Without a word, she poured herself a drink, ignoring Crabtree and the polite procedure of offering him one. After taking a gulp of the harsh liquid, which seemed to set her throat on fire, she turned round on the little medium.
‘What is it exactly that you want?’ she asked.
***
Rob Moore stared down at his empty glass.
‘I knew Michael Barlow better than you were aware.’ He paused as though rewinding the film of memory ready for another showing. ‘After our first meeting at our twenty fifth anniversary shindig, he sought me out. I suppose he saw in me something of the frustration and disappointment of his own life.’ Rob gave a little laugh. ‘I tried to persuade him that he had far more going for him than I ever had. But he had an extra burden to carry, or so he thought: Kate.’
‘Kate?’ David repeated her name with some surprise.
‘Yes, Kate. You see he loved her so much... that kind of passion was far more crippling than his damaged hand. Loved her...’ his voice trailed away as his eyes stared into the past.
‘Love.’ he said at length, rousing himself. ‘Love? Nah. It was an obsession. He seemed to think that she cared so little for him that it constantly put him on the rack. He suffered real physical pain. It was all so unnatural. You see, the problem was he needed to possess her... completely. And when he realised he couldn't... well, his 'love'—call it what you will—turned into a destructive force. It wrecked the marriage and in the end, it killed him.’
Rob looked directly at David. ‘You didn't know, did you, David, that I was with Michael on the day he died?’
‘No,’ David replied, his mouth becoming very dry. How much more of this was there? his mind asked, feverishly. How much more that I do not know about that damned man?
‘Why have you kept quiet about it? Why have you never told Kate?’
‘What would be the point? She's suffered enough. Believe me, what I know will ease no one's pain.’ Rob leaned back and grinned, or to be more precise, his lips parted and he showed his teeth. There was no pleasure or humour there. ‘I'd been seeing Michael on and off for months. Usually for boozing sessions. Mutual despair drink-ins when we'd try to drown our...’—he paused for a while over the word, pain etching lines on his face—‘our shortcomings. Michael knew he was losing Kate to you and he felt helpless.’
Rob suddenly laughed out loud and then strangely, tears came to his eyes. ‘Let me tell you,’ he said with ice in his voice, ‘about that last day...’
FIVE
...that last day.
‘It's no good, Michael. I am leaving you. There is no point in going on. We are just bad for each other.’ She waved her arms in a frantic, frustrated gesture. ‘There's just nothing between us anymore.’
God, she wished he'd say something; but all he did was stare at her, stare at her with those chillingly placid eyes. Now it had come to the moment of telling him, now she had drummed up sufficient courage to face him with it, all she could think of were the clichés she had uttered in countless plays and TV dramas. They sounded so crass and banal, but her own emotions were so inarticulate... so confused... that she could not translate them into meaningful statements. She had never given any thought as to how she would tell him that their marriage was over; what had dominated her thinking had been the problem of when... when could she confront him with this awful denouement. And even now as she sat opposite him at the breakfast table, the words had sprung to her lips without planning. It had all happened as though someone else had decided it should.
From Michael's expression she could read nothing. Had he expected this? Surely he had. Maybe not now at this precise moment, but he must have been aware of its eventual inevitability.
His lack of reaction was daunting. There appeared to be no anger or even dismay mirrored in those placid features. There was nothing to play against. Her emotional torrent seemed foolish in such circumstances. There was only one thing for it: she would have to make an exit. She rose quickly from the table but as she reached the door, she was stopped in her tracks by his voice. It was low and neutral, but commanding and hypnotic.
‘Kate.’
There was a chilling, threatening tone in the utterance. She had no choice but to turn around and face him.
He looked at her for some moments without speaking and then he said with deliberate slowness: ‘I won't let you go.’
The words were like an ice dagger plunging into her heart, but nevertheless she rallied. ‘I'm sorry, Michael. I just can't go on living with you anymore. It's driving me crazy.’
‘It's Cole, isn't it?’
Kate hesitated. She was under no illusion that Michael was unaware of her relationship with David, but it had never been mentioned before by either of them.
‘No,’ she replied truthfully. ‘It's not because of David. I don't deny I have affection for him, but I'm not leaving you because of him. I'm leaving you... because of you.’
Michael's expression did not change; only his eyes flickered with fire.
‘You are mine, Kate. I will not let you go.’
You are mine—the phrase which he had used all through their days together. It had seemed incurably romantic at first, an endearing affirmation of his love for her, but now she saw it for what it was: the ultimate arrogance of brutal possessiveness. And a threat. Michael's use of it now caused something to snap within Kate. Her temper flared.
‘I am not yours. I belong to no one. I am my own person and not something that can be owned like a car or a piece of furniture. God damn you, Michael, can't you see that. You demean me by it. You've smothered me with ‘you are mine’ till I'm choking on it.’
‘You are all I have.’
‘How can you say that? You are so wrong. You have a God-given talent which you should use.’
‘How can I use it with this?’ He held up his damaged hand.
Kate knew she was cruel in what she said next, but it was honest and what she really believed. ‘You haven't tried, Michael. You use your injury to support your illusion of failure. You always see yourself as the bloody victim, don't you? Poor Michael, Mr Loser, foiled again. For Christ's sake, life is like that. If you're going to sit back and let fate kick you in the face, it will. You've got to fight back—accept the challenge. You can't use people as crutches.’
She was crying now. Hot tears pricked her eyes and blurred her vision. But they were tears of relief rather than sadness. She had at last said what had been bottled up inside her for so long. Her anger and anguish had given her a voice.
‘Kate,’ he moved towards her.
‘No, don't touch me, Michael. Don't touch me. I don't want you. You have to accept that.’
He flung his chair aside in anger. ‘I am your husband.’
‘No,’ she said softly, wiping the tears away, calm now and no longer afraid of his violent gestures. ‘No, you're not. You haven’t been for a long time. It is over, Michael.’
She turned and walked from the room leaving him transfixed like a video image held on pause.
The next time she saw him, he was dying.
***
Being Saturday, David was having a lie in. He did his lying-in in style: propped up in bed, coffee at his elbow, cigarette in mouth and an array of newspapers spread around him while Miles Davis performed on the iPod for him. He'd never be able to do this if he were married, he told himself on many a Saturday morning. It was to him like a pornographic selfishness.
He had just finished reading a searing criticism of all soap operas in The Independent—an article which on one hand had angered him, while on the other, he had found himself in sympathy with the views expressed—when his mobile rang.
It was Kate.
‘I've left Michael.’
There was a pause. It would be wrong to say that David was shocked. He had known for some time that sooner or later he would receive a call like this; but that did not prevent him from being somewhat startled and a little apprehensive when it came. There was a pause, not just
because, unusual for him, he was lost for words, but also because he really wasn't quite sure how he felt. He suddenly found his emotions in limbo.
‘Where are you now?’ he asked at last.
‘I've booked in at the Cumberland for the weekend until I've worked out what to do.’
‘Why on earth didn't you come here?’
‘Uninvited?’ Kate had a way with a line which could make it speak volumes.
‘Of course,’ David replied, ignoring the implications. ‘I would have thought that it was obvious.’
‘Maybe, but until the dust settles at least, I'm best away from you. I don't want to drag you into our sordid little drama.’
‘Too late, I already have a starring part,’ he replied flippantly and then added: ‘I'm already involved, Kate.’ He was surprised at his own earnestness.
‘In a way you are, David, but I haven't left Michael because of you. Please understand that. I've left him because I cannot go on living with him anymore.’
‘We can meet, at least?’
‘Yes of course.’ Her voice softened and lost its cold edge. Thank God, he wasn't going to be difficult.
‘Where and when?’
‘Here, in the bar... say around one.’
‘Fine. Kate... How did he take it?’
She gave a cool, mirthless chuckle which reverberated unpleasantly in David's earpiece.
‘Like Michael. That's how he took it. Like Michael.’
‘Has he made any threats?’
‘Not yet.’
***
Rob Moore was pottering about in his garden—certainly pottering and not gardening—when he heard the full-throated roar of an approaching motorbike. He knew the bike and the rider before they drove into view. The Kawasaki screeched to a halt and Michael, clad in black leathers and helmet looking like some kind of satanic angel, dismounted and came up the path towards him.
‘You got time for a talk—and a drink?’ Michael spat out the question.
Rob had never seen Michael when he wasn't angry or at least when he was just managing to keep his anger burning on a low light, but today there was something fiercely chilling about the harshness of his speech and the ferocity of his stare.
Rob tried to lighten the mood.
‘You know me, I've always time for a drinkie. Being Saturday, Fiona's up town spending my money—no doubt on some glamorous underthings that lead nowhere. Come on in, to the house.’
Michael remained in his leathers as he sprawled with squeaking ease on Rob's couch and downed a generous measure of whisky in one gulp. There was silence for a while and Rob knew it was futile to fill in the gap with small talk. He waited, apprehensively twisting his glass round in his hands watching the ice slowly dissolve as he did so.
‘Well, she's gone at last,’ Michael said at length.
‘Kate?’ It was a stupid question. Who else? But it was the only response he could conjure on the spur of the moment.
Michael nodded, his eyes ablaze. ‘She has finally had enough of me. Gone. Running off to that Cole bastard, no doubt.’
Rob tried to look sympathetic, but he was by no means surprised. In fact, he had been expecting this turn of events for some time. He knew of David and Kate's affair—they made a good couple—but David was not the reason for Kate leaving. He was sure of that.
He refilled Michael's glass to cover his uncertainty at what to say.
Suddenly, Michael seemed to relax, his body visibly softened and extended itself. The hunched shoulders and tense posture melted while his face almost folded into a smile. He was staring far off—beyond Rob, beyond the walls of the room—far beyond.
‘She'll not get away from me, y'know,’ he said softly the eyes still lost in this other dimension. ‘Oh no. Never. Whether she likes it or not, she's mine, body and soul.’ His features remained neutral as he repeated simply: ‘She's mine.’
Rob was at an even greater loss for words now and so he quickly poured himself another drink. Turning back, he found Michael studying him, his blue eyes like twin electric drills boring into him. He felt the skin on the back of his neck begin to creep.
‘You knew, didn't you? You knew she was seeing David Cole—that she was sleeping with him?’ The voice was low, but very vicious. He made the word 'sleeping' sound like some utterly vile pornographic abomination.
Rob did not answer. He found his tongue drying up within his mouth.
‘Oh yes, you knew. No doubt you actually helped your friend to commit adultery with my wife.’
Rob knew he was in danger, but he couldn't move, paralysed by those blue eyes and the fierce threat they held. Suddenly with a swift impulsive movement, Michael leapt from his chair and grabbed Rob by the throat, his strong left hand virtually circling Rob's neck, the fingers pressing hard into his flesh. With instinctive panic, Rob tried to move, but Michael held him down with his left arm, pressing him back in the chair.
‘You will regret your connivance. You are part of their conspiracy and, trust me, you will pay.’ Michael hissed, bringing his face closer to Rob's as he tightened his grip.
Rob was terrified. He felt his body weaken under the pressure, but he had no fight in him to retaliate. As Michael loomed over him, his face was beginning to grow misty, the eyes growing larger, spilling down his cheeks, the whole merging into the blackness which was seeping in around the peripheral areas of Rob’s vision. My God, he thought, I'm going to die. I'm going to die! The devil is going to strangle me.
Sweat began to pour down Rob’s forehead as he felt his body begin to soften and melt as though all the bones had been removed from his body. He tried desperately to gasp for air but Michael’s fingers pressed hard on his windpipe.
And then Michael released him.
Coughing and spluttering, Rob gasped for air. With watering eyes, raw throat and thumping head, he grabbed hold of reality once more. As he sucked in the air in eager gulps, his throat felt as though he had swallowed a broken bottle. Gradually, as his breathing eased and vision cleared, he saw Michael reclining once more on the sofa, his arms casually spread out along the back and a satisfied Cheshire Cat smile on his lips. The bastard had enjoyed half-killing him!
‘I think you'd better go,’ said Rob hoarsely.
‘Certainly,’ said Michael, but made no attempt to leave. He remained relaxed and immobile on the sofa.
Rob felt like he was involved in one of his own scripts and he had written himself into a corner. There was nothing either character could say that would resolve the problem. So in the hissing silence, the two men sat quietly, staring at each other, held in a waxwork tableau.
Eventually Michael moved. His actions were easy, all aggression in gesture and expression had gone, but in his fluid movements there was that hint of madness, that obsession which was far more frightening than his anger.
‘I won't forget your complicity, Mr Moore... and neither will you.’ he said amiably, with a smile. It was only his eyes, dark with menace that held the truth. They burned with a vicious sourness that paralysed Rob again. He sat limply in the chair unable to move, as Michael brushed past him. Reaching the door, Michael turned and flung a final comment at him: ‘You will be sorry. Count on it.’
With that he was gone.
But Rob was to see him one more time.
***
A shaft of autumn sunlight filtered through the grimy mullioned window and fell on the worried countenance of Timothy Barlow as he entered the room. His father, who was still dressed in his black motorcycle leathers, turned to greet him.
Michael's sudden and unexpected appearance had caused ripples of consternation in the calm waters of St Austell’s private school that Saturday afternoon. It was unheard of for a parent to arrive without an appointment and for him to be dressed as a Hell’s Angel further increased the corporate consternation. We do not vet the parents carefully enough, thought Saunders, the house master on duty, as he had spoken to this lout. Unfortunately, it is only their bank balance that concerns the hea
d, not their breeding.
Saunders had been cool and off-hand with this over-bearing leather-clad stranger who had demanded to see his son.
This is most irregular, Mr Barlow. We request that parents inform us of their intended visits in order to make appropriate arrangements in advance.’
‘Are you saying that I can't see my own son?’ The words were spoken softly but there was an underlying ferocity in the man’s voice that unnerved Saunders.
‘No, no, of course not, but...’
‘Let's leave the buts out, shall we? I'd like to see Timothy... now.’ The housemaster withered under Michael's stare and hurried out to fetch the wretched Barlow boy.
‘Is there anything wrong, dad?’ asked Timothy, shambling forward towards his father, apprehensively.
Michael clasped the boy, pressing him against his body. Timothy felt himself being smothered by the smooth black leather. The strange clammy odour turned his stomach. Unnerved, he struggled free.
‘What is it dad? Is mum all right?’
‘Oh yes, your mother is absolutely fine.’ The sarcasm in his voice was lost on Timothy.
‘Why are you here then? Why did you come?’
‘To see you, that's all. To see you and say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye? What do you mean? Where are you going?’
‘Ah, that's a secret.’
‘You'll be coming back though, won't you Dad?’
Michael stared ahead of him at the shaft of sunlight still falling through the window, the yellow light rippling with a myriad of dust particles.
‘You can bet on it, son. I will be back.’
***
Autumn was on the land. The trees in the garden of the cottage, stunted and gnarled by their countless battles with fierce coastal winds, were almost bare. Only a few leaves, like little burnt rags, clung on tenaciously against the nagging wind, a futile fight against the inevitable. The branches of the hornbeam close by the picture window of the sitting room tapped skeletal fingers on the glass as though it wanted to gain entry. Michael gazed out at the autumn greyness in final despair. His vision was blurred, partly by alcohol, but his thoughts were knife sharp. Life, he concluded, had turned completely sour. But then for him it had never been sweet. He had been born with lead weights in his soul. Kate could have saved him from his own bitterness - but she hadn't. Nevertheless, she had been the one bright, comforting spark in the gloom of his existence.
The Darkness Rising Page 6