Sleeping Cruelty

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘A bit. He wasn’t feeling too good.’

  ‘Then where is he?’ she said, now showing her worry.

  ‘I have no idea, but he came home late. They went clubbing.’

  Angela gave a soft laugh. ‘Of course, he’ll be with his father. He was going on a special fishing trip this morning.’

  ‘Oh, that may be it,’ Max said, but he doubted it. He excused himself and left, checking the time. It was not too long to wait.

  He decided he would go for a walk – anything to take his mind off Laura.

  Dahlia looked up with surprise as Laura walked into the laundry room. ‘Have you heard how he is?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’ Laura asked, as she crossed to where her clothes were drying.

  ‘They took James Matlock to hospital,’ Dahlia said, watching her intently.

  ‘Justin didn’t tell me.’

  Dahlia continued folding towels. Laura seemed unconcerned by the news and, to Dahlia’s surprise, gathered all her lingerie into a basket.

  ‘Where is my tissue paper, Dahlia?’

  ‘I had it ironed. It’s in that drawer.’ She pointed.

  Laura placed it carefully on top of her basket. ‘You’re not planning on leaving, are you?’ Dahlia asked.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Laura was about to walk out, but then she turned. Her eyes were chilling. ‘When do you expect Sir William?’

  Dahlia licked her lips. ‘Perhaps some time today.’

  Laura gave an odd, secretive smile. ‘Good.’ And she was gone.

  Dahlia found Kurt in the gym, working out alone. ‘You have any news about James Matlock?’

  ‘They took him into intensive care and said they’d keep Justin informed of his progress. I think he’ll be okay … Didn’t look too good, though.’

  ‘What drugs had he taken?’ Dahlia asked, placing pristine white towels in the racks.

  ‘Christ only knows, and in that club they sell shit. They’ve been handing round Ecstasy tabs like they were M&Ms.’

  ‘His parents haven’t been told,’ Dahlia said, with a hint of disapproval. Her bleeper went off. ‘I’ve got to go. See you later.’

  ‘You won’t, I’m quitting,’ said Kurt. ‘Be gone by this afternoon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what’s going on here but something is, and it’s not smelling good to me. You know Justin’s given all the boys two days off, plus the kitchen staff? I reckon whatever’s going to happen will happen soon.’

  Dahlia hurried out. She began to feel the same trepidation as Kurt, but she had kids – she needed her wage packet. Her bleeper went off and she hurried back to the laundry room.

  Dahlia closed the laundry-room door, went to the phone and called William. He was at the airport. If he had been there an hour earlier he would have passed his erstwhile guests, but now the airport was virtually empty. ‘I need to be picked up,’ he said. ‘Is everything all right over there?’

  Dahlia took a nervous look around. She knew Justin was out, but was worried that Laura might walk in and catch her. William listened as Dahlia listed those who had left. He asked about Humphrey Matlock. ‘Out fishing, sir.’

  She hesitated before she told him about James.

  William told her he would go straight to the hospital and check on James. ‘Where’s his mother?’ he asked. When William discovered that she had not been told, he bellowed down the phone so loud that Dahlia had to hold the receiver away from her ear. She then told him that half of the staff had been given two days off, including some of the boat-boys and several of the kitchen and domestic staff. ‘On whose orders?’

  ‘Justin’s,’ she said. Then, after another lengthy pause and feeling even guiltier, she hinted that something odd was going on but she was not quite sure what. ‘I may be wrong, but I think Laura is planning to leave.’

  ‘Is Justin going too?’ William interrupted. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Oh, I think he’s out with Sir Humphrey on the fishing-boat.’ Dahlia listened as William barked instructions down the line, repeated that she must carry out everything he told her to do, without question.

  William slapped off his mobile, and remained standing with the phone for a few moments. Then he did what he should have done earlier: he called the coastguard.

  Chapter Twenty

  At around nine, Dahlia found Angela Matlock sitting by the pool in the shade. As usual she was working on her cross stitch. ‘Excuse me interrupting you, madam, but I have an urgent message for you. Your son is in hospital on Tortola. He’s very sick.’

  ‘What?’ Angela stood up and her cross stitch fell to the ground.

  ‘I have arranged for you to be taken there directly,’ Dahlia said.

  Angela’s face drained of colour. ‘Has anyone told my husband?’

  ‘He’s still out on the fishing-boat, madam. I’m afraid I can’t contact him from here. We have tried their radio, but it appears to be switched off.’

  Matlock had a cigar clamped between his teeth. It was still early, but he had a glass of iced Pernod which he lifted in a toast to Justin. ‘This is one of the best times I’ve had in years,’ he said expansively, then gave a deep rumbling laugh. ‘No bloody women on board for starters!’ He drank thirstily. ‘No son either.’ He refilled his glass. ‘I don’t know what to do about him. He’s had every opportunity handed to him on a plate: the best education money can buy, a doting mother, and myself obviously. I’m fond of the lad, but you know … I hope this will go no further.’

  Justin lit a cigarette. ‘That’s what fishing trips are for. Male bonding they call it, don’t they?’ He tilted his head to look up to the sky, and squinted against the glare of the sun.

  ‘What do you make of James? You can be honest.’

  Justin shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s handsome, friendly, good at sport and yet …’ He seemed to be searching for the right expression.

  ‘Weak,’ Matlock said, and sat down heavily.

  They sat side by side, Matlock in contemplation, Justin in reverie.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ Matlock said, helping himself to yet more Pernod. He had been drinking it like lemonade, and up till now it had apparently had little or no effect on him.

  Justin stretched out his arms and crossed his legs. ‘Well, it’s quite a long story. I was born in France …’

  ‘You hardly have any trace of an accent,’ Matlock said, his attention waning as he stared at the ocean. ‘Looks like it might get rough.’

  ‘I was educated, if one could call it that, in England.’

  ‘Where?’ Matlock still wasn’t interested.

  Justin paused a fraction. ‘A children’s detention centre.’

  Matlock stopped in the act of raising his glass to his lips. ‘A young offenders’ institution?’

  ‘Yes. I was sent there at the age of fourteen.’

  Matlock was taken aback, but tried not to show it. ‘Drugs was it?’

  ‘No.’ Justin was enjoying himself, and took his time. He said he had not committed any petty crime and had been only ten years old when he committed it.

  ‘Ten? Good God! What on earth could you have done at that age for them to put you away?’

  ‘Murder. The murder of my parents, to be exact. You may recall the case. My father’s name was Martin Moorcroft, my mother Madeleine. I was Child B.’

  Matlock had thought he had recognized Justin and Laura when he first saw them together at the island, but had not thought about it again. Until now.

  ‘I do remember something …’ His mind was spinning but he hid his confusion by drinking, then searching for a cigar.

  ‘My sister, Child A, came to England with me after the murders,’ Justin continued. ‘We were there as wards of my father’s sister, a widow, Frances Chalmers.’

  Matlock clipped the end of the cigar. He couldn’t look at Justin because the truth was dawning on him. ‘We were both accused of the murders,’ Justin continued, in a conversational way, as if he was discussi
ng nothing more serious than the weather. ‘There was also a third murder, the body found in the swimming-pool, but it had decomposed. It had been one of our first nannies, a horrid woman. Everyone thought she had just upped and packed her bags but she hadn’t.’ He giggled.

  ‘Then there was Camilla Maynard. She came out to look after us much later. You must remember her. Her brother was Andrew Maynard MP. He committed suicide. Well, his sister Camilla had talked to all the journalists about us. Doesn’t ring any bells?’ Matlock took out his lighter, and put it to his cigar. He sucked in too strongly and the smoke burnt his lungs. ‘My mother died in a fire.’ Justin was studying the curling blue cigar smoke.

  ‘Your sister?’ Matlock asked, his voice sounding thick.

  ‘Child A was only eight, and they couldn’t find a place in prison for her. She was far too young. According to French law, we both were. Instead we were sent to a specialist psychiatric unit in England by the French government.’ Justin’s eyes bored into Matlock’s forehead. ‘My sister was always highly strung, very dependent on me. Well, we had never been apart and were very close. After a few sweet years of care in the hands of the psychiatric unit and our dear aunt, the whole thing blew up again. She was taken to a hospital for the criminally insane eventually. I think she was twelve or thirteen when they shipped her off there. She was manic, or so they said. She was moved from one place to another. Not a lot of places could accommodate a little girl like that. She was always on some drug or other and she was hardly recognizable because of it. Her name was Laura.’ Justin’s eyes were like slits.

  ‘I think I do recall something about the case now,’ Matlock said, the sweat dripping from his forehead in beads.

  ‘You should. It made the headlines for months. Do you recall Lord Chief Justice Bellingham? He handled the case in England. His grandson was over here with his parents, Lord and Lady Bellingham, recently. Now, they threw some good parties. At the last one, poor old Oliver OD’d and choked on his own vomit. Sad, really. He was such a nice kid, about your son’s age, and the amount of drugs young James consumes I’m surprised he’s not overdosed. Or maybe he has, for all we know.’

  ‘What have my son and this boy Oliver to do with you?’

  Justin looked skyward. ‘Ah, well, the sins of the fathers and all that. Anyway, before the nightmare began, we were both happily living with our aunt.’ Matlock bowed his head. ‘You remember the case now I bet,’ Justin said softly. ‘We made your career, didn’t we? You, your alarmist articles and your bestseller. Of course you remember Camilla Maynard. You interviewed her, didn’t you? Yes, of course you did! Oh, did I tell you she died in a car accident? Her brakes failed. Bang! Straight across the dual carriageway she went, into oncoming cars. Hers exploded, I think. Awful to watch anyway.’

  Justin sighed, leaning back. ‘After that book of yours and all your headlines about us being devil children they didn’t dare leave us free. We had to be punished. We had to be publicly tried for our crimes. You tried us, Matlock. Your filthy articles and your seedy book tried us. You wouldn’t leave us alone because we made your stinking fucking headlines. We made your career, didn’t we? You are responsible, for Laura’s sickness, for the hell she went through in that asylum, for my wasted years at borstal. You are responsible.’

  Matlock could not move. He wanted to get up, move away from Justin and his quiet chit-chat voice, but he couldn’t. ‘Would you like to know about our mother, Madeleine Moorcroft? She was part Argentinian, an olive-skinned woman with large luminous eyes and a hooked nose. She was not plain – ugly, yes, but some people find an ugly woman attractive, don’t they? You used some photographs of her in your book, but they never did her justice.’

  The movement of the boat was making Matlock feel queasy. ‘How long before we drop anchor?’ he asked, desperate to change the subject.

  Justin stood up, shaded his eyes and looked around. ‘Be a while yet. You wanted a big fish! Ever caught a shark?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as yet.’

  Justin laughed. ‘Nor me, but I will today.’ His face took on a strange, twisted smile. ‘Let me tell you what my mother used to force me to do.’ Matlock didn’t want to hear, but there was something about the way Justin moved closer, invading his space. He almost brushed against him, but then Justin removed his glass. ‘I’ll just top you up. It’s quite a long story and it’s one I want you to hear.’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough,’ Matlock said.

  ‘No, you have not, not by a long shot!’ And Justin filled his glass with Pernod and dropped in ice, which rattled against the glass as he handed it back. ‘My mother enjoyed pain. She was a masochistic bitch, a woman who became sexually aroused by giving birth. She described the pain as exquisite, said it felt like her insides were being ripped out.’

  Matlock felt his skin crawl. ‘I don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘You have no option. You see, you’re now my prisoner.’ Justin chuckled. ‘You’re going to listen to every word I say because I have waited years for this moment.’ Matlock rose to his feet but Justin pushed him back roughly. ‘Sit. Sit down and listen.’ He was speaking as if to a naughty child. ‘I shall begin at the beginning. The first time, she woke me in the middle of the night and carried me into her bedroom, where my father was waiting. I wasn’t afraid. They were my mummy and daddy. They loved me. I loved them. They said we would play loving games.’

  ‘Please, I don’t want to hear any more,’ Matlock slurred.

  ‘I’ve only just begun,’ Justin said.

  Matlock held up one hand. ‘Listen to me. Perhaps you’ve harboured some kind of deep-seated hatred against me, understandable from what you’ve said, but I was just a youngster, and I was paid to allow some other writer to do that book. I had nothing to do with it, believe me. I suppose if I had, you and your sister’s faces would have been imprinted on my mind. It’s what they call a ghost-writer, do you understand? I didn’t write that book.’

  Justin watched Matlock as he drank. He knew he had to be lying, not that it mattered. If it hadn’t been for him they would never have been hounded. ‘Did you coin the phrase “Devil’s Children”?’

  Matlock drank again. ‘I don’t recall.’

  Justin repeated the phrase, then leaned close and touched the man’s knee. ‘Maybe it was a fitting description. Maybe it wasn’t.’

  ‘Listen, son, if this is about money—’ Matlock’s head cracked back against the combing as Justin punched him in his face.

  ‘I’m not your son, and this isn’t about money. Don’t you understand what this is about? This is about me confronting you, my devil. There is no way off this boat, no way you can make it back to the island without me. You are my prisoner, and by the time this is over, you will understand what fear means, understand that you must be punished for what you did to Child A and Child B, like everyone else who hurt them. You are going to die.’

  Matlock wasn’t sweating any more, he felt icy cold. Justin’s face became a blur. ‘Dear God, you’ll never get away with this.’ He tried to stand, but fell back into his seat.

  Justin laughed, picked up the empty glass and tossed it overboard. He turned back to stare at the frightened man. This was the culmination of years of secret planning. In some ways it had been Matlock who had helped him to survive all along; without doubt, the idea of destroying him had given Laura the focus she needed to keep her sanity. He had promised they would play this scene together, rehearsed it so often between them. But she had always balked at the killing, and Matlock was the prize that Justin had lived his life hunting.

  William had to wait a considerable time before he eventually got through to Dahlia. She confirmed that she had carried out his instructions to the letter, but still had not heard from Matlock or Justin. William placed a second call to the coastguard. They had sent out a launch. William felt relieved enough to leave it in their hands and he hurried to the hospital.

  James was on oxygen and a glucose drip, and was linked up to a heart monitor. At th
is stage they were unable to ascertain if he had suffered any permanent damage. His temperature was stable and a dialysis machine was standing by in case his kidneys failed. His pale face was like a sleeping child’s, his arms out straight, like a soldier’s, resting on the white sheet. The air-conditioning ensured the room was cool and a ceiling fan turned overhead, making a soft grating sound. Could Justin have had something to do with this? Could he have engineered it? He turned as the door opened, and a nurse ushered Angela in. ‘I want to take him home,’ she whispered.

  ‘He mustn’t be moved,’ said the nurse. ‘He’s still unconscious. We’re doing all we can.’

  Then Angela saw William. He drew up a chair for her to sit beside the bed. She was twisting a tissue round and round in her hands. ‘I asked them to contact my husband,’ she said to the nurse. Then she looked pleadingly to William. ‘Can you make sure he gets here as soon as possible?’

  ‘Yes, it’s being taken care of right now. He’ll be here, I’m sure, Angela.’

  When the nurse had gone, she said, ‘He is so like you, my husband. The only difference is he married me, while you betrayed me.’ She threw the torn tissue into the bin. ‘You seemed to gain such pleasure from hurting me. You are the most destructive, heartless man.’

  ‘I don’t think this is the right place to discuss—’

  ‘No? Funny how there never is a right time, is there?’ William shifted his weight from one foot to the other as she stood up and faced him. ‘I loved you, you said you loved me. You made me believe you had every intention of marrying me, but within two weeks of making promises, two weeks, you took up with that whore! You replaced me in your affections and in my job! I’d had that job for years. You left me when I was ill. You took everything away from me.’

  William wished the ground would open up and swallow him. ‘It was a long time ago.’ He could not believe she was launching such a venomous attack at him while her son lay in a coma beside her. ‘You must have hated me,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Hated you?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘I tried to kill myself. All I could think about was dying. You almost killed me. I was broke and mentally sick, my mother was suffering from Alzheimer’s and I had no one.’ She gave a shrill laugh then looked at him. ‘But life has a funny way of dealing the cards. My husband’s mother was in the hospital too, and that was how we met. Like I said, he reminded me of you – not in looks, just manner. I didn’t marry him for that reason. I married him because I thought I loved him. I never did. I tried to make him be like you but he wasn’t and then to be used by him with his other women … One day I decided that, no matter how long it took, I would have my pound of flesh because I blamed you for my being married to him. I wanted to cause you pain, William, as much as you had caused me.’ Her eyes, usually so submissive, blazed. ‘Well, I paid you back, William Benedict. You couldn’t have had the slightest idea where I was, let alone that I could have been instrumental in …’