by Roger Curtis
Sarah sank into one of the chairs, fighting to regain her composure. ‘Jack, bear with me for a minute longer.’
With trembling hands she picked up the album again and leafed slowly through its pages; then another volume and another, while Jack replaced them carefully on the shelves.
‘Jack!’ She was distraught and crying. ‘Jack, look. Please look.’
His voice cracked. ‘What fiend would allow a kid to endure that?’
‘My father, Jack, and others. That’s Elizabeth in the picture. That’s my sister you’re looking at.’
They covered their tracks as best they could. In the car they hardly spoke, sharing the remaining question that neither was brave enough to raise. The M25, looming up again, seemed to return them to a saner, more hospitable world. For Sarah the bonds were released enough for her to say, ‘I don’t know, Jack. I really don’t know.’ He didn’t reply, so she said in a whisper, ‘Maybe I was just too young to remember.’ She wondered if he believed her.
They stopped briefly at a service centre. While Sarah telephoned the Sharps to say that they’d been delayed by a flat tyre, Jack took it upon himself to telephone the police from a call box.
When they pulled into the drive Tom’s black Mondeo was shining in the lamplight beneath the trees. Pauline was the first to get out.
Sarah kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Pauline, I’m so sorry. I had no idea the RAC would take so long.’
‘Sarah, it’s okay. We’ve only just arrived. Thanks for letting us know, though. Lucky I gave you the phone number.’
‘Lucky I had it on me.’
At the Sharp’s car a titanic struggle was underway as Tom tried to extricate Sarah’s mother.
‘You managed to bring Mum. That’s wonderful,’ Sarah said.
Betty Potter hobbled up to them and laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘Sarah, I’m so pleased we’ve all been able to make up. Please let’s try to keep it that way.’
‘Bygones be bygones, eh Sarah?’ Tom held out his hand.
Sarah hesitated for only a moment, then grasped it. ‘Oh, what the hell. Why not? Who was it who said the past is nothing and the future everything?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tom said, ‘but I’ll drink to it.’
‘Come on in then.’
Throughout the dinner Jack looked on in wonderment, finding it difficult to stay detached and act out his part.
‘Your friend’s the strong silent type, I think, Sarah.’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said, ‘that’s why he’s my friend.’
After that Jack was even more at a loss for words. He could only watch as Sarah – who was harbouring the most intense feelings of resentment – forced herself to assume the role of relaxed and dedicated hostess.
‘You’ve really done us proud,’ Betty Potter said as they got up to go.
‘Next time it’s Tom’s place,’ Sarah said.
Tom appeared not to hear. He was staring intently at Brian’s painting of Sarah draped over a chair contemplating roses in a silver bowl.
‘That doctor friend of yours did this?’
‘Yes. Good, isn’t it.’
Tom peered more closely. ‘Remarkable, I’d say. Ever studied the detail?’
‘I usually admire it from a distance!’ She blushed. ‘As a picture, I mean, not me.’
‘Well, look at it carefully when you get a minute. You might find it more interesting than you think.’ He took the cap that Pauline was waving in front of him. ‘Goodnight, one and all. Thanks for a very satisfying evening.’
Ten minutes later Sarah was still standing in front of the painting. ‘Jack, this is killing me. See if you can make out what the bastard was getting at.’
Jack took out his reading glasses and peered at the canvass.
‘It was the rose bowl he seemed to be looking at, Sarah. The reflection, perhaps. Ah, I think I see.’
‘Then for God’s sake tell me!’
‘Well, although your damaged cheek’s not visible, there’s a reflection of it in the rose bowl. You can see the line quite distinctly – faint, but it’s there. I’d say he’s painted your scar, or the suture line. Weird he should want to do that. But why, now, would Tom find that interesting?’
‘Sarah felt as if her legs were giving way. She slumped into a chair.
‘You know?’
‘You really can’t guess?’
‘No idea.’
‘Jack, the picture was painted before it happened.’
‘Then either it’s been added since, or…’
23
At Mortlake crematorium – Alice’s funeral – the stabbing recollection of Mark’s bleak cremation made her look at the faces more closely. There were many more of them, and in their midst was the kernel of family. They were known to Sarah only as distant figures hovering on the periphery during their early student days who had since receded into nothingness. Yet here they were, mother, father and two sisters and a bevy of others, large as life, sharing a silent, potent grief.
Dr Pardoe, Alice’s father, had to introduce himself to her. She felt ashamed; what kind of friend had she been? Well, she knew the answer to that. He stood around two metres tall and his shape reminded her of Alfonso. Mrs Pardoe might have been a child at his side, were it not for the greying hair.
‘My daughter always spoke highly of you, Dr Preston… Sarah. I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but latterly she became very concerned about you. She never said why. We’ve – and please don’t take this the wrong way – wondered sometimes if there was a connection… you know, with her accident.’ He lowered his voice, as if shielding the two women from eavesdroppers with his bulk. ‘You see, we were never quite convinced it was just an accident.’
‘Dr Pardoe, there’s no reason at all to think otherwise.’ She felt the force of his penetrating stare, difficult for someone soft by nature to maintain. Sarah hoped he could not read the doubt of Nicole’s warning in what he saw. ‘If I ever hear anything to the contrary I promise I’ll tell you.’
The couple’s two faces, separated only by distance, brightened in unison. ‘That’s all we ask, Sarah.’ He patted her arm. ‘Take care of yourself, now. We wouldn’t want the same thing to happen again.’
That warning of Nicole’s, so ambivalent, grew in her mind as she drove back to Putney alone. She needed time to think and for an hour cruised the dismal streets. Some of the mourners were already leaving when she arrived. Inside the house a few gluttons were still attacking the remains of a spread too lavish for the occasion. She looked for faces that had been at Brian’s party the evening Alice died, but there were none. They had not been at the funeral either. Somehow that seemed significant.
Brian was waiting for her on the terrace. Already he had changed into grey trousers and a sports jacket. He might have been leaving a wedding reception for his honeymoon.
‘Shall we go inside?’
‘It’s nice out here.’
‘Better inside. More private.’
The house was empty, as if her arrival had sent the last of the mourners scuttling away. She wondered if the echoing corridors made any impression on Brian. If so, he did not show it. Outside the music room she thought she heard faint fleeting fragments of conversation and wisps of syncopated piano. But once she was inside they resolved into the twangy, metronomic beat of a single grandfather clock.
‘Drink?’
‘Tea would be nice.’
‘A bit later perhaps. Nothing cold?’
‘No.’
‘Sarah, I have an admission.’
She laughed. ‘Let me guess. There’s no job.’
‘No. Well, yes, there could be, but that’s immaterial.’
‘You can be straight with me, Brian.’
‘You don’t fi
nd that difficult, under the circumstances? With Alice…’
‘The truth is I’m drained of sentiment. That was so even before Mark died. You can say what you like.’
He poured himself some something from a decanter on the piano.
‘You remember an evening at Rotherhithe, on the balcony overlooking the river, just after your finals?’
‘It holds special memories for me.’
‘And how you looked at me when I was too shy to talk to you. As if I was the wettest thing next to the river?’
‘Yes, I remember thinking just that.’
‘Which explains why I’m being direct with you now, though God knows, it’s difficult.’
‘You want us to have a relationship?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why so soon? After losing Alice?’
‘Because I see you taking up with another crowd. Like Jack Adams and Marcus Repton, of which I’m not a part.’
‘They’re friends! I can’t exclude them!’
‘I’m not asking that. I need someone to share a common purpose – and I desperately need you, Sarah. Not having you has caused me much pain. Lately I’ve felt… well… am I right in thinking things might have changed between us? For the better perhaps?’
‘I’m eternally…’
‘Not that.’
‘Then yes, I suppose they have.’
Brian crossed the room to sit beside her. ‘And there’s something else. This is really difficult and you must count to ten before you make any response. Will you promise me that? I hope it will be joyful news!’
Something of terrible significance was coming. Sarah was upright in her seat, her tired eyes wide open. Nothing could have prepared her.
‘You’re expecting my child.’
‘Brian, stop fantasising!’ She pointed at his glass. ‘How many of those have you had?’
‘I told you to wait. Listen. One night you came to the Tower, remember? I behaved badly towards you, I’m afraid when you were in no position to resist. I can only apologise for it, but, God knows, I’ve never for one moment regretted it.’
‘Then you were the beast – in the bull mask? Not Pierre?’
‘It was me.’ The raised eyebrows over the thin smile reminded her of a chess player confident of check-mate.
‘But you claimed not to know Pierre – in the chapel.
‘There were others… involved.
‘Then you’d better pour yourself another brandy, and one for me. Brian, there is no child. Why do you think I’ve kept my figure?’
‘But the tests…’
‘It was aborted, weeks ago. I couldn’t tell anyone about that. Only you knew about the pregnancy.’
‘Then why didn’t you…’
The telephone rang. Brian leapt on it and viciously lifted the receiver. The crackle of the distant voice was angry and threatening. The words were unintelligible but they had a familiar ring about them. Before her eyes Brian’s face began to age. He put the receiver down slowly and thoughtfully.
‘There’s been an accident at the Tower. They think it’s Khasoni. I’m sorry, Sarah, I have to go.’ He got up and made for the door, then turned back to her. ‘Look, why don’t you follow in an hour. I’ll treat you to dinner there. Just go to reception. I’ll leave a message. They’ll direct you.’
The engine roared. Dust flew. She was alone in Brian’s house.
There was an obligation that overrode her more basic inclination to explore. And in any case most of the downstairs rooms were locked. So she climbed the stairs and made her way to the first floor, towards Alice’s room and the balcony from which she was alleged to have fallen.
Had Brian been so friendless that there was no-one to help clear away Alice’s things? The police would not have wanted them moved, but their interest had been short-lived, apparently. Was his regard for Alice so low that even in death he saw no obligation to guard her privacy? If he had wished simply to forget, why had he not just locked the door, instead of leaving it open to the corridor?
There was something familiar about the way the clothes were scattered and the chaos of the dressing table surface. Choices were being made, under pressure of time. What to wear, what shades of make-up to choose, what jewellery would match. There was sadness here, because it was the room of someone trying desperately to get things right, to please against the odds. It was the room of a single woman on her first date with a new man. The familiarity that had so struck Sarah on entering was not hard to explain: she had seen this room before, many times before when they were students together.
Why, then, hadn’t the police asked her opinion, as Alice’s friend? Who of all people could have interpreted this scene better than she? Could she not have told them that no guest would have been invited here during the party for mere social intercourse, in spite of the evidence of the three champagne glasses on the dressing table? There was nothing innocent about that close grouping. May I take your glass, Alice, because with you still holding it, it will be difficult for us to throw you over? Sarah opened the door to the balcony to get air, and the door to the corridor banged shut. She turned violently to protect herself. For God’s sake, Sarah, you’re letting your imagination run away with you.
Trembling, she looked over the edge, into the… But beneath her were the flagstones of the pool surround; the water’s edge was several feet away. Only a deliberate and desperate leap could have carried her that far. But if there had been others…
The faint chimes of the music room clock carried up from the floor below. She looked at her watch. It said six. If she were to follow Brian she would have to fly – if that was still her intention.
The three glasses again caught her attention. Could the police seriously have overlooked taking fingerprints? She ran downstairs, fighting to remember. In the drinks cabinet the patterns were different. But in the kitchen there were lots the same. She ran back upstairs and carefully replaced the ones on the dressing table, putting the originals in her bag.
Her last stop was at the telephone in the hall. There was an answering machine on Nicole’s line. The message was to the point: Miss Macdonald will be at the Tower around six-thirty and would appreciate Nicole’s company if she is free. Then she telephoned Jack.
Even in front of the towering building she could cut and run. But what was the point? The influences emanating from this malevolent mass so circumscribed her life that it was difficult to envisage an existence apart.
This time there was no security man to distract from his copy of the Sun. Instead a white-clad girl of Maia’s clone stood waiting by the lift. She held a small device which seemed to generate the click from the main doors behind Sarah’s back. ‘Why is there no security guard?’ she asked. The girl simply smiled and followed her into the lift.
They reached a corridor giving access to rooms that overlooked the lagoon through windows framed by red and purple bougainvillea. From her previous experience she would not have suspected their existence, so well were they hidden. Between the gently swaying fronds she glimpsed boats on the water and intense human activity that suggested preparation for an event of some kind. In contrast, the decor within replicated the cool tranquillity of a tropical interior. The girl’s knock on one of the doors was gruffly acknowledged. She opened it and stood back for Sarah to enter. From the paintings on the walls there was no doubting whose office it was; but Brian was not alone.
Sarah had half-expected to see Edwin, but was unprepared for the third figure, back towards her, looking out over the lagoon, foot tapping in irritation on the teak floor. There was no doubt, even before he turned. It was difficult to reconcile the pin-stripe suit with the casual jacket of the evening before. He, a butcher? But, as she now knew, one could assume nothing.
He joined the others, who had moved to seat themselves behind the desk. The atm
osphere was inquisitorial.
‘Hello Sarah,’ Tom said. ‘Are you here for tonight’s fireworks? I see they’ve started preparing.’
‘I came to talk to Brian,’ Sarah said sharply. ‘I would like to do so now.’
‘Would you now? Well, Sarah, that’s an option you’ve just deprived yourself of. Do you know how that is?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly a respecter of privacy yourself, are you? You and your boyfriend.’ He looked across to Brian to see if the jibe had taken effect. Brian’s face was grey and desperate. ‘The point is, did you enjoy the family photographs, Sarah? Enough to share them with the police anyway. Sorry there were no later ones of your sis – they would have enjoyed those more. But, come to think of it, they did take the videos, so they’ll not be too disappointed.’
‘The police raided Tom’s house at dawn this morning, Sarah,’ Edwin said. It’s difficult – indeed impossible – not to connect it with your intrusion last night.’
‘Hard on Pauline, who’s now under arrest, rightly protesting her innocence, as it happens.’ Tom’s chuckle became a scream of anger. ‘And bloody hard on me. You’ve buggered everything, haven’t you?’ The crackling anger that had escaped from Brian’s telephone was no longer a mystery. That call had changed everything.
‘Then you’ll get what you deserve, won’t you? For God’s sake, haven’t you had your pound of flesh from me many times over?’
‘Listen, Sarah. Last night at your place I reckoned to call it quits. To forget that debt of your father’s, and what’s still owing. That’s being generous, I told myself, but at last the trollop’s seen sense. So it seemed, mug that I was.’
Sarah remained silent, biting her lip.
‘Tom, is this leading us anywhere?’ Edwin asked wearily.
‘Shut up, Edwin. It seems she’s got to be reminded. Sarah, if you don’t recall – and that I strongly doubt – then let me enlighten you. When you were a kid your father owed me two hundred grand, give or take a few, and would have gone bust if he’d paid. So I let him pay the interest in kind. It’s as simple as that.’