Since seeing Jeffrey and hearing the new girlfriend’s voice she had kept her mind trapped in a cage of physics and maths: graphical solutions to simultaneous equations; resultant force and terminal velocity. But now it broke loose and stretched its wings. On the promenade below her was one lonely figure, small and huddled, and a trotting dog. She ground out one ciggie and lit another; the match flame catching and singeing the fake fur round her hood.
She walked towards the place where the well was, not with any intention at all, simply that is where her feet carried her. It was too cold to stand around. She remembered Jeffrey’s words, ‘I always thought when I have a girlfriend I’ll bring her here,’ and the ludicrous blooming of pride within her when he’d said girlfriend, a word that signifies love and belonging, arms around you. The smoke deep in her lungs on the freezing air was delicious and she felt it in her veins. She rose above herself, feeling powerful and detached. Friction causes wear and heating, she thought, speed equals distance/time.
She reached the gate marked private and went through. Frost gleamed on the leaves in the orange streetlight and scraped off on her coat. She felt the snag of a barb on her sleeve, a tiny rip in the fabric. Inside there was very little light and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Before she could see, though, she could hear. She could hear voices coming from below her feet, an echoey giggle and murmur. She saw the black smile in the sparkly ground. She heard the sounds of people making love.
She stood for a moment listening and looking, her breath catching the little light there was, making long feathers in the air. She rose above, amongst the vaporous feathers, and watched as she took off her coat, flicked it with her lighter, waited for the snarling sound of flame on cloth and dropped it in the well. There was an immediate shriek, a male voice saying, ‘Christ, Christ,’ a flash of the tops of two heads as she pulled the lid across, closed up the hole in the ground. Her foot scraped the earth and leaves and twigs across just like Jeff had shown her. And then, the cold striking through her school blouse and sweater, she ran home, slipped in without the doctors noticing her lack of a coat.
They were watching the Messiah on TV and she sat numbly between them. ‘It’s starting to feel quite Christmassy,’ Joan said, ‘next week, we’ll get a tree. It’s so nice having a young person with us, isn’t it, Roger?’ They were drinking sherry and nibbling Cheeselets from a wooden bowl. It was the sort of evening she would want in her adult life, cosy, civilised and safe.
‘I lost my coat,’ she said at bedtime. ‘Sorry. Someone nicked it from the cloakroom.’
‘But you’ve been out.’
‘I wore my blazer, it was freezing.’
‘You can borrow one of mine,’ Joan said, ‘and you can ask about it at school tomorrow. But don’t worry; we can always get you another one. You could choose one for Christmas if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, dear … oh by the way, Jeffrey called round this evening. He said he’d see you tomorrow.’
‘Jeffrey?’
‘Yes! Jeffrey! What’s the matter?’ Joan laughed. ‘She looks as if she’s seen a ghost, doesn’t she, Roger?’
‘When?’ she said. ‘I mean how long ago?’
‘Not long. You just missed him.’
‘Was he OK?’
‘Looked OK from a medical perspective!’ Roger said. ‘Off to bed now, there’s a good girl. School tomorrow.’
She lay awake for a long time. Maybe Jeffrey stamped out the flames and climbed out? There couldn’t have been much fire, anyway: combustion requires oxygen. Maybe no one was hurt at all? But he wouldn’t have had time to get round here before she did. Maybe it wasn’t Jeffrey then. No, don’t think that, don’t think that. There was no one down the well at all. Of course. She wouldn’t do a thing like that! It had been a hallucination. Yes, that was it, a sort of waking dream. She breathed out a long smoky sigh of relief. Put the lid on a stupid het-up memory of a stupid dream revenge she didn’t take. Put the lid down tight.
Chapter 40
^
In the morning I got spruced up before I went in. This was the first day of the new life. I had a feeling almost of being cheerful, what you might term optimistic. The culmination of fifteen years. I thought to offer her a bath and she could get dressed. Outside the sun was shining and the road roaring as per usual. I opened the door and went in. It was all gloom in there with thin stripes of light from between the boarded windows. I put on the light and there she was hunched up on the bed looking like a dog’s dinner. It was a let-down. In my mind’s eye when I’d pictured this day I’d seen the young Karen and I know that’s ridiculous but such is man. And here she was with her thin white face and her dyed hair all up on end like a hedgehog – and also, to my nose, a little high which I know was not her fault.
‘I’ll run you a bath,’ I said. ‘Cuppa while you wait?’
‘This is pathetic,’ she said, looking up at me.
‘Just let me go.’ It takes your breath away that a person in a position of such weakness could have such cheek. I went out and locked the door. I had this over her of course, I had the power to come and go as I pleased. Pathetic is just the sort of word Isobel would use. Not all the memories are good, of course not, sometimes Isobel was a bitch to me. Would she even thank me now, after all my trouble?
I went in half an hour later and told her the bath was ready. I noticed that she’d put the picture of Charlie on her pillow.
‘You’ve been in my house,’ she said.
‘Your house?’ I said.
I had her there, you could see, and even more so when I took the life licence out of my pocket.
‘Does Charlie know about this then?’ I asked.
The expressions that went across her face then answered any question of whether she knew he knew. She put out a hand to grab it but it was a weak gesture and not really meant.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a message for you from Rose.’
You’d think I’d touched her with a cattle prod the way she sat up at that.
‘Just to say you’ve broken the terms of this,’ I shook the licence, ‘and the police are on the case. Oh don’t worry, you’ll be safe here.’
‘How do you know Rose?’ she said in a little voice.
I could have made out she was a personal friend or somesuch but didn’t have the stomach to string it out any longer.
‘I listened to your messages.’
‘Have you got my phone?’
‘I left it. Come on,’ I said, ‘you’ll feel better after a wash and brush-up.’ She looked at me then in such a way that I realised I was talking as Mark not Rupert and at that moment I decided to drop the pretence. She was mine. No further need. We could be Mark and Karen – no more Rupert, no more Nina – we could just be ourselves.
I took her to the bathroom and stood outside while she bathed. I could see through the crack in the door if I wanted but to tell the truth I had no interest. I took away the cold Horlicks from her room, put it in the microwave and drank it myself.
I went back and listened to Karen splashing away. I did take a peep just to see what her progress was. Seeing her naked and unaware, something rose inside me. It was the white skin of her back, the wet hair clinging to her skull. It came to me that she was only human and I felt the pity rising up again.
She was mine, she was mine, she was mine.
The genuine Karen Wild.
I stood in the kitchen flicking through the scrapbook, remembering what all this was for, till she called out that she was freezing and I got her back to her room. I let her get dressed and took her a cup of tea and biscuits. She was wearing a skirt and one of the blouses I’d brought over. It was good to see the co-operation, a bit of respect in her eyes.
‘I’ll leave you to look at this,’ I said. It was the scrapbook. Not the original, I’d photocopied everything in case she took it into her head to spoil it. But I thought a spot of reminiscence would do her goo
d.
When I got back, she’d drunk the tea and the scrapbook was on the floor beside the bed. ‘Did you look at it?’ I said but there was no movement from her face.
Then she said in a way as if to a child, ‘So, Mark, what is it that you want?’
Hearing my real name on her lips like that gave me a start. There were no lines to say then. I had what I wanted. I had her. But then what and then what?
‘What’s this for?’ she said and reached over to the corner of the bed where I’d left the items of restraint. I’d forgotten they were there. They’d only been in case of need. An impulse buy from the sex shop – handcuffs padded with fake pink fur. They had caught my eye by the till, the look of the fur I think it was, the colour of bubble-gum. You’d think having seen them she’d have kept quiet. They’d been tucked under the edge of the mattress and no need for her to go ferreting around like that.
I would have left it at that for the time being but the hoity-toity sound of her voice got to me. I got hold of her and forced her hands together. She kicked at me but her feet were bare and she bit me on the arm but I was not letting go and I did not let go until I’d got the cuffs on.
During this her nose started to bleed all on the new mattress, which would mean scrapping it and mattresses do not come cheap. She was all twisted over with the pink fur round her wrists. Her face had a look of pure hatred and blood running down her mouth. I didn’t want blood getting on the fur, which had a pretty effect with the silver cuffs and the pale skin. I tried to dab at her nose with a hankie and she spat at me. Well I was not having that. I backed away and left the room, locked the door, left her to stew in her own juices.
There were teeth marks on my arm and one place where the skin was broken. I went into town to buy first aid. A bottle of TCP and plasters and suchlike. The woman in Boots gave me a funny look. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. She was that motherly type. ‘Only bitten by my girlfriend,’ I said and the face on her then made me laugh and I knew I had to get that under control.
The smell of the TCP was so much like childhood, and all the scraped knees and cut fingers and the chewy edges of sticking plasters, I had a strange moment of such strong remembrance that, standing in the kitchen with its big stained sink and all, I wasn’t even sure where I was or why.
I had her though. I had her. I was revving myself up with that thought. After everything all the years, and Mum in her chair and Dad in his pathetic jeans, I had her. I had to keep thinking that.
On the way back I’d bought another bottle of tequila and I poured one and swigged it back with salt on the rim like they do. Had to keep the hate. It was revenge. I could not go soft. That could not happen. It was up to me to put right the wrong of years. I had her where I wanted, but the white skin, the little skull under the wet hair. A feeling of pity would be the start of a disease, like a virus caught from somewhere, and next thing you know it’d be all forgiveness and happy-clappy this and that and sailing off into the sunset. I drank the tequila fast.
I had her.
Chapter 41
~
On Christmas afternoon, leaving the doctors and their real children dozing in front of the TV, she went for her ciggie walk. It was dark and the streets were quiet. It was mild and wet. She wore her Christmas present, a pink duffel coat with white toggles. The drizzle sat on the surface of the wool like grease. She let her hair get wet. She wandered through the streets looking through lighted windows at other people’s Christmas afternoons: fairy lights; TVs flickering; a man asleep with a paper hat over his face – but in one, a woman with a grim face, ironing.
A man walked towards her, his dog skittering along ahead of him. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said. She took a deep drag of her cigarette. ‘Same to you,’ she said in smoke.
She walked to the Spa Gardens, through the private gate and pushed through the wet bushes. It was too dark to see the black circle on the ground. She crouched down to listen; she couldn’t kneel and mess up her brand-new coat. There was no sound, of course. There was nothing. She smoked another cigarette, there in the triangle of darkness, and then, spooked suddenly by a fluttering in the bushes or maybe it was within herself, she stamped out her cigarette and hurried back to the doctors.
The night before Jeffrey went back to university his parents were out. She went round and they made love on the sitting-room floor. They hardly spoke, she hardly looked him in the eye, but the sex went on and on in every way she could think of until she was bruised and sore with carpet burns on her knees and elbows.
‘You’re incredible,’ he said when she got up to go home. ‘I’ll miss you.’ He promised to be home the weekend after next.
She walked fast back to the doctors’ house and stood outside looking at their windows, the light through the curtains, her own room with the lamp left on, wasting electricity. ‘You’re incredible,’ she whispered to herself, ‘I’ll miss you.’
She heard nothing from Jeffrey for a few days and then there was a note on a torn-off bit of A4:
Dear Karen,
Working hard. Party last night, didn’t get to bed till five, so yawn, excuse short note, essay and practice and a concert later. Can’t come back for weekend as promised, too much on. I’ve been thinking that we’re too young to be tied down. How about we consider ourselves free during term times but still get together in the hols? Let me know what you think.
Love Jeff
She didn’t bother to reply.
Chapter 42
^
I got myself together, went back in to have a look. I went to have a feel. With her chained up like that I could have looked at anything I wanted and take my time. But it was her and she was wrong. The face was wrong. I unbuttoned the blouse and she squirmed and to tell the truth I wasn’t interested in more than a token way. She looked nearly middle aged and at the same time like a child.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
I stood back from her.
‘I did do it,’ she said with a choke in her voice. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ She stopped herself then before she could say Rupert. ‘I’m so sorry, Mark.’
It went through me when she said my name like that, what with her bitten nails and the way she was plucking at the cuff. You could see all the nerves she had stored up inside her. Fifteen years’ waiting and all for that one word sorry! Did she think that was enough?
‘Sorry?’ I said in a kind of mimic and my voice came out so loud it rang.
She hung her head and started on the story of it in a small flat voice and to do her credit it was the same story she’d trotted out in court. Her voice going on like that made me realise I was tired. It had the feeling of a bedtime story. I sat on the end of the bed. She told me about the doctors who took her in and how they wouldn’t let her smoke in the house, which is fair do’s in my book. But if not for that, she said, she wouldn’t have gone out that night, she would have stayed home and had a ciggie in her bedroom and it all would have turned out different.
‘You trying to put the blame on them now!’ I said.
She looked right through me. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but don’t you think it strange … if not for this, if not for that, how the most seemingly tiniest ifs can have such huge consequences?’
I had no opinion either way. I let her carry on. She was jiggling her foot about as she spoke and hitting her fingers on her open hand as if she was counting, this, then this, then this.
‘I walked through the streets looking at the Christmas-tree lights in the windows. I went down to the Spa Gardens. I listened to the sea, waves rolling in and out, the rumble of the shingle. It just goes on and on, doesn’t it? Doesn’t care.’
No arguing with that.
‘Since seeing Jeffrey with the girl I’d sort of kept my mind in like a cage of physics and maths, which was a safe place for it. But once I was out with the smoke and the night and the waves …’ Her voice shook with the next bit about how she walked to the well.
‘I remembered what Jeffrey told
me,’ she said, ‘how when he had a girlfriend he’d take her there. And then a horrible joke he made once afterwards, once he’d started university and gone all cynical. Pussy in the well, he said. And it kept going round my mind, Ding dong bell, pussy in the well.’ She half sang that bit and I held my hands under the edge of the bed then to keep them from shutting her up. Thinking of Isobel down in the well, thinking of pussy, thinking of Isobel.
‘It was all dark and frosty and I could hear voices down there, in the well, before my eyes adjusted. When they did it was like a smile in the ground, where the lid was partly open. I could hear the sounds of …’ her voice sucked in, ‘it was the sounds of Jeffrey and – I thought it was Jeffrey – and the posh girl, having sex.’
‘But it was Isobel,’ I said.
Her eyes flashed up and met mine for a moment, then she was looking down again, gnawing her thumb. I waited, just watching her foot going and going.
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘It was a moment of … you won’t believe me, Mark, I can’t expect you to believe me. But it was like it was not me for a minute, like I lost myself, it wasn’t a thought or a decision. I …’ but she stopped.
‘Say it,’ I said. I had to hear the end of it then. It was like an itch and all her talking was scratching at it, scratching and scratching but not hard enough. I had to hear her say it.
She was silent. I put my hand out and pressed down her leg, the jiggling was doing my head in.
‘Say it.’ I squeezed her knee.
‘Say it.’
When I squeezed harder I could feel the tremble going right through her body and travelling up my arm. I took my hand away. ‘Say it.’
‘I …’ She shut her eyes. ‘I took off my coat, lit it with my lighter and dropped it in the well. Someone shouted, then I didn’t know what … a scream … I pulled the top shut.’ Her voice had gone nearly too quiet to hear. ‘Then I ran home. They were watching the Messiah. They didn’t notice the missing coat at first. They were talking about Christmas and how nice to have me there.’
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