Faith

by Peter James

  She strolled, hands deep in her jeans pockets, along the immaculate lawn, down to the lake. The sun was shining, but there was a sharp wind blowing. It was meant to be summer, but no one had told the weather that. Too cold to have drinks out on the terrace tonight, as Ross had planned.

  The lake was long and narrow, bordered by trees. In the middle was a small island where a pair of mallards nested. Three of their brood of eight had survived the foxes and the crows and were now almost as big as their parents.

  Faith sat on a wooden bench and watched the whole family paddle towards her, then scramble out of the water, unfazed by Rasputin who treated them with the disdain he thought ducks deserved.

  'Sorry, ducks,' she said. 'Nothing for you.'

  They continued to squawk, jostling each other, like a bunch of elderly women at a bric-a-brac stall. Then, still protesting noisily, they returned to the water. She watched them paddling away, and the start of a poem she loved came into her head.

  Happy the hare at morning, for he cannot read the hunter's waking thoughts.

  Lucky the leaf, unable to predict the fall.

  Lucky any creature, she thought, that wasn't aware it was living under a death sentence.

  Fighting tears, she dialled the number, and moments later, Oliver Cabot answered. 'Faith! Hey! Where are you?'

  'At home. Ross has gone out for a while so I thought I'd ring. I — I wanted to hear your voice.'

  'It's good to hear yours. You sound down.'

  'I had a bad experience this morning…' She glanced behind her, just in case Ross was back unexpectedly.

  Oliver listened in silence. When she had finished he said, 'We need to start your treatment as soon as possible. I have an invitation to see a play tonight at Chichester, but I could blow it out. Would later on this afternoon work for you?'

  'I — I can't. We're having a dinner party.'

  'It's more important to get you right, Faith.'

  'I know.'

  'I'll come and tell him as your goddamned doctor that there's no way you're giving a dinner party in your condition.'

  She smiled as she pictured the confrontation between Ross and Oliver. Two men so far apart in their thinking, they might be from different planets. 'I'll be OK, I'll get through it somehow.'

  'What about tomorrow?'

  'No, I can't do tomorrow. Monday's clear. Your message said Monday was good for you.'

  'Monday's fine. Come to the apartment as early as you like.'

  She did a quick calculation. One of the other mothers was doing the school run next week. She had to get Alec ready, that was all. 'I could be there by ten. What do I do if I have another of these turns?'

  'Call me and I'll help you through it — and if you need me I'll drop anything I'm doing and come down.' He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, 'Faith, I will get you better, you're going to get through this. Try to be strong. I'm going to send you healing thoughts that will make you strong until I see you. I love you.'

  The words brought a lump into her throat and she could barely respond. 'I love you, too,' she said. 'I wish I was with you now.' She stroked Rasputin's head, and the dog, sensing her distress, nuzzled against her legs.

  'I can cancel the theatre.'

  'No, go.' Tears were running down her cheeks. 'I'll be OK.'

  'Call me tomorrow if you get a chance.'

  'I'll try — it's going to be difficult.'

  'What are you doing?'

  'Ross wants us to go out for the day with Alec. He's suddenly got into the three of us doing family things together. Probably so that he won't feel so guilty after I'm dead.'

  'Faith, you're not going to die. Have you registered that?'

  'OK,' she said.

  'You'll call me if you need me. Promise?'

  She was walking back towards the house, still deep in thought, when she remembered the pastry case in the oven. It had been there for over an hour.

  'Shit, shit, shit.'

  She broke into a run, but she knew she was far too late. She had been making it for a glazed strawberry and almond tart, a dessert that was always popular.

  When she got there, she was greeted by a smouldering mess. Even Rasputin, normally game to Hoover up any culinary disaster, gave it a suspicious blink from a safe distance.

  She didn't care that Ross had told her not to drive for the rest of the day. She got into the Range Rover and drove to Tesco. On the patisserie counter there were two ready-made strawberry tarts that would do the job fine. She could bash them about a little and no one would know that they weren't home-made. She put them both in her basket.

  Then, just as she reached the checkout, she turned, walked back to the patisserie counter and put them back. Dammit, she still had time to make the thing herself.

  Walking back to her car empty-handed, she tried to convince herself that it wasn't because she was scared of Ross's anger if he found out she had served a shop-bought dessert: her own pride refused to allow her to serve one.

  The truth lay somewhere between the two.

  64

  Winter meant short days, long nights. Long darkness. Spider preferred winter to summer. He preferred cold to heat, rain to sun, but most of all darkness to light.

  Darkness gave him the best cover for his work — better still when it was raining. And he knew he always looked best in the dark, or at least, in the shadows. Out of direct light he fancied he looked quite handsome.

  But today, on this hot June Saturday afternoon with the sun beating straight down on him, he was having a good time. Dressed in a cotton T-shirt and Lycra shorts, crash helmet, smog mask and dark glasses, he pedalled effortlessly up Ladbroke Grove. The bike was a dream: a brand new Fisher suspension model with Ritchey Pro-Lite flat handlebars, carbon-fibre seatstay, aluminium chainstay and Shimano gears. It had cost fifteen hundred pounds, retail, but he'd paid just eighty, to a kid he knew who fenced for a bunch of junkies.

  A shame, really, to be ditching it later tonight.

  He changed down a gear to cope with the incline, although that was just being super-lazy, but, hey, there was no rush, and besides he was going too fast, he had a job to do, this wasn't some recreational ride.

  Slow right down!

  He had travelled nine miles, mostly uphill — people didn't appreciate how hilly London was until they tried to get around on a bike, but he was barely perspiring. He worked out for two hours every day in the gym, doing weights mostly, and building stamina. Over the years he had toned his once puny body into the physique of a flyweight boxer.

  While he pedalled, his eyes peeled information from his surroundings. Surveillance cameras were still a relatively new phenomenon and the law hadn't yet got subtle about concealing them. They were bolted on to any high wall that provided a good vantage-point, usually at intersections to give a choice of directions, and mostly, because of budget, automatically wiped the tapes after thirty hours if no incidents were reported.

  He made a right turn into Ladbroke Avenue. No cameras so far. He hadn't expected any around here, not in this quiet, posh backwater.

  The navy blue Jeep Cherokee was parked in the same place as last night, just a short distance along from number thirty-seven. Slightly fewer cars parked than yesterday — some away for the weekend, Spider presumed. He braked to a halt, and looked up at the windows of Dr Oliver Cabot's flat. Then he pedalled on down the road, turned right at the end, then right again into the alley that ran along the rear of the entire terrace, pedalling slowly now, counting as he went. He dismounted when he was directly beneath the flat, looked up and around.

  Not happy about this alley, he decided. Too many windows from the buildings behind overlooking it. Any number of people would be able to see him if he tried to get up this way, either on the fire-escape or just scaling the building.

  On a Saturday night, plenty of people would be coming and going until late. No one would pay any attention to a man entering by a front door, no matter how late. That's what he would do. Sevroula finish
ed work at two in the morning. And he would have finished his by then, in plenty of time to collect her, as he had promised, from Stringfellow's.

  Last night with her had been brilliant. And tonight, with a big weight off his mind, would be even better. He'd only known her a month, but already he was certain he wanted to marry her. The last time he had felt this way about a woman had been six years ago. And it had taken these six years to get over her rejection. But now, he was on a roll.

  Behind his smog mask he was beaming.

  65

  At five to eight, Ross put Bach's Brandenburg concerto on the CD. He always played Bach when guests were arriving: Baroque music, he had told Faith long ago, stimulated the brain, put people in an upbeat mood.

  He was dressed in his crimson brocaded smoking jacket, open-neck shirt, cravat, black trousers and Gucci loafers. Once, Faith had thought he looked striking in that jacket, but now he just looked to her like an arrogant poseur. She was wearing the simple short black dress from Nicole Farhi that he had put out for her. Plus her pearls and her black satin Manolo Blahnik high heels.

  The waitress they had booked had let them down at the last minute, and Faith had had to cajole Mrs Fogg into helping out tonight. She was now standing in the kitchen moaning that she was missing out on her bingo evening. Faith left her to it and joined Ross in the drawing room.

  Rasputin lay in the hall, waiting for the first ring on the doorbell.

  'Here,' Ross said, holding out a glass, 'drink this. It'll perk you up.'

  She took the ice-cold champagne flute, sat down on a side chair, so as not to dent the cushions of the freshly plumped sofas, and sipped. Ross came over and clinked glasses with her. 'Cheers, darling. You look beautiful.'

  'You look very nice, too,' she replied.

  'Christ, woman, lighten up. Hope you're not going to greet our guests looking this miserable.'

  'I'm sorry, Ross, I don't feel well.'

  'We've got some serious players coming. You're fucking well going to have to feel well.' He paced the room. 'Get that down your throat and you'll feel better.'

  She took another tiny sip. The nausea was back, and with it the attack of butterflies she always had before the start of a dinner party. Only they were worse tonight than ever. Large, dark death's head moths flapped their wings in her belly, filling her with deep foreboding. She wished she could phone Oliver, just to hear his voice.

  Ross peered out of the bow window. 'Fucking rabbits.'

  She watched two grazing on the lawn. The sky had clouded over and a fierce wind was blowing. Petals tumbled from a rose-bush. Rasputin began to bark. A Jaguar was coming in through the gates, two minutes early. Faith glared. Why the hell does anyone arrive early? Don't they know it's polite to arrive ten minutes late?

  'Jules and Hilde,' Ross said.

  Faith drained half her glass, put it down on a side-table and went to open the front door.

  'Faith, how very nice to see you.'

  Brown eyes greeted her with a warm smile. Beside them, sullen green eyes, as if their owner had come under duress. The brown pair belonged to Jules Ritterman, who was standing in the porch in a dark suit. The green ones were beneath the dated blonde fringe of his Nordic wife, Hilde, a foot taller, who was standing grim-faced, dressed in a turquoise awning, holding the smallest box of chocolates Faith had ever seen.

  It took Faith a moment to sort out the eyes. She looked at one pair, then back at the other. They were there, in front of her, and then, suddenly, Faith wasn't sure that they were there at all. She felt a blast of heat as if she was standing in front of an open furnace, and then a sudden, sharp, intense chill as if a bolus of cold water had been injected beneath her skin.

  Her brain locked. She couldn't remember their names. 'Hallo — hi — great — good journey? Ross is here — he's expecting you — I mean — we — we both —'

  Oh, Christ, another car was coming down the drive now. A white car. She had read somewhere that people who bought white cars were indecisive.

  The brown eyes were looking at her strangely. The green ones too. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do next. Invite them in. Yes. She took a step back, but now Ross was standing beside her. He shook Jules Ritterman's hand, kissed the Nordic iceberg and Faith found herself holding the minuscule pink box of Godiva chocolates.

  'My favourites,' she said.

  No smile.

  'Can I take your coat?'

  'Actually I don't wear one tonight,' Hilde said.

  Faith looked at the awning. Christ, why the hell had she thought the woman was wearing a coat? 'No,' Faith said. 'Of course. Jules, can I take yours?'

  That damned patronising smile, then, 'I'm not wearing one either, Faith.'

  The eyes again. What the hell was it with their eyes?

  Looking at her. Pity? Was there pity in them?

  I'm not cracking up. Please, God, don't let me crack up.

  Both pairs of eyes slid past her. She looked over her shoulder and there, by some miracle, stood the scowling Mrs Fogg in a presentable white blouse and black skirt, holding a tray of champagne flutes.

  Tyres crunched on the gravel. The white car. A modest-looking car. A modest-looking man and a modest-looking woman got out. They had matching grey hair, and almost matching haircuts. On the man it looked all right, in a dull, schoolmasterly way. On the woman it looked silly. They strode towards the front door with the ardent expressions of fell-walkers approaching a challenging stile.

  'This is His Honour Ralph Blakeham,' Ross said.

  The judge, Faith realised.

  'And my wife, Molly,' he said.

  Molly handed Faith a jar of home-made quince jelly. Faith just had time to read the label before the jar slipped through her fingers and shattered on the porch tiles with the force of a mortar bomb.

  While Mrs Fogg cleared up the mess, and Faith clung to Rasputin's collar to prevent him cutting his paws to shreds on ten thousand shards of glass, the rest of the guests crowded in at once.

  In the kitchen, Faith sat on a chair, picking slivers of quince-coated glass off her shoes. Mrs Fogg, emptying the dustpan into the waste-bin, said, 'I really find this beneath my dignity, Mrs Ransome.'

  The cleaning woman's face blurred.

  'I don't have to do this job, you know. Not with my education.'

  Faith was up on the ceiling looking down; she could see herself, sitting at the table, holding one shoe in her hand.

  Mrs Fogg said, 'With my education I should be —'

  'Help me,' Faith said. 'Please help me, I'm having another —'

  From the ceiling, she saw Ross storm in through the door. 'What the fuck are you both doing in here? Nobody's got any fucking drinks.'

  Faith stared down at him. Then, suddenly, she was staring up at him. He was seizing her arms, lifting her to her feet.

  'Come on, woman, pull yourself together, you're the bloody hostess. Where the hell are the drinks?'

  'In the hall,' Mrs Fogg said.

  Ross jammed Faith's shoe back on her foot, then gripped her hand and towed her along. She followed in small, tripping steps, trying to stay upright. The walls of the hall came in towards her, then stretched away into the distance, for miles. The suit of armour swayed like a bush in a breeze.

  Then she was in a sea of faces, a babble of voices. Eyes everywhere, a maze of eyes. Lips, somewhere beneath them, mouthed greetings.

  'Michael Tennent,' Ross said. 'And his wife, Amanda. This is Faith.'

  Looking down at them from the drawing-room ceiling, with Bach chiming around her, she heard them say they were delighted to meet her, and she knew she needed to reply, had to be polite, witty, charming, as a hostess should be, but she couldn't find the words because she was dying.

  She was slipping from her body into death, right here in front of all these people, and no one realised. She blurted the only words she could. 'Please help me, I'm dying.'

  She turned away from their startled faces. Only to see more startled faces. Stepping ba
ck, she collided with a slim, boyish-looking man with prematurely white hair. The Chief Constable. 'I'm sorry,' she said to him, and then to the woman standing beside him, his wife, she presumed, 'I'm sorry, I'm dying, nobody understands, please help me, please, I need everybody's help to stay in my body. Please help me, please don't let me go away.'

  She backed away and now she was staring at another man, a tall, balding man in a corduroy suit, with distorted eyes; she had met him before but couldn't name him now. A shrink, she remembered, but that was all. He would understand.

  Seizing his arm in terror, she whispered, 'None of them realise I'm dying. The spirits are trying to drag me out of my body, please hold on to me. Ross doesn't believe me. Please protect me.'

  Now Ross was beside her, arm around her, so loving, so caring. 'Darling, it's all right, I'm with you. You're just having another of your attacks. I'll take you upstairs — you can lie down for a little while. I'll give you something to help you relax.'

  'Paranoid,' a man's voice said.

  'Psychotic,' said another.

  'It's one of the symptoms, I'm afraid,' she heard Jules Ritterman say.

  'I'll fetch it from the car,' said another voice.

  Her body was some way in front of her, or maybe it was behind her. She turned her head in blind panic. 'My body,' she said. 'Where's my body?'

  A prick in her arm, like an insect sting.

  In moments she was back in her body. She was lying on her bed. Anxious faces looking down at her: Ross, Jules Ritterman, Michael Tennent. She smiled up at them in relief.

  Then her eyes closed. She tumbled through the bed into a warm, blue ocean of sleep.

  66

  There was almost a full moon tonight, giving more light than he wanted, but the biggest concern on Spider's mind as he dismounted was that the machine might get stolen. All bikes in London were vulnerable and this state-of-the-art Fischer would be prize booty. The irony that it was already stolen passed him by.