Mystical Circles

by S. C. Skillman

  She considered this. “I think you’re right,” she said. “Is there anything further I can do now?”

  “No, Juliet, not tonight. I suggest you go to bed,” said Theo. “ I’ll ring the hospital in an hour’s time and ask for news.”

  She had no option but to obey. As she was about to head up the second flight, she heard Theo speaking to someone in the hallway. She stopped and listened.

  “I notice you didn’t offer any help, Patrick.”

  She heard the Irishman’s voice in reply. “Thought I’d best keep out of it.”

  Theo sighed heavily.

  “And,” continued Patrick in philosophical mode, “What will be will be. Sometimes disaster strikes and there’s nothing we can do.”

  Shut up, Patrick, she said to herself.

  “Don should have dealt with all this much earlier,” the Irishman added darkly.

  “Yes, yes,” said Theo somewhat testily.

  “Will Craig live?” interrupted Patrick with unmistakeable relish in his voice.

  A brittle two seconds passed. Then Theo said, “Of course he will.”

  “Wouldn’t bank on it,” said the Irishman. “I warned him. I said you’d better make your choice now. Carry on as you are. Or see the light. And now look at him. Message for us all there. No, it’ll be years of purgatory for him all right.”

  “Be quiet Patrick,” said Theo.

  “Very well. Only trying to help.”

  “Well don’t.”

  “Good idea,” said Patrick. Juliet heard footsteps crossing the hallway, and the sitting room door open and shut. Meanwhile, another pair of feet ascended the stairs. Theo, presumably. She hurried up to the roof, along the passageway and into her room. She listened to him passing her door. Another door further along the passageway opened and closed. A few moments later, she stole out of her room again.

  Fear and shock still gripped her. Would Craig be all right? How badly injured was he? How would Don handle this? Where had he gone, and why? And how exactly should he have dealt with all this much earlier, anyway, as Patrick had suggested? Would he now rush straight away to see Craig in the hospital? How could he have retreated from the front line at a time like this? And just after that warm, loving embrace. She felt so confused, so raw and exposed. After all that had happened this evening there’d be no sleep for her, that was for sure.

  The sitting room door had closed behind Patrick. He’d still be in there. She probably wouldn’t like what he said. But she needed desperately to talk to someone. Returning downstairs, she pushed the sitting room door open and put her head through. Patrick was on one of the sofas. Opposite him in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, whisky in hand, sat James. How could he have come downstairs again, and dare to be sitting there, looking so urbane, after his recent confession? But, of course, she hadn’t told him to go to bed, only to change. And so here he was again, relaxed and composed – and seemingly untroubled by any feelings of guilt.

  He was clean and fragrant-smelling. And clad in a velvet needlecord dressing gown. He emanated charm and authority. As she hesitated, he addressed her in an even tone of voice. “Ah, Juliet, what a night.” An understatement if ever there was one.

  He fixed his eyes on her. She wanted to haul him up from his seat. Bang his head against the wall. But no. She needed his brain intact so he could answer questions. “You rang Don, James,” she said. “Where is he? What did he say? Is he going straight to the hospital?”

  The academic gazed at her tolerantly. “The answer to your first question is I don’t know. To your second, he was incandescent. And to your third, I’ve no idea. Does that help?”

  “No.”

  “Craig only has himself to blame,” remarked Patrick. “No one can say I didn’t warn him.”

  “You warned Craig?” Juliet swung to face the Irishman.

  “Yes. He and I had a chat on the forecourt, before dinner on Sunday. We talked about heaven. I must say I was impressed with his grasp. For a non-Catholic, he showed a ready aptitude.”

  “Did he?” said Juliet.

  “Yes. But then he went and lost it. That was when I had a go at him. Sunday night it was, after the poetry recital and party. I told him it was his fault Llewellyn took over.”

  James muttered something Juliet didn’t catch.

  “Patrick,” said Juliet, “I’m not interested in who you blame, or how many years in purgatory you think he’s going to get.”

  “However,” continued Patrick, warming to his subject, “I do think Don should rush to the hospital, if only to make his peace with Craig. Otherwise, if Craig dies with unfinished business, it will increase…”

  “Be quiet Patrick,” said Juliet, mustering superhuman self-control.

  Patrick had apparently not heard. “But silly me, how can I speculate on the number of years? Some of course question how one can count years in purgatory. For time has no meaning after death. And I do accept that.”

  Juliet steeled herself. “Patrick…”

  “Sometimes,” the Irishman went on enthusiastically, “I lie awake at night thinking about death. Do you? I’ve thought about it even more in the last few months – coinciding exactly with the time that I’ve been here, as it happens.”

  Juliet had heard quite enough from him for tonight. If he carried on, she’d knock him to the floor, and stamp on him. “Shut up, will you!” He turned hurt eyes upon her. At last, she had his full attention. “Craig is going to live,” she shouted.

  The Irishman looked pitying. “You’ve no guarantee of that.”

  Juliet twisted round to the occasional table behind her and picked up a heavy book. It was, she noted, The Tibetan Book of the Dead. With all her strength she hurled it at Patrick. He dodged aside just in time. It hit the wall behind and crashed to the floor, where it lay with a broken spine.

  “There’ll be seven years’ bad luck on you for doing that,” he said.

  At this, James rose and glided across to Patrick. They both meltedaway out of the room.

  She stood still, breathing hard. There was nothing for it but to go to bed. She felt bad. Ashamed, enraged, mortified. And afraid for Craig.

  Images flashed through her mind as she lay in bed. They included a black-and-white newsreel of James boarding a transatlantic liner ahead of a procession of porters carrying crates of champagne. The fact that James was the one who’d been making heavy use of the Dom Perignon for several weeks had escaped Craig. But this hardly mattered now. Damn James, damn the champagne. What of Craig? Would he live? How seriously injured was he?

  Some time in the early hours of the morning she must have fallen asleep again. The next thing she knew she was looking at her bedside clock, horrified. The hands now stood at ten a.m.

  Leaping out of bed, she dressed, dragged a comb through her hair, and raced downstairs. All was silent. Bursting into the sitting room, she found Llewellyn filling a cup from a cafetiere of freshly brewed coffee. He was alone in the sunlit room apart from Groucho on his perch. As soon as Juliet saw the poet, she froze. The memory of his behaviour on Sunday night flashed vividly before her eyes.

  The macaw hopped up and down and ruffled his plumage. Juliet stared at him wildly, then back at Llewellyn. The Welshman regarded her with a grim face. This was their first meeting since that dreadful scene in her bedroom. Would he apologise? She waited. He said nothing. But she really couldn’t be bothered to make an issue of it when she had so many other things pressing on her mind. “Llewellyn… how’s Craig?”

  “Alive. And in not too bad a shape. He’ll survive, Juliet. Don got to the hospital two hours ago. Theo told me. He’d just had a call from Don.”

  Juliet was stunned by Llewellyn’s sardonic tone. “But …”

  He interrupted. “Coffee?”

  “Oh,” she said. “OK. Thanks.”

  He poured her a cup and handed it to her. She accepted silently.

  The poet studied her face, his own a brooding mask. “All right Juliet, let me say sorry a
bout the other night.”

  She nodded curtly. “Apology accepted, Llewellyn.”

  “I still cannot believe I treated you like that,” he said.

  “We all do things we later regret,” she replied. Although she admitted to herself that she did think Llewellyn’s behaviour towards her also had quite a bit to do with the effect living in this community seemed to have on people. “But never mind,” she said aloud. “Let’s forget it, Llewellyn, and move on.”

  He nodded, evidently greatly relieved. A few moments passed.

  “Is Don still at the hospital?” Juliet asked.

  “I don’t know.” Llewellyn picked up the set of bronze bellows and began to run his finger back and forth over the embossed design. Then he said something that unsettled her. “Juliet, I feel… now this has happened… it’s time I went. You came by car didn’t you? Would you give me a lift to London?”

  She threw herself onto the sofa beside Groucho’s empty perch. It didn’t suit her to leave. “No, Llewellyn. I’m not going today. Catch the train instead.”

  “You mean you’ll stay? After this?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I do mean,” she responded.

  “You can’t change anything,” he said.

  “I disagree with you,” she replied. Though she didn’t know why. How could she? She looked down at the silk-fringed rug, as if seeking inspiration there.

  Llewellyn tried again. “Juliet, please listen to me. Let’s both go to London together after lunch.”

  “No,” she said. She gazed at him, mystified. Surely he must see how inappropriate this was? OK, he’d apologised, but the atmosphere was still strained between them. Although she saw nothing on his face to suggest he thought his request out of order. One further question balanced on her lips. But she couldn’t say it. Her own vision of herself and Don together hung in the air, fresh, vivid, real. Then it melted. Don was replaced by Craig. She caught her breath. She fought against it. Felt panic rising, as if any moment now she’d plunge into a chasm.

  All the while Llewellyn watched. The two of them seemed set into a freeze-frame. Several moments passed. Suddenly a flash of movement caught her eye. She looked through the window behind him. Sunlight glancing off gloss paintwork. Maroon Bentley. Reversing into a parking space. And drawing to a halt. Don was back.

  Without giving Llewellyn time to react, she bounded from the room.

  22

  Stranger Things

  Don unlatched the garden gate, and headed along the path to the shrubbery. Ah, thought Juliet as she followed. The gazebo. That popular place for private chats, here at the Wheel of Love. Don would explain everything: the truth about Craig and the truth about how he, Don, felt for her. And the future would become clear. But as they drew near the gazebo, the signs grew ominous. A heavy, woody smell hung in the cool air. And the low light gave everything a muted appearance.

  She now knew that when he’d left the house after lunch the previous day, it had been to attend a meeting of his board of directors in Barnsley. But what had they agreed? Had they made a judgement against Craig? How would the company recover its investment? Of one thing she felt sure: the discovery that Craig had crashed his car wouldn’t have helped.

  Perhaps she already knew the answers to her questions, even before she and Don settled down on the redwood seats. There was no good news for Craig – or for the Wheel of Love.

  And what of her and Don? She longed to know. But she also agonised about the fate of Craig. “Is Craig all right?” she asked.

  Don gazed at her, and took her hands in his. “Yes,” he said. “No need to worry about Craig. He’ll live.”

  For a moment, Don held her hands tight, then let them go. The look in his eyes told Juliet that he was starting to distance himself. She began to feel the sting of something akin to grief. Her heart filled with foreboding. “Don, what’s going on?” she asked. “How do you feel about everything that’s happened? Are you trying to protect yourself?”

  “Perhaps I am,” he said.

  “But why? Don, you don’t have to.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I refuse to believe it.”

  For a long moment, he laid his hand on top of hers. He examined her face, and she his. During their mutual gaze, she felt almost as if he was taking something precious he could keep for ever. Then he withdrew his hand, stood up and walked across the gazebo to the door. She resisted tears as she waited for him to steady himself again and turn.

  “Will Craig be out of hospital soon?” she enquired.

  He half smiled. “Expect so. Just mild concussion. And whiplash. Supposed to be in overnight. But knowing him he’ll discharge himself.”

  “Don,” she said. “Why not let this be your chance to make a fresh start?”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  After several seconds had passed, he said, “I haven’t been a hundred percent honest about what happened to his mother. Never even discussed it with Craig.”

  Juliet became very alert. Craig’s mother? She broke the silence. “And what did happen to her?”

  A resistance in his face seemed to give way at this question. Some hitherto rigidly upheld line of defence began to crumble. “When she went away,” Don said, “it was my fault.”

  “Oh?” This puzzled Juliet. “Well, wherever she is, I hope she’s happy there.”

  “No. You don’t understand,” said Don.

  “And you don’t help me to understand,” she countered.

  His face had lost colour, she noticed. He cleared his throat. Moments passed as he evidently steeled himself for what was coming next. She could tell this was costing him a lot. But she let the time pass. Some kind of dilemma appeared to revolve in his mind. “Me and Craig,” he said. “We’ve never talked about it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid of the questions he might ask,” admitted Don.

  “I’m asking questions now,” said Juliet. “Where did Craig’s mother go?”

  “Gaza,” said Don. “Bit like joining the Foreign Legion.”

  “Gaza?” she repeated, bewildered.

  “Community project,” he muttered, “To stop violence against women and girls.”

  “But…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “That sounds admirable. What questions might Craig ask?”

  “He might ask, for instance, why his mother chose to champion such a cause.”

  “Violence against women and girls?” Juliet said.

  Don nodded. His eyes met Juliet’s. And suddenly, Juliet knew why Craig’s mother had left. She looked down at her hands, and began to twist a silver ring round and round on her finger. Physical abuse. It wasn’t something she’d ever associate with Don. And yet… What did she know?

  “It was years ago,” Don said softly. “I’ve changed.”

  “I believe you,” she replied. A long silence fell between them. Then Juliet said, “But Don, why would Craig’s mother walk out and leave her child with you?”

  “She didn’t,” said Don “She took him. But I fought her through the courts. And got him back.”

  “Why?” she asked, astonished.

  For a while he said nothing. They he spoke slowly. “Well, you see,” he said, “she was mentally unstable.”

  “Oh God, no,” said Juliet.

  “They ruled her an unfit mother,” Don continued. “And I won custody.”

  Juliet could hardly believe it. A father who’d been guilty of domestic violence? And yet… Why had Craig never mentioned it? There again, why should he? Hardly surprising. Even so…

  “The alternative would have been to put him in care,” said Don. “I didn’t want them to do that. So I moved heaven and earth. And I got him.”

  “You say she was unstable?” repeated Juliet. “Does that explain why Craig…”

  “…gave Rory a free rein?” said Don. “Wanting to believe the best of him? Yes. Afraid it does.”

  She heard someone step th
rough the doorway. They both looked round sharply. Juliet jumped to her feet. She faced Craig, her heart pounding. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Don had remained seated.

  Craig looked drawn. His face was unusually pale and his jawbone set. There was no sign of any physical injuries. “Juliet. Father,” he said, unsmiling.

  Don had raised his head, his customary jaundiced expression back in place. Juliet felt a sense of despair – although she now understood why Don put up these barriers. And why he found it so difficult to come clean with Craig. Even now, he remained silent.

  She turned her attention to Craig instead, and drank him in. She felt emotionally raw, unsure what to do, or what to say. The sun reasserted itself above a shredded cloudbank in the western sky. Shafts of light slanted through the windows of the hexagon, picking out Craig’s dark hair in gold, giving the effect of an aura. For a brief moment, he looked exactly like the spiritual figure he’d long presented himself as.

  Was he about to change appearance again? Or had it been a delusion of hers, or a psychological trick? Then the base cloud rose again. The light dimmed once more, and the impression vanished. Craig was Craig again. But who was that? She trusted neither her own judgement, nor her feelings, especially since Don’s revelation. But in her imagination she saw Don beating his wife, and she heard her screaming... Then Juliet took a firm grip on her unruly thoughts. Gaza. So that’s where Craig’s mother went. Perhaps it was Theo’s story of nearly being gunned down in the Garden of Gethsemane that had unexpectedly sent an electronic signal to the forefront of her mind.

  And then she thought of that emotional letter to Craig. And the piece of charred timber. And the Arabic headdress. Could it be..?

  Don, however, was now focusing on another issue. “Craig. Are you fit?”

  “Fit as I’ll ever be.” Craig’s eyes travelled to Juliet.

  “Fit to talk about something else?” said Don.