Simply Heaven (62 page)

Rufus doesn’t move, doesn’t react.

‘Don’t you see? It was all for you, all of it! You wouldn’t even be – Beatrice! Tell him! Make him understand!’

Beatrice hasn’t spoken since we came into the room. Has simply gone whiter and whiter, her hands shaking, lips moving almost at random. What must be going through her head? I don’t care. I honestly don’t care because she hasn’t even looked at her son, at the seventy-four-year-old man softly weeping in the porter’s chair.

Edmund is shattered. He looks like the earth has opened and swallowed him up. His skinny shoulders droop in his flannel shirt and his face has caved in, cheeks hollow like those of the mummy on the bed. He hasn’t cried in forty years. Not publicly. Men like Edmund don’t cry, not for the world to see.

And kneeling at his feet, Tilly. Weeping too, holding his hands between her own, dropping cheek-kisses on them. Shaking her head and whispering, over and over, ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy’.

Mary lunges at her son, grabs at his arm, tries to establish some contact between them. He steps backward, raises the arm and twists it out of her grasp. Reaches out, without looking, for he knows where I am by instinct alone, and draws me into his side.

‘Rufus,
Rufus
! Don’t, darling,
don’t
! You can’t do this! You can’t! It’s
me
, darling! I did it for
you
!’

I know, of course, that this is true. In her own twisted way, Mary has done everything for Rufus. He was her ambition, her reason. She did the unthinkable to get him and she was prepared to do anything to keep him.

Love has a lot to answer for.

She tries again, and Rufus pulls me back, pulls me out of harm’s way.

‘Don’t, darling! Don’t! I was trying to save you! Trying to save you! Don’t you see? She’s not
good
enough for you! She’ll destroy you. She’ll destroy
everything
!’

He speaks at last. ‘No, mother. Not Melody. She’s the one who saved me.’

She looks like she looked when I slapped her that time.

Rufus glances over his shoulder at his father and his sister. ‘Come on,’ he says.

Edmund leans forward, pulls his daughter into his arms and presses his face to her scalp. They cling together like shipwrecked children, help each-other to feeble feet, prop each-other up as they pass Beatrice, then Mary, and never afford them a single glance.

We follow in their wake; head for the Great Hall, aiming for the courtyard, the drive, then freedom.

‘Don’t!’ Mary screams. ‘You can’t! Don’t leave me! We can make it all right! We can! We can make it all right! I’ll apologise! I’ll be good!’

At the top of the stairs, in the archway, Rufus stiffens, stops, turns to face her.

His voice is cold, even, unmodulated. ‘You knew,’ he says, ‘that she was pregnant. You knew because I told you, when we were in London. I sat there and I told you, and it didn’t make a moment’s difference. You didn’t change your mind. You didn’t even think about it for one moment.’

There’s an ineffable logic to her answer.

‘But I couldn’t
do
anything about it,’ she says. ‘It was too late by then. I couldn’t exactly let her out, could I? How would
that
have looked?’

The house shifts once more. Perceptibly. Turns over and groans.

It’s Rufus’s turn to drain of colour. His jaw clicks shut and he swivels on his heel, marches down the steps without a backward look.

Edmund holds himself together as we cross the courtyard. Poker back, army bearing. Looks at the sky, the wall, the trees in the distance. But when we are on the drive, have started the walk towards the village, he is unable to resist a final look back and promptly does a bit of a Lot’s wife on us. Goes rigid, then abruptly loses the strength in his limbs, crumbles and plummets to the ground, on his knees and then on all fours. We’re all down beside him in a flash, hands on arms, sounds of concern, trying to haul him to his feet. He waves us away.

‘Don’t. Don’t. I’ll be all right. I just need … a moment.’

I look back to see what can have had this effect on him. Gasp. Because Bourton Allhallows is eating itself.

A cloud of ravens shrieks and circles in the air above the house, like vultures awaiting a death. They swoop in and out of my field of vision, as a great bank of dust-fog, so thick that it obscures everything that enters it, hangs above the gables. For the house has begun to collapse in on itself, outer wings leaning drunkenly against the inner core like a house of cards. The spot where Rufus and I sat months ago and weatherproofed with plastic sheeting has vanished altogether; nothing remains but a great jagged hole open to the sky.

‘Look,’ I say, in wonderment as much as horror. ‘Oh,
look
.’

The four of us watch as a chunk of the façade of the Victorian wings simply breaks loose and crashes into the courtyard. Another cloud of dust rises into the air, sucks itself around the house like a shroud.

I think of my enemies, still inside, still denying the end of their world. Bad, black, rotten to the core, but still human. Still people. Still capable of pain. Beatrice is too old and too crippled to walk out of there alone, and Mary, when we left, was beyond noticing, or caring, about anything.

I feel sick. I know what we have to do.

‘Rufus,’ I say, ‘we have to get them out of there.’

We run down the hill together, force our way back through the front door. It takes the strength of both of us to get it open, for it has wedged against the floor and fights back as we push.

The Great Hall, too, is dark with dust. We pause for a moment, fight for breath, allow our eyes to adjust.

The house is still. The stillness of air before a thunderstorm. The stillness before the pounce of the predator.

Something ticks, ticks, ticks faintly in the distance. In the core of the building. Settling. Readjusting.

‘Hello?’ Rufus calls.

No answer.

We step forward on to spongy floorboards, which soak up the sound of our footfalls.

‘Hello?’ he cries again.

Faintly, through the archway, an answering voice. ‘Rufus!’ it calls.

We exchange a glance. ‘You go get her,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t carry her. I’ll find Mary.’

He nods. Lopes away from me through the gloom. Hand over my face, I take a deep breath through my nose. Call: ‘Mary?’

Tick, tick, tick.

I set off, gingerly; feel my way, step by step, around the walls. Call her name again.

Tick, tick, tick.

She could be anywhere. She could be gone already. She could be hiding, or running, or trapped, somewhere, in among the falling rooms.

‘Mary?’

Something shifts in the far corner, under the Caravaggio. I peer, try to make out what it is.

‘Mary?’

No reply.

I walk forward.

She is pressed against the wall, green suit gone eau-de-nil with plaster dust, face smeared with tears and grime. One elegant court shoe has fallen off, lies unnoticed on its side three feet from her sole. I look at her, at her misery, at her defeat, and my heart is torn with scorn and pity. She doesn’t look at me. Her arms are wrapped around her head, covering her face.

‘Mary,’ I say, ‘we have to get out of here.’

No response. She rocks slightly, pulls her knees closer in to her body.

‘Mary. Come on. You have to get up.’

She doesn’t move.

Tick, tick, tick.

I bend, reach out to touch her shoulder.

Her reaction is lightning-fast. An arm shoots out, bats me away. ‘
Don’t touch me
!’

Rufus appears in the archway, Beatrice a bundle of fabric in his arms. She appears to be catatonic, head buried in his chest, hands hanging pendulous by his hip. He sees us, sees my predicament. Looks torn.

‘Go,’ I tell him.

He glances down at his grandmother, at the door, at the huddled form of his mother.

‘It’s OK.’ I attempt to reassure him, though I am entirely unsure myself. ‘Go.’

‘I’ll come back,’ he says.

I nod. Turn back to her as his footfalls pass, head towards the open air. The house spasms once more; a cracking, howling, grating death-throe that makes my pulse surge.

‘Mary! It’s not safe! Can’t you hear it? You have to come
now
!’

Again, the batting hand. She clings to the wall, limbs and torso rigid. I’m going to have to use force.

I squat, try to slot my hands into her armpits, uncurl her. I’ll drag the bitch out of here by the hair if I have to. Get some traction, brace and haul.

Her body whips open with sudden ferocity and she throws herself head-first into my stomach, winding me, knocking me backwards on to the floor. And she’s on her side, legs flailing, kicking out, catching me on the thigh with her one remaining sharp-edged heel.

‘Get away get away get
away
!’

‘
Mary!
’ I cough-shout. ‘
I’m trying to help you!
’

‘You won’t you won’t you
won’t
!’

She scrambles to her knees. I try to grab at her ankle but my fingers slip on ten-denier nylon, clutch uselessly for a second, feel it slide away under my fingers.

‘Don’t touch me don’t
touch
me!’

She gains her feet, hobble-runs away across the centre of the room, a silly, half-mad ageing woman who has destroyed everything. And I think, well, at least she’s running in the right direction. At least she’s heading for the door.

A rush and a roar, and floor gives way. Mary remains suspended in the air for a moment, head thrown back, arms jacked in the air like a marionette. And then she drops, like a stone, through the hole.

‘
MARY!
’

She’s still here. Shoulders, arms, over the edge, body hanging into the chasm. Slips backwards.

And I’m crawling across the treacherous boards, keeping as low and flat as possible, spreading my weight as on quicksand.

‘Hold on! I’m coming!’

Another jolt and she drops back some more; head, elbows, flat palms on splintered wood. I close the distance, spreadeagle and stretch. Look into her eyes.

‘Give me your hand,’ I say.

Sweat glistens on her face. Fear throws every bone into sharp focus.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she says.

‘Give me your hand.’

Inch by precious inch, her weight carries her towards the abyss.

‘
Please
, Mary!’

Her jaw is resting on the floorboards, only her forearms visible now.

I snatch at a wrist. Make a last effort to save her.

The arm flies up, snatches away from me.

‘
Don’t
,’ she says.

And she is gone.

Twanny Mifsud is growing watermelons this year. Last year it was tomatoes, the fruit fist-sized on vines so leafless and shrivelled they looked as though they couldn’t support a kidney bean, but today the field is scattered with cool green gourds. We park up on the double yellows and stroll across the road to sit on the wall with a view of the chapel dome on the main road, listen to the scritch of cicadas among red-gold caper blossoms. It’s my second trip here of the day, but I don’t mind. I never tire of watching those big birds whizz over the stone-strewn pastures, the backdraft from the rotors throwing up great gusts of dusty air from parched red soil.

‘Wow,’ says Costa, but he’s not talking about our surroundings.

‘I suppose it is a bit,’ I say.

‘So did they ever find the bodies?’

I shake my head.

‘Too much house on top. I suppose there’s an outside chance Lucy might show up one day, though given the fact that the entire park’s been ring-fenced because it’s still collapsing, I don’t suppose it’ll happen for a good while yet. Not while Edmund’s still alive, anyway, which is the main thing.’

‘And how’s he doing?’

‘He’s – sad. It was a helluva shock.’

‘I’ll bet. It’s like the poor guy’s wasted his entire life on a lie.’

‘Yeah. Mind you. I don’t think he felt he’d been a raging success before he found it out.’

‘Mmm.’

Costa drops his sunglasses down from the top of his head over his eyes. ‘Is he coming out this summer?’

‘No. Hates the place. Reminds him of her. Of course, he never came out while she was alive, either. I think he regarded her trips to Gozo as a bit of a holiday for him as well.’

He’s studying the sky. ‘What time’s the heli due?’

I check my watch. ‘Five more minutes.’

‘OK. Hot here, isn’t it?’

‘This? This isn’t hot. It doesn’t get
hot
till August.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘Take your jacket off if you think it’s hot.’

‘Don’t mother me. I get enough of that at home.’

I look down.

‘She sends greetings, by the way,’ he says.

‘Oh, OK.’

‘You want me to send them back?’

‘Would it do any good?’

A shrug. ‘You never know. I guess she must be coming round a bit if she’s sending greetings. You should come home for a bit, maybe. Bring Louis. You know she’ll never be able to resist a grandson.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say. ‘A one-year-old on long-haul. It’s quite an undertaking.’

‘Well, don’t think for too long. It doesn’t do, you know. Families shouldn’t be not talking to each other.’

‘I know.’

I think for a bit. ‘Thanks for coming yourself. It’s good to see you.’

Costa reaches out and muzzes my hair. ‘We’re a right lot, aren’t we?’

‘Sure are that.’

‘Maybe in the spring? Once you’re done here?’

‘Mmm. Rufus goes back to school in October. Going to learn to be an architect. We’d have to wait till term finished.’

‘Yeah, well. You can make all the excuses you like, but the fact remains the same. You could always come by yourselves, you know.’

I don’t even have to think about this one. ‘No way.’

He gives me a quizzical look.

‘I’m never, ever going to be apart from him again.’

‘You’re apart from him now.’

‘That’s three days, Costa, not three weeks. There’s a difference.’

‘Strewth!’ he says. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a romantic in your old age?’