The Immaculate

by Mark Morris

“That’s enough,” Jack gasped. Considering the circumstances, the comment was almost risible. Tracey’s panties were lying on the floor less than two feet away from him. He bent down quickly, scooped them up and tossed them to her. “Get dressed,” he ordered. The panties landed on her left foot. Tracey did not acknowledge them, merely continued to glare at him. Jack almost leaped out of his skin when the telephone began to ring. That’ll be Gail, he thought, but he made no move to answer the phone and eventually it stopped.

  The stalemate lasted for perhaps thirty seconds. Just when Jack was beginning to wonder what the next move would be, Tracey spoke. Her voice was low, her tone vicious. She said, “You won’t get away with this, you bastard.”

  Despite himself, he was again taken aback by the comment. He didn’t realise how dry his throat was until he croaked, “Get away with what?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’ve cheated me. Well, I’ll fucking get you yet. Just you wait and see.”

  Jack felt suddenly furious. He wanted to hit out at something—the wall, anything—but he managed to restrain himself. Heart thudding uncomfortably, he snapped, “Oh? And what do you propose to do?”

  She smiled slowly, craftily. “I’ll tell them you raped me. I’ll tell them you got me pregnant. Then they’ll make you marry me.”

  Jack barked a hard, scornful laugh. “Don’t be stupid. Nobody would believe you. There’s no evidence.”

  She spun round, looking back over her shoulder through a screen of hair. “Oh, no? What’s this then?” She pointed at the purpling crescent of teeth marks on her bottom.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” said Jack. Nevertheless, he felt feelers of uncertainty impinging on his rage. It certainly didn’t prove that he’d raped her, but what if she said he’d assaulted her, attempted to rape her? That kind of wound would prove pretty damn hard to explain away.

  “It’s a start,” she told him. “I don’t think I’d have much trouble making people believe what I wanted them to.”

  “You just try it,” said Jack, “see how far you get.” But he was worried now, could feel anxiety churning in the pit of his stomach. Had Tracey and Patty planned this all along? And if so, in which direction did they now intend to take it? If they took it to the police, Jack could be in trouble, particularly if the Bates’s saw fit to concoct more evidence against him. All Tracey had to do was get someone to rough her up a bit, tear her clothes. If, on the other hand, the Bates’s decided to take matters into their own hands, to play on public outrage, then Jack could be in even worse trouble. He watched her getting dressed, his mind racing. He considered pleading with her, appealing to her better nature, even threatening her, but doing that would be like admitting he was in the wrong, and so he remained silent. Besides, he didn’t want to give the Bates’s the satisfaction of thinking they had him over a barrel. No, the best thing was simply to say nothing and hope that Tracey’s threat was no more than that, and that the whole thing would blow over. In any event, Jack decided, tomorrow he would revert to his original plan. He would ring Gail and tell her he was coming back to London.

  Tracey watched Jack as she dressed slowly, a mocking smile on her face. The silence between them was weighted and unpleasant, but neither seemed inclined to break it. Jack had no qualms now about looking at Tracey’s body. Despite her beauty, despite his treacherous erection, she now repulsed him. She tucked her white blouse into the waistband of her jeans, pulled her boots towards her, sat on the floor and tugged them on. Then she picked up her leather jacket, swung it arrogantly over her shoulder and sauntered to the door.

  Jack followed at a safe distance. Her heels clacked on the wooden floor, perfect bottom swaying from side to side. At the front door she turned the key in the lock and placed her hand on the handle, but before pulling the door open she half-turned and regarded him.

  “I’m going now, but I’ll be back,” she said. “You’ll never be rid of me, Jack Stone, Mr. Famous Writer.” She blew him a mocking, poisonous kiss. Then she opened the door, stepped out and walked away.

  The instant she was out of the house, Jack ran to the door, slammed it behind her and locked it. Immediately, a huge surge of relief swept through his body, but it took his strength and self-control with it. He began to shake, his legs buckled and he sank slowly to the floor. Ice cubes jitterbugged in his belly; he felt an urge to scrub himself clean. He leaned against the door, listening, shuddering, for a long time.

  15

  ARRIVALS

  At first light Jack set off into the woods, hoping a walk would ease his mind. Already a pale sun was glimmering in the sky, birds were singing, a cool fragrant wind gently ruffling his tousled hair, whispering messages of wordless comfort.

  He had been unable to sleep last night, had sat up fretting over the possible consequences of his encounter with Tracey. At times he had felt almost hopeful, had half-managed to convince himself that she wouldn’t dare say anything. But there had been low spots, too, times when he had castigated himself for his inability to handle the situation. He should never have allowed things to get so out of hand. The moment she had started coming out with all that “love” crap he should have nipped the situation in the bud, ejected her from the house, physically if necessary. And why, oh why, had he bitten her? It was like leaving fingerprints at a crime scene. What was worse was that he had been unable to get through to Gail; until he did that he was effectively stuck in Beckford. There had been no reply at her flat last night or again this morning, and when he had called her mobile he had been diverted to her voice mail. She must have gone to see the film with a friend and then stayed over so she wouldn’t have to go home alone, must have switched off her mobile last night and not turned it on again.

  Jack had never met any of Gail’s friends; like him, she had become so entrenched in their couple mentality that her platonic relationships had suffered. If he continued to be unable to reach her on her mobile, Jack knew that his only hope was to call the Education Department, find out where she was teaching and get a message to her. And if that failed, he guessed he would have to hang around here until she arrived. Perhaps they could spend a long weekend in Leeds or York—if the police didn’t pick him up in the meantime and charge him with attempted rape.

  He trudged between the trees, stepping over roots, weighed down with worry. If Tracey did manage to make the accusation stick, what would it do to his career, his relationship with Gail? Even if the case went to court and he was found not guilty, there would always be a stigma attached to him, a suspicion. He pictured himself trying to explain away the bite mark to a packed courtroom.

  “Yes, milord, I know I’m twice the size of the girl, but biting her arse was the only way I could escape. She had me down on the floor and was trying to rape me.”

  The thought of it made Jack cringe. He had never realised before how easy it was to become so horribly trapped by circumstances.

  Sighing, he came to a grassy bank where the dew was glittering in the sunshine and sat down. A few feet in front of him trees lined the edge of a valley, which cut a swathe through the earth for perhaps half a mile. In some places the incline was gentle; in others—like here—the drop was steep and sudden. Jack could hear water burbling somewhere, watched a ladybug manfully struggling to the summit of a grass stem. Fifty yards to his left, partly obscured by trees, the main path through the woods—of dusty packed earth, blotched with tufts of grass like green mould—meandered across a bridge over the valley, which was so old and crumbling and overgrown with foliage that it seemed a natural part of the landscape.

  The dew was soaking into his clothes, but Jack didn’t care. He lay back in the long grass and immediately felt as if the soft ground were rising up to envelop him. Yesterday at the funeral, the thought of burial had made the earth seem cold and black, repellent, but today Jack thought how wonderful it would be to lie here forever, bereft of responsibilities, gradually becoming part of nature like the bridge. He closed his eyes. The sunlight, filtering throu
gh his eyelids, turned his world a deep soothing orange. Something tickled his top lip—an insect or a wind-blown seed; Jack felt too indolent to brush it away.

  If he couldn’t get through to Gail, then presumably she would call him to let him know what time her train was due to arrive. On the other hand, she might simply turn up and make her own way to the house—she had the address. Jack wanted to contact her before anything happened. He wanted to tell her the truth about last night before her mind became poisoned with lies. The worst scenario would be her turning up in Beckford only to find he was being held in custody, charged with indecent assault.

  Jack was so deep in thought that he lost all sense of time and place. When a shadow passed over him, cool and dark, he frowned and shivered. A second later, however, the sun was back, a warm red sea washing across his closed eyelids. Jack grunted and snuggled down, half-thinking he was snoozing in bed.

  “Jack.”

  The word, quietly spoken, oozed languorously into his consciousness, like a rock sinking through treacle. Long seconds passed before the implications of that word penetrated his mind, and then it was as though an electric probe had been thrust into his nerve endings. Jack jerked upright so suddenly that his neck cricked. He opened gritty eyes and immediately light gushed into them, blinding him. He threw up an arm, squinting at his bleached surroundings. Through a painful explosion of sunlight he half-saw a figure standing ten yards away, facing him. He could not see the figure’s face, and even its silhouette was unclear, but Jack got the impression he was looking at an old man, thin and slightly stooped. All at once a smell touched his nostrils—freshly turned dirt. The smell caused his stomach and bowels to contract with nervous excitement. Before he could think to say or do anything the figure turned and walked away.

  For a moment Jack stared stupidly after it, dismayed by its departure. Then he opened his mouth and croaked, “Hey! Wait a minute.” He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, limbs stiff with last night’s bruises. The strength of the sunlight was diminishing by degrees as his eyes adapted to it. The figure was some distance ahead, its dark bulk flitting between the trees that lined the lip of the valley. Jack felt disorientated. He rubbed his face as though it would clear his head and began to stumble after the figure.

  He was getting used to the feeling of shock, of reaction, that sapped the strength from his limbs, but familiarity did not make the sensation any less unpleasant. His bruises throbbed like tiny hearts, his belly juddered like a motor. Despite the warmth, his fingers and the inside of his mouth were icy. He called after the figure as he ran but it didn’t stop, and neither, to his annoyance, did it get any closer. It was always some distance ahead, just visible as a dark shape. It seemed to move effortlessly, drifting through the undergrowth like smoke.

  Rounding a bend, Jack emerged into a small clearing. The trees to his left, marching down to meet the valley floor, were thin here, little more than stumps and saplings. To his right was a bank that sloped up to a fence entangled with some kind of furzy bush. The trees petered out altogether on this side, displaying a vast sky populated by a battalion of albino-white clouds.

  Jack looked right and left, but the figure was nowhere to be seen. He took his spectacles from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and put them on, wondering whether the figure was standing motionless against a tree some distance away, blurred into the landscape by his myopia. He peered at his surroundings anew, but all he saw were the woods. The only movement was caused by an occasional breeze stirring the grass, coaxing trees to bob their outermost shoots.

  And then, at the top of the slope against a backdrop of sky, the figure appeared. It rose from the undergrowth as though it had been crouching behind it. Jack registered it as a peripheral blot of movement. When he swivelled to look at it more closely it was already turning away, hiding its face from view.

  “Hey!” he shouted and began to lope up the bank toward it. He winced at the toll this took on his pummelled muscles, reached down to clutch fistfuls of grass with which to haul himself up. He reached the top of the slope, gasping. Beyond the fence was a field that contained a rusting bath in one of its muddy corners and perhaps a dozen grazing cows. The old man was already halfway across the field, moving away from him, the speed at which he progressed seeming at odds with his slowly shuffling feet. “Why do you run away from me all the time?” Jack shouted. The figure did not respond. Cursing, taking care not to snag himself, Jack climbed over the fence and dropped into the field.

  A few cows regarded him stolidly before returning to their meal. Jack plodded after the old man. It was heavy going; the ground was soft beneath his feet and he was soon dripping with sweat. He wondered why his father was being so evasive. If he didn’t want Jack to catch him, why show up at all? There was a truth to be learnt somewhere; Jack was certain. He had only to be dogged and insistent, to follow without question, to trust, and he would find it.

  The tiny figure of the old man led him across four fields—another containing cows, one containing sheep that had either lambed or were just about to, and one that was ploughed and planted with a crop that looked to Jack like dock leaves. By now he had no idea where he was. He had never had much of a sense of direction. He was not even sure whether his father had led him in a straight line, a gentle curve or a complete circle. He was therefore startled when he came to the top of a small rise and saw his father’s house below him.

  He thought at first it was some malicious joke. He’d been led on a wild goose chase for no apparent reason. But looking behind him, and thinking about it, he quickly surmised that perhaps this wasn’t the case. Considering how deeply he’d progressed into the woods, this was perhaps the most direct route back to the house. For some reason his father had wanted him to return here as quickly as possible. But why? There was no sign of the old man now.

  Wearily Jack began to trudge down the hill toward the house. A cool breeze ruffled his hair and the grass. A band of sunlight swept silently across the land and over him, then onwards toward the house. The sunlight alighted greedily on the shiny places of the house—the slates and the windows—making them gleam briefly before passing on. But as shadow settled darkly on the stone once more, one window remained alight as if the sunlight had left a scrap of itself behind. Jack’s eye was drawn to this window; it was the one—his father’s bedroom. Before the glare of light faded, Jack saw the dark silhouette of the old man beckoning to him. Shakily he began to run.

  Bursting in through the front door, Jack was confronted by gloom and silence. He stood for a moment, bent almost double, rasping breath scorching his lungs, sweat bathing his body. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the carved wooden acorn at the foot of the stairs. Sucking in a deep breath he yelled, “Dad, I’m here!” The instant his foot touched the first step the phone began to ring.

  “Hello?” Jack gasped into the receiver. “Is that you, Dad?”

  The voice snarled only six words at him: “I’m coming for you, you bastard,” before the connection was abruptly broken.

  Despite the brevity of the message, Jack recognised the voice immediately. So Tracey Bates and her father had decided to play out this idiotic game to its bitter end, and it didn’t look as though they were going to rely on the police to make their final moves for them. Jack replaced the receiver gently, went through to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His hand shook as he drank it. He leaned on the sink and looked out at the cobbled backyard, trying to get his head together.

  Obviously his father had wanted him to know of Bates’ intentions, which was why he’d led him back to the house. Jack decided he mustn’t let the advantage slip. He must work out the course of action that would ensure him the best chance of impunity. If he went to the police he’d have to explain about last night, which might backfire on him, especially if Tracey Bates contested his version of events. No, the best thing to do, especially since it looked as though the Bates’s were interested only in their own brand of vigilante justice, was to ge
t in touch with Gail and then get the hell out of Beckford as quickly as possible.

  He went back into the hall and picked up the phone, praying that he would be able to get through to her. Fifteen minutes later he put the phone down for the sixth or seventh time, his options exhausted, his prayers unanswered. After trying her flat again on the off chance, and then leaving a message on his own answering machine in case she happened by, he had attempted to track her down via various education channels, all without success. He knew she was teaching in Lewisham, but the people he spoke to either couldn’t or wouldn’t help him. Jack suspected that after finishing work she would make straight for the station. Frustration flaring into anger, he punched the wall, denting it, bruising his hand. “Thank you, God,” he muttered savagely. “Thank you so bloody much.”

  So that was it then. He had no choice. He had to stay in Beckford until Gail arrived. The only option now was to meet her off the train and then get straight on to another one going to, say, Leeds or Bradford. Picking up the receiver again, he dialed the number for travel information.

  Five minutes later he was beginning to feel as though there were a conspiracy against him. If Gail was teaching until noon, there was only one train she could catch to Beckford, and that was the connecting train from Wake-field, which arrived at 6:52 P.M. That was all very well, but the last train from Beckford, going in the opposite direction, departed at eleven minutes past six.

  “You’re joking,” Jack said upon hearing this information.

  “Nope,” replied the voice at the other end, almost smugly. “18:11 to Leeds, calling at—”

  “Aren’t there any local trains?”

  Acidly, nonplussed at being interrupted, the voice said, “No, there aren’t, I’ve told you. You’ll have to leave a bit earlier, that’s all.”

  “I can’t,” said Jack through gritted teeth. “I’m meeting someone off the 18:52 from London.”