by Russ Thomas
Back in the cold, dry dark of the cottage, Lily has to push down a surge of . . . what? Happiness? She really doesn’t want to think about that too much. But she can, if she lets herself, acknowledge that Edna’s departure is like the lifting of a dark cloud that has been hanging over her for more years than she can remember. She feels a tremendous guilt about this, but perhaps not so much as she should. Edna’s death has been a reality they have both been living with for so long that neither one of them could remember things being any different.
She glances at the clock to find it’s past lunchtime. Where has the morning gone? She rouses herself and switches on the kettle, taking down two of the roses cups and saucers from the dresser and placing them on the tray with the milk jug. She makes herself a sandwich, tuna and cucumber, and calls to Edna to see if she wants one. She gets no response.
When she returns to the back room, the local news is on. First there’s the accident at the church; a young policewoman was hurt, it seems, as well as the poor vicar. An Indian girl, like the one who was here yesterday offering tea and sympathy. It could even be the same one; it’s hard to tell them apart. Then a picture of Cynthia flashes onto the screen. And images of the Old Vicarage, the police tape strewn across the driveway. Lily lets go of the cup in her hand, barely noticing as it breaks into three pieces when it hits the stone hearth.
Don’t think you’re home and dry yet! cackles Edna, scratching at her milky eye with a blackened fingernail. Just because I’m dead and gone, that doesn’t make everything go away, you know. You can’t relax, Lily Bainbridge. You can never relax!
Lily shushes her. Edna smiles a skeletal crescent and dissolves into dust.
Lily switches off the television set and moves into the front room. But here there is the awful stain on the carpet. It looks better than it did. No one who didn’t already know the cause would guess. Of course, everybody will know. There’s a lingering smell, too, like the remains of spilled food on the floor of the oven that resurfaces every time you light it.
She moves to the patio doors and opens them. The conservatory is hot and smells of plastic—not a significant improvement—so she opens the back door as well and steps out into the garden. The air is fresher than the stuffy cottage, and she breathes out heavily.
There are clouds gathering overhead and she can hear a bird singing. It reminds her of the summer Edna was in the hospital, when Cynthia would bring Oscar over, and the three of them would drink dandelion and burdock on the lawn, spread out on a red check picnic rug.
Poor Cynthia.
Poor Oscar. And then she thinks of him . . . arms sunk into Marigold gloves, washing the dishes. It’s Edna’s punishment because he’s late back from playing out. Edna always metes out the punishments. She, Lily, is the soft one, the one who’ll slip him sweets afterward. You can’t buy affection, Edna says. But that isn’t it. She needs to spoil him. She’s never had anyone to spoil before. And besides, where’s the harm? He catches her eye and winks. She giggles, but Edna looks up sharply and Lily straightens her face. It is supposed to be a punishment after all. Poor Oscar . . . she thinks. But no! Poor Oscar nothing! Why did he send those horrible letters? And if he was here that night, with Edna, why would he not have rung for help? Does he really hate them so? All they ever did, they did to protect him.
What did they do? What did she do?
Through the trees Lily makes out the distant outline of the dilapidated Old Vicarage. She shivers in the breeze. It comes to her that for all its beauty she hates this place. And now she’s stuck here with that awful smell. Burned toast and warm plastic.
And now what? Will they just fall back into the old routine, she and Edna?
There’s a light on at the vicarage. And a noise, too. Something like a drumbeat, a young person’s sound. That awful music Oscar used to play, all thump-thump-thump. It sounds like a native call to arms. Thump-thump, thumpety-thump. Thump-thump, thumpety-thump. And suddenly she finds herself following the crumbling, leaf-strewn path between the trees, following the noise. Thump-thump, thumpety-thump.
The way she came before, all those years ago.
Edna is with her now. Lily can’t see her, but she knows she’s there. She can hear her soft indoor moccasins, the ones she was wearing when she fell, as they scrape their distinctive lame shuffle along the flagstones behind her. Lily hears the repeated rustle of branches she has already negotiated, even over the noise of the wind in the trees. Above them the storm clouds continue to gather.
What are you looking for, Lillian? Edna whispers. What is it you hope to find?
She wishes she had an answer for that. She could ask Edna, of course, but she isn’t certain Edna will tell her.
Could Oscar really have sent those letters? If so, what possible reason could he have to do so? She is certain there is something . . . something she can’t quite put her finger on. Whatever it is, maybe she can put things right between them. Maybe everything can go back to the way it was. Lily pulls her cardigan close against the chill and moves quickly along the path, emerging from the tree line. Thump-thump, thumpety-thump. She knows what the noise is now. It’s the sound of her own heart, beating in her chest. She pushes her way through the knee-high scrub, aiming for the doorway that opens into the kitchen. The threshold she last crossed six years ago. Retracing her steps, revisiting the past. And Edna goes with her.
* * *
—
“Hideous, isn’t it?”
Oscar is standing in the doorway, framed by it, the flickering tea lights giving him the same hellish background as the fire watcher in the painting. He is holding an open bottle of champagne and two glasses. He crosses the room and Tyler takes an involuntary step back, his heels bumping against the marble hearth.
“Here,” Oscar says. He thrusts the bottle and glasses into Tyler’s hands, where they clink and chime together, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out two long, thin white candles and a box of matches. He strikes a match and touches it to the wick. The first candle flares into life. He lights the second candle from the first, then drips some wax onto the mantelpiece and sets the two candles upright under the painting. He pauses for a moment and looks up at the portrait. “Lowry,” he says. “Laurence Stephen. Nineteen forty-three. It’s an original, I think.” Then he frowns. “At least, that’s what he told me.”
“Why are you here, Oscar? Where’s DC Daley?”
Oscar grins. “Why? Have you lost him?”
“He isn’t at his post.”
“How naughty of him.”
Oscar pushes him backward into a large armchair and Tyler sits down hard, a cloud of dust and ash rising around him.
“Relax,” Oscar says, perching on the arm of the chair. He takes back the bottle and one of the glasses and pours the champagne. “Here, this will loosen you up.”
Tyler ignores him. “What are you doing here?”
“Just having a look at the place. One last time. I’m glad you came. I was going to call you but . . .” He swaps the full glass for the empty one and pours a second drink for himself. “I owe you an apology for the other day. I was upset about Edna. It’s no excuse but . . .” He takes a long swig of champagne. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone to Denham. I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble.”
“The police are looking for you.”
“I thought you were the police?”
“This isn’t my case now.”
“But you’re here?” Oscar leans forward, touches his cool, wet lips to Tyler’s cheek. His breath smells of sweet champagne. He feels Oscar’s hand moving up his thigh so he stands, stepping toward the portrait and raising his glass.
He stops, the champagne halfway to his lips, thinking about that night in the club. The rim of the glass tickles his lips and tiny bubbles send puffs of air into his nose. He lowers the glass again and puts it down on the mantelpiece.
“I’m sorry,” Oscar says again. His words are slurred, and Tyler wonders how much champagne he’s drunk. Or maybe he’s washed something else down with it. Oscar joins him by the painting. “I know, I’ve got things I need to work out but . . .” He pushes a forefinger into the melting wax on the mantelpiece. “I’m ready to do that now.” He upends his glass, the prominent Adam’s apple pulsing obscenely as he swallows.
Tyler thinks of the photograph Doggett showed him. The pale white skin exposed by the bright flash. He doesn’t want to tell Oscar what he’s discovered. Suddenly all he wants is to get out of this place, the fetid air, the damp that seems to creep across his flesh. Instead he asks, “What did you mean, ‘One last time’?”
Oscar grins and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a white envelope. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Tyler takes the envelope and lifts the flap. He pulls out two airline e-tickets to South Africa. One has Tyler’s name on it. He stares at it for a moment and then looks at Oscar. “Do you really think it’s that easy? That you can just run away?” Running doesn’t solve anything. He knows that better than anyone. He thinks of poor Lily Bainbridge, shut away in her crumbling cottage. And Jude, hiding in the army. And he thinks of his father. Of Richard, who ran away from everything in the end. “Things that are buried don’t stay buried. Eventually someone digs them up. You don’t get to just walk away from this. None of us do.”
Oscar allows himself to fall backward into the armchair. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I just wish . . . I wish . . .” His words trail off.
Tyler bends over and taps his hand against Oscar’s cheek. “Oscar?” He stirs a little but doesn’t open his eyes. “Oscar!”
And then Tyler’s head explodes. He staggers, and falls in slow motion to the damp carpet. He lands hard, on his knees, tries to speak but the words coming out of his mouth seem strange, etched in bright colors. They pour from his mouth and spill out over his T-shirt. His arms feel heavy, like slabs of concrete. And he feels something warm trickling down his neck.
Tyler falls forward onto his face and hands. He tries to push himself back up, but his body is just too heavy. It’s getting darker, the light from the candles and tea lights fading around him. He manages to roll onto his back and sees the ashen face of the fire watcher looking down on him and then, whatever it was that hit him, hits him again. And after that there is nothing.
* * *
—
Lily climbs slowly and steadily. She’s careful on the stairs, where one or two have rotted right through, but at least the fire hasn’t touched them too badly.
The fire. She never understood the fire. Edna?
Not me, dear.
Joe Wentworth, then?
No, I don’t think so. Someone else.
Someone else?
You forget how it was. There were always people coming and going in this house. All sorts. Gerald’s women and his business partners. Oscar’s friends.
Lily nears the top and places her hand on a banister that falls away and clatters to the floor below. She steadies herself by clutching the top step. It feels just as it did back then. Yes, she remembers! She knew something was wrong. Why didn’t she go back? She should have gone back.
You knew what you would find.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known.
But you did, didn’t you? We both did.
“The girl. Sophie.”
Denham’s daughter. She told us what Gerald did.
“But you said she was lying!”
That’s right, Lillian. Blame me if it makes it easier.
“We should have told someone.”
Are you going to stand here all night? It’s all the same to me, of course. I’m not the one who’ll catch my death.
Lily goes on. Along the first-floor corridor to the next set of stairs. The house smells. It’s the same smell she tried to soak out of the carpet by the hearth. The smell of fire and death.
“I don’t want to go up there. I won’t!”
Silly woman!
“No, Edna, please! Don’t make me!”
Stupid woman! I never made you do anything.
There’s a noise from above, the scrape of a chair, footsteps.
Someone is already up there.
Someone else.
She takes refuge in one of the bedrooms, closing the door behind her so very quietly. She turns. Oscar’s old room. Even now, ruined as it is, it’s far tidier than it ever was when he had it. It had been this very room where it began. Only, on that occasion, she’d been outside listening in. Listening as Edna . . . argues with Michael.
“You can’t be serious! You expect me to take the word of that girl? Gerald’s a good man; you can’t possibly believe this nonsense.”
Lily can’t see them but she knows Michael’s frowning, unsure if he’s gone too far. He always falters when it comes to Edna. But then, who doesn’t?
“I don’t know what to think. But I know Sophie wouldn’t lie to me. She wouldn’t make this up.”
“Then the girl’s mistaken,” says Edna, and her voice is so confident Lily almost believes it herself.
There’s a long pause. When Michael speaks, it’s quietly and calmly. “I hope you are right, Miss Burnside, for the boy’s sake if nothing else.” Lily slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp.
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you really that naïve, or are you in on it?”
“How dare you!”
Lily hears the slap.
When he speaks again it’s quietly, and Lily has to strain to hear through the wooden door. “I’ve seen the money behind it and God help me I haven’t said anything. Shipping girls up from London. Boys, too. Did you know that? Do you really think Oscar is safe? Who the hell is safe from Gerald Cartwright? What happened to Cynthia, eh? You know, don’t you? He let some of it slip once, when he was so drunk he could barely stand. I just thank Christ he was too drunk to remember afterward that he’d said anything. Otherwise, I’d probably be joining her . . . wherever she is. I know you were involved. Does Lily know about it as well?”
“Leave Lily out of this.” Edna’s voice is frighteningly harsh. “Don’t you even think of going to the police! Do you think they’ll take your word over his? He’s a powerful man. You know full well who his friends are. If you’re lucky, they’ll make out you’re mad. Lock you up somewhere. Is that what you want?”
Michael’s voice is different now. He backpedals. “I don’t want any trouble, and I certainly don’t want to go up against Gerald Cartwright. What you do is up to you. I just thought you should know what he’s capable of.”
There’s a stunned silence, as though they both realize they’ve said too much. When Michael comes out of the room his cheek is bright red. He stares at her and they both understand. He steps forward and Lily flinches.
“He’s a bad man,” he says simply. Then he heads down the stairs.
Lily goes into the room to find Edna sitting on the bed, one hand clutched to her chest.
“Edna?” She rushes over to the bed.
“I’m all right.”
Lily crouches in front of her and takes her hands. “It’s not true, is it? Please! Say it isn’t true!”
Edna shakes her head. “Of course it isn’t true. She’s a young girl, her head full of mischief and her body full of chemicals. She smokes drugs, you know. I’ve seen her in the barn with some of the others. At least Oscar wouldn’t get involved in that nonsense.” Edna’s hands are shaking.
“What about Oscar?”
“Never mind.”
“But Edna, what if . . . ?”
“Lillian,” Edna snaps. Her hand cups Lily’s wrist like one loop of a policeman’s handcuffs. “You put this nonsense
out of your head at once. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”
“Yes, Edna, yes. Please, stop. You’re hurting me.”
She stares at Edna until she lets go and . . .
When she sits down on the bed next to her, Edna’s face is cadaverous. She grins her toothy smile through ruined lips. It’s hard to believe those insubstantial claws once held the power to hurt Lily. She rubs at the memory in her wrists.
You couldn’t leave it, could you? Edna says. You let that girl’s poison pour itself into your mind.
“But it wasn’t poison, was it?” Lily demands. She can feel the blood rushing though her veins, flushing her cheeks. “She was right!”
Edna’s grin falters slightly. Go on, then, says Edna. We might as well see it through. She falls backward onto the bed and her wasted body sinks into the mattress and disappears.
Lily gets up, walks to the door, and opens it. She steps out onto the landing and listens. The house is quiet.
She moves to the bottom of the attic stairs and begins to climb.
* * *
—
Tyler feels the ground cold and wet against his cheek. Hard stone. He opens his eyes, but everything stays dark. His head is pounding and he can feel that the wound from last night has reopened and is pumping blood from his head at an alarming rate.
His hands and legs are tied with what feels like garden string. He wonders idly if it came from Wentworth’s allotment shed. He forces himself upright, twisting his body and trying to ignore the throbbing in his head and the way the bonds cut into his skin. Upright he feels better; the pounding in his head wanes a little. His eyes begin to focus.
He is in the cellar. The cellar where they found Gerald Cartwright and his broken fingers. There’s a battery-operated light designed to look like an old-fashioned gas lamp that gives the area a dull orange glow. He sees a row of dust-covered bottles lying still in the wine rack. The smell from earlier is now painfully acute. The same smell as at Wentworth’s house. Petrol. There are twenty or thirty cans of the stuff dotted across the stone floor. Ahead of him, in the darkness at the foot of the far wall, there are piles of wood, broken pieces of furniture, pallets, anything that might burn.