by Roger Curtis
‘Is that really relevant, officer? Why is all this necessary? It was my stable, and my horses.’ Her anger was genuine, but she could see Constable Waverley sensed a deeper fear.
‘I know that, Miss, but there’s something else to consider.’
‘What?’
‘That if it was deliberate – I say if, mind – there could be a cruelty charge. One of the men out there is from the RSPCA, here because of the escaped horse.’
Sarah leapt to her feet. ‘You’re actually suggesting I deliberately set fire to… killed my own horses? I loved those animals!’
‘Jed said you wanted to get rid of them,’ Mark said.
‘To good homes, because I couldn’t cope!’ Sarah was crying bitterly now. This was reality, no longer subterfuge.
‘So you see, Miss, I have to ask you about last night.’
Sarah wiped her eyes on a tea towel. It became an artist’s palette with spent make-up from her face. ‘Of course you do, officer, I understand that. But before we go on would you mind if I cleaned up my face? Help yourself to more coffee.’
She went slowly up the stairs, but once out of sight sprinted to her room. Closing the door she lifted the receiver of the bedside phone and dialled furiously.
‘Alice? Thank God. Listen Alice, I need help. Please don’t ask me to explain now but I need an alibi, desperately – yes, a man, quite right. Alice, is there any reason I was not with you until late last night, and you brought me back around two?’ There was a pause of several seconds. ‘Alice?’ Then, ‘Bless you, Alice. Bless you, bless you, bless you. I’ll ring later to explain.’
Mark was angry. ‘What kept you?’
Sarah looked away from them, speaking in an urgent whisper as if only to her husband. ‘You know how my face embarrasses me.’
‘Don’t be hard on her, Sir. Now, your movements last night?’
‘Yes, of course, officer, that’s not a problem. I had dinner with Mr and Mrs Davison, our friends in Putney. Mrs Davison drove me home, about two, I think.’
‘You never told me,’ Mark said.
‘My policy these days. You’ve only yourself to blame for that.’
Constable Waverley was no further forward. He would check Mrs Preston’s account but saw no reason to doubt it. He also needed to consult with colleagues on the possible causes of fire in stables.
For the rest of the morning Sarah quietly mourned the loss of her horses. Then, around lunch time, it occurred to her, with a sudden tingle in her spine that was not unpleasurable, that things were moving forward. Just what those things were she couldn’t begin to guess.
Brian’s unexpected arrival at five was an assault on Sarah’s weakened defences. She didn’t know what, if anything, Alice had told him. Mark was still at home, having cancelled a business meeting with bad grace, ready to take it out on Sarah at the slightest provocation.
The relationship between the two men had grown cool. As Sarah’s demise was the only factor that seemed to have changed in past months she believed it was linked to herself, but she could not explain it. But there was no doubt that Mark’s dwelling on her situation was influencing his behaviour towards her. An evening with the Davisons without his knowledge would just confirm the suspicions that seemed to be churning in his mind.
Sarah was in the conservatory having tea. They found her playing with Esmeralda, rotating her wrist back and forth so that the butterfly walked first one way and then the other, reluctant to leave her. Mark must have caught the apprehension in her eyes when she saw Brian.
‘Sarah tells me she enjoyed her evening with you, Brian,’ Mark said. ‘Good of you to entertain her.’
‘A real pleasure, Mark.’ Obviously he couldn’t resist returning the sarcasm. ‘I just hope the day will come when it will be both of you together. But there we go.’ He turned to Sarah, who was blowing gently at Esmeralda’s wings, so that the colours flashed like distant fireworks. ‘Sarah, we were devastated to hear about the horses. The police telephoned Alice this morning. I imagine they thought you might be too distressed to speak to them. I gather you told them you’d been with us. Unusual for them to act considerately for once.’ He began to rummage in his briefcase. ‘But I haven’t come just to commiserate. I meant to give you this last night, but it slipped my mind.’ He handed her an envelope.
She drew out a photograph of herself and Esmeralda that he had taken on his previous visit. ‘Look Mark, isn’t it beautiful?’
‘Fantastic. Now if you’ll both excuse me I have a call to make.’
‘He seems under some sort of pressure,’ Brian said, after Mark had left.
‘Me probably. Since his image of the perfect wife was shattered.’
Brian went to the window and looked thoughtfully into the distance. ‘I have… er… been intending to talk to you about that, Sarah.’
He was not prepared for her reaction. Something snapped. She could not speak fast enough to get the message out.
‘Look, Brian, I think we’ve reached a watershed, don’t you? You paint my picture, you bring me this beautiful photograph, but the help you can really give you refuse me. You have the skill and the knowledge that I desperately need – desperately, Brian, remember I said that – yet you continue to pretend that it’s something trivial, that I don’t really have a problem. Well, I’ve reached the end. I’ve very little left now to live for. So my advice is, if it’s just more of your platitudes and excuses you can leave now and I never want to see you again.’
Esmeralda flew off in alarm and Sarah brought her forehead down heavily on her vacant forearm.
‘Sarah, Sarah, I understand, I understand. Listen, I’ll be frank with you. The truth is that since your accident – and quite contrary to your accusations – I’ve kept a watchful eye on you. The injury you sustained was actually more serious than you or anyone else suspected – the knife was blunt and there were infections afterwards. Now, at last, I think it’s possible to give an accurate prognosis.’
‘Go on.’
‘The bottom line is that current treatments would improve it but there would always be – how shall we say – a defect.’
‘Surely that’s better than what I have, for Christ’s sake?’
‘But maybe – just maybe – it wouldn’t be for the best. My colleagues at Northwick Park and at the Blond-McIndoe at East Grinstead have been working on a new technique. Instead of replacing the skin, which would show, they use cultured skin cells which, in time, would not. I’m trying it out right now.’
‘Why not on me?’
‘Because I need to perfect it first. Isn’t that worth waiting for? Sarah, isn’t it?
‘Then you’ll do it for me?’
‘I promise I’ll do it.’
‘I haven’t always been kind to you, have I?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, that’s irrelevant.’ He seemed to slip into bedside mode. ‘It’s a matter of professional judgement.’
‘Brian.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t be too long. I really can’t go on much longer.’
‘I understand.’ He returned from the window, as if business had been satisfactorily transacted. ‘Now you must show me what happened to the stables.’
They were surprised to hear Mark walking swiftly behind them. ‘Your horse has been found. Jed says to tell you it’s at the riding school. Oh, and by the way, the police want to see you tomorrow morning.’
Sarah slept soundly that night, exhausted, understanding nothing.
The great door at Avalon Road creaked open.
‘Well, Mrs Preston, this is unexpected. I thought you’d given us up.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Marcus, please. There were reasons why I didn’t telephone yesterday. I haven’t given up.’
‘Sarah, you look awful. I mean worse
than usual… sorry, how clumsy… let me start again. Sarah, you look as if I should be concerned about you.’
Sarah laughed. You know, you’re the only one who can talk to me like that and get away with it.’
She joined the volunteers drinking coffee at the table. ‘Where’s Ali?’
‘Well, word came that Mr Hassan was not well again. Ali looked for you. Said to follow if you did turn up.’
‘I promised to give an opinion.’
‘But remember that your role here is not as a doctor, Sarah. Second thing is take care of yourself in that place.’
She finished her coffee and left. After the door had closed with a thud she realised she had offered Marcus no explanation for her absence.
First she tried the Mary Rose. Yes, he had been there half an hour before. ‘Did he mention where he was going? Anyone hear? Yes, George, to that fucking pit – quite likely. Well, lady, if I was you I’d wait for him to come back. That’s no place for you.’
But she didn’t listen.
It took her a minute or so to locate the hole in the fence and then the catch wouldn’t budge. Perhaps it was her fumblings that alerted them. Gave them time to think. Put ideas into their heads. Possibly.
It had rained and the wooden steps were caked with clay and slippery. Twice she fell and her skirt – skirt in a place like this? – was yellow with mud. She regretted her decision to come but pride would not let her go back. The polythene sheet of Hassan’s makeshift shelter was down and held there by two bricks.
‘Mr Hassan?’ No response. She called again. Still no answer.
‘You lookin’ for the Arab?’ He must have trodden carefully to have reached her shoulder unheard. She didn’t recognise him. He took a swig from a green gin bottle and wiped his mouth on a tattered and grubby sleeve. He called behind. ‘You seen the Arab, Charlie?’
Another figure – they might have been brothers – jumped down into the pit. ‘They took him away, Sammy, ’smornin’ in the amb’lance.’
‘How’d I miss that, Charlie?’
‘Don’t believe you did, Sammy, seein’ as you’re wearin’ his coat.’
Sarah saw that this was true. The coat had a distinctive oriental cut that was unmistakable.
‘And that’s not all, Charlie. Look ’ere.’ With a deft pull of the string at his waist the trousers fell to around his knees, revealing a respectable pair of underpants.
‘Don’t you go gettin’ excited now,’ Charlie said, giving Sarah a push. ‘And don’t you go exciting him neither. He’s known for that, ain’t you Sammy?’
‘A real stud, Charlie. Hey, look at this. Bet you’ve seen nothin’ to match this, have you lady. Good thing you’re past it, Charlie, else we’d be fightin’ over ’er.’
‘You go ahead, Sammy. I’ll have a quick feel afterwards.’
‘You won’t, my boy!’
‘Not you! ’Er!’
Sarah was unsure how to interpret this exchange. She knew nothing about these people. She had always assumed moral laxity resided in the higher strata of society; at the bottom of the pile deprivation simply made sexual excess an irrelevance. That assumption was being severely tested.
The men began to perform little marching jigs in step with their ribaldry. Then Charlie was behind her, she in the middle. She looked around frantically for a means of escape. All she could see were sullen windowless walls and an impenetrable wooden fence high above where the location of the door was lost in the uniform drabness. She couldn’t think of anything useful to say.
Had she known the histories of these two – as Ali would have done and she would come to do – it would not have surprised her that Charlie went straight for her neck, pressing with his fingers into the jugular furrows. She felt her body bend backwards over a pile of clay where the crater edge had fallen in. The small of her back was ice-cold and wet. Perhaps, in his haste, the fingers at her throat had loosened their grip, for she could still hear.
‘Do it ’ere, Sammy, but be quick about it.’
Then the pressure at her throat must have increased again.
The blackness was penetrated by her own name, in a searing arc of a shout that seemed to scour the pit. Such relief as it brought was short-lived. She looked up to see Ali flying through the air towards Sammy, hitting him with a resounding blow to the head as he landed. The pair fell to the ground and rolled over and over in the mud. From the violence of his expletives it seemed to Sarah that Ali’s intention was nothing less than to kill. She tried to raise herself to intervene, but her strength had gone.
She saw Charlie emerge from his hovel, clutching something hidden in a cloth. He stood poised over the struggling pair, casually enjoying the action, with all the time in the world to choose his target. He winked at her. ‘I used to be a butcher, lady, in my younger days. Think I’ve lost my touch? Course you don’t.’ Then he plunged the knife into Ali’s back, somewhat to the right of the spine. ‘Don’t want to blunt it, do we,’ he said, withdrawing the blade and wiping it on Ali’s jacket. ‘And now, Sammy boy, it’s time to scarper, as fast as our little legs will carry us.’
Sarah felt horribly guilty because the paramedics had underestimated the seriousness of Ali’s wound while tending to her. Ali had not helped himself either, by minimising his injury so that they could look after her. When they got him into the light of the ambulance his face was already pale and a teardrop of blood had appeared at the corner of his mouth. His speech became slurred and his thoughts began to wander.
‘Can you hear me, Ali?’ she said, against the wail of the siren.
‘Don’t talk to him, Miss. Let him lie still.’
‘He said something. What did he say? Tell me what he said.’
‘I think what he said was to go there and not let him down.’
A minute passed. Neither spoke. The wail of the siren intensified as the vehicle gouged its way through the congested streets.
‘Has he said anything more?’ Sarah asked.
‘I think he’s gone, Miss. I’m sorry.’
Sarah rolled on her side to face the lifeless body. The paramedic shrank back at the force of her voice.
‘Then that’s what I’ll bloody well do,’ she shouted.
They took her first to casualty, but after a day of intensive screening and being pushed around in a trolley they gave her a bed in a general ward. Its familiarity frightened her, until she remembered being in a similar ward with Nurse Trubshaw the night before Debbie died. It seemed fitting it should be so. She had heard Ali talk of predestination and of wheels that brought you back to where you’d once been, almost, except that the pitch of the screw had advanced by one infinitesimal place in the grand order of things. And who better than Ali to have known that?
But for Sarah there was no reason to think that the wheel had stopped. She knew now that all it had encompassed was in the past and behind her and therefore of no further relevance. When her visitors came – and there were many of them – she impressed them with her cool and dispassionate philosophy, which they equated with recovery in the sense of a return to the Sarah they had previously known. How wrong they all were.
Well, not quite all. On the third day – the day before her discharge – they brought the mobile phone trolley to her bed.
‘It’s Marcus.’
‘You’ve already been to see me today. Why telephone?’
‘There’s someone else who would like to see you. Can we come round? It’s important that we’re not disturbed. Can you get yourself into a quieter ward temporarily?’
‘This is the NHS – you don’t know what you’re asking.’ But the staff wheeled her away for an hour and persuaded the ward sister that something important was afoot.
Marcus and Jack Adams sat on opposite sides of the trolley. Jack apologised for having been a link in the chain that
had dragged her here. Marcus told him not to be so sentimental. ‘Sarah doesn’t think that way.’ Jack raised his hands in resignation. ‘I know, I know.’
‘Why we’re here,’ Marcus said, ‘is to give you this.’ He handed her a brown envelope.
She withdrew a bundle of banknotes, mainly tens and twenties.
‘I don’t need money, Marcus. It’s about the only thing I’ve got.’
‘It’s not just money, Sarah. It’s Ali’s money. To be precise the money he saved to get back to Jazreel’s hospital, left with me for safe keeping. You see, I think he would have wanted you to have it. To use it as he would have done.’
Sarah lay back and contemplated the patchwork of tiles on the ceiling, glowing pink in the late afternoon light that permeated the ward.
‘Jack here has been kind – and clever – enough to make some arrangements. Reservations, permits, that sort of thing. There are no real obstacles, if it’s what you want to do. Think about it carefully and we’ll talk again when you’ve made a decision.’
‘That decision’s already been made,’ Sarah said. ‘It was made a long time ago.’
After the bleak affair of Ali’s funeral there were only three matters to attend to before she left. Well, two really, because the third was a kind of indulgence, but as important to her as the others in its way.
The first was a visit to Peverell Hessett. She went via Wycombe to collect Graham Carruthers and then to the medical centre to pick up Dr Hislop. By the time they reached Laurel Cottage they had planned for every eventuality that might befall her mother, should anything happen to Sarah.
‘I won’t be gone long, Mum, and I promise I’ll write.’
‘More often than you visited, I hope. But Dr Hislop will look after me.’
For some reason Mark was reluctant to part with Esmeralda but Sarah insisted and grudgingly he found her one of the original boxes for the transfer. ‘It will not travel well, Sarah,’ he said, not knowing that its destination was no more distant than Jack Adams’ greenhouse.
She refused his offer of a lift to the airport.
‘I can manage. As I’ll have to from now on.’