Victims

by Richardson,Robert

‘Have you been listening to me?’ Joyce demanded. ‘I mean have you really heard anything I’ve said?’

  ‘Yes, but … Oh boy.’ Fay refilled her own glass and spluttered as she gulped down more than she had intended. ‘Excuse me, darling, you’ll have to bring me up to speed on this. What do you imagine you’re going to do?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I want to go to London with him. I want to live with him. I was just thinking about what it would be like to marry him.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Fay reached across and took hold of her hand fiercely. ‘Now listen to me, darling. You are out of your tiny mind.’

  ‘Then there’s no point in talking, is there?’

  ‘Oh, there’s every point, because if you can’t see it, someone’s going to have to hammer it home to you. If Emma came to me in a state like this, I’d slap some sense into her.’

  ‘And you’d do that to me?’

  ‘Metaphorically, yes. Believe it.’ Fay’s sympathy had become anger. ‘For God’s sake! Where do you want me to start? How about the fact that you know sod all about him, you could be the twentieth older woman he’s screwed and I wouldn’t drop dead in amazement if he turned out to be married. He could be lying to you through his teeth.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘You mean you don’t want to think that. What would you be telling me if this was happening in reverse? That I should ditch everything I’ve got for some toy boy who’d floated into my life and bonked me when I asked? When did you first go to bed with him?’

  Joyce pulled her hand free. ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘God, was it as recent as that? If you pulled him the night he arrived, it can only have been … When did he come here?’

  ‘On the … it started on the eighteenth. I went to the cottage and —’

  She wanted to talk about it, to relive the first time by telling what it had been like, how she had felt, how the second time had been even better, of her terror at falling until she realized she didn’t care and — Fay’s interruption was caustic.

  ‘The eighteenth? So that’s twelve — correction, thirteen — days ago. Are you asking me to believe you’ve found the love of your life in less than a fortnight? What am I meant to do? Tell you how ecstatic I am? Dream on!’

  ‘I thought you’d understand.’

  ‘Then you’re mad.’ Her eyes filled with sudden sorrow and fear. ‘I love you so much, Joyce, but you’re frightening me. This is going to hurt you very, very badly. I know it.’

  ‘So you won’t help me?’

  ‘Help you do what? Throw yourself over a cliff? After you told me on Saturday how you felt about him, I was worried you were heading for some heartache and was on standby with the TLC and bandages. But this is … God, it’s unreal.’

  ‘Fine.’ Beyond reason now, Joyce felt bitter at betrayal. ‘It would have been good to have someone on my side, but I appear to have been wrong expecting it to be you. Forget it. I’ll hack it on my own.’

  She stood up, and they stared at each other, Joyce resentful, Fay appalled.

  ‘Don’t you ever dare say I’m not on your side. Please, sit down.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Because I don’t want us to quarrel. I’ve said my piece. Just tell me what you’re planning to do.’

  ‘So you can start shooting me down again?’

  ‘No. Promise. And I won’t try to stop you. I assume the first thing you’re going to do is talk to Randall.’

  ‘I have to. Perhaps he’ll …’ Caught by renewed sympathy, Joyce’s voice broke across tears. ‘It might be best if he goes back to London now and I sort out the mess here. I don’t want to drag him into it at the moment. After that, I’ll go and see him in town and we can talk.’

  ‘When did you decide all this?’

  ‘I don’t know. This morning? It certainly crystallized it. I think it’s been … coming on.’ She opened her shoulderbag and took out a handkerchief, mopping her nose as she sniffed and swallowed. ‘I just love him so bloody much. Don’t think badly of me for that. You’ve never had to start from where I was.’

  ‘Does he love you? I know I’ve asked that before.’

  ‘Oh …’ Joyce smiled as she shook her head. ‘If we’d still been arguing, I’d have got angry and said of course he does. But … I think he could love me more. That’s what I’m relying on. Colour me stupid.’

  ‘I don’t have that much colour.’ Fay sighed. ‘Can’t you see that? No, you can’t. Let me know what happens … Will Grace ring Ralph at the office?’

  ‘No. She’ll wait until the weekend and expect me to tell him. By then I’ll have got my head more together. What I’ve been working on is how to convince her what Ralph’s really like.’

  ‘There I can help. She might take it from me.’

  ‘We’ll see … Thank you.’ She returned the handkerchief and pulled the drawstring tight. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. How’s my face?’

  ‘Minor repair work. Use the downstairs loo.’

  As Joyce came back into the hall, Fay was standing by the open front door, expelling cigarette smoke out of the house.

  ‘I’d hate to drive you back to forty a day,’ Joyce said. ‘I thought you’d stopped buying them.’

  ‘I keep a pack for four-alarm emergencies.’ She stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table beside her. ‘One thing. Randall’s got to start being upfront. I’ve no proof he’s ever lied to you, but it doesn’t make sense that you’ve got so close and still know hardly anything about him. If I’m allowed a piece of advice, for Christ’s sake, don’t jump into bed with him again until you know a lot more.’

  ‘All right … Do you like him?’ She needed to know that; if friends saw attractions in him, she would feel less isolated.

  Fay paused. ‘Yes. Really. He’s …’ She smiled. ‘He’d probably bring out my maternal instinct.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ For the first time, Joyce laughed. ‘I’ve got enough hang-ups about this without you joining in.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that. He’s vulnerable, which makes him gentle … Has it struck you that he’s the exact opposite of Ralph?’

  ‘Oh, yes. If he wasn’t, would this have happened?’

  They kissed, then Fay hugged her tightly. ‘Good luck. I’ll worry like hell until you tell me what he says.’

  *

  It was half-past two and Finch was deserted, still and silent houses soaked in sun. As Joyce reached the crossroads, from somewhere far off a train ran a thread of sound through the heat-humming quiet, then there was just the wooden clap of her Scholl sandals as she walked down the hill. She wished she’d worn high heels, however uncomfortable and impractical … because they would have made her look more desirable? Perhaps that was the subconscious reason — but Fay had been right, this was not the time for sex. Unless, after she had told him, for comfort and reassurance — a form of love-making they had not given each other so far. But there were things she had to know first, fragile bridges she needed to test. Would he prove treacherous, that appealing hesitancy no more than a device to seduce foolish women? Would he be the coward who fled from outraged husbands? Would he cynically persuade her into bed for a final indulgence before leaving without even a note, later boasting to his friends in London about the pushover he’d met on holiday?

  Or would he meet her and be happy for them to move on together?

  The car was not parked outside the cottage and she remembered telling him she would come later in the evening; perhaps he was shopping. She thought of going home, but she had a spare cottage key on her keyring and it was better to wait here than have to face more accusations from her mother. She called his name as she opened the door, in case there was some other explanation for the car’s absence, then went into the front room and flopped on the settee, safe in their private place, rehearsing how she would begin to explain. There was a paperback of The Mill on the Floss on the floor, spine broken with use, and she picked it up, smiling at the notes scribbled i
n the margins, looking in the front where he had written his name and college. What had made him read it again? Was it set in Suffolk? Didn’t George Eliot always write about the Midlands? He’d know.

  As she put down the book, she noticed a grey nylon bag partly hidden behind the floor-length curtain, half recognizing it, but knowing he had never shown it to her. Then it registered; she had one just like it, for the Compaq Contura Ralph had given her when he’d upgraded. She picked it up and hesitated; despite repeated questions, he had never been prepared to talk about his novel, but … it could become another link between them. One day she might check his books, correcting, querying, discussing what he meant, arguing if she thought he was wrong about something. Perhaps she’d be able to help him — if he wanted the ingredients of a recipe for a story or needed some information that only she knew. How a woman might think if … but was he writing a novel? She thought he’d said so, but wasn’t certain.

  She unzipped the bag and took out the word-processor, plugging it in to the mains, as she always did with her own to save the battery, then opened the lid and pressed the maroon on-off switch and the F3 button to edit. On the pale blue screen, a single file appeared in the menu: PENITEN. She called it up and saw that in full it was Penitence. A fashionable single-word fiction title; or a factual examination of religious contrition, a philosophical critique? He was clever enough to be capable of any of them; his mind delighted her. And would the writing reveal something about the Randall Jowett she needed to reach? He never wanted to discuss it with her, but surely she was entitled to … Unless he suddenly returned, he need never know. It was the most personal thing in the house connected to the man she had fallen in love with, the man she wanted to commit her whole being to. She began to scroll through the pages.

  *

  Awareness returned with a vicious pain that streaked up her leg. She cried out as she stumbled, fell and lay confused for a moment. A sharp arrowhead of flint on the footpath had got inside her sandal, stabbing into the flesh of her sole; her feet were stained with grime. She whimpered as she pulled the stone out, then desperately looked around for her bag, for something to stem the trickle of blood. She had nothing with her, but there were patches of dock growing next to where she lay and she used the leaves, thinking that if they cured nettle stings they would contain no poison; she remembered reading that people once wrapped butter in them to keep it fresh.

  A hedge rose above her, but there were no visible landmarks to show where she was. Pressing the leaves against the wound, she saw her watch; ten past six. It was impossible to know how far she had walked, but her legs ached and a blister was swelling near the cut. How could she not have felt that? Her mind refused to function, and she began to panic. Nervous breakdown? Amnesia? Insanity? Her memory was chaotic. She could remember her name and those of her children … Being sick after drinking Retsina on holiday in Greece … Her best friend at school had been Maureen Littlechap … Seeing the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts from a cab at night in the rain … joining the Brownies … Buying a hat for someone’s wedding … Running a cake stall … Swearing when she spilt coffee over a letter she had just finished typing … The embarrassment of sudden toothache while watching La Traviata … It was as if everything she knew about herself had exploded and only random, unconnected fragments remained.

  ‘Joyce Hetherington,’ she said aloud. ‘Joyce Davinia. I live in … in … a village. In Suffolk. Rupert and Annabel. I think I’m forty-four.’

  She pulled back the dock leaves, grimacing at drying blood caked to the dirt beneath them. She used her fingers and saliva to smear the worst away, but it needed cleaning and antiseptic. She felt too exhausted to walk again, but would have to; it was unthinkable that anyone should find her in such a condition … Finch. That was it. The house is called Four Elms. Why? Did I call it that? Are there four elms? There must be. What’s happened to me? As she wept in despair and terror, mosaic pieces of memory began to float back, in no order, but faster and faster. Ralph … of course … It was Kit’s wedding … I was Sir Malcolm Glenholm’s secretary … Mummy’s called Grace … I had a studio flat in Baron’s Court … The girl who lived opposite was a dancer … My first car was a Fiat … Fay Graveney … and Oliver … I’m allergic to penicillin … My brother once took me to Twickenham to watch the All Blacks … I vote Conservative … I can’t stand small dogs … I have a lover … he’s called …

  From the cornfield behind her a cloud of startled rooks flapped upwards like torn black petals as she screamed in grief and desperation.

  *

  Jowett saw her handbag on the floor by the doorway of the living room. He shouted upstairs, then went into the garden looking in the shed and behind the apple tree before going back inside.

  ‘Where are you hiding?’ He listened for muffled laughter as he went upstairs. ‘Come on. I know you’re here.’ It was typical of her to want amusement. There were times when she acted as if she were a much younger woman, even a girl.

  ‘Come out when you’re ready, then.’

  He put away the shopping, constantly expecting her to creep up behind him and place her hands over his eyes, demanding him to guess who it was. The playful innocence of such moments brought him more comfort than the sex; they offered a normality he had lost long ago.

  ‘Tea?’ He called, loud enough for her to hear wherever she was. ‘I bought some biscuits as well.’

  He made two cups, then began to feel puzzled when she still did not appear. If she’d had to rush home for some reason, surely she would have taken her bag, even left him a note? As he carried the cups through to the front room, he wondered if he should telephone … For several moments, he stared, convincing himself he could not possibly have left it there for anyone to see. He never did; it was habit. But now it was on.

  I didn’t fire the gun — Giles told me it was unloaded — but I saw two of them killed and heard the others. The little girl wasn’t afraid. She just ran towards him, and I feel sick that I couldn’t even shout a warning to her. If I’d managed to save her, perhaps I’d have been able to stop him. But I was a coward, and I still am. I don’t have the courage to kill myself, so I’ve spent six years in hell. Now I’m back here.

  I try to remember good things I’ve done, but none of them matters. I’ve given money to charity, including a donation for a little boy to have an operation in America. I helped to save his life. Is that something? It doesn’t feel as though it is, but if I saved one life, then …

  The cursor rested on the last word at the bottom of the screen. She must have read Giles’ name, how they had met, planned it …

  ‘Joyce!’ The shout was panic, but he now knew she was not there to hear it. He snatched up his mobile phone, but couldn’t remember her number. It was on the confirmation she’d sent when he’d booked the cottage … bag … no, behind the ornament on the mantelpiece. Shaking fingers hit a wrong button and he had to start again.

  ‘Thank you for calling. I’m sorry we’re not in, but …’

  Her voice, cordial and polite. Was she there and hiding from him? What time had she been at the cottage? He’d left shortly before two o’clock. If she’d called the police, they could be almost here. If he ran, she could tell them his car number. But that was irrelevant; he’d used his personal letter-headed paper to book the holiday … He was sobbing and finding it difficult to breathe. He sat on the settee and stared at the laptop, the words blurred as he struggled to decide what he should do.

  Perhaps if he went to the house … If she was there, they could talk. I never wanted anybody to be hurt. You have to believe that. Giles had some sort of control over me — no, that’s an excuse and I mustn’t make excuses — but I never realized what he was really like. I’m scared; I’ve been scared for years. You were making it better, giving me something to build on. There were times when I wanted to tell you — I’ve wanted to tell someone ever since it happened — but I couldn’t. They were your friends. Don’t hate me. Please … I love you.<
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  Chapter Eighteen

  Amplified by high walls and the parquet floor in the front hall, the drilling note of the bell echoed stridently as Jowett frantically held down the button, flattened fingertip straining against it; her Honda was in front of the double garage and the upstairs windows were open, so surely she was in. He crouched and pushed up the brass flap of the letterbox, pressing his mouth against the opening.

  ‘Joyce! It’s me!’ He lowered his eyes and peered through, then shouted again. ‘Joyce! It’s all right! Just let me in!’

  ‘Who’s there?’ The voice was distant, apprehensive but challenging, like a hesitant sentry. He looked through the slot again, but there was no one visible.

  ‘It’s me! Randall! Where are you?’

  Slippered feet and legs descended cautiously on to the highest stair he could see, then Grace Carstairs leant down to peer at the door, suspicious and offended.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is Joyce here?’

  ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  He straightened up as he saw her continue down, smoothing his hair as though his appearance were important. Then the door opened and she looked at him with distaste.

  ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘What? No, but I have to see Joyce. Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Don’t cross-examine me, young man.’ She was a very small woman, but blazing with anger. ‘I know exactly what’s been going on between you and my daughter. Now you turn up shouting like a hooligan. As far as I’m concerned, you are not welcome at this house, Mr Jowett.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Is it indeed? Has she put an end to this nonsense with you? Perhaps I talked some sense into her. Now, please go away.’ She began to close the door. ‘Take your foot out of there at once!’

  ‘Just tell me where she is!’

  ‘I don’t know! And if I did, I would certainly not tell you. Now, if you don’t leave immediately, I’m going to call the police.’