‘You shouldn’t wash,’ Lisa says, her voice pale and muffled, ‘if you’re raped. It destroys the evidence. But I don’t know … he didn’t quite …’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t quite … get in. But still, I shouldn’t wash, should I?’
Connie pauses. ‘I don’t know. I suppose not. I’m glad,’ she adds. ‘That he didn’t … quite.’ Is that the right thing to say, the tactful thing?
‘But I have to wash, it’s horrible and sticky.’ She starts to cry again, ‘Oh, oh, it hurts.’
Connie doesn’t know what to do, stands there helpless till the kettle begins to yell and she can turn to the task of the tea.
‘I’ll put the kettle back on so you can wash if you want.’
‘Should go straight to the police.’
‘Lots of sugar in, for shock.’
‘Horrible sticky, how could he? I liked him. Why?’
‘Because he’s not right in the head, dear,’ Connie says tartly.
‘But I shouldn’t have …’
‘Here’s your tea. None of that. Not your fault. I was listening, remember.’
Lisa looks up, forgetting herself for a moment, meets Connie’s eyes. ‘God, that must have been horrible,’ she says.
Connie shakes her head. Oh the pain in the neck when it turns. ‘Worse for you,’ she says.
‘Yes.’ Lisa’s mouth turns down again. ‘Get some of that tea in you. Should have brandy,’ Connie says, ‘that’s for shock. Got whisky, same sort of thing. Here, get that down you.’ She pours a drop into Lisa’s tea and then into her own. Notices her remaining wine glass is smashed on the floor. Everything smashing and crumbling all about her. All falling apart.
She finds her bottle of painkillers on the draining board. Only two left. That means the doctor’s because there’s no way she can live like this, if she had to live like this then she wouldn’t live and that’s for definite because it will get worse, get its claws in, make every slightest movement a misery. There is something else, another idea, but no … ‘Here,’ she says, opening the jar and holding out a pill to Lisa. ‘One for you and one for me.’
‘What is it?’
‘Painkiller. Strong, take it.’
Lisa takes it in the palm of her hand and stares at it. ‘I feel sick,’ she says.
‘Get it in you and some tea, go on. That’ll perk you up, you’ll be surprised.’
‘Perk me up,’ Lisa repeats dully.
‘Go on.’
Lisa puts the pill in her mouth and takes a swallow of the tea, she chokes a bit, and puts her head back on the table.
Connie swallows her own pill. ‘See,’ she says, ‘that’s better, isn’t it?’
‘I need to sleep.’
‘No,’ Connie says, ‘don’t do that.’ She’s got a vague idea that you don’t let head injuries sleep.
Lisa gives a weak giggle. ‘God, this is like some weird dream.’
‘Nightmare more like.’ Connie scoops a tea-bag out of the sink in readiness for Lisa’s wash. Questions are boiling up in her. She should not quiz the girl now, should not. They must think properly about what to do. She must, the girl’s in no fit state. She might have concussion. What is right and what is fair and what is prudent? Good that she wasn’t properly raped. That at least is good. ‘Why did you come?’ she says, bites her tongue.
Lisa talks with her cheek still pressed against the table. ‘I keep having to remind myself that you’re actually Constance Benson.’
‘Connie, please. Do sit up, dear, you might drop off.’ What would she do then? She’s never known first aid, always thought she’d learn, but didn’t. Now, she doesn’t know what to do for the best. Maybe she should offer something to eat?
Lisa sits up, one side of her face is pink from the pressure of the table, one side ashen. The blood has stopped trickling, drying in a long streak across her forehead. ‘You’ve been a sort of … a kind of hero of mine.’
‘Me!’ Connie sits down opposite, takes a swig of the tea, good with whisky, fortifying. ‘Me? Well … fancy that.’
‘When I was, I don’t know, twelve or thirteen my dad took me to an exhibition in Hastings, or somewhere …’
‘Brighton could it have been?’
‘That’s it, the Royal Pavilion? And I saw some of your portraits there … so brilliant they made me want to be a painter.’
‘So, you paint?’
‘No. No talent,’ Lisa gives a weak smile. ‘Absolutely zilch. But I love art, especially twentieth-century art … especially portraits … and especially yours. I don’t suppose you remember … no.’
‘What?’
‘I did my dissertation on you. I wrote a letter … questions …’
‘And did I reply?’
Lisa shakes her head then winces with the pain.
‘Hush. You shouldn’t talk so much. I’m sorry I didn’t reply.’
‘That’s all right. God. I do feel weird, the pill? Kind of floaty. What shall we do?’
‘I never was good at being organised. Always meant to answer letters but … and some of them asked the most impertinent questions. I’m sure yours didn’t.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’ Lisa drops her head into her hands. She’s shivering.
‘Get those pants on,’ Connie says, ‘go on. Or are you going to wash first?’
‘Depends if I’m going to the police.’
‘And are you?’
‘I should.’
‘He shouldn’t get away with it.’
‘No. He shouldn’t. But … the thought of all the questions, all that, they look into your sexual history …’
‘Still.’
‘No, you’re right.’
‘But we’re stuck here.’
‘We’ll have to get into the village.’
‘We could try my phone, but I don’t think … It’s in my bag.’ Lisa nods at the handbag hanging over the back of Connie’s chair. Connie takes out a small pink phone and hands it to Lisa. She pulls out an aerial, presses something, listens, shakes it, shakes her head again. ‘No. Bloody useless thing.’ She takes the pants and pulls them up over her bluish legs.
‘They look quite chic,’ Connie says, ‘let me get you some socks.’ She goes back to the room and picks her way across the collapsing floor to find a pair of socks. Will bring the chest of drawers out and simply seal up this room. Not go in it ever again.
The kettle boils again and she switches off the gas. ‘Well, it’s hot if you want it,’ she says. ‘Of course you’re not an artist, you’re a journalist. How’s … whatisname? The photographer.’
‘Jason. Fine.’
‘And you came for more … you wanted more – from me.’
‘Not really.’
‘I kept asking him that, why are you here, are you a journalist …’
‘I don’t know about him, he said he was a writer but I’m not so sure.’
‘But you know him, obviously you must know him.’
‘I’ve been out with him once.’ Lisa looks down at herself. ‘I don’t care,’ she says, ‘I must wash, wash that bastard off me … and my hair … head … what shall I do?’ She wrings her hands together, looks at Connie and grimaces. ‘I met him at your exhibition, actually, thought he was so nice.’
‘Well. Look, hot water, soap’s there, towel.’ Connie pauses, noticing suddenly how limp and grubby the towel appears. ‘I’ll leave you in peace for a few minutes. Wash or not. You might feel better if you wash your face at least.’
Connie opens the door and steps out into the sunshine. These glorious mornings. She goes round to the toilet, treading softly, holding her breath because he could be, could be crouched round here somewhere, hiding. But there is no one. She goes out through the gate drawn by the peaceful heave and flop of the sea. The air is sweet, salty, delectable. She struggles up between the dunes, the sand running into the sides of her slippers, humping cool under her arches. She looks around, strains her eyes in every direction for a sight of h
im, a sight of anyone for that matter. But there is no one visible. Sand-dunes make good hiding places, she’s aware of that as she stands high up, plainly visible herself. She will not be bullied, will not be. She stands and looks at the sea, low tide – and far out, by the look of it, there are sails. A yacht race. But where is he then? Gone, properly gone?
She should cycle to the village, the girl’s in no condition, get to the shop and use the telephone, police, a doctor. Help for them both. Tony will have to be caught and locked up again. He is a danger, a most terrible danger, and she has sketches of him from every angle so it should be easy for the police. There must be fingerprints galore. But she can’t cycle to the village. She can’t go and leave Lisa alone because what if he comes back? And, really, she doesn’t want the police in her house. There’s never been any call. She doesn’t want them snooping around now, not after all this time. Better to get Lisa to the village, but not yet, she’s not up to it yet.
No more painkillers, no more booze. Something else then? Is that idea good or terrible? A risk, of course. But worth it?
Connie comes down from the dunes, leans against the gate post to tip the sand from her slippers which are stuck on their tops with white petals. She does not let herself look back at the sand-dunes with all their invisible scoops and hollows.
THIRTEEN
Look between the posters and the postcards in the window: Autumn Fayre, Adorable kittens, Firewood, Baby-sitter, and there’s the fuckwit, mouth hanging open, firing sticky labels at tins of something. No one else about. Sharp ping of the door opening, Brand’s Hatch roar of tension in the ears, door crashing against rattling crate of Tizer bottles. The tosser looks up, smiles loosely. ‘Good morning,’ he says. He has a home-made badge on his sweater, ‘Barry. Can I help you?’ it says in black felt-tip.
‘Good morning, Barry.’
Tony walks round, locates milk in a glass-fronted fridge, takes a carton, opens and glugs it, most of it, in one go. Barry’s lips keep their blubber smile but the eyes swing round, looking for help.
‘Must be thirsty,’ he says slowly like he’s learning to read.
‘Was,’ Tony says, ‘was thirsty.’ Prowls about a bit. ‘Golden Virginia,’ he says. ‘Rizlas, matches.’ Watches Barry’s fat arse in its turquoise track-suit bottoms as he turns to get them. Waits, takes them from the counter and stuffs them in his pocket.
‘Did you find her?’ Barry says.
‘Who?’
‘Miss Benson. You were looking for her, weren’t you?’ Tony takes a Mars Bar.
‘Why?’
‘That were you, weren’t it?’ The eyes are little, pale and not quite so stupid as Tony thought.
‘Me? Never been this way before.’
Barry blinks. Then giggles. ‘Oh, you’re having me on. I seen you before.’
He walks round the shop again, filthy place for food, what is it round here, cobwebs mandatory or what? Rips the paper and takes a bite of Mars, chocolate mush round his teeth makes them ache.
‘When’s the bus?’ he says.
Barry rolls back his sleeve and looks at his watch. Thinks for a moment. ‘Twenty-five to eleven,’ he says. ‘You missed that bus, that go at twenty-past ten.’
‘When’s the next bus.’
‘That’ll be the afternoon bus you’ll want then. That go at four O five.’ He looks proud of himself. Tony has to look away. Clean-shaved cheeks. A niff of Brut after-shave. Tragic.
‘Remember, Barry,’ Tony touches the side of his nose, ‘you’ve never seen me.’
Barry grins and does the same. ‘Rightio,’ he says, then as Tony opens the door, wincing at the sharp ping, the rattle of Tizer bottles, ‘that’ll be £3.90p …’
‘I’ll owe you,’ Tony calls and shuts the door, carrying with him a last glimpse of flabby puzzled face. Carries it with him down the road. Like a little boy learning there’s no such thing as Father Christmas. Fuck it. Fuck. What is it with him? Goes back, door jangling like a heart attack, slams money on the counter before the poor tosser can utter a word and he’s out of there again.
Walks fast, head down, away from all that … that rubbish back there, mess, dirt, mistakes, confusion, women old and young with their smells and their smiles and their cradling arms. Sand-castles. If he could get in bed, face between his laundered sheets, yes, shower first in his own shower, scrub the smell off him, that greasy clinging feel on his fingers that makes him want to scream, even the sensation of one finger rubbing against the skin of another finger is unbearable. Walks with his fingers splayed, clean air in between. Berries in the hedges and a bird chirrups from behind a hedge of thorns. Just get back, and away and safe. Get back to where you can be clean and you can know yourself again. Where you can take account.
Walks, walks, walks along the road ready to stick out his thumb only nothing comes, does it? Some cretin on a bike, fishing rod on his back, saying, ‘Morning,’ that’s all. Walks, walks, was it this far before? Hot, too, shouldn’t be so hot this time of year. Hot stinking hands and armpits, crutch itchy with dried … stuff. Stops for a smoke, leaning on a gate, stares across a field of pale stubble.
Rucksack on his shoulders weighing heavy. Sky on head hot and pressing. Blue as … fuck knows. She wasn’t fucking dead. Neither of them were. So now what? A curdle of soured milk rises in his throat.
He’ll have to go back. What was he thinking of? Served his time, once, wiped his slate clean, but now he’s mucked it up again. He must go back and sort it. Yes. Must go back and silence them. No one knows. No one knows that he was here – only the fuckwit in the shop and no one would listen to him. Must stop it. This will be the end.
Tony leaves his rucksack in the field so he can walk faster. Goes back towards them in the house. Goes back towards the sea, clouds gathering like scum at the clean rim of it. Pale this morning, pale as … not as eyes, oh no. He fits his feet in his own backward foot-prints till he comes to the edge of the sea. It is climbing the beach and rinsing away his traces. The dissolving prints are filling with water, foot-shaped, fish-shaped. The ripples wash in, clean and tatty-edged. They wash over softened mounds and a scatter of shells, the remains of the perfect castle. The sun on the water strikes up into his eyes till his vision trembles. It all dazzles. He turns and even the sand dazzles, light trapped inside millions of crystal grains. He trudges up the beach, back towards Connie’s, which is the last place on earth.
FOURTEEN
‘I like the shells,’ Lisa says. ‘Liked them the first time I was here.’
‘Never mind the shells, we must get organised.’
‘From the beach?’
‘The little ones, not those big ones.’ Connie points at a row of big cockle shells and conch shells. ‘Patrick gave me those – and they’re not purely decorative.’
‘Hmm?’
‘They have a function.’
‘What?’
‘I keep things in them.’
‘Like what?’
‘Look, we can’t sit here all day. We must do something.’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me just wash your head, put a bit of ointment on.’ Connie pours water into a little bowl, fetches toilet paper from outside. She puts a bit of salt in the water, because that’s antiseptic, isn’t it? She dabs with the lukewarm brine at the place on Lisa’s head. The pale hair is stained brown, but the cut is not as bad as all that, won’t need stitching. She squeezes a bit of the ointment from the old tube, ugly colour but it smells reassuring.
‘Do what?’
‘I’ll cycle to the village and make those calls, then we’ll be all right.’
‘No.’ Lisa reaches up and grabs Connie’s hand.
‘What?’
‘Don’t leave me. What if …’
‘He won’t come back.’
‘You don’t know that.’ Lisa lets go and Connie picks up the comb and starts to comb the fine hair, different texture altogether to his, Tony’s. Like baby hair. No, she doesn’t know that he won’t come back
. But what else can they do? If Lisa was up to the walk, head not too bad, a bit of strength back in her voice, even a touch of colour in her cheeks. One thing might help, might make Lisa feel up to the walk. But …
‘Connie,’ Lisa says.
‘Is this hurting?’
‘Not … no, it’s nice.’
‘What then?’
‘No … it doesn’t matter.’
Connie frowns, lifts a pale skein of hair in her hand, notices that a black hair from the comb has fallen on to Lisa’s. She picks it off, drops it on the floor. ‘What?’ she says again, can’t stand it when people do that, leave her dangling.
‘It’s not the time.’
‘Go on.’ But Lisa says nothing. Drip, drip, drip. Must get a washer for that tap. So much needs doing, so much.
‘Did you always love him?’
Connie pauses.
‘I just wondered, always, always love him?’
Connie lets the hair fall, sits down. ‘I … think so, yes.’
‘Think?’
‘At first I … I didn’t know, sort of … besotted … I was so young. It was so surprising, so flattering. Then it’s hard, he was such a lover, you know, such a lover.’ She goes dreamy for a moment, then remembers what’s happened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘That’s all right.’
‘Not that that’s everything, that kind of skill. It can be tiresome.’
‘Tiresome?’
‘Yes. A performance, you know, sometimes clumsy love …’ She blinks away the memory of Red’s eyes, when he turned away that last time, when he looked from her to Patrick and back again and turned away.
‘But it wasn’t?’
‘No it wasn’t just that. I adored him – and I understood him, I understood that a lot of how … idiotic he seemed was a sort of pose and … oh I just understood him. We understood each other.’
‘Nice word adore,’ Lisa muses. ‘Just another word for love, though.’
‘No, it’s simpler. Not more, nor less, but simpler.’
‘Always?’
‘No.’ Connie is taken aback at the sudden snap in her own voice.
‘No?’ There’s a noise outside, they both start and look at the door simultaneously, and then each other. But then it’s quiet. Connie looks at the big conch shell by the cooker. Maybe that is the only thing to do. That bloody tap will drip.
Sheer Blue Bliss Page 22