The Immaculate (18 page)

It was David Rookham who stopped the fight. He plunged in beneath Terry's whirling limbs, locked his arms around his chest and dragged him away. For an instant Terry resisted, even snarled like an animal and tried to bite Rookham. Then he seemed to realise what he was doing and became limp, acquiescent.

Only when Rookham had pulled Terry away from the scene did the boys move in. Guy was the first to react. He hurried forward, grabbed Patty's arm and tried to haul him to his feet.

“Hey, Patty, you all right?” he said.

Carl felt a scream of laughter, hard and painful, like a bubble of indigestion, working its way up from his hollowed-out stomach. “Does he
look
all right?” he said to Guy, and his voice was strange—tight and high and scratchy, a hint of hysteria running through it like a fine gold thread. Guy looked at Carl. Normally he would have taken the piss out of him for speaking in such a puffy voice, but today he simply shook his head.

The boys shuffled over and looked down at Patty, not sure what to do, not sure whether to pull him to his feet or simply wait for him to recover in his own time. At least they knew that Patty was alive. He was making horrible gasping, gagging noises as if about to throw up. At last, he began to move his limbs, floundering like a beached fish. White-faced, Ossie said, “Come on, let's get him up.” He tentatively took Patty's left arm, Guy took his right, and together they hauled Patty to his feet.

His face was a mess, all cuts and bruises. His eyes and top lip were horribly swollen. He was bleeding so freely that it was hard to tell exactly how bad his injuries were. His breath was rattling liquidly in his throat. A stream of saliva mixed with blood drooled out of his mouth. He tried to spit, but the stuff slid down his chin and spattered on his T-shirt. His legs were all over the place, like a boxer who'd been KO'd. Through the swollen slits of his eyelids, the boys could see that the whites of Patty's eyeballs had turned pink; Carl wondered fearfully whether this meant Patty had internal bleeding in his head. He saw Patty's lips moving, heard a rumble of sound dribbling from between them.

“Hey, lads,” Carl said, “I think he's trying to say something.”

The boys pushed their heads in to listen. At first it seemed that Patty was just mumbling nonsense. “Killim . . . ,” he slurred, “. . . killim . . .”

“What's he saying?” asked Wally, blinking in his slow, almost sleepy way.

“Shut up, cretin,” hissed Guy, “and listen.”

The boys crowded in again. Patty cleared his throat, dribbled more blood, wiped a shaky hand across his mouth.

“He's dead,” they heard Patty say. “He's fucking dead. I'm gonna kill the bastard.”

Carl had heard Patty make such threats before, but this time he shuddered. Despite being only semiconscious, Patty sounded as if he really meant it.

“I expect you'll be wanting to get off to the house, get yourself settled in,” Aunt Georgina said.

Jack brushed his hands together, ridding them of cake crumbs. “Actually,” he replied, “I thought I'd stay at the Connaught.”

For the first time since he'd set off that morning, he was beginning to feel almost relaxed. His aunt's lounge was cosy as ever, and even though arthritis had seized her joints, gnarling her hands into claws, he quickly discovered she had lost none of her culinary skills. Despite her comment about his weight, she had insisted on fetching him a bowl of soup that she had made from parsnips and apples, and a sizeable hunk of fresh-baked bread. Jack made a feeble objection, but his aunt waved it away. “I'll not hear any arguments,” she said. “I knew you'd be hungry when you got here, so I made it especially.”

While she was in the kitchen Jack allowed himself a wry smile; she had lost none of her forcefulness. Mentally apologising to the God of Weight Loss, to whom he had made a solemn vow, he had begun, at first reluctantly, to eat the soup, and then had found to his shame that it was so delicious he simply could not refuse a second helping.

He salved his conscience by insisting on only a small slice of her equally delicious fruit cake and by promising himself that tomorrow, before breakfast, he would spend half an hour pounding the country roads. He sipped his tea and said, “Actually, I'd better give them a ring. This has all happened so quickly that I never thought about booking a room.”

Aunt Georgina looked surprised and a little disapproving. “What's the point of spending good money on a hotel when you've got a big empty house all to yourself?”

Jack pulled a face. “Well, that's just it. It's big and it's empty, and . . . to be honest, the memories that fill it are not exactly pleasant ones.”

He expected Georgina to admonish him for his extravagance, but she simply nodded, albeit half-heartedly, and said, “Hmm, I do see your point. Well, look sharp. You give the Connaught a ring while I fetch my coat.”

“You're coming with me?” Jack said.

“Of course. I haven't seen my nephew in fifteen years. I'm not about to let him out of my clutches now.” She pushed herself from her chair with obvious discomfort. “You know,” she said when she was on her feet, “I'd offer you accommodation here, but I've only got one bedroom and a piddling little settee. The neighbours would talk. They'd think I'd got myself a toy boy.”

He laughed, both at the phrase, which sounded odd on her lips, and the mischievous glint in her eye.

She hobbled through to the kitchen, rubbing her knee with a clawed hand and muttering what a wreck she was. Whenever Jack thought of her kitchen, he pictured work surfaces piled with chopped vegetables, her solid wooden table scattered with flour in readiness for the pastry that would be scrolled around the rolling pin. She used to love cooking, for neighbours and friends as well as herself. She baked cakes aplenty for church fetes and WI picnics and God knew how many other causes. Jack always remembered her as an active, energetic woman, but it was only now, with the advantage of hindsight, that he realised just how active and energetic she had been. Apart from her involvement with the WI and the Church committee, Jack remembered her attending meetings of the Beckford Art Society, the Amateur Dramatics Society, the Horticulturalists Society and the Knitting Club (it probably had a grander title than that but Jack didn't know what it was). And on top of all this she used to make frequent visits to the elderly for some charity or other, she helped out with some part-time nursing at Dr. Travis' surgery when the pace became too hot for the old man, and didn't she also used to sing in some sort of choir? He suspected that was something to do with the church as well.

“That's my aunt,” he muttered, picking up the phone, shaking his head in admiration. And then, all at once, Jack realised
why
she had been involved in so many village activities. It was a revelation that felt as if it had been waiting for years to emerge.

Aunt Georgina, he realised, had been—and still was—a very lonely woman.

He stood for a moment with the phone in his hand, staring into space, and all at once felt a wave of sadness sweep over him. He felt an urge to rush into the kitchen and hug his aunt, to apologise for all the years he had neglected her. It had never occurred to him, when he was younger, that his aunt had problems and anxieties just like everyone else. She had always seemed like a rock, so steadfast, so uncomplicated, so . . . so . . . the word that came to him was
pure.
It seemed a strange phrase, yet apt. She had seemed so certain of her own emotions, so open and honest and thoroughly without deceit. Jack's sudden realisation had thrown him off-kilter, perhaps more than it should have.

“What did they say?” Georgina asked, emerging from the kitchen, struggling into her coat.

“Er . . .” Jack replaced the receiver clumsily and noisily and snatched up the telephone book. “I haven't actually rung them yet. I'm still looking for the number.”

“Honestly,” Georgina sighed, “how have you managed all these years? Here, let me.” She took the book from him before Jack could protest.

She found the number in seconds and read it out clearly, as though to an imbecile, while Jack dialed. After two rings an oily voice enquired, “Connaught Hotel. How may I help you?”

“Oh, hello. My name's Jack Stone. I was wondering whether it would be possible to book a room?”

“Certainly, Mr. Stone,” said Oily-voice. “When would you like the room for?”

“Tonight, if possible. And I'll be staying for three or four days.”

“Ah,” said Oily-voice pointedly.

“Is there a problem?” asked Jack.

“Yes, Mr. Stone, I'm afraid there is. You see, we're fully booked until Friday. There's a marketing convention in Leeds and we have a group of forty staying here from the Midlands.”

“Leeds,” said Jack as if the man had made a mistake, “but that's fifteen miles away.”

Oily-voice's tone became a little less accommodating. “That's true, Mr. Stone, but our setting is far more picturesque, I'm sure you'll agree. The drive to Leeds is relatively free of traffic congestion, and we have a very reliable train service. We do like to encourage this sort of custom.”

Jack felt his temper rising at the man's insinuations, but tried to repress it. “Is there no chance of a room before the weekend?” he asked.

“None at all, Mr. Stone,” said Oily-voice with obvious satisfaction. “Very sorry. Good-bye.”

“ 'Bye,” said Jack, but he was already speaking to a dead line. He turned to his Aunt Georgina, whose face was set in a sympathetic expression.

“No luck, I take it?”

“No. Is there anywhere else I can try?”

She narrowed her eyes, considering. “The Dog and Gun used to have a couple of rooms, but since Shelagh had her baby I think they've stopped all that. . . .” She made a ticking sound with her mouth as though flipping through a mental index file. Eventually she said, “I'm sorry, Jack, but I don't think there
is
anywhere else in Beckford. You could try one of the other villages.”

Jack thought about it, then shook his head, trying to dislodge the feeling that there was a kind of ominous inevitability to all this. “No,” he said, “that would be silly, wouldn't it? As you said before, why spend good money on a hotel when I've got a big empty house all to myself?”

Georgina smiled, rubbed his upper arm briskly as if he'd banged it. “That's the spirit,” she said. “I'm sure you'll be fine there. What's past is past, there's no bringing it back. It might even help you lay a few ghosts.”

Jack looked at his aunt, a little startled.
Lay a few ghosts
—that was exactly the phrase that Gail had used yesterday. “Yeah,” he said, “that's what Gail reckons.”

“Gail?” said Georgina. She tilted her head coquettishly. “And who might she be?”

Jack sighed inwardly and reminded himself that it would take his aunt a while to adjust to the fact that he was now a grown man. “She's a girl—a woman—I'm seeing,” he explained.

“Oh, courting, are we? You've kept that one quiet.”

Jack felt embarrassed in spite of himself. “Not really. We . . . er . . . we haven't known each other that long.” He hoped his aunt wouldn't ask
how
long because it would emphasise his recent lack of communication with her.

“Well, what's she like? What does she do? Is she from London?” His aunt's tone seemed to suggest there was something slightly disreputable in that.

Jack laughed, flattered by her interest but also a little uncomfortable, a reminder of how cagey he was, how he valued his privacy. “Still as nosy as ever,” he said, grinning to show he was joking. “Come on, I'll tell you all about her in the car.”

As far as Jack was concerned, the only drawback to living in London was being unable to get to the countryside easily, and if he'd been anywhere else he would have found the drive to his father's house exhilarating. The spring sunshine seemed clean and fresh, making the earth appear newborn. Trees seemed to stretch out their leaves to capture its light, fields to bristle, verdant, as though soaking up its goodness. The closer they came to the house, however, the more Jack's trepidation grew. He scorned himself silently for the groundlessness of his emotion. When he changed gear to scale the cobbled hill that led to Daisy Lane, he turned to his aunt and in an attempt at levity said, “It's just like a Hovis advert.” However, the look of disapproval she gave him made him feel ashamed; it was the comment of a patronising townie.

She looked childlike in the passenger seat, the seat belt slanting across her chest. Looking at her, Jack again felt sad, though he guessed she would have been appalled had she known. He saw the opening ahead on the left, the faded sign, half-concealed by foliage, reading DAISY LANE. He breathed deeply, as though bracing himself for some ordeal, then changed down to second and swung the car into the narrow opening.

Here was the dry-stone wall over which he had leaped to avoid the ambulance. Fifteen years did not seem to have changed it; if stones had crumbled and been replaced in that time, Jack did not notice. What did seem thicker were the trees, which craned over the track in a natural arch, the tips of their branches probing the car's roof. Sunlight dripped through the trees and winked softly on the road ahead. Fifty yards further the trees petered out abruptly; Jack screwed up his eyes as the sun pounced brilliantly from a glittering field on his left.

Daisy Lane twisted and turned for three-quarters of a mile before it reached Jack's father's house. Georgina had been fairly silent for most of the short journey—she had not even asked anything more about Gail—but now, as the Mini Cooper jounced and crawled along the uneven road, she said, “Tell me, Jack, do you
really
like London?”