by Gwen Moffat
“How does he do it?” Miss Pink asked. “What form does his viciousness take?”
Bridget sipped her sherry and passed a hand over her forehead. They let her take her time.
“He — manipulates. He’s terribly devious. He makes a kind of campaign to find out your weak points, and then attacks them. Emotional weak points: like, if you’re loyal and value friendships, he’ll turn your friends against you by suggesting, oh, so insidiously, that you’re disloyal to them. He insinuates rather than lying but so cleverly that people don’t realise what he’s up to. If you tax him in private he jeers at you because you’re too well-mannered to bawl him out in company. He admits he’s a swine, even in public, but the effect it has on people is for them to think of him as a charming rogue and irresistible. People are always making allowances for him.”
Miss Pink said: “I saw a much more aggressive side to him on Saturday night.”
“Leila told me. That’s in character too. He changes colour to suit the setting. In London he’s more careful, but I’ve seen him back someone against a wall — metaphorically — even there. At the inn he was attacking a stranger and he could let rip with the keeper — and I guess that he enjoyed having you as a spectator too. He can be honest — with girls —” she hesitated, appearing embarrassed, wondering perhaps if she’d been the only recipient of that honesty, “— but he gets a reaction afterwards and then he’s more cruel than before.”
“Why did you stay with him?” Leila asked.
“The classic question. But I didn’t. I got away.”
“And he followed you? For money or to renew the relationship?”
“What’s this about money?” Miss Pink asked.
“Oh, he’ll take everything you’ve got. No handbag’s safe when Stark’s around. He expected me to make the payments on his Mini.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Does he have a job?”
“Not while I’ve known him. He just sponges. I don’t know why he’s come to Scamadale, Leila. Maybe he came just for the climbing. But he won’t let the opportunity slip of causing trouble for me. You see, in his book, he drops the girls, but I left him.”
“Good gracious,” Leila exclaimed. “He must be abnormal if he can’t accept it when a girl throws him over. In these days! I thought young people were so casual — I mean, emotionally — about relationships.”
“I haven’t got it across.” Bridget sounded tired. “Stark’s casual all right; it was someone appearing to be casual about him that dented his pride.”
“‘Appearing’?” Miss Pink queried.
Bridget stared at her hands. “I loved him,” she said. “It was a kind of hell.”
Leila nodded. Her face was sad. “I see. You were in love with a rotter.”
The girl smiled wanly. “You’ve hit the nail on its head — and there’s still some weird attachment that I can’t break although I know how unhealthy it is. I’d sooner kill myself than go back to him. He’d destroy me.”
“Does he know how you feel?” Miss Pink asked, trying to keep things on an even keel.
“I hope not. I stand a chance if he doesn’t.”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Leila rose to fetch the sherry. “Pull yourself together; you’ve got free-will, haven’t you?”
“A vestige comes back, talking to you two.”
“Will you tell your uncle?” Miss Pink asked.
They stared at her. “Is it necessary?” Leila asked. “If she keeps out of Stark’s way, he might be gone within a day or two.”
Miss Pink said nothing.
“It isn’t as if he’s threatened her,” Leila went on.
“I’ll sleep on it,” Bridget said. “It might be better to tell him. I’d feel safer.”
*
She didn’t want to go back to the House in case Stark called during the evening so she stayed at Soutra for supper. They were in the kitchen washing up when the back door opened and Sadie came in with a can of milk.
“You’re late tonight,” Leila said pleasantly.
Sadie’s eyes were shining. “I was up on the Head with Stark. He was showin’ me how they climb the ropes.”
Bridget’s lips parted, then closed in an angry line. Sadie cried defiantly: “Why you lookin’ at me like that? He’s all right, he’s nice.”
“Keep away from him!” Bridget was furiously angry.
Leila touched her arm. “Let me handle it,” she urged. “Go in the sitting room.” But she was too late.
“You want him for yourself!” Sadie yelled.
“It’s not that —” Leila started, but she wouldn’t be silenced.
“You got as many men as you want up in London, and all of them down here, and the first one that comes and wants me, you think you got a right to him.”
“You know that’s not true,” Bridget said coldly. “You’re being childish: just repeating what someone else has said.”
“An’ what if I am? No one was after comin’ here before an’ tellin’ us what we were missin’. I could have clothes as good as yours, could buy them from a shop myself, not have to take your old castoffs — them’s not my style, anyway; ’tis like old Jessie wearing Miss West’s things. I’m not an old woman. I want a wage packet and have me hair done in Inverness and wear nail paint. Why shouldn’t I? Same age as you, should have the same things, see?”
She ended on a pleading note. The three women had listened carefully, with no sign of anger. Doubt crept into Sadie’s eyes.
Bridget said quietly: “Yes, we see, love. I’m sorry for what I said. Come in and have a drink, then we’ll walk home along the shore.”
But the advantage was lost. Sadie reverted shrilly. “I know what you’re after. You think you’ll take me home to Hector and he’ll stop me going out. Then you’ll go and meet Stark yourself — well, you got another think comin’. There!”
She turned and whirled out of the open door. Bridget ran after her calling her name, and the others followed. They stopped on the terrace and in the light of the rising moon they saw Sadie running along the wet sand.
“You’ll never catch her,” Leila said. “She runs like a deer.”
Bridget turned to Miss Pink. “That wasn’t Sadie talking,” she said earnestly. “I mean, about castoffs; they’ve never looked on our clothes as charity, have they?” Leila shook her head vehemently. “That’s Stark’s fine Italian hand — it didn’t need to be so fine though. Poor Sadie was a push-over.”
A man’s voice came from the side of the house: “What on earth’s going on?” Marcus asked inquisitively. “What’s Sadie done?”
“Oh God!” Bridget went back to the sitting room.
Marcus came into the light.
“Sadie’s a little upset.” Miss Pink told him. “Nothing to worry about.”
They went indoors and Leila checked further inquiries by making a ritual of his choice of whisky. He took his glass and, after glancing at their expressionless faces, addressed Bridget: “I’ve come to walk you home, my dear; we missed you at dinner.”
He started to tell her about the descent of Farrid Head but after a few minutes she stared meaningly at his glass and began to fidget. She gave him a further few minutes and then stood up. He frowned with annoyance as she moved towards the door, then drank his whisky and followed.
“Ladies are vanishing tonight,” he remarked. “I’d better keep my eye on this one.”
*
Leila collapsed in the chair opposite Miss Pink. She lifted her glass.
“We’re drinking too much,” she said abstractedly.
“A pardonable sin tonight.”
“I wish Stark had never come here.” The younger woman was intense.
“He can’t do any harm.”
The silence didn’t appear to confirm this.
“What do you think?” Leila pressed.
“Well,” Miss Pink was cautious. “She’s a passionate girl and I must admit that Stark has a strong attraction fo
r women. It’s not unusual, of course: a love-hate relationship. It’s difficult.”
“Do you think he’ll try to make trouble?”
“I don’t see what he could do here. He’s not violent; he’d get short shrift from the crofters if they knew he was persona non grata. He might upset Sadie — he’s done it already, but I hardly think he could corrupt her. He won’t be here long enough. Although Sadie’s very vulnerable,” she added thoughtfully.
“How soon could we hope to get rid of him?”
“I hope he’ll go as soon as they’ve climbed the stack, and if today’s progress is anything to go by, they’ll be on top tomorrow. I can’t think why they’re making such a big thing of it; you’d think it was well beneath their notice and yet they show no interest in anything else. He seemed disgusted with Farrid Head: said it was chossy.”
“It is. There’s nothing here to interest them.”
Unspoken the comment hung between them: “Then why are they here?”
Miss Pink gave herself a mental shake. “How did your day go?” she asked politely.
“I was quite busy.” The tone was as evasive as the eyes. “There’s always an appalling amount to do at this time of year: the garden, you know, and lambing, and guests. Don’t think we don’t love having people, but one wants to look after them properly and I’m afraid I’m a hopeless organiser.”
She sympathised. She didn’t believe a word of it. They chatted for a while and then Miss Pink, seeing that her friend appeared exhausted, suggested that they have an early night. They were collecting glasses and plumping cushions when there was a knock at the front door. Leila froze.
“Now who’s that?” she whispered.
“Shall I go?”
They went together. Marcus stood on the terrace. He was pale and angry.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” he said roughly as they got in each other’s way in the passage. “I know she’s told you. I can’t believe it. He’s followed her here, that’s obvious. I’m going to see that he leaves tomorrow.”
He was glaring at Miss Pink. Leila murmured something inaudible and slipped out of the sitting room, pulling the door to behind her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you as late as this,” Marcus began, but he didn’t sound apologetic. “I wouldn’t have come but for the urgency. I can’t talk to Clive. I’m not going to be the one to break it to him.”
“Where is Bridget now?”
“At Morrison’s place. She won’t go in the House. Stark’s there; we saw him through the window as we came up the lawn. When she wouldn’t come in, I insisted on knowing the reason why. I’d guessed it was Stark because she’d said she was tired and longing for a bath and then suddenly she dug her heels in and wouldn’t go another step — when she saw him. So she told me. We’ve been sitting in the stables. It was damn cold. She’s had a hell of a raw deal, Melinda. What are we going to do?”
“First,” Miss Pink said firmly: “You’re going to sit down and have some of Leila’s whisky, then we can discuss it in a civilised fashion.”
“Civilised!” he snorted. “Where that psychopath’s involved!”
She ignored him and poured a good measure of Chivas Regal, commending her own prudence in bringing it from Perth.
“Now,” she began, when they were both furnished with drinks: “Why psychopath?”
“What? After he tried to kill her?”
She stared at him. “This is news to me.”
“So she didn’t tell you everything.” He couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.
“Not that.”
“Did she tell you he was inadequate?”
“That can mean so many things.”
“I see. So you’ll be wondering what all the fuss is about?”
“You’d better tell me now.”
“Stark,” he began with relish, “on the surface is a charming and virile scoundrel who has all the women tearing each other’s eyes out to leap into bed with him (yes, she told me about Sadie) — and at the penultimate moment he turns off.”
“Shorthand,” Miss Pink murmured.
“Impotent. Virtually.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Bridget was sorry for him. She lived with him for two months — did you know that? Left him towards the end, went back at his insistence but couldn’t take it. Stark can’t face reality: everything that’s wrong is the fault of anyone and anything but himself, and with those types the blows fall on the nearest person. They quarrelled, made it up and went to Derbyshire for a weekend’s climbing. He seemed much better, she said. Then he tried to kill her. Do you know a climb called Genghis Khan?”
“No.”
“It’s hard — savage, hence its name. He led to the foot of the top pitch which is about ninety feet long but easier than the rest. He told her to lead that. There was a strong wind and they couldn’t communicate by shouting. They were both cold and damp because the cloud was down. He told her not to bother about a belay: just to stand on top and take the rope in and give three tugs for him to come on — you know the signal. She got to the top and, ignoring what he’d said, looked round for something to tie on to. She couldn’t find anything but there was a huge boulder like a pulpit. She got behind it and took the rope in. When it was taut she gave the three tugs. Then there was one hell of a pull and she was jerked forward so hard against the boulder that she was winded. She thought she’d cracked a rib, and was badly grazed. Only the rock stopped her from being catapulted over the edge and the ground was nearly two hundred feet below. She wouldn’t have pulled him off, d’you see; she’d have hit the bottom before the rope came tight to him.
“After a while she managed to take some rope in, then he arrived carrying the rest. He stared at the rock and at her, then asked nastily what had happened. She didn’t know what to say nor how to look at him. She was, of course, shocked. She began coiling the rope and he snatched it away and started shouting obscenities at her but she pretended she’d heard someone in the mist, said: ‘Oh, that’s so-and-so,’ and darted off. Fortunately she did find some walkers almost immediately and she tacked on to them until they reached her car. Then she threw all his gear out and drove back to London. She moved out of her old flat and went to share with another girl. She left his stuff from the flat with one of his friends. He hadn’t much, anyway.”
“That’s a terrible story,” Miss Pink said. “He’d told her not to tie on, and if she’d been standing on the edge taking in the rope, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. But she maintained he wasn’t violent!”
“She meant in the sense of thrashing women: the kind you’ll be used to putting away for a time. No, Stark isn’t a simple brute; he wouldn’t beat anyone up, woman or man, when a quick tug on the rope would serve the same purpose and at almost infinitesimal risk to himself. Stark’s violence is carefully disciplined, and — don’t you see? — he’s even got escape routes if the plan misfires. Who could prove that a pull on the rope was deliberate? She thinks herself that if she’d said anything at the time, he would have protested that he got the rope tangled and pulled it by mistake, or he’d have told her that she was suffering from delusions. That was another of his foul little ploys.”
“Are you suggesting that he tried to pull her off the crag merely because she knew —?”
“Because he’d come to hate her. He thought she despised him. As I said: he’s a psychopath.”
“So last night,” Miss Pink said thoughtfully, “the worm had turned and she was getting some of her own back at him. Not much though, in comparison.”
“How’s that?”
“Teasing. I suppose, in this context, you’d call it goading: about deep water and the killer whales. He must be afraid of water. It’s certainly an unhealthy relationship.”
“Now that, Mel, is the understatement of the year. How are we going to break it up?”
“You’ve taken it on yourself to do that?”
“She’s got to be protected.”
&nbs
p; “Clive is her family.” The reproof was gentle but firm.
“He doesn’t know. She says she’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“She shouldn’t be alone, and definitely not alone with Stark.”
“I shall stick to her like a leech tomorrow — and until he’s left the glen.”
“Yes, I think you’ll have to —”
For the second time that night there was a knock at the front door. Marcus stood up, his face set.
“If that’s him, I think I’ll kill him.”
Miss Pink said quietly: “There are enough of us here to deal with him —”
“Don’t say in a civilised fashion, Mel.”
There were voices outside and they strained their ears. They heard Leila say: “She left a long time ago, Hector. She only came with the milk, not to visit.” The door was pushed open. “Here’s Hector,” she announced superfluously, staring hard at them, her back to the crofter. “Sadie hasn’t come home. What time would you say she was here, Melinda?”
“About eight. We were washing the supper dishes.”
Hector shifted uneasily in the passage.
“Will you take a dram?” Leila asked him.
“I’ll no’ stay.” He flicked a shy smile at the others. “It’s late.”
“Does she often come in late?” Miss Pink asked.
“Ach, aye, it’s nothin’ maybe. Perhaps she’s with that girl from the tent.”
“Stark and Pincher are at the House,” Marcus told him. “So the girls have probably joined forces.”
“They’re at the House, you say. She’ll likely be back at home when I get there. I’m sorry to have troubled you, Miss West; I’ll say goodnight to you all.”
“Wait,” Leila said. “I’ll speak to Mr Perry.”
The telephone was in the sitting room. No one sat down while she dialled.
“Clive — were you in bed? I am sorry . . . Sadie hasn’t come home and Hector’s here looking for her. Has she been at the House? . . . No, I see . . . That’s quite likely; it’s a beautiful night. She’ll turn up, I’m sure; she could be at Catacol now . . . Goodnight — Clive.”
“She hasn’t been to the House,” she told Hector.
Miss Pink and Leila went out on the terrace when he left. Back in the sitting room Leila said: “Stark and Pincher left the House at nine-thirty. Bridget came in soon afterwards so we know where she is.”