Two Wrongs

by Mel McGrath

  ‘Anyway, the moment I saw her name I had a feeling that I’d come across her more recently. Nothing I could pin down but I’m used to going with my gut, so I checked her out on Google to see what she’d been up to. Turns out her career took a meteoric rise after Reynolds, though so far as I could see she didn’t do any of the things that academics generally do to get ahead, like publish or appear on TV or whatever. I was right about her name being familiar though. I’ve seen it from time to time in the local rag here in Bristol.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s the current Vice Chancellor of Avon University. Madeleine Ince.’

  Chapter 34

  Nevis

  They meet at a ’Spoons near Broadmead. Tash is almost unrecognisable, her face puffed and raw, her body alive with nervy energy. Before her sits a pint, half drunk, another emptied glass beside it. She’s wasted.

  ‘I know I look like shit,’ she says. ‘So do me a favour and don’t look, OK?’

  Nevis takes off her jacket, drapes it round the chair, studiously avoiding checking Tash out. ‘You want another drink?’

  ‘Yeah, go on. Pint of Abbot’s.’

  Nevis waits at the bar, pays with her phone and picks up Tash’s pint and a half of Guinness for herself. As she walks from the bar she finds her thoughts turning to the Student’s t-test, devised by William Gosset, a mathematician at the turn of the twentieth century and an employee of the Guinness Brewing company, to describe the probable error of a mean in different sized samples of hops. Wonders if the Dean knows the test, decides that yes, given its ubiquitousness, he must do. Considers raising it with him over their next lunch, thinks about where the Dean might take her and is aware, suddenly, as she places the pint glass on the table, that Tash is saying, ‘…so the bastards are trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘Bastards?’ Wasn’t this meeting to talk about Jessica?

  ‘Yeah, the Dean and that bitch in student welfare. They are practically forcing me to transfer somewhere else.’

  Tash holds her head between her hands and begins to sob. William Gosset is chased from Nevis’s mind now and replaced by the lunchtime conversation with the Dean. So this is what he’d meant about Tash not being at Avon much longer. He already knew he was going to ask her to leave. Girls like Natasha can be very destabilising.

  Tash looks up from behind hooded lids and reaches for her beer, takes a long pull and, catching Nevis’s eye, in a wobbly voice says, ‘You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone. I know you won’t, that’s partly why I wanted to meet.’

  ‘I promise,’ Nevis says.

  ‘I’ve been having an affair with Mark Ratner. He told me it was over.’ She puts a finger up to her mouth and tears off a strip of nail, spits it onto the floor. ‘I texted him, I called him, though I’m not supposed to and he hasn’t got back to me. And now Cullen and that bitch Keane are trying to split us up.’ More tears. ‘I’m so fucked up about it all. I think I love him. I don’t know what to do.’

  Nevis sits with her hands in her lap. A moth flutters dully in her chest. She can see Tash is upset, obviously, but if this were a mathematical formula, it would not have the requisite Boolean constants. There is too much conditionality. What is she supposed to say? The Dean comes to mind, or rather, the remembrance of his hand, the hairs on the wrist, the delicate nail beds, the tips of his fingers sitting on her flesh. What if the Dean made a move? She’d say yes wouldn’t she?

  Nevis takes a couple of gulps of Guinness, buying time, and wipes the back of her hand across her face. Tash is sitting up straight now, no longer tearful but with some dark energy that Nevis cannot interpret.

  ‘I’m not going quietly. I’m going to tell everything.’

  ‘About the affair?’

  She fixes Nevis a penetrating stare. She seems oddly calm, as though a tap has been turned off in her head. ‘No, dummy, I mean about everything that’s been going on.’ Clasping her arms around herself and rocking on her heels, Tash opens her lips to say more, then thinking better of it, retreats, her eyes glassing over, lips tight.

  A young couple sweeps by laughing and on the next table a man delivers the punchline to a joke. More laughter. Nevis is conscious that something important has just been said but she is not sure what or why. Tash is looking at her, head tilted to one side, like a wary bird. They sit there like this for a few moments, before Tash pipes up: ‘You don’t know, do you? You still haven’t clocked it.’

  ‘You could tell me?’

  Tash shakes her head. ‘Like I said before, it’s best you don’t. You’re not like us, Nevis. You’re good, or not good, exactly, maybe just innocent. I don’t think you’d understand. In any case, there’s nothing to say. Mark got bored of Jess and started up with me.’ Her face is filmy and unreachable.

  Mark Ratner with Jessica and with Tash? The thought of it makes Nevis’s stomach turn twice. Ratty Ratner the love rat. How could Tash love a man like that?

  Tash picks at another nail. She is sitting back now, with her eyes closed, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I’m scared, Nevis.’

  ‘Of Mark Ratner?’

  ‘No, idiot. I’m scared of ending up like Jessica.’

  Chapter 35

  Cullen

  Cullen plugs in the entry code and lets himself into the nursing home. A blast of warm, stale air hits him. As he moves through the hallway the stench of lilies on the turn hits his nostrils. Maura comes out of the office and greets him with a worried smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to call you so late.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ he says. After what Veronica has just told him, he means this in more ways than Maura will know.

  ‘We offered her a sedative, but she wouldn’t take it. She’s in her room.’

  ‘I’ll go and see what I can do,’ he says.

  It is gone midnight and the corridors are dimly lit, though for Cullen the route to Amanda’s room is so familiar to him that he could find her room in the pitch dark. Sometimes he even walks it in his dreams or, rather, in his nightmares. He knocks and, getting no response, lets himself in. Amanda is sitting in her armchair with her eyes closed, but not asleep. She’s had her hair done again and looks like nothing so much as an overripe peach whose skin has become furred and mouldy. He goes towards her and sits himself on the stool in front of her armchair.

  She opens her eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘They told me something was wrong and you wanted me to come. Do you want to tell me what the problem is and why it can’t wait till morning?’

  A text pings onto his phone. Cullen takes the device out of his pocket and looks at the screen. He feels himself shrinking. Veronica.

  Don’t be long darling. I’ve put a bottle of champagne on ice.

  She made the announcement over a very expensive dinner. Isn’t it gorgeous? You’re going to be a daddy and I’m going to be a mummy! Women with their demands. Do they ever stop? Cullen does not want to be a daddy. He doesn’t want to be a son. Right now, all he wants is to be left alone to get a good night’s sleep.

  ‘It’s late, mother.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to sleep in this den of thieves? I might wake up with nothing left at all.’

  At the mention of the word ‘thieves’ Cullen feels his whole body contract.

  ‘My bracelet has gone. The gold and diamond one that was my mother’s.’

  ‘You’ve probably just misplaced it.’

  ‘Have you any idea what that bracelet is worth?’

  ‘I can guess,’ he says. He does, in fact, know precisely what the bracelet is worth.

  ‘They’ve stolen it. The so-called carers. They’re all foreigners you know. I always knew they couldn’t be trusted. And now one of them has taken the only thing that ever meant anything to me.’ She begins to cry.

  Maura appears in the doorway. Amanda points an accusatory finger. It strikes Cullen then that his mother is drunk. Absolutely pickled.

  ‘Now Amanda,’ says Maura, sadly, ‘I’m sure it wi
ll turn up.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Cullen says, grateful to have back-up. ‘I’ll bet it’s here somewhere, mother,’ Cullen says, hoping this will satisfy her and knowing, in his heart, that it won’t. ‘Have you looked everywhere?’

  The Dalek snorts. ‘What do you mean, everywhere. In case you hadn’t noticed, this room is the size of a shoebox.’

  ‘It’s possible that a resident took it by mistake. A few of the residents do wander and they sometimes get confused,’ Maura says. ‘If that’s what happened, it’ll turn up.’

  ‘I am not staying in this place a moment longer to have foreigners stealing my things,’ Amanda says.

  Cullen cannot let this pass. If Amanda starts along these lines, he’ll be asked to move her. He considers, for a moment, telling her his news, but, seeing as it will inevitably mean he has less time for her, she will like it even less than he does. Instead he says, ‘Now, now, mother. Let’s have a proper look tomorrow.’ When he turns in the hope of seeking Maura’s approval, he sees that she has already gone. Cullen can’t blame her. I wish I could disappear, he thinks. Better still if the Dalek suffered some catastrophic malfunction, imploded from the inside, say, or fell apart. Falling apart would do.

  ‘I brought some of that sherry you like,’ he says, pulling a bottle from his bag. ‘Why don’t I wash up those glasses and we can have a quick one.’ He watches his mother’s face brighten momentarily and, picking up two glasses from the table, he goes into the bathroom. How easy it would be, he thinks, to put something in her drink now, something to ensure that she forgets about the bracelet, Rohypnol, perhaps, or mirtazapine. They must have loads of that kind of stuff in the locked cupboard where the drugs are kept. He catches himself in the mirror and does not feel guilty about the mirth in his eyes. Why stop at Rohypnol? What about strychnine or cyanide? If only he knew where to get such things.

  He could use a wholesale quantity. There are one or two people, besides the Dalek, who he wouldn’t mind seeing dead right now. Mark Ratner for one. Natasha Tillotson for another. Now, he thinks, there’s an idea.

  He emerges from the bathroom with a smile on his face.

  ‘Now mother, let’s have that drink. We’ll sort everything else out in the morning.’

  Driving back through slack, blustery rain, Cullen wonders if his life will belong to himself ever again. He parks the car in the driveway, gets out and goes towards the door. At least there is no thug lurking in the bushes this time. He owes that to his mother’s bracelet. What would she do if she found out that it was him who’d taken it, he wonders. Would she take revenge? Might she be vengeful enough to spill the beans?

  Veronica appears from the kitchen and plants a kiss on his face.

  ‘How was Amanda?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’

  Veronica musses his hair. ‘Forget about the old witch and come into the drawing room.’ She has always called the living room the drawing room, without ever knowing how much he hates the affectation. He’s not a fan of ‘old witch’ either, not when it comes from Veronica. A man’s wife should not belittle his mother. It’s one of the unspoken rules. But he’s not going to say anything because he never says anything because she’s the Honourable Veronica Fanshawe-Drew and he’s a belly-crawling coward. God, I hate myself, he thinks, following his wife into the living room, where a bottle of vintage Krug sits in an ice bucket.

  ‘Pop the cork darling. I suppose it’s a bit naughty of me to have any, now we’re expecting. Still, a glass won’t hurt, will it?’

  As he moves to the table, he watches Veronica’s expression change from glee to concern.

  ‘Christopher, you’re shaking! Are you quite all right?’

  Chapter 36

  Honor

  ‘Permission to board!’

  Honor peers through the quayside window of the Halcyon Days and sees Alex clutching a large paper bag. She presses ‘send’ on the text to Nevis then looks up and, smiling, waves him in, taking a quick glance at herself in the kettle and flipping back a strand of hair as she moves through the boat to the hatch.

  ‘I bought croissants. They’re still warm.’ He holds out the bag, smiling. She takes it, their fingers momentarily touching, and, feeling a blush rising to her face, turns away, hoping he cannot see it.

  ‘How lovely! Take a seat and I’ll make us some coffee.’

  She fills the kettle and gets the coffee from the fridge, pulls a couple of plates from the rack, puts them on the table and notices his clothes: a smart Aran sweater, pair of cords and leather walking boots. Up till now he has always been in his boatman’s uniform of denim overalls.

  ‘You off somewhere?’

  ‘Well yes, actually. I thought you might like to come?’

  ‘Oh?’ she says. Is he proposing they go on a date?

  ‘After we talked about all that newspaper stuff, I gave Anne a call, realised it was ages since we’d seen one another. She invited me – us – for lunch. You fancy it? She’s in one of the villages near Bath. I thought it might be a nice drive.’

  ‘There’s a lot to do here,’ she says, getting up to make the coffee. While filling the cafetiere she pulls her phone across the counter, presses to see if her text has been answered and, in a moment of preoccupation, pours boiling water over her finger.

  At her cry Alex jumps up and rushes over. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was being stupid.’ She holds out the reddened digit. He takes her wrist between two fingers and draws her gently to the sink. Cool water flows over the reddened skin.

  ‘You can’t work with that hand for a few hours anyway,’ Alex says, turning her wrist gently to change the flow of water over the finger. ‘Please say yes. It’s a lovely drive, the weather is gorgeous and I know you and Anne will get on. She’s looking forward to meeting you.’ He watches her face and, seeing the clouds scudding across it, pushes the point home. ‘And you can ask her more about that Midland thing, now you’ve got a connection to it.’

  ‘Connection?’ Honor starts and pulls back. What has he found out? For a moment she forgets to breathe.

  ‘Madeleine Ince, remember?’ he says, looking puzzled.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she says, letting the air fill her lungs once more.

  ‘Please say yes. I’ve just joined one of those car-share schemes, so we can go in style.’

  ‘Or in Gerry.’ He cocks his head which makes him look rather charming. ‘My van.’

  ‘Well that would be lovely.’

  ‘I’m a terrible driver.’

  ‘Ah, well, perhaps lovely’s the wrong word. An adventure. Who doesn’t love one of those?’

  An hour later they are on their way out of the city. The rush-hour traffic has subsided and now the usual clot of cars and buses lurches fitfully towards the motorway. At the second roundabout Gerry stalls and they miss the lights. Drivers behind toot their horns irritably.

  ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Alex says, doing his best to sound unconcerned as the van sets off once more and briefly mounts the kerb. ‘You’re a marvel.’

  She turns to smile. Moments later, as the van veers towards the kerb again, she returns her attentions to the road.

  ‘Oh yes, I do see,’ says Alex. ‘A very creative driver.’

  Once out of the city, the talk turns to boats and the loveliness of spring and at last, as they turn onto a series of ever narrower roads on the outskirts of Bath, they circle around to Anne.

  ‘I’m so glad you two will get to meet.’ Something about the way he says this, with a tinge of nostalgia, prompts Honor to say, ‘So why…’

  ‘…did we split? Water under the bridge. Oh, you need to turn left here.’

  They swerve onto a country lane bounded on both sides by blossoming hawthorn. Honor rights the van and glances in the rear-view mirror. If only my hair was less unruly. I look like a labradoodle during a dog groomers’ strike.

  ‘Yesterday, when we were talking about the thing with Reynolds and those boys,’
he says. Her eyes flick to him. ‘You seemed to suggest that something similar happened when you were a student. You said you’d tell me sometime.’

  ‘I did.’

  They drive on in an awkward silence for a while. She thinks, can I really face this?

  ‘It’s right at the lights, by the way,’ he says. Honor can feel his eyes on her.

  ‘It was a long time ago, and I’d like to be able to forget it really.’

  ‘But you haven’t. And you can’t.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  What was there to say? My best friend Zoe, the love of my life really, was raped by someone who got away with it because he was needed to save the reputation of a rich and ancient institution. What had the detective told her? If only Zoe hadn’t been so drunk. If only she hadn’t walked back from the party with him that night. There was so little real evidence, they said, no proof. Zoe couldn’t even remember, not really.

  But Honor remembered. Honor saw. She saw Zoe, through the crack in the door of her dorm room. She saw him on top of Zoe, frantically at work even though Zoe was obviously passed out, her arm as floppy as a rabbit’s ear, her body unresponsive. She saw the heel of his hand on the back of Zoe’s head, pressing her head into the pillow and, for a moment, a glimpse of his face in profile picked out in the light coming in from the corridor. She’d shouted and pushed on the door which moved an inch then sprung back from the safety chain. She saw him freeze, could almost hear the panic going through his mind. He thought he’d closed the door. He had closed it, secured the chain on the inside, thought he was safe from prying eyes, but evidently the latch had been on and a draught or perhaps the movement on the bed had clicked the lock open and the door had swung just far enough for Honor to see some of the horror that was going on inside. She screamed, ‘Get off her!’ and tried to curl her hand around the door to reach the chain. His head snapped up so that she could no longer see his face and she heard the rustle of the mattress moving and Zoe’s arm moving with the momentum, her hand half open, the fingers soft and mobile. And she’d shouted, ‘Let me in you bastard,’ and charged the door putting all her weight behind her shoulder. She couldn’t see him now, but she watched through the crack in the door as the mattress sprang back from his weight. And she ran at the door, jamming her side into the wood but still the chain held firm. Seconds later she saw the shower room light go on and heard the door close and she remembered thinking, he’s trying to get away, and that was when she ran, along the corridor and down two flights of stairs and across the quad to the campus security office and panted out who and what she’d seen. And when the security officer came back to the room with her the chain was off but the door was closed and no one responded to his knocking or to her calling. The officer would have left then if Honor hadn’t insisted that they go inside to check on Zoe. With a sigh he reluctantly took out the master key and let himself in and they saw Zoe lying on the bed, passed out, alone, the thick smell of alcohol in the room.