The Immaculate (33 page)

Three hours after he had begun, Jack looked up and blinked as if someone had clicked their fingers in front of his face. He scanned back and saw that he had read fourteen more of the stories. The last, entitled
Sitting on the Stairs,
was dated 8/8/94. A piece of coal shifted in the grate, drawing Jack's attention. He hauled himself up from the settee and tormented the fire back to life with the poker, then added more coal. His mind felt clear, sharp as a razor. Reading the stories had pepped him up, roused his imagination, made him eager to work. He would make some coffee and then write until he became tired. The idea excited him. He would only go to bed when he felt like it; he would not be constrained by the conventions of time, or even by darkness and light. He went out of the sitting room, rolling his head from side to side, aware of the crackle of his bones, and finding it a pleasurable experience. Jack had once toyed with the idea of taking up karate, but in the end had decided he did not have the necessary commitment, the required predilection for self-discipline. What had attracted him to the idea had not been the self-defence aspect, but the prospect of being vitally aware and in control of his own mental and physical being. He felt that way now; it was as if the separate components that made up Jack Stone had slipped into perfect alignment, creating an incredible harmony, a perfect pattern within which it might just be possible to glimpse some unbelievable truth.

He was filling the kettle at the sink when there came a loud, steady knocking—five beats—on the front door. Jack was so startled that, as he turned, he pulled the kettle round with him and water from the tap battered off the curving metal side and drenched him. “Bloody hell!” he shouted. He put the kettle down, turned off the tap and mopped himself with a tea towel. The knocking came again. “Just a minute,” he muttered. He balled up the tea towel and dumped it on the kitchen table, then crept through the hall to the front door and pressed his ear to the wood.

He could hear nothing, but what did he expect? “Who is it?” he called and was pleased at the strength in his voice.

The sound of a female voice surprised him. “Mr. Stone? Jack? It's me, Tracey.”

Tracey? Tracey Bates? Jack was astounded. How could she possibly have the gall to come here? “What do you want?” he demanded.

“I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.”

“What about?”

“It's about what's been going on. I just wanted to explain.”

“What the bloody hell is there to explain?”

“If you'll open the door, I'll tell you.”

Jack's fingers rested on the door handle, but did not turn it. The prospect of an explanation intrigued him, for how could she possibly justify her actions? Yet on the other hand this might be a ploy for her and her cronies to gain entry. He imagined Tracey Bates standing at the head of half a dozen bikers who were holding their breaths to keep quiet, trying not to giggle. The one who looked like Lemmy would be there, hefting the sledgehammer he had used to disable Jack's car. The others would be clasping pieces of wood or oily chains. Jack imagined the chains swaying and catching the moonlight.

“Do you really think I'm that stupid?” Jack said.

“What?”

“Opening the door to you and your friends? If you don't fuck off now I'm calling the police.”

“For God's sake, I'm on my own. I walked here.”

“Sure you did.”

“I did! Honestly! Look, if we wanted to get to you, we would. We could drive a motorbike through the front door or smash all the windows without anyone hearing a thing.”

What she had said was true, but Jack still thought that opening the door was a bad idea. “Look,” he said, “I think you're in enough trouble as it is. The police already know what you did to my car, and if you don't leave I'll tell them about the other night as well, when you tried to kill me.”

“We didn't try to kill you, it was only—”

“A bit of fun? Sure. What do you do for an encore? Set fire to people's houses when they're asleep?”

Tracey's reply was sulky. “How were we to know you'd overreact?”

“
Overreact?
Jeez, I don't believe this. How do you think
you'd
react, given the circumstances?”

He heard her sigh, as if he were being tiresome. “Look,” she said, “are you going to let me in or not?”

“Not,” said Jack.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, it's bloody cold out here.”

“My heart bleeds for you.”

She sighed again, deeper this time. Jack was enjoying her exasperation.

“Please, Jack,” she wheedled. “Can't we let bygones be bygones? I only wanted to say I was sorry.”

“So now you've said it. Good-bye.”

He leapt back as something slammed against the door, making it vibrate. Here it comes, he thought, Lemmy's sledgehammer. But the sound was not repeated. Instead he heard a sliding sound and then, from knee-level, sobbing.

He waited, trying to decide whether this was all part of the ploy. If he opened the door would she lunge for him, grabbing him round the knees and knocking him off balance? Would her friends swarm over him and into the house, stinking of booze and leather and dirt? How could Jack find out if she really was alone? And then all at once he realised. He turned and raced up the stairs as nimbly and silently as he could.

He sped along the landing, bypassing his bedroom and the bathroom. He paused only for a second outside the door to his father's room, expelling a quick breath like a runner, before opening the door and stepping inside. Moonlight glowed on the other side of the drawn curtains, a dull lemony sheen. The texture of the darkness inside the room was grainy, rough, like black tweed.

Jack felt as though the darkness were wisping across his face and the backs of his hands as he stepped to the window. He took an edge of curtain between the index finger and thumb of his right hand and twitched it back. There was enough moonlight to see that the front garden, Daisy Lane and the surrounding fields were empty. Unless all the bikers, like Tracey, were crammed against the front door or hiding around the sides of the house, she was telling the truth.

Gritting his teeth against the sound of its squealing hinges, Jack pushed open the narrow window at the left-hand side, which would be directly above Tracey Bates' head. He leaned over the sill and peered out. She had been telling the truth about the cold, too; the wind which pressed against his cheeks and forehead was so icy it would make his skull ache before long. Tracey was sitting on the stoop, head resting against the door. Her blonde hair fanned out like a golden cone, obscuring most of her face. She looked to be sleeping or exhausted. Jack ducked back in, pulling the window closed, and ran across the room, along the landing and down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He unlocked the front door as quietly as he could, then took the handle in his hand, twisted it and tugged it open. Tracey cried out, her hands slapping the floor as she sprawled across the threshold. “Come in then,” said Jack. When she gaped up at him, tearful and confused, he added gruffly, “Hurry up or I'm shutting this door again.”

She got the message and pulled herself, crab-like, into the hallway. The charge from behind her, which Jack had been half-anticipating, did not come; nevertheless, he slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock so fiercely that he hurt his hand.

“Right then,” he said, “what is it you wanted to say?”

She looked at him with wide eyes and then got slowly to her feet. “I'm cold,” she said, drawing the word out, making it shudder. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest and rubbed her shoulders. “Can I sit by the fire?”

Jack did not reply at once. He was very wary; he felt there was an ulterior motive in everything she said and did. At last he replied grudgingly, “Okay. Go on.”

He followed her into the sitting room, keeping a little distance between them in case she should suddenly snatch something from her jacket, or even an ornament from the table, and threaten him with it. She released a moan of pleasure at the warmth of the room, crossed immediately to the fire and crouched before it, holding out her hands.

“That's better,” she said. “I'm freezing.”

“It's not that cold,” replied Jack.

“It is when you've walked two miles. The wind that blows down that lane is evil.”

“You should wear warmer clothes,” he said reprovingly.

She smiled at that and turned back to the fire. Jack understood that smile perfectly. It would have translated as: Warmer clothes? You must be joking. I'd rather freeze to death than be seen in a scarf and woolly mitts.

What depressed him was the fact that fifteen years ago that was his attitude, too. For the second time in Tracey's company, he thought how staid, how horribly mature he had become.

He skirted around the edge of the settee and perched himself on the arm, a couple of feet behind Tracey. Her hair shimmered, catching the light. Jack was close enough now to smell her fabulous smell. Despite himself, he breathed it in deeply, relishing it. He wondered whether to offer her coffee, but decided not to because he wanted to keep her within sight at all times, wanted to control the situation. Even now, he wasn't sure if he had the upper hand; he felt nervous and awkward despite his anger.

“Look,” he said in a dry, almost weary voice, “could we get this over with? You're interrupting my work.”

She turned, wiping the last of her (crocodile?) tears from her eyes, leaving smudges of mascara. “Were you writing?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you're working on?”

“A new book. I told you.”

“Oh, yeah. Is it going well?”

“Well enough,” he said, “but never mind that. You said you'd come here to explain.”

She rolled her eyes and tutted. “My, my, we are uptight, aren't we?”

“Hardly surprising, is it?” he snapped. “I've been victimised for no reason, my car's been wrecked—”

“Oh, come on,” Tracey protested, “it wasn't wrecked.”

Jack stared at her openmouthed; for a few seconds he was literally struck dumb by her audacity. Then a strangled sound lurched from his throat, releasing his words. “I don't believe you just said that. Do you know how much money that fucking damage you idiots did is going to cost me?”

Tracey looked sullen. “No.”

“About fifteen hundred pounds! And for what? So that you and your dirty, brainless, fucking . . .
gits
of friends could have a laugh at my expense.”

His heart was beating so hard it was making his head throb. Jack felt hot, almost dizzy with rage. Tracey was still staring at him, but he thought he now saw caution in her eyes. “I'm sorry for what happened,” she said evenly. “It was never meant to go that far.”

“Then why did it?” Jack said. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Nothing,” said Tracey. She shrugged. “You made Boxer jealous.”

“I did what? Who the fuck's Boxer?”

“He's my boyfriend. It was him who smashed up your car. Well . . . him and a couple of the other lads. He was really pissed off when he found out it had stopped you leaving today.”

Jack's anger was beginning to ebb a little, leaving a backwash of exhaustion, depression, confusion. He brought a hand up to his forehead, tried unsuccessfully to massage the throbbing ache out of it. “I don't understand,” he said. “Why the hell would he be jealous of me?”

Tracey was silent for a moment. She turned and looked into the fire, the movement releasing a faint waft of her delicious scent. When she spoke her voice was both apologetic and defiant. “Because I told him I loved you,” she said.

“You did what?”
Jack's heart, which had been slowing to its normal rhythm, began to thud again. He felt anger, alarm, disbelief at her words.

“I told him I loved you,” she repeated, and there was more than defiance in her voice this time. She swung round, her jacket jangling, and fixed him with those glorious blue eyes. There was a pinpoint of light, like a golden stud, in the centre of each pupil. “And it's true, Jack. I do love you.”

Despite himself, he felt his cheeks getting hot and knew that he was flushing. This couldn't be true; of course it couldn't. This was another of Tracey Bates' vicious games. And yet her statement had thrown him off balance, was enabling her to manipulate the situation once again. He struggled to organise his thoughts, to defuse her outrageous statement before it enabled her to tighten her control.

“Don't be ridiculous. You don't even know me,” was all he could think of to say.

“I
do,
” she insisted as though she had anticipated his reaction. She leaned towards him, her face earnest. “I've read all your books, Jack, and I feel I know you intimately, that I've been party to your innermost thoughts.”

Jack tried to laugh; it had a hollow ring. “My books aren't about me,” he said. “They're just words on paper, made-up stories.”

Tracey smiled sweetly, indulgently, at him. “Oh, come on, Jack, you can't fool me. I know you too well.”

She reached out for him. Her hand would have closed over his thigh if he hadn't jumped up. He swung his leg over the arm of the settee and away from her, almost falling in his haste. “Stop this!” he shouted, as if at a dog. “This is crap. Just piss off, leave me alone.”

Tracey stood up languorously, taking her time, removing her leather jacket with a single shrug. It slithered to the floor with a soft, metallic sound. Beneath the jacket she was wearing a white blouse of very thin material, through which could clearly be seen the soft pink of her skin, the outline of her white bra.

“What's the matter, Jack?” she said teasingly. “Don't you find me attractive?”

He was sweating, backpedalling, on the defensive. He knew this was nonsense and that he had to put a stop to it. “That isn't the point,” he said. “Look, just stop this now, or I'll . . . I'll—”