The Immaculate (32 page)

Tracey Bates looked up into her father's sweating, wild-eyed face. Her own face was coldly serene. She placed a dainty hand over her father's clenched red fist.

“Of course I will, Daddy,” she said.

The police came first, a red-cheeked boy who couldn't pronounce his r's and an older, more world-weary colleague. They did not inspire confidence in Jack. They shook their heads, tutted a great deal at the mess made of the car, cursorily examined the tire tracks, and listened to his accusations without comment. By the time they went away, Jack was fighting an almost overwhelming urge to deliver a hefty kick to their shiny blue arses. They recommended a garage and promised Jack they would keep him informed of any developments. Sighing, he phoned the garage; despite all the evidence, he was almost certain that there would
be
no further developments. Maybe the leader of the bikers was the superintendent's son or something. Or perhaps the police simply regarded Jack as an outsider who had more money than he knew what to do with and probably deserved all he got.

The man from the garage was called David Rookham. He arrived half an hour after the police had left, driving a battered yellow pickup truck. He told Jack that when he had started out at the garage after leaving school, Jack's father, Terry, had shown him the ropes. “I owe him a lot, your dad,” Rookham said. “I were right sorry to 'ear that he'd died.”

Jack thanked him, though his first reaction was one of alarm. He'd completely forgotten that the only garage in Beckford belonged to Joe Bates, Patty's father and Tracey's grandfather.

“Do the Bates family still own the garage?” Jack asked, too casually.

Rookham tapped his chest proudly. “No, it's mine now. Old Joe retired about five or six years ago, and Patty weren't bothered about the place, so Joe sold it to me.”

At least partly relieved, Jack nodded at the car. “How much will it cost to fix, do you think?”

Rookham scratched his head. “Hard to say, Mr. Stone. I'll do you t' best price I can, but it's still going t' be a pretty packet.”

“Over a thousand?” Jack ventured.

“Oh, aye, I should think so. You need a completely new engine from t' looks of it. I'll ring round a few people I know this afternoon and get back to you later.”

“And how long do you think it will take to fix? I could do with heading back to London.”

Rookham pursed his lips. “Not much chance of that this weekend, I'm afraid. I'd say Monday at the earliest, though probably more like Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Is there no way of getting it done sooner?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stone, but not with it being Friday tomorrow. I'm quite happy to work over t' weekend, but other people aren't, you see.”

Jack sighed. “Okay. Well . . . just do your best.”

“Oh, I'll do that for you, Mr. Stone. You can bank on it. Your dad were a good mate o' mine, and he were right proud o' you with your books 'n that. I'll have this little beauty running good as new for you before long.”

Like the funeral car, the yellow pickup truck was too long a vehicle to turn round in the narrow lane, but Rookham remedied this by opening a gate further down the track and reversing into a field. Jack watched the pickup jounce away over the uneven surface, laden down with the weight of his damaged Mini. Then he went back into the house, took two paracetamol, and lay on the settee with his hand covering his eyes.

He tried not to think about the fact that he could be quarter of the way home by now. Just an hour before he'd been at peace with himself and the world, but now he felt tense and confused once again. Why were the Bates's out to get him? All he wanted to do was leave Beckford and go home. The fact that his car had been disabled seemed to suggest that they wanted to keep him here—an ominous development to say the least. Jack had a good mind to ring up Patty Bates and tell him exactly what he thought of him, but that might only worsen the situation. No, the best thing was simply to keep his head down and be careful. After all, he was on his own here and Bates had his entourage of bikers to call on. Even the police seemed to be of little use; he thought that this kind of victimisation was perhaps a bit beyond them. They were probably only used to lost cats and the occasional drunken driver. Jack was not aware he had fallen asleep until he woke up with the feeling he had forgotten something vital.

Of course: Gail. Shit, what time was it? She'd be wondering where he was. He tried to blink the blur from his eyes and concentrate on the watch that he was holding up to his face. For a few seconds his thoughts were like clouds, insubstantial and out of reach, and then they came together like the film of an explosion run backwards. Four twenty-five. Was she at work today or would she be at his flat now, eagerly awaiting his arrival? He got up, staggered into the hall and picked up the telephone. He gazed at the wall until his number came to him and dialed.

The answering machine replied. Jack left a message and tried Gail's number, but she was not home. He stood in the hall for a minute, wondering what to do. He could throw his things together, call a taxi and take the train back to London for the weekend, come back Tuesday or Wednesday for his car. Or he could stay here until his car was fixed, and put up with whatever else the Bates's devised to antagonise him in the meantime.

He chewed his lip as he considered the options. He didn't feel like travelling on public transport tonight. And he couldn't believe the Bates's would try anything else after this afternoon's little stunt—at least not for a day or two.

No, he'd stay in Beckford tonight and then head back to London tomorrow morning. Matter resolved, he went into the kitchen and made himself some dinner. He was eating an orange and watching an Australian soap when the telephone rang. He scampered into the hall and picked up the phone with sticky fingers.

“Hello? Jack? Is that you?”

“Of course it's me. Hi, Gail. How are you?”

“Jack, what's happened? Why aren't you coming home?”

“I explained on the answering machine, didn't I?”

“You just said something was wrong with the car and you wouldn't be able to come back yet.”

“Yeah, that's right. The engine's . . . er . . . broken.”

“What do you mean, broken?”

“It's, er, packed in.” He didn't want to tell her that it had been vandalised. She would only worry.

“Well . . . what exactly's wrong with it?”

“I don't know. I came back from the funeral and it wouldn't start. It's just . . . knackered. The garage have got it now.”

“Maybe it's the starter motor.”

“Yeah, maybe. I don't know anything about cars. You're the mechanical one.”

“Did they say how long it would be?”

“Monday at the earliest. Could be as late as Wednesday.”

“You're joking.”

“ 'Fraid not.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I thought I'd come home on the train tomorrow, then pop back and fetch the car next week.”

“
Pop back and fetch it?
But it's a mammoth train journey.”

“Yeah, but there's not much alternative, is there?”

“Couldn't you get the RAC to bring the car back to London?”

“Not really. I haven't got round to renewing my membership yet,” Jack admitted sheepishly.

“Oh, Jack, you prize klutz!” Gail exclaimed. “How many times have I reminded you about that?”

“I'd say . . . fifty million.”

“At least.” She sighed, was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I've got a suggestion.”

“What's that?”

“Why don't I come and spend the weekend with you?”

Jack felt a twinge of alarm, thinking of the potential threat from the Bates's and their cronies, and his reluctance for her to be involved. “I dunno,” he said. “It's not very exciting here.”

“What, with all those ghosts and bikers?” she tried to joke. Then she went on quickly, as though afraid she was giving him reasons for putting her off, “I'm not bothered about that. I just want to see you.”

“We-ell,” he prevaricated.

“Oh, come on, Jack, you know it makes sense. I'm not working next week, so I could stay until the car's fixed and then we could drive back together.”

Jack thought of Patty Bates again, and almost immediately felt a surge of indignation. Gail's suggestion was a sensible one. Why should the possibility of what Bates might do even be an issue? “Okay,” he conceded, “you ring me later and let me know what train you'll be getting and I'll meet you at the station. But you've got to let me pay for your fare.”

“We'll sort that out later. I'm teaching in the morning, but I should be finished around twelve. I'll get a train as soon after that as I can.”

“Okay. God, I can't wait to see you.”

“Me too.”

Now that she'd put forward the idea of visiting Beckford, Jack found he was quickly warming to it. He was surprised to discover that he was actually looking forward to showing her the house and the woods, that he felt a kind of pride in them. “I can read you some of my dad's stories,” he said.

“Yeah,” replied Gail noncommitally, and then, “By the way, how did the funeral go?”

“Oh . . . it was okay. You know what these things are like. Morbid. Depressing. Not many people came.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It doesn't matter. Tell me how your day's been. And what's been happening in the world? I haven't seen a paper since I got here and I've only caught snatches of the news.”

They chatted for a while. Gail told Jack that she might take herself along to the NFT later if she didn't feel too tired. They were showing Resnais'
Last Year in Marienbad,
a film she adored and had already seen three times.

“So what are you doing tonight?” she asked him.

“Oh, I don't know. Read some more of my dad's stories. Watch TV. Do some work. Play some music.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It'd be nicer if you were here.”

“Goes without saying.”

Jack made a sound of acknowledgement in his throat, then sighed. “Oh well,” he said, “better go.”

“Don't want to keep Sandra waiting,” said Gail.

“Who's Sandra?”

“Your fancy woman.”

Jack grinned. “No, no, it was Sandra last night. It's Betty tonight.”

“Is she as nice as me?”

“Nowhere near.”

“Good job. 'Cos if she was I'd come round there right now and duff her in.”

Jack laughed. “You're such a violent person.” He puffed out air in another loud sigh. “You know, I'd really psyched myself up for Maxi's tonight.”

“Maxi's, eh? Never mind, sweetie, it'll be something to look forward to.”

“Yeah, suppose so. You'll ring me later then?”

“Yeah, when I've found out the train times.”

Jack waited until Gail had put the phone down, then put it down himself. The hallway was gloomy and cold. He went back into the sitting room, massaging his ear where he'd pressed the receiver too hard against it. He ought to build a fire, but he was still wearing his suit from the funeral. It was already crumpled, but that was no reason to get coal dust all over it as well. He switched on the lamps, put on an Elvis Costello CD, then went upstairs and changed into his jeans and sweater. If he was going to be here all weekend he'd have to wash some of his clothes, but he couldn't be bothered to do it now; it could wait until the morning. He went back downstairs to make a fire and paused in the hallway by the telephone, realising his aunt didn't know he was still here. He ought to tell her before she heard it on the village grapevine and thought he was avoiding her. He picked up the phone and rang her. She expressed concern and sympathy when he told her about the car, but secretly Jack thought she was pleased he would be staying longer, especially when he told her that Gail would be arriving tomorrow.

As he put the phone down he wondered how the meeting between Gail and his aunt would go. It was only now, as he tried to picture the confrontation, that he realised they were similar in many ways. “Wow, Jack, Oedipus complex,” he muttered to himself. Though Georgina was not his mother, she had been a surrogate mother to him, the woman he had looked to in his childhood. And now he had fallen for a woman who, like her, was independent, broached no nonsense and yet was infinitely caring. Jack wondered, not for the first time, what his own mother had been like. He thought of her paintings, pictured her working on them quietly and contentedly, and he felt a lump rise to his throat.

He made a fire, poured himself a whiskey and lit a cigarette. He was torn between reading his father's stories and doing some work. He knew he ought to work, but he was drawn to the blue notebooks by an instinctive and voracious desire. He drew on his cigarette as he struggled with his conscience, then he reached down and picked up one of the notebooks. He had a long evening ahead of him. There was no reason why he couldn't read first and then work later.

Because that afternoon's events had unsettled him, he thought he might have to concentrate a little harder than usual, but this was not the case; he slipped into the first of his father's stories quickly and effortlessly. He hadn't known this since childhood, this utter absorption in written fiction. It was akin to falling under the influence of a hypnotist. His surroundings dissolved, and even the physical act of reading—holding the book, his eyes travelling across and down the lines of his father's scrawl—became subliminal. Time became meaningless, his body's cravings subsided as in sleep. Jack became a willing slave to The Story; he would serve it for as long as it required him. Just as Jack had an inexorable hunger to read, The Story had an inexorable hunger to be read. It was almost akin to a physical need that worked both ways, a mutual parasitism. Jack felt all this subconsciously, and yet he also felt that the act was a positive one. Like sex, it was purging, loving, shattering, fulfilling.