were becoming clearer. She slumped into the chair opposite him and sipped the orange juice cautiously. He gave me those pills and raped me, she thought. I can’t remember anything but he says I liked it. Is he mad, or does he really believe that?

‘Have an egg. They’re free range.’

He murders my sister and cooks me breakfast. This is so strange. She pulled the egg towards her and tried to crack its top with a spoon held in wobbly fingers. Those white pills - has he found them? She darted a guilty glance at the leather jacket on the sofa, then dipped her spoon in the yolk.

‘This is good.’

‘I like to treat my girls well. Encourages them to come back.’ He smiled across the table at her, a parody of charm. ‘Will you show me the article, when you’ve written it?’

‘What article?’ She gazed at him, bemused. What new madness is this?

‘Your travel article, about the safaris. I’d like to see what you write.’

‘Oh yes, that.’ She remembered now, he thought she was a journalist. Does he think I don’t know what he’s done? ‘I don’t know, I ...’

‘Bring it and show me. Why not? We could do this again.’ He leaned forward and squeezed her knee. ‘I could take you for a drive, show you a bit of the country before you go back to the States. Ever sat in a Lotus, honey? If not, you haven’t lived.’

38. Morning After

Waking suddenly in the hotel, Sarah moved swiftly to the bathroom. She’d got rid of most things last night but her stomach wasn’t convinced. She retched dryly and then as she got to her feet a vice tightened around both sides of her skull at once and she groaned. She poured a glass of water, averting her eyes in disgust from the cruel huge mirror in the hotel bathroom, and stumbled back to bed.

So this is it, she thought, this is how it all ends. Seventeen years of marriage and study and struggle all wasted, for a fuck in a hotel bedroom that didn’t even happen, oh my God what did happen though? He saw me puking in the loo, I’ll never live this down, never!

She fumbled in her bag for Nurofen and gulped down three, you shouldn’t do that but then you shouldn’t get pissed either and offer yourself to random men just because your husband’s behaved like a total shit and ruined everything you ever had; but he can’t do that, can he? He can’t because I won’t let him. This was supposed to be my way of teaching him a lesson and having a little fun but the only one who’s learning a lesson here is me. The lesson is don’t do this you’re too old and ugly and can’t hold your drink. God that man must be laughing at me now and Savvy too and all his guests - how will I ever dare step out of this room?

And as for fun ... Sarah lay very still with one arm across her eyes while the throbbing in her head subsided by infinitesimal amounts which suggested she would be well and healthy again by the time the sun had swallowed up the solar system and disappeared down a black wormhole in space.

Aeons later, she woke with a dry mouth and the faint memory of a headache. Cautiously, she sat up and looked around. Her ball gown was strewn across a sofa, her kitten heels lay broken on the floor. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. She got up and peered outside. A rowing eight slid past on the river, their blades making little rainbows in the sunlight.

Savendra must be here with Belinda, she thought, and the families who stayed. Do I dare face them at breakfast? What on earth will they think? I suppose it depends on how much they saw and imagined. If they care about me at all.

She pondered the problem as she showered and dressed. She could slink away like a guilty tramp but how would that help? She’d probably meet someone in reception anyway and now her stomach was totally empty she was hungry again. She’d paid for the hotel breakfast so she might as well have it. I’ll need something before I go home.

She glanced at her mobile, wondering whether to ring Bob, but decided against it. Let him wait; he’s at his conference with Stephanie, he hasn’t rung me. Anyway this can’t be fixed over the phone. For Emily’s sake, if for no one else, we’ve got to stop behaving like a pair of teenagers and sort this out properly.

She finished her make up, and opened the door. To find, outside in the hall, a large bunch of flowers, gift-wrapped with a ribbon and a card. Which read, when she opened it:

Thanks for a wonderful evening. Still friends, I hope. Terry.

Miranda slumped in the back seat of the taxi as it crossed Lendal Bridge. The pavements were full of hurrying people, heads down, immersed in their own interests. Maybe I shouldn’t go home, she thought. Why not ask this taxi driver to take me to the police?

‘Had a long night of it, did you, love?’

‘Yes. With my boyfriend.’ Christ, she was lying already! What did he mean by a question like that?  He looked a decent enough man, mid thirties, clean shirt, short hair, pot belly, probably a wife and kids at home - what did she look like to him? Slumped in the back seat of his cab with spiky hair, bleary unmade up face, leather jacket - like a hooker with a habit to feed, perhaps?

‘Off to work this morning then, is he?’

‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t want to talk.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He turned up the radio and concentrated on the road. Boyfriend, she thought, that’s a laugh. So why did I say it? Because the truth’s too difficult, too messy, too dreadful altogether. What will I tell Mum when I get home? I’ll have to say something but I can’t - even a fraction of the truth will hurt her badly. What time is, it? Ten. Pray God she’ll be at work, I can’t talk about this now, not to anyone.

Who could possibly understand?

She dozed off until the driver woke her to ask for directions to the house, which clearly surprised him when he saw it. Not the sort of place junkies usually live, she thought wryly. Her mother wasn’t there, thank God; presumably out at work. She found the key under a plant pot, stumbled inside and collapsed on the hall floor. The collie, having seen off the taxi, licked her face in an ecstasy of welcome and worry. It was an old dog, which had known her all its life. She hugged it back hungrily.

‘Oh Tess,’ she murmured. ‘What have I done?’

But a dog couldn’t solve this problem. She dragged herself upstairs to the bathroom, adjusting the shower head to massage until it stung, little hard rods of water drilling into her skin and tearing away his smell, his slime, every trace of where he had been. She drenched herself with shampoo and conditioner and lemon-scented shower gel and stood there until the hot water tank was drained, and then she ran it cold. She stepped out glowing and clean, wrapped herself in towels, and dried her poor short hair until it was soft and smooth and all the spikiness was gone. Then she made up her face until it looked, well, if not like a model then human at least. More like a younger version of her mother, if truth be told, with this short fair hair, than the face she was used to. But nothing like the girl of last night.

So what now, she thought, staring into the mirror at her wide, shadowed eyes. Do I go to the police and cry rape, having scrubbed all the evidence away? Well, they could test my blood I suppose, that might still show traces of whatever he slipped me in the coffee. I can show them these pills. But then what? If there’s a trial some public schoolboy in a wig will ask me why I went to see my sister’s murderer - no, they won’t call him that, will they? - my sister’s boyfriend in the first place. Was it because I fancied him, like she did? That’s what he said, last night. Was I jealous, did I want him for myself? Or was I trying to compensate him for the trauma he suffered when Shelley thoughtlessly killed herself in his bath?

It won’t work, the jury will let him off, just like they did before. And it’s not just me that will suffer. Mum and Dad will be humiliated all over again and Bruce too if he hears about this. God knows what he’d do. Probably fly over and tear the bastard limb from limb.

Which is what should happen.

Only none of us should be hurt, not any more. This guy’s burrowed into our family like a grub, he’s eating us from within. Mum’s right, he’s got to be destroyed.

So how?

She took the tape from the leather jacket and slipped it into the player in her bedroom. I may as well hear it, she thought grimly. If only I could prove that he killed her, and drugged her first with these pills, that would be the thing. The one thing that might do some good.

She sat, staring out at a tractor peacefully working in a field the far side of the river. She listened to what David had said and done to her last night, and thought about what had happened this morning.

It didn’t lessen the pain, but it gave her an idea.       

Come back, he had said, let me take you for a drive in my car.

Part Four

Retribution

39. A walk in the woods

Miranda’s first resolve was to hide what had happened from her parents. When they came home from work they were bound to ask where she had been last night and with her mind bruised with shock it would take enormous resolve to say nothing. But that was what was needed. However much she longed for comfort she must stay silent. No running to her mother’s skirts, not any more. Nothing to suggest that she planned to do anything other than return to America with her grief. Nothing to involve her parents at all.

If anything was done, it would be done by her alone.

She put on her mother’s old wax jacket and went for a walk to put colour in her cheeks. It was a blustery day; cloud shadows chased each other across the fields. The trees bent and swayed with the wind, and every now and then flashes of sunlight darted from behind the clouds. It was the sort of day she and Shelley would have gone for a wild gallop on their ponies, leaping ditches, tearing across fields, leaning into the wind on hilltops, coming home muddy, glowing, exhausted. Their mother would make them tea and toast, and then they would slump on the sofa attempting to clean their tack but, as often as not, falling fast asleep in the fuggy indoor air.

It had been a good childhood, Miranda thought, as she walked away from the river towards the woods. Wild and innocent. We never feared paedophiles or rapists or any of the horrors parents worry about today. When we did imagine monsters in the dusk Mum told us they weren’t real, nothing could hurt us here.

Her feet led her away from the river towards the woods where they had ridden as children. It was a wide area, several hundred acres transected by dirt roads, footpaths, and the narrow trails of deer, badgers and foxes. She and Shelley had spent hours here, riding, picnicking, playing hide and seek, watching the wild duck on the lakes and marshes. 

She reached the deserted, overgrown strips of concrete which were all that remained of the wartime RAF airfield. Were they monsters, the men who flew from here to kill Germans, thousands each night, burnt to a crisp by fire bombs? No, they got medals. They were ordinary men just like grandad. They were killing others to defend their own families.

She found the deserted reservoir and stood for a while staring at it. Spilt aircraft fuel and oil from the runways would drain in here, she’d been told, and float on the surface until it was skimmed off, to avoid polluting the land. If Shelley hadn’t saved her she’d be an oily skeleton mouldering at the bottom of this in the mud. She shivered, turning up the collar of the wax jacket she’d borrowed from her mother, and pulling a pair of gloves from its pocket.

There was a barbed wire fence around the reservoir now, put up by the farmer after the accident. But it was a flimsy construction, less of a barrier than the brambles that grew all around. She rested her gloved hands on a post and rocked it to and fro, widening the hole until she could lift it out by hand. She did the same to another, laid the fence on the ground, and stepped over, looking down into the dark, dirty waters where she had so nearly died. The panic of those moments came back to her, the splashing and neighing of her terrified pony, the fear of drowning, the overwhelming love and gratitude she had felt to Shelley for hauling her out. It could all have happened yesterday.

She turned towards home, listening to the wind roaring in the trees above, revelling in the vast loneliness. Yet these woods had not always been empty, she knew. As children she and Shelley had imagined kings and knights, outlaws and sheriffs fighting here. Murder and rape were not new inventions. She wondered how many bodies lay under the leafmould beneath her feet, unknown and untraced, killed by ordinary people driven beyond endurance by their enemies. Real people with families, just like Shelley and me.

She tramped grimly back across the fields towards her parent’s house. The sun was setting behind a stand of beech trees on a tumulus to the west, sending long bars of shadow across the countryside. Miranda stood awhile, watching the rooks soaring and diving above the trees, croaking hoarsely as the sun sank behind a purple band of cloud. She felt strong here and clean, as she had not done in town.

Strong, but very lonely. She stood alone in the gathering dusk, until she saw the lights of her mother’s car on the road below, coming home from work.

When Sarah got home she arranged the flowers in front of the fireplace and launched herself into a storm of housework. By mid afternoon her kitchen and bathroom were gleaming, every floor was hoovered, every surface dusted and polished. The house reeked of bottled pine, and Sarah stood in the living room, a huge pile of shirts, trousers, and teeshirts on the armchair behind her - crumpled ones on the left, ironed and folded ones on the right. Steam hissed ferociously from the iron in her hand.

Sarah had never reacted tamely to defeat and she didn’t intend to do so now. The problem she was trying to work out, though, was exactly what victory she wanted. In the neat immaculate room the flowers glowed wild, radiant, extravagant; her face flushed with pleasure and shame when she looked at them. Yet she had disposed of Terry’s card, had not rung to thank him. What would she say when she did? He’d screwed up the investigation, of course, but it wasn’t that. Where did she want this to lead?

She and Bob had several divorced friends, and each separation, so far as Sarah could see, had brought misery. Bitterness, tears, hassle, house sale, hardship - usually a dramatic, immediate and sustained collapse in both partners’ standard of living. Each time she’d thought why? How can anyone be so foolish, fail to see what they’re losing?

Her own distant divorce didn’t count: they’d been children themselves, penniless, and Kevin an unredeemed thug. But the friends who split in later life had substantial investments in houses, children and careers; everything that Sarah thought marriage was about. And yet they had thrown it all up. Traumatized wives and husbands had sat here, dabbing their eyes, telling her their stories, and dropping damp tissues in the fireplace where Terry’s flowers now blazed. And each time, Sarah realised now, she’d missed the point. She hadn’t understood why it happened.

She understood the bitterness, the loss, the betrayal well enough. What she hadn’t understood before, was why anyone would put themselves through it.

People left their families not because they felt bored or badly treated or couldn’t stand their partner’s dirty underwear; that was only a condition in which break-up could grow - not even a necessary condition, perhaps. The reason they left - totally destroying everything they’d built up for so many years - was because they fell in love with somebody else.

It was as strong and simple as that. Love was a disease, as it said in the books, it made people so drunk or happy or totally self-absorbed that they smashed things up like teenagers.

I could be like that, Sarah thought, gazing at her flowers while the steam hissed from her iron. If I hadn’t been sick last night I would have made love to Terry for certain, I wanted to so much and he did too and he’s such a lithe, easy dancer and where would it lead? First a one-night stand, then a series of hurried, secret meetings, always dreading discovery and exposure. That’s not what I want - after all he’s free, a widower with two little girls, I could care for them too, and Simon and Emily, well, they’re almost grown up, they could come and visit my new family, it would be full of life and love and colour and ...

‘Hi, Mum. We’re back.’

A pair of grubby, smelly, paint-sprayed global protesters shambled into her living room and collapsed in happy exhaustion on the sofa. Her seventeen year old daughter Emily was wearing some sort of ex-army battledress fatigue, torn and ripped and covered with pink and purple day-glo painted slogans - for extra camouflage, no doubt - and her hair, Sarah saw, was bright green. Beside her, his fingers locked through hers, lounged Larry, with his wispy beard and ponytail, in black jeans, combat boots, and ancient leather jacket. Both young people’s faces shone with simple happiness.

‘Did you see the demo on telly?’

‘It was tremendous. Three hundred thousand, the pigs say, but it must have been nearer a million. There were banners and music everywhere ...’

‘You couldn’t hardly move ...’

‘People from all over Europe - China even!’

‘And huge balloons in Trafalgar Square!’

Sarah had given little thought to this since the quarrel with Bob last week. She had seen the TV news briefly in the hotel, but had forgotten what the protest was about. It looked like fun, though, and they were back safely - that was all that mattered. For a while she carried on ironing, asking questions and listening to their cheerful responses, then they made themselves something to eat and took it up to Emily’s bedroom where the music started booming away.

Bob came in, looking shattered. She switched off the iron, all the clothes in a neat pile, and boiled the kettle for tea. ‘How did it go?’

‘Oh, fine, I suppose.’ He slumped at the table wearily, listening to the sound from upstairs. ‘Emily’s back, I see.’

‘Yes, they’ve been telling me about it. They had a great time.’

‘I’m glad someone did.’

She made two mugs of tea and joined him, studying his face carefully. He looked drawn, weary, sad. ‘
You
didn’t, you mean?’

‘Not really, no.’ He sipped the tea gratefully. ‘Oh, the conference was all right - boring, of course, but then administration always is.’

‘And the hotel?’

‘Fine.’ He helped himself to a biscuit, avoiding her watching eyes. So it’s Stephanie, she thought vindictively. Well, serve the bastard right. But then ...

His eyes met hers, then looked nervously away. ‘We, um, said some rather unpleasant things yesterday, at the wedding ...’

‘
You
did, you mean.’

‘We both did, Sarah, be fair. I’ve been thinking about that over the weekend. I ... probably shouldn’t have said what I did.’

‘Sorry, I think is the word you’re looking for,’ she prompted, when no more followed. But then I said those things too. Worse, probably, last week.

‘Yes, all right, sorry then.’ He looked up, searching for forgiveness. ‘I wish I’d stayed at the wedding now. Did you have a good time?’

‘Yes, pretty good. I danced with Terry Bateson. He sent me flowers afterwards. Look - in that vase.’ So there, she thought, I’ve said it. No concealment necessary.

‘Your admirer, you mean?’ He gazed at the extravagant, expensive bouquet, the painful thought clear on his face: a woman doesn’t get flowers like that from a man unless ...

‘My admirer, yes. He was very kind and attentive.’

‘Sarah, you didn’t ...?’

‘How did it go with Stephanie, Bob?’ There was a time, Sarah thought, that I looked up to this man. He was older than me, wiser, endlessly patient and attentive. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have anything I value. Not this house, not these children, nor my career either. I could never have even begun studying without Bob’s support. He was my rock, my foundation, my safe haven. He was never forceful or aggressive, but I never wanted him to be; I could do that for myself. Yet I always respected him, until now. Something’s changed: perhaps he feels age creeping up, or the world’s altered and he doesn’t understand it any more.

Or he fell in love with someone else and broke the thing that mattered.

Either way this isn’t a man to look up to; it’s one who’s uncertain, hurt, afraid. Afraid of me. The foundations of our marriage are shifting; I don’t need him any more, I could leave if I choose. And I might, too.

‘Stephanie ... oh, she had a great time, I think. As far as I could tell.’

‘But not with you, Bob, you mean?’

‘Not with me, no.’ He heaved a long, weary sigh. ‘There were several younger men there, Sarah, and she spent a great deal of time with one of those. Wrapped around him, in fact; it was quite embarrassing. And, er, rather painful, I must admit. It showed me what a fool I’ve been for the past few weeks. It must have been painful for you, too, I should think.’

He gazed at her like a man waking from a dream. But Sarah wasn’t about to forgive him just yet. I could make him crawl, she thought. Will that help, or make things worse? How could I stay with a man I despised?

‘Painful?’ she said, ‘Yes, it was. But what’s sauce for the gander, Bob, might just be sauce for the goose as well.’

‘Don’t say that, Sarah, please.’ Bob glanced at the flowers. ‘Don’t start something that might go wrong.’

‘Why not? You did.’ Even when I threw up, she thought, my lover was a perfect gentleman. I could ring him now, if I dared; leave Bob here, show him how much it hurts.

 Bob reached across the table for her hand, his fingers warm from the tea, his grip firm. ‘I’m not going to plead, if that’s what you want.’ Sarah considered pulling away but didn’t. Their hands knew each other, after all; had done for eighteen years. ‘I’ve been a fool, I see that now. But I could never have left you for Stephanie, that wasn’t what it was about, at all.’

‘Oh, so she was just a bit of fun, was she? A shag on the side?’

He winced. ‘You always had a cruel way with words, Sarah. But if I wanted that it never happened. Never will now.’

Poor feeble sheep, Sarah thought. But then who am I to talk? Neither of us seem to have the gift for adultery.