Authors: Frederic Lindsay

The Stranger Came (70 page)

BOOK: The Stranger Came

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It
struck
her
he
was
speaking
as
if
of
a
man
already
dead.

In
the
sanctuary
of
her
hotel
room,
she
lay
down
on
the
bed
and
fell
asleep.
When
she
woke,
she
had
no
idea
where
she
was.
Angling
her
arm
up
to
check
the
time,
she
had
to
pull
back
the
sleeve
of
her
jacket
and
realised
then
she
was
still
fully
dressed.
It
was
early,
just
after
seven.
She
had
slept
only
for
a
few
hours,
but
slept
so
deeply
her
neck
cramped
when
she
tried
to
move.
The
night
before
the
woman
Doreen
had
said,
'Men
come
here
for
what
they
can't
get
at
home.
Mr
Rintoul
wouldn't
have
got
much
from
you
.
You
don't
like
men,
do
you?'
Shop
talk
again.
Experience's
half
-
truth;
the
whore's
rationalisation about
the
faults
of
wives;
should
the
good
wife
kneeling
hand
the
sadist
the
whip?
Keep
your
husband
happy,
like
a
save-your-marriage
article
in
a
woman's
magazine,
Cosmopolitan
or
one
with
knitting
patterns
all
the
same,
women
were
such
fools,
and
prostitutes
as
fooled
as
any
it
seemed.
But
could
see
into
you,
what
you
wanted,
experience
did
that
for
them,
every
woman
to
her
own
trade.
'You're
not
much
interested
in
men,
are
you?'

The
minute
hand
on
the
watch
jerked
forward.
She stretched
her
arms
by
her
sides
and
letting
her
eyes
close
lay
still.

There
was
a
panic
when
she
couldn't
find
her
bag,
money,
return
flight
tickets,
but
it
had
been
handed
in
at
reception.
Going
through
the
station
to
get
the
train
for
Heathrow,
she
held
it
tight
under
her
arm.
It
wasn't
to
be
opened
to
give
to
the
woman
begging
in
the
lavatory;
or
the
boy
squatted
at
the
foot
of
the
Tube
stairs
all
corners
like
a
creature
disjointed,
stretching
up
his
hand
and
startling
her
with
the
mechanical
croak
of
his
pleading.
Hitler
had
been
no
older
straying
out
of
a
Viennese
dosshouse
to
scrounge
a
copy
of
a
völkisch-occult
magazine
where
he
would
read
of
the
World
Ice
Theory
and
the
purity
of
the
Aryan.
She
found
the
sight
of
the
boy
unendurable.
Nothing
less
than
gathering
him
up
in
her
arms
and
caring
for
him
would
meet
his
case.
She
hurried
past
without
opening
her
purse.

At
the
airport
she
bought
a
paper,
and
then
a
copy
of half
a
dozen
others.
None
of
them
made
a
mention,
not
even
in
the
most
out-of-the-way
paragraph,
of
the
riot
she
had
seen
the
night
before.
It
was
as
if
it
had
never
happened.

BOOK
SEVEN

Chapter 2
5

Screams
From
the
Basement

The Tube station had tile walls and seemed to her a very white and open space after the long walk through the tunnels. At the bottom of the first stair two children sat side by side, one not more than four or five, the other older and it was the older one who held out her hand as you came down off the last step and made a plea without words a kind of brief keening, and what were you to do? Giving her a coin seemed not enough, nothing was enough but gathering them up in your arms and taking them home with you, and you were horrified, disgusted, where was the Fagin hiding? For there had to be one of those, perhaps the two were not even sisters, and you went by without giving them anything, not a coin, far less the love that had no thought of self. She saw Anne Macleod on the opposite platform dressed as a man and waved trying to catch her attention, wanting her to wait so that she could run down again through the tunnels and join her; she would tell her about the children. Instead without even glancing up Anne stumbled and spun over. Falling from the platform she made a black cross shape, trousered legs held up as she fell. Her hitting the ground came muffled and a little distant like the sound of blows. And two men ran almost to the edge and then swung off like gulls startled in flight, and both platforms suddenly were filled with people, hands everywhere thrown up to hold back the noise from the tunnel, the roar of the train dazzling from the tiled walls. She was the engine driver rushing into an unfolding openness of mouths stretched wide and hands crying Stop. And in the same moment the wall of the platform was rough against her bruised face and the rail sang by her ear as the train came. And she thought she must be Anne Macleod and then was herself and Anne Macleod's weight lay heavy on her and she was grateful for she was being protected, greater love hath no man than this only not a man of course, but then the weight on top of her was moving and thick flesh entered her. Anne was – Anne was, no, Maitland was inside her. And excitement became fear and turned to anger – why now? Couldn't he hear the train, what was the hurry? Why now? Anyway it was so long since they had anyway it was too late. The driver saw hands held up like posters but there wasn't time or room enough. It was stopping but not ever in time. Brakes shrieked. Maitland thrust into her. The train ground past the place under the soiled wall where she lay held by him.
She
stood
on
the
platform
and
watched
the
train
go
by
and
knew
she
was
dreaming
and
wakened
and
Maitland
thrust
and
thrust
again
and
groaning
let
his
weight
sag
down
on
her.

She
struggled
to
throw
him
off
and
he
caught
her
wrists
and
with
his
whole
weight
held
her
down
like
an
enemy.

'I
can't
breathe!'

He
rolled
to
the
side
and
in
doing
so
somehow
the
grip
on
her
changed
into
a
holding
for
comfort;
and
she
recognised
the
nature
of
this
change
even
before
he
began
to
make
soothing
noises
which
at
last
resolved
themselves
into
a
murmured,
'You
were
sleeping.’

'Let
me
go,'
she
said,
and
waited
until
he
took
his
arms
away.

'I
was
sleeping,'
she
said.
'How
could
you?'

'It's
all
right.’
He
made
the
mistake
of
using
the
same
tone,
as
if
calming
a
child.

'Oh,
it's
not,
no,
it's
not.
Don't
think
it,
it
isn't.
I
was asleep.’

'Yes,'
he
said.

'You
weren't
making
love
to
me.
Just
doing
what
you
wanted.
Taking
as
if
I
was
a
thing.
Not
someone.’

'Oh,
for
God's
sake.’
She
was,
it
seemed,
trying
his
patience.

'There's
no
love
in
that.’

In
all
the
years
they
had
been
married,
he
had
never
done
this
to
her.
Making
love
was
to
someone,
not
to
a
body
with
the
spirit
elsewhere.

'You
could
make
allowances.’

'What?'

He
got
out
of
bed.
The
curtain
was
drawn
and
his
naked
body
before
the
window
seemed
to
shine
in
the
cold
brilliant
light.
As
clearly
as
if
through
her
own
eyes,
she
saw
through
his
the
full
moon
resting
just
for
a
moment
on
the
dark
edge
of
the
mountain
s.

'I
almost
died
this
morning,'
he
said.

Walking
up
through
the
woods,
ground
firm
underfoot
that
had
been
a
sucking
of
black
leaf
mould
in
summer,
panting
a
little
from
the
effort
of
climbing,
she
had
wanted,
but
not
been
able
to
tell
Anne
Macleod
about
the
phone
call.
Maitland
had
been
killed.

'They
told
me
you
were.’

'I'm
sorry.’
But
he
spoke
without
turning
from
the
window,
the
shape
of
him
dark
against
the
light.
'I
can't
imagine
who
phoned,
though.’

'A
man.’

‘Y
es.’

'He
had
an
accent,
from
somewhere
in
England.
That
was
what
confused
me.
I
knew
you
were
going
to
Aberdeen.
But,
of
course,
that
was
where
he
was
phoning
from.
A
policeman.’

'He
said
he
was
a
policeman?'

'I
think
so –
I
don't
know.’

'It's
very
strange.’

'I
don't
know
what
you're
saying.
That
you
don't
believe
me?'

She
had
been
standing
at
the
window
when
the
taxi
brought
him
home
near
the
end
of
the
day.
And
the
heart
in
her
body
had
melted
for
joy
to
see
him.

'I
thought
you
were
dead.
For
all
those
hours,'
she
said.

'If
I'd
been
asked
to
guess
what
you
would
do
on
being
told
I
was
dead
…
That's
a
game
all
of
us
play
in
our
heads,
men
do
anyway
…
When
I
play
it
with
you
dead,
I
am
grief-stricken,
yet
brave.
Dignified.
People
are
impressed.
You,
on
the
other
hand,
went
for
a
walk.
I
wouldn't
have
guessed
that.’