Faith

by Peter James

  Faith, his beloved Faith, was there, opening the door to Dr Oliver Cabot, welcoming him back to their love-nest. She was probably pulling down his zipper now, taking him in her mouth, the way she had once long ago when he'd arrived home on a hot summer evening after she'd had a long, boozy lunch with a friend.

  You are going to be sorry, both of you, so —

  He swung the binoculars. She was in that kitchen window again now. Dr Oliver Cabot was standing next to her. Faith was pointing in this direction, they were talking, discussing something.

  For an instant he panicked that they could see him.

  Impossible.

  The car was safely hidden away, parked out of sight at the back of a pub half a mile along the main road. Dr Oliver Cabot wouldn't have seen it. Ross was aware that they would be looking out for strange vehicles, that Faith would have told him about the silver car she had seen come up the drive, so he had trudged up here in his country clothes, and could have passed for any local out for a walk. He hadn't seen a soul and he didn't think anyone had seen him. It was now ten to five. It would take him about twenty minutes to get back to the car. How long were they going to remain here? They had stayed last night, which meant they thought they were safe. He had a feeling they'd be here tonight as well, and that they intended staying longer than that. With luck if the weather held like this it would be a dark night. The wind and the rain were a real bonus: they would mask any sounds he made when he returned.

  105

  'Mummy, can I show you something? Please!' Alec stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking breathless with excitement. 'Can I? Can I?'

  In the huge living room, Oliver was kneeling down, trying to light the wood-burning stove. Faith, relaxing on a sofa, was staring through the huge picture window at the lush flower beds and lawn of the walled garden, and at the rain pooling on the cover of the swimming pool. The Evening Standard Oliver had brought down from London was open on her lap, and she was sipping a glass of Australian Chardonnay which tasted like nectar.

  It was the first newspaper she had read in days, and the first alcohol she had drunk in almost a week, and the wine was going to her head. It was a good feeling. She felt safe now Oliver was back, and the room was filling with the crackling sounds and the cosy smell of burning kindling. She drank some more.

  There was nothing in the paper about Oliver's brother's death. Old news already. She smiled. 'What is it you want to show me, darling?'

  'You have to come up and see it.'

  Alec had been good all day, busying himself playing with his Star Wars Lego, in between watching either Cartoon Network or the Trouble channel, and exploring the house.

  'OK,' she said. 'Let's go — it had better be good!'

  Standing up, she realised how tired she felt. Drained, zapped, utterly exhausted.

  Maybe even a little sloshed?

  Alec scampered up the oak staircase and she followed him slowly, each tread an effort, up on to the galleried landing. The room Oliver had slept in was to the left, and the one she had shared with Alec was straight ahead. Alec ran down to the right and in through a door.

  She followed him, and found herself in another bedroom, attractively decorated with antique pine furniture, and a white lace bedspread over a king-size bed. Alec was looking at her mischievously.

  'Mummy's very tired, darling. What am I meant to be looking at?'

  He ducked into a wardrobe and came out with a long pole with a hook on the end, then stared upwards. Faith followed his gaze and saw a loft door.

  'Alec, I don't think this is a good —'

  But he was already hooking the pole into the metal eye on the door as deftly as if he had been doing it all this life. He gave a sharp tug and the hatch door lowered. A compacted metal ladder was attached to it. With another flick of the pole he had the ladder telescoping open to the floor.

  He began to climb up it.

  'Alec, darling, I —'

  But he was already disappearing through the hatch. Moments later a light came on. Never comfortable with heights, Faith gripped the ladder and climbed, very slowly.

  When she reached the top she stared round in amazement. It was a kid's paradise up here. A huge insulated loft with a wooden floor, a bed with a Batman cover, and toys strewn everywhere over the floor, bulging out of an open trunk. At the far end, side by side, were a huge electric train set and Scalextric track.

  'The man said I could sleep up here tonight, Mummy. Can I, please?'

  'Oliver said you could sleep up here?'

  Alec nodded. He knelt and pulled on a Hallowe'en mask with an eyeball hanging loose.

  'That's a big improvement, darling.'

  Through the mask, he boomed, 'Can I? Please can I?'

  'You'll be lonely up here.'

  'I won't.'

  She went over to the bed and pulled back the counterpane. It was all made up and the sheets were bone dry. 'This isn't our house, I don't think we should use this bed.'

  'The man said I could.' Still wearing his mask he went over to the Scalextric and pressed a switch on the wall. Then he picked up one of the controls and squeezed the button. With a sharp whir a sports car hurtled along the track and somersaulted off on a bend. 'Have a race with me.'

  'Later. I'm going to get your supper now.'

  As Faith went downstairs, she was greeted with a thick pall of smoke, and an ear-splitting whine. Alarmed she hurried into the living room. Great black clouds were billowing from the fireplace, and the whining sound was even louder — a smoke detector, she realised.

  Oliver was coughing. 'I'm going to have to let this go out — goddamned chimney must be blocked by a bird's nest or something.'

  Faith busied herself opening windows. It was several minutes before the smoke cleared and the alarm stopped.

  'Not such a smart idea,' he said.

  She smiled, picked up her glass, and drained the rest of her wine. 'Can't win them all.'

  He came over to her, his hands black and his face smeared with soot, and kissed her lips. 'Where's Alec?'

  'Up in a loft that's full of toys. He said you'd told him he could sleep up there — did you?'

  'If he wants to, sure. Gerry keeps the place for any kids who come down — he has a raft of nephews, nieces and godchildren who visit.'

  She caught the look in his eye, and grinned. 'So if he sleeps up there, we might get to spend a little time together?'

  'Had crossed my mind.'

  She put her arms around him, held him tightly, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his eyes, then the tip of his nose and his lips. 'I think that's a very good idea,' she murmured. 'It's much the best idea you've had all day.'

  106

  Horse brasses. Horse brasses irritated him tonight. Everything was irritating him. There were horse brasses nailed to the beams and to the nicotine-stained walls wherever he looked. A bridle with brass studs, a brass buckle and brass medallions engraved with brass fucking horses was hanging from the wall right by his head. A pall of cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke eddied around him. His table wobbled every time he put anything down on it.

  The pub was heaving. Ross hated crowded pubs. Steam was rising off sodden clothes. The chatter of all the people in here infuriated him, their sudden cackles of laughter, and the braying voice of a posh-looking know-all in a baggy yellow jumper and yachting loafers.

  His hands opened and closed on the tumbler: just a drop of Macallan's remained at the bottom. The stub of the cheap cigar he had bought in here smouldered in the cracked Martini ashtray, next to his unfinished ham sandwich.

  It was dark outside the window now. Twenty-seven minutes past eight. Ross drained the whisky, then cradled the glass in front of him. It was the third double he'd drunk since coming in here just before six. Or maybe the fourth.

  Suddenly his chair was moving, sinking steadily down through the floor. Nobody noticed. The floor was caving in, and he was disappearing down through it. He was staring up at all the faces in here, watching them receding, b
lurring, vanishing into the smoke and the ceiling.

  A loud crack, like a gunshot, startled him.

  It was his glass, he realised. It had slipped from his fingers and fallen on to the table without breaking. His knees were banging together so hard they were hurting.

  Get a grip, man. Drunk too much. Shouldn't have had that last one.

  The cold air would clear his head. It was dark enough now. Time.

  What things were the bitch and Dr Oliver Cabot doing to each other now?

  Ross crushed out the cigar stub, slipped the box of matches he had bought into the same pocket as his lighter, pulled on his jacket and his wet hat, and trudged outside. The rain was coming down harder and the wind had whipped up into a frenzy.

  This was good. This was the night coming right for him.

  It was not quite as dark out here as it had seemed from the inside, but it was dark enough now. He climbed into the Vauxhall, fumbled to get the key into the ignition, then to find the light switch. The instrument panel lights came on, glaring at him, like creatures of the deep, poking their luminous heads out of their holes in the dashboard.

  Closing his eyes, giddily, Ross could feel the whisky burning deep in his gullet. Drank too much. Shouldn't have had that last one. What are you doing to my slut wife, Dr Oliver Cabot?

  Opening his eyes again, the creatures turned into instruments, then back into creatures again.

  Go fuck yourselves.

  Two tasks, he remembered. The interior light was one. He opened his door and moved the switch so that it stayed off permanently. Then he climbed out, opened the boot and removed the bulb from the light in there. No tell-tales to give him away.

  He started the car, and drove back along the road for half a mile, then turned left, through the gate and over the cattle grid, his face pressed hard against the windscreen, trying to see through the rain and the mist and the dark.

  After another half-mile he saw the shadows of the farm buildings again. The headlights, on low beam, picked out the open-sided barn and the ancient tractor.

  He wasn't sure how far away the headlights would be visible in this weather. Although the track couldn't be seen below the copse of firs from the bitch's love-nest, there was a danger that if they were looking from a dark window they might see the glare of the headlights. He stopped the car on the far side of the barn and switched off the lights. The sea creatures darted back into their caves in the dashboard.

  Plenty of time. All the time in the world. Just take it slowly, stick to the plan, don't try to jump the gun.

  He switched on the radio, but that was no good, because too much light emitted from it. He needed total darkness.

  Are you in bed yet? Are you lying naked, with your hair untidy, and dirty dishes in the kitchen, bitch? Are you lying naked with your legs around Dr Oliver Cabot's waist, bitch?

  The car rocked in the wind.

  Hatred rocked his mind.

  Dr Oliver Cabot in his blue Jeep Cherokee driving past up the farm track earlier. Driving past to Faith, to his wife, who was waiting, waiting with her untidy hair at the door of their love-nest. They might be lying on a sofa together now, arms around each other, watching slut trash on the television.

  You're trying to ruin my life, Dr Oliver Cabot. You are screwing my wife and you are polluting her mind. You are killing her, you selfish bastard. Killing her with your fucking charlatan witch-doctor mumbo-jumbo.

  After a while, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness just enough to see the track. He started the engine and, without turning the lights on, drove slowly forward.

  He went through the second gate, and up the steep gradient. As he approached the copse, he could see a flickering pinprick of light through the trees.

  He turned the car off the track and drove over bumpy ruts into the thick of the copse, out of sight from every direction. He had tested earlier to make sure the ground was firm enough to take the vehicle.

  Taking his binoculars from the boot, he walked to the edge of the copse and, leaning against a tree for support, raised the glasses to his eyes.

  There was light coming from three windows in the house: the kitchen window where he had seen the bitch looking out, a window beside the front door, and a Velux window up in the roof.

  No sign of the bitch or of Dr Oliver Cabot.

  The luminous hands of his watch said ten to nine. He stayed where he was, leaning against the tree, raising his glasses, training them on the house, lowering them. Come on, bitch, you have to come into the kitchen sometime, you need fuel for your lovemaking, you need to feed your lover. Sheep were bleating in a field, and a bat was flitting around overhead, but otherwise there was only the sound of the wind, the creaking branches of trees and the pouring rain.

  At twenty past ten Faith came into the kitchen, and pressed her face up against the glass, staring straight out at him, looking worried.

  You stay worried, bitch, you've got plenty to be worried about right now.

  Then Dr Oliver Cabot came and stood right behind her. Ross could see them, framed, as if he was watching them on television. Cabot slipped his arms around the bitch's waist and nuzzled her ear. She smiled, turned towards him, cupped his face in her hands.

  Ross churned with anger. The bitch slut was kissing the charlatan on the mouth. Kissing him like she had some hunger inside her, some frantic desperation. They were pawing at each other, caressing each other's faces. Dr Oliver Cabot was gripping the slut's hair now, pulling her head back and working his mouth around her bare neck.

  'Get your hands off her!' Ross shouted into the wind. 'Get your hands off her you fucking bastard. That's My wife, fuck you, Cabot!'

  He lowered the binoculars, seized them by the strap and in fury swung them hard against a tree until the lenses shattered.

  His chest was pounding and the whole night was a blur in his eyes as he marched back to the boot of the car, opened it, and with the light of his pencil torch, removed his shotgun from its carrying case, loaded it, and shovelled extra cartridges into each pocket. Then he took out the can of petrol, and slammed the boot lid.

  He clipped the torch back in his pocket. Then, with the can in one hand and the gun in the other, he began to walk towards the house. After a few moments, the kitchen light went off. He walked at a steady pace, eyes fixed on the house.

  The house.

  He stumbled in a pothole and nearly fell, just catching his balance in time.

  The house.

  Getting nearer, step by step by step. He reached the cattle grid and stopped. Light spilled out on to the gravel ahead from the window by the front door. Too risky to walk on gravel, too much noise. Around the perimeter barbed wire fenced off pastureland. Boots squelching on the boggy grass, he went round the side of the house to the back.

  There he set down the petrol can, leaned the gun against the fence and climbed over, cursing as he snagged his trousers then tore his jacket on the barbs. He was in an orchard. A high brick wall ran along between him and the house. There was a light on in an upstairs room behind drawn curtains, and weaker light showed through another Velux window in the roof.

  Half-way along the wall he saw a wooden gate. Leaving the gun and the can where they were, he opened the gate a fraction. It was stiff and scraped loudly. He stopped, then pushed it further, wincing at the sound, until there was a gap wide enough to get through.

  It led into a formal garden, with a lawn, shrubs and a swimming-pool. He could see a patio with a swing chair and some other garden chairs, a table, a kettle barbecue.

  Cosy love-nest you have here, bitch.

  He went back out, collected the gun and the can, and walked on, along the outside of the wall, and arrived at another gate. This one opened on to a paddock, at the far end of which he could see a tennis court. He stopped. There were several windows on this side of the house. Flickering light came through one. Keeping close to the house, he walked along, pausing to test a door, which was locked, then detoured around a massive rhododendron and approa
ched the window where the light was coming from.

  It was a sizeable snug, with two huge sofas, oak beams and a large television with a cartoon playing, the source of the flickering light.

  He moved on. The next window was dark. He shone the torch into it and saw a small study, with a desk, computer, photographs on the walls. The door was shut.

  This was good.

  The wind was howling even louder, shaking his jacket, tugging at his hat. The windows were all shut, but the panes were large. He picked up the gun by the barrel, and waited. There was a lull in the wind. When the next gust struck, the wind howling even louder, he rammed the butt of the gun against the glass.

  With a horrifyingly loud bang, it bounced off.

  Shit.

  He stood there, listening, staring up at the house, frozen in panic. Just the howl of the wind. Nothing else.

  He removed his hat, put it over the butt, then swung it at the pane again, using all his strength. It went through with a crash of shattering glass that sounded as loud to him as an entire greenhouse collapsing.

  'Jesus Christ, Jesus goddamned Christ.' He moved away from the window, pressed himself flat against the wall and waited, trying to hear voices, movement, anything above the wind and the roar of blood in his ears.

  He didn't know how long he stood there. Five minutes, maybe ten. Then he did a half-circuit of the outside of the house, stopping at the gravel. Still the same lights on, no sign that anyone had heard him.

  He went back to the study window and shone the beam in again. There was a low sill, with a cloisonne vase on a low plinth, which he moved to one side. He also tugged away a few jagged shards of glass and dropped them on the lawn. Then, holding the torch in his mouth, he climbed in as quietly as he could, lowering his feet on to the floor, and reached out for his gun and the petrol. He laid them both on the carpeted floor and removed his Wellington boots.

  He went to the door, lifted the rustic latch, and peered out. He saw a long passageway, walls lined with hunting prints, and a closed door at the far end. No sign of anyone.