Faith

by Peter James

  FAITH

  Peter James

  Version 1.0

  CN 4646

  Copyright © 2000 Peter James/Really Scary Books Ltd

  To the memory of my mother Cornelia, An absent best friend.

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a great debt to a number of people who generously gave me so much of their precious time, their knowledge and their wisdom, and added whole dimensions to this book. In particular, I would like to thank Anna-Lisa Lindeblad-Davies, police surgeon and coroner, Dr Peter Dean, hypnotherapist Dr Christopher Forester, the fiendishly creative mind of Detective Chief Inspector David Gaylor, and Mr Nicholas Parkhouse DM MCh FRCS who gave me invaluable insight into the world of the plastic surgeon.

  I also had treasured help from Mr David Albert, Dr Andrew Davey FCAnaes, Dr Celina Dunn, Dr Ian Dunn, Dr Bruno Von Ehrenberg, Dr Dennis Friedman, Danny Green, Mick Harris, Amanda Hemingway, Nurse Marion Heath, Nurse Becky Holland, Dr Bruce Katz, Rob Kempson, Dr Nigel Kirkham MRCPath, Tracy Lewis, Lynn Magos, Dr Richard G Mathias, Tim Parker, Dr Rick Ross, Nurse Jacqui Scott, Dr Geraldine Smith MR C Path, Roy Shuttleworth, Mr Brent Tanner DM MCh FRCS, Dr David Veale, Elizabeth Veale and Arnie Wilson.

  As ever, deep thanks to my UK agent Jon Thurley, to my crucial unofficial editor, Sue Ansell, my late mother and best ambassador, Cornelia, my copy editor, Hazel Orme, and my editors, Simon Spanton and Selina Walker. A very big thank you is reserved for Helen, for more reasons than I can list. And finally, of course, thanks for the patience of Bertie, ever curled beneath my desk, occasionally pausing from his slumber to fart, chew my computer cables, or shred a fallen sheet of manuscript…

  Peter James

  Sussex, England, 1999

  Prologue

  Someone told Maddy Williams that people always knew when they were going to die. Or maybe she'd read it somewhere. A newspaper? Magazine? She read a lot of women's magazines — particularly the problem pages and stories of human angst, about people like herself who had complexes about the way they looked. Noses too big, breasts too floppy, pointy ears, ratty lips.

  There were faulty cars known as Friday cars, and maybe there were Friday people — people who had bits of code missing from their genes, or error messages that manifested by placing their eyes too close together, or giving them too few fingers or a hare-lip, or, like herself, a port-wine stain birthmark the shape of Texas, covering half of her face. Defects that the victims had to display for the rest of their lives, as if they were carrying a banner that said, My genes did this to me.

  But not any more for Maddy Williams. She'd been saving since she was ten years old, when she first heard about plastic surgery in a television documentary. Ever since Danny Burton and every other classmate, and just about every stranger she'd ever encountered, had stared at her in a way that made her feel like a freak, she had been saving for this series of operations that was going to transform her life. And one of the most famous plastic surgeons in Britain was performing them.

  Some months back he'd sketched on paper and shown her on the computer in his consulting room how she was going to look with her new face, and three weeks ago he had started on her. It wasn't just Texas that was going: that hooked beak of a nose was morphing into a Cameron Diaz snub, her lips would be filled out, her cheekbones reshaped. After thirty-one years of hell she was going to be transformed!

  And now on the operating table, woozy from the pre-med, her thoughts rambling, she hardly dared believe it was all happening… that it was really happening! Because nothing good ever did happen to her, that was the pattern of her life. Always, when she was on the edge of something going her way for once, the wheels would fall off. She'd read about this too, people who were dogged by bad luck. Maybe there was a bad-luck gene?

  In truth the two operations she'd had so far weren't quite as great as she'd hoped. She was disappointed with her nose, the arches were too flared, but the surgeon was going to correct that now. Just a tiny op today, pre-med and local anaesthetic, a little bit of tweaking and hey presto!

  When I come round I'm going to have a nose like Cameron Diaz.

  Soon I'm going to be everything I ever wanted to be. Normal. I'm going to be an ordinary human being. Just like everyone else.

  The ceiling above her was cream plaster; it looked tired, the kind of ceiling where spiders hang out and bugs crawl. I'm a pupa curled up inside a chrysalis and I'm going to emerge as a beautiful butterfly.

  The table shook slightly beneath her, a faint rumbling sound — wheels? Like a drum roll. Now she was under bright lights. She could feel their warmth. Get a suntan! she thought.

  Two figures in green surgical scrubs stood over her, their faces anonymous behind their masks and beneath hats like scrunched J-cloths. The nurse and the surgeon. His eyes locked on hers. Last time they had been sparkling with warmth and humour, but now they were different: cold, devoid of any emotion. An icy wind squalled through her, and the faint apprehension of a few minutes ago now turned into mounting terror that she was not going to survive this operation.

  People know when they are going to die.

  But there was no need to be afraid. Hey, this surgeon was Mr Nice Guy! This was the man who'd shown her how beautiful he could make her, who'd held her hand to reassure her, who had even done his best to convince her that she looked fine as she was, that she did not need surgery, that the blotch on her face and the kink in her nose all added to her character…

  But this surgeon was in a strange space today — or was it just in her imagination? She looked for reassurance at the nurse. Warm concerned eyes stared back. She wasn't aware of anything wrong. But…

  People know when they are going to die.

  The words were screaming inside her now. She was not going to make it through this operation, she needed to get out, now, this minute, cancel, forget about it.

  Maddy attempted to speak, but as she did so the surgeon leaned over her, holding a cotton bud in his gloved hand, and began to work it around the inside of first her left nostril, then her right. She wanted to move, to shake her head, to shout, but it was as if someone had disconnected her body from her brain.

  Please help me! Oh, God, one of you please help me!

  Darkness was descending, swabbing up her remaining thoughts before they were fully formed, before they could turn into words. And now, as she stared back into the surgeon's eyes, she could see a smile in them, as if he had been holding something back from her and now he didn't need to hold it back. And she knew for certain that she was going to die today.

  1

  Late on a wet May afternoon, Faith Ransome, walking around the downstairs rooms of her house, checking for errant bits of Lego, thought, Is this it? Is this my life? Is this all there is?

  Alec, in the kitchen, called, 'Mummy, Muummeeeee! Come and watch!'

  She stooped to recover a bright yellow corner piece from behind the sofa, relieved. Ross would have seen it for sure. And then…

  She shivered, feeling a little queasy. It was cold in England after three weeks of hot, dry sun in Thailand. They'd been home four days and it felt much longer. Four centuries.

  'Muummmeeeee!'

  Tuning out his voice, she walked upstairs, the ritual, checking each of the stairs for marks, mud, paw prints, and the walls for any new blemish, the lights for blown bulbs. Her eyes scanned the landing carpet and she recovered another Lego brick, went into Alec's room, and put the two pieces in the box on the table. She looked around carefully, picked up a robot spacewalker, crammed Alec's trainers into the cupboard and closed the door, rearranged the Star Wars bedcover and straightened the row of fluffy heads on the pillow.

  Spike, Alec's hamster, as fat as its Rugrat namesake was skinny, was trundling around inside the treadmill in his cage. She scooped up a few spilled grains fr
om the table-top and dropped them in the waste-bin.

  As she finished she heard the drumroll bark of Rasputin, their black Labrador, b-woof… b-woof… b-woof…

  A rush of adrenaline. Then the unmistakable mashing of tyres on gravel.

  Not good adrenaline this — like seaweed-laden storm waves breaking inside her. Barking steadily, Rasputin lumbered from the kitchen, through the hall, into the drawing room where, Faith knew, he had leaped on to his chair in front of the bay window so that he could see his master.

  He was home early.

  'Alec! Daddy's home!' She sprinted for the bedroom, peered in, checked. Bed neat inside the four-poster oak frame. Shoes, slippers, stray clothes, already put away. En-suite bathroom. Basin spotless. Towels hung the way Ross liked them.

  Hastily she pulled off the jeans, sweatshirt and trainers that were her habitual daytime clothes. It wasn't that she felt like dressing up to greet her husband, she just wanted to avoid criticism.

  In the bathroom she stared at her face in the mirror. In the cabinet was a plastic vial of pills. Her happy pills. It had been over a month since she had taken one and she was determined to stay off them. Determined to beat the depression that had dogged her on and off for the past six years since her son had been born — to kill it dead!

  She put on some eye-shadow, fresh mascara, a dash of rouge, dabbed a little powder on her perfect snub nose (her husband's craftsmanship, not her genes) pulled on black Karen Millen slacks, a white blouse, a pale green Betty Barclay cardigan and black mules.

  Then she checked her hair in the mirror. She was a natural blonde, and favoured classic styles. Right now it was parted to one side, cut just short of her shoulders at the back and slanted down across her forehead at the front.

  You don't look bad, girl, not for a thirty-two-year-old mum.

  Although, of course, she had Ross to thank for a lot of that.

  The key was rattling in the front door.

  And now she hurried down the stairs, as it opened in a flurry of leaping dog, swirling Burberry raincoat, swinging black case and distressed-looking Ross.

  She took the case and the raincoat, thrust at her as if she was a hat-check girl, and proffered her cheek for a perfunctory kiss. 'Hi,' she said. 'How was your day?'

  'Total hell. I lost someone. Died on me.' Anger and pain in his voice as he slammed the door behind him.

  Ross, six foot four, black hair gelled back in high-gloss waves, reeking of soap, looked like some handsome gangster: starched white shirt, red and gold silk tie, tailored navy suit, trousers with creases to slice cheese, black brogues flossed to military perfection. He seemed close to tears.

  At the sight of his son his face lit up.

  'Daddy, Daddy!'

  Alec, face brown from Thailand, was leaping through the air into his arms.

  'Hey, big guy!' Ross held his son tightly to his chest, as if in this animated bundle of child he was holding every hope and dream in the world. 'Hey!' he said. 'What's been happening? How was your day?'

  Faith smiled. No matter how low she felt, seeing the love between her husband and her son was the one thing that gave her strength and the resolve to make her marriage work.

  She hung up his coat, set down the case, and went into the kitchen. On the television, Homer Simpson was being berated by his boss. She poured a three-finger measure of Macallan into the glass, then pressed the tumbler up against the ice arm of the Maytag fridge. Four cubes clinked into it.

  Ross followed her in and set Alec down. The boy's attention returned to the television.

  'Who died?' Faith said, handing her husband the glass. 'A patient?'

  He held up the rim to the window, checking for dirt, lipstick, and God-knew-what-else he checked the rims of glasses for before committing them to his sacred lips.

  One finger of whisky went down. She reached up, loosened his tie, half-heartedly put a comforting arm around him, which was the most she could do, and the most she wanted to do, then withdrew it.

  'I scored two goals today, Daddy!'

  'He did!' Faith confirmed proudly.

  'That's terrific!' Ross stood behind his son and wrapped his arms around him again. 'Two goals?'

  Alec nodded, torn between accepting praise and watching the show.

  Then the smile faded from Ross's face. He said again, 'Two goals!' but the sparkle had gone from his eyes. He patted Alec's head, said, 'Just great!' then went down the hall to his study and sat down in his leather Parker Knoll, still, unusually, with his jacket on. He levered the chair to its furthest back-reclined, footrest-up position, and closed his eyes.

  Faith watched him. He was suffering, but she could feel nothing for him. Part of her still wanted everything between them to be as it once was, although now it was more for Alec's sake, than her own.

  'Died. I can't believe she did that to me.'

  Quietly, 'A patient?'

  'Yes, a fucking patient. Why the hell did she have to go and die on me?'

  'What happened?'

  'Allergic reaction to the anaesthetic. That's the second this year. Jesus.'

  'Same anaesthetist? Tommy?'

  'No, Tommy's away. I didn't use anyone. It was only a tiny correction, for God's sake — just the flare of the arches. I used a local anaesthetic — don't need an anaesthetist to do that. Could you get me a cigar?'

  Faith went to the humidor in the dining room, took out a Montecristo No. 3, clipped the end the way Ross liked it, and brought it back into the room. Then she held the flame of the Dupont lighter as he drew several deep puffs, rotating the end until it was burning evenly.

  He blew a long jet of smoke at the ceiling, then, eyes closed, asked, 'How was your day?'

  She wanted to say, Actually, it was a shitty day, the way most of my days are, but she didn't. She said, 'It was OK. Fine.'

  He nodded, silently. Then, after some moments, said, 'I love you, Faith. I couldn't live without you. You know that, don't you?'

  Yes, she thought. And that's a big problem.

  2

  The small boy stood in the alley in the darkness that lay beyond the throw of the streetlight. Above him, on this warm September night, the glow of a weak bulb spilled through drawn curtains behind an open window.

  A car was accelerating down the street, and he pressed himself flat against the wall. There was a crash of gears, then it went past. Somewhere down the street he heard the words of a new song called 'Love Me Do' playing loudly over a radio. He wrinkled his nose against the stench from the dustbins beside him.

  A breeze swayed the curtains and a streak of light played across the windowless side wall behind him. Somewhere close by a dog barked, then was silent. And in the silence he heard a woman's voice. 'Oh, yes, oh, my God, yes! Harder, fuck me harder, oh, my God, oh, yes, oh yes, oh yes!'

  In his right hand the boy held a heavy rectangular oil can, with a round screw cap, and a thin metal handle with a sharp edge that dug painfully into his palm. The words shell oil were printed on the side. The can smelt of car engines. It contained a gallon of petrol, which he had siphoned from the tank of his father's Morris.

  In his pocket, he had a box of matches.

  In his heart, hatred burned.

  3

  Ross's semen trickled between her legs. Faith lay still, listening to the stream of his urine, grey daylight through the open curtains, stark shapes of the beeches in rich green leaf framing the horizon. News drizzled from the clock radio, slightly off tune, across the far side of the bed, gloomy Kosovan war-dead news. Then a time check: 6.25 on Wednesday, 12 May.

  She reached for her contact lenses, picked up the container and unscrewed the top. Twenty minutes and she would have to get Alec up, fed, to school, and then…?

  The queasiness she'd been feeling for the past few days seemed worse this morning, and a thought struck her.

  Pregnant?

  Oh, God, please no.

  A year after Alec was born they'd begun trying for a second child but nothing had hap
pened. After a year, Ross had arranged tests, but they'd shown everything was working fine. The problem, it seemed, was with him, but he would not accept that and refused flatly to go to any specialist.

  At first this had angered Faith, but increasingly she'd seen it as a blessing. She loved Alec to death but he was hard work, all the time, and her energy levels had been so low she didn't know how she could have coped with another child.

  And she knew that a big part of the reason she had stayed in her marriage was that she couldn't imagine life without Alec. There was no way, in her depressed state, that Ross would have let her keep him if she had left, nor, in 'that state, could she have coped very well with him on her own. And there was no questioning the intensity of Ross's love for Alec. But from that love would come influence. Alec carried Ross's genes and she couldn't do anything about that. But with love and guidance she could maybe bring out in him all the good things he had inherited from Ross and try to damp down the bad.

  From the bathroom, Ross called out, 'What are you wearing tonight, darling?'

  Brain into gear, fast. 'I thought the dark blue — the Vivienne Westwood you bought me.'

  'Slip it on for me?'

  She put it on. He came out of the bathroom, stood naked, hair wet, toothbrush in mouth, staring at her. 'No. It's not right. Too frivolous for tonight.'

  'My black Donna Karan — the taffeta?'

  'See it.'

  He went back into the bathroom then reappeared, shaving foam on his face, one strip razored clean.

  She turned around for him.

  'No — that's more suitable for a ball. This is just a dinner.' He marched across to her wardrobe, flicked through the hangers, pulled out a dress, tossed it on the chaise-longue, then another, then another.

  'I have to get Alec up.'

  'Just pop these on. You need to look right — it's really important tonight.'

  Turning away, she mouthed a silent curse. It was always really important. But she put the dress on. And another. None of her reflections pleased her. Bad hair day today, it was a tangle, and the lousy wet weather of the past three weeks had bleached away most of the remains of her tan, returning her complexion to its usual early-morning just-risen-from-the-grave pallor. Her friend, Sammy Harrison, had told her a couple of years back that on a good day she looked like Meg Ryan on a bad day. And today was not a good day.