Blind Date (10 page)

It was useless to pretend that the sounds she had heard were merely those of the church, breathing out the heat absorbed by day in a series of sighs, creaks and sharp cracks as stone and wood sighed and cooled. Someone had bypassed the door to her living room, gone on and up to the clock chamber and the bed. Even through that high ceiling, the noise of human life was clearly defined. A shuffling. Slurred steps from serious footwear. Now he was coming down.

The steps
themselves, dipping slightly in the middle where the greater number of feet had worn away the granite, were soundless; the well of the tower impervious to echo. The heaviest tread of feet became relatively silent; there was none of the clatter the same feet would make moving across wooden floors. She stood behind the door. It swung open with the sound of a dog yawning. Louder than the beating of her pulse.

The room, with its vast window, was never dark. She could have read large print by the light of the moon and she could see him now, stooped to get through, hesitating on the threshold, an animal scenting humanity. He turned, not towards her, but towards the window. She aimed for the back of his neck with the broom. The stave hit his shoulder. Pain shot through her arms, she screamed, the broom clattered to the floor. She jerked, convulsively.

They regarded each other, his body perfectly still, hers in spasms. She could not control the violence of her shivering, the impotence of fear, even as she noticed the sheer size of him. He could pick her up and snap her in half. Would she mind? Would it matter if she were dead? She had so often craved a similar kind of oblivion.

The big man moved away from the blow, lazily, turning his back, unafraid of what she might do and the contempt implicit in his carelessness provoked a reaction. She bent to feel for the boom, fumbled for it and by the time her fingers closed on the handle, he was back with the coverlet from the bed. He draped it round her shoulders, crossed her arms across her chest, then wrapped the material tightly, knotting it behind. Elisabeth was swathed, like an Egyptian mummy. He lifted her, carried her across the room and laid her on the futon with the ritualistic reverence of a priest towards a sacrifice. Then he turned on the light and looked at her, sighed theatrically and wagged a finger.

“Listen,
Miss Kennedy, there's something you've got to learn,” he said. “If you want to pummel a bloke much bigger and stronger than you, you don't go full-frontal. You could have asked me in nicely, made me a cup of tea and then poured boiling water on me. You could have fucking dialled nine-nine-nine. Why didn't you?”

Her throat was sore.

“Why not?” he repeated.

“They wouldn't be able to get in.”

“Ah yes,” he said, squatting down beside her, keeping a distance. “The old problem of security. You lock the door behind yourself so firmly no-one can get in unless you get out. Didn't you get my messages?”

He was bulky; his hands large, his chest broad and his clothing was ludicrous. A striped flannel nightshirt, open over his chest, extending below his knees, giving a glimpe of a hairy leg and a skinny calf leading into a pair of unlaced boots. His hair tumbled to his shoulders; a copper bangle on his wrist. Thick eyebrows, unghostly brown eyes, dimples.

“What messages?” Her voice quavered.

“I left messages with a small boy in Devon. In fact, I had long conversations with him. I'm Father Flynn's new cleaner … the other one didn't like the ghosts. Anyway, the reverend said, doubtfully, I'll admit, that it was probably OK for me to squat here while you were away, provided you gave me permission. I told him you had; he gave me a key. I lied to him, I'm afraid.”

“You're
lying now.”

He seemed to consider the accusation carefully, like someone struggling to understand a joke.

“No,” he said. “I'm not a talented liar at the best of times. Certainly not at the moment.” He was looking at her quizzically. She could not return his gaze, although she did examine him. The twist in her neck made her feel as if she was cowering, but the sharpness of the fear was gone.

“Listen,” he said. “It's raining.”

They both listened. Putter, putter, a sweet sound like a whisper against the huge window. She listened and hated him for her own weakness, loathed him for his calmness, detested his insolence and was afraid of him. Until she noticed again the detail of the nightshirt and the boots. His was a towering presence, and yet the frolicking of her heartbeat had slowed; still she could not move her arms. As if he sensed it, he raised her body with one enormous hand supporting her shoulders, the other loosening her swaddling clothes and plumping the pillow. The duvet was tucked around her, leaving the arms outside. The pores of her skin opened; sweat poured into her eyes: her hair was damp, her face ruddy and she closed her eyes, flushed with heat. There were movements around her. She could feel a damp tissue wiping her forehead and the hollows beneath her eyes, moving to the bones of her neck where perspiration gathered. The duvet was raised from her feet. In the months of nursing, in all her squirming resentment of that enforced touching, the hideous intimacy inflicted on the helpless by the healthy, she had never known such instinctive gentleness.

“Sorry,” he said formally. “My name's Joe. I've no credentials. I'll go in the morning, but you really can't chuck me out in this.” The rain had reached a crescendo of feather drums, hissing at the window without real force. She was warm now.

Chuck him
out? The deference in his voice, the very idea that anything of the kind was remotely possible, or that she might be in any position to insist—as if she could leap up with her china body and throw his hand downstairs, let alone his arm—made her want to giggle, although the sound which emerged was a helpless grunt and then she was suddenly monstrously tired all over again. Like her own life and death, what did it matter what he did? It was pain she feared. As long as pain was not imminent, she did not care. She was only dimly aware of her silence becoming the same thing as compliance or of him pressing a mug of lukewarm milk into her hands and sitting on the end of the bed, eating an apple.

“I'm mending the clock,” he said, chattily. “What do you think? Don't mind the noise in the morning.”

“You won't be here in the morning,” she murmured. “I'll have chucked you out. Piece by piece. I'll lift you over my head.”

He watched her. She was unable to fight that drift back into sleep: helpless against it.

Then he went back upstairs in his nightshirt and his boots. There was ample room for the other, large futon in the room which held the clock. He lay down on it, still in the nightshirt, hands crossed behind his head, looking down at his boots, listening to the rain. It was slightly damp in here and smelled of oil. He had alarmed her, which was the last of his intentions, and he felt sorry for it. Jenkins would not be impressed. He had given Joe this crazy address in the hope that Joe would look out for his other protege, not scare the woman to death.

Poor old Joe, he thought to himself. So quick to take the hint, but so impetuous around human beings, especially of the female kind. Better with the inanimate: better at photographs of objects and the dead. Better at most things than this. Quite happy to sleep with a pile of defunct machinery, and the clock was very definitely deceased. Outside, according to the blue face of it, time stood still and nothing changed. What a sensitive soul you are, Joe, he told himself, trapped in a bulldog's body, big eyes, all snout and muscle, no bark or bite.

What the
hell do you think you're doing?

A
t least, Jones told himself, he did not wear pyjamas. He looked at his own reflection, sadly. No wonder they called him the Owl. He could remember a note left on his desk at school, to be read in front of witnesses. Dear Jones, I would swim the deepest ocean for you, cross the driest desert for you, scale the highest mountain for you … PS, I'll be round tomorrow night if it's not raining. Love, Cleo: the secret light of his life at the time. How they had laughed and how he had played into their hands with his look of blank incomprehension. Nothing had changed much, except his head had grown to match the size of his ears. Mr. Charisma, squinting into the glass and trying to tell himself that the girl had simply failed to turn up because her mum was ill. Not a question of her seeing him first and running for cover; nor was it a question of him failing to see her because he was taking his specs on and off, wondering which way to present himself, clear-sighted, or comfortingly studious. Owl had never got on with contact lenses, always lost them. So much for stealing a march on the others and getting to the introduction agency first. All he had to his credit for this foolhardy piece of enterprise was a new line in rejection. It was certainly a coup to be dismissed by a girl before he had even met her. He wondered if he would have the courage to go back
and try again. He looked round his neat suburban nest which somehow lacked a woman's touch and wondered, for the umpteenth time, why it was that the total bastards of his acquaintance always had success with the opposite sex, even though they offered nothing and he offered so much. He gave his heart on a plate, only to be asked if it could be eaten cold inside a sandwich. The girl, the one love of his life, she could do whatever she wanted; it would not occur to him to question or curtail. Owl wouldn't mind at all if she wanted to change the kitchen: in fact he would be grateful. He would not care if she said his choice in everything was lousy, including his clothes, although, come to think of it, he might be a bit sensitive about that. Dad called him bourgeois and Mum called him lovely. He wasn't fat. He had no undesirable habits. True, he wasn't charming like Michael, but he wasn't a pig like Rob or weird like Joe; he had a good job and money in the bank. He was offering fidelity, consistency, adoration and the continuation of the species. What was wrong with him?

Nothing. That was the problem. Until now he had never thought that he could ever be described as frightening but perhaps she had been repelled by the power of him she had seen from a distance. The thought bucked him up considerably. He bared his teeth. Perfect, white and even. Nice skin. If only that last phone call which had made him five minutes late, had never happened.

“Faint heart,” he told the mirror, “never won Fair Lady.”

S
aturday morning the sun shone brightly, deceptive in its brilliance. In the shadows cast by the buildings across the narrow street where they sat, it was chilly.

“I see you dressed for the occasion,” Patsy remarked. “More than you did yesterday.”

“Oh
shut up.”

“You look like Miss Angela. Not exactly a woman of the world. Pretty, though.” Angela was always mentioned, a benchmark to their bolder selves.

Hazel did not favour girly clothes and yet today, she had worn them: a dress of printed cotton, demure in the extreme, a trifle creased here and there and a bit droopy round the hem, but attempting an image of femininity. Patsy had never seen Hazel in a skirt before, let alone a dress. Hazel had plump, short legs which were not her best feature. To Patsy's mind, the dress improved the overripe raw material.

“At least it ain't power dressing,” Hazel snapped. “The way you look, this old hag will get you a New Man in a pinny with a permanent limp. A male chambermaid.”

“It's only a suit,” Patsy protested.

“Yeah. Only. You nervous or what? No, course not. You just haven't got nothing which isn't suit, or party. Am I right or am I right?”

She finished her coffee, stood up and hoisted a duffel bag which went ill with the dulcid frock. It looked as if it should contain the kit of a plumber or a selection of lethal weapons. Patsy imagined the IRA carrying around bags like that. Looking as furtive and determined as Hazel did now.

“Right. Your turn first. I'm going shopping. See you later.
Don't
tell me about it.”

So it was Patsy who examined the descriptions at street level, next to the men's outfitters, Patsy who ascended the stairs in ever increasing darkness and knocked at the door. She made herself feel like the working woman she was (words like career woman were hopelessly out of date: any woman worth her salt had a career), remembering her poise, but all the same she was uncomfortably aware that this was no ordinary mission and nothing in her life to date had prepared her for what she should be and what she should say. Patsy had revised her image many times, from punk to shirtwaister to designer dress, from wildly ruffled to well groomed, from sporty to elegant and the other way round, but none of these changes had ever created the image of what she felt now. A thirty-something spinster with money in one pocket and a begging bowl in the other. The door to “Select Friends” was open. There was music in the background, Handel on a harpsichord, tinkling away at a reassuring level. There was a small outer room on this floor with a pretty desk, on which papers and leaflets were stacked against an enormous turquoise vase, containing a display of flowers so large it seemed to fill the room. Tall lilies stood resplendent among yellow and blue gladioli, surrounded by a cloud of fern, a wedding bouquet to dwarf the tallest bride. The smell was overpowering, as if the flowers had stood guard all night with the windows closed. Patsy touched the tallest lily. The bloom was waxen, and a tiny shower of bright orange pollen fell onto the back of her hand. If I filled my house with flowers, she thought, I would have to spend a fortune, and this indication of Select Friends prosperity cheered her. The desk was an antique replica, polished to a shine, without a trace of pollen or dust. The chair beside it was empty. Patsy stood uncertainly, wondering if she should shout hello towards the half-closed door which led from this vestibule. As she paused a voice echoed back at her, “Helloeeee! Do come in dear. Patsy isn't it? Sorry, we're a bit behind this morning.”

Before her
stood a smart lady of late middle age, with fashionable glasses and a summer suit of royal blue. The light from a window was behind her, blurring her features as she sat at a second desk, this one far more official than the decorative item beyond. There was a chair facing her, towards which she waved a ringed hand, and more flowers on a wooden filing cabinet to her left and the same smell, overlayed with perfume. The room was like an official bower, reminding Patsy of the waiting room of an expensive private dentist she had once used. Comfort.