by Ruth Rendell
‘They haven’t got any money,’ Lizzie said.
‘What you on about?’ Scotty pushed her down on to a battered and ragged couch. ‘He was talking to his husband.’
So they were gay. Or Redhead was. And very likely Scotty too. This comforted her. All the time she’d been in that car in the garage, she’d feared that one or both of them would rape her. Gay men wouldn’t. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ she asked.
‘You know something?’ said Redhead. ‘We’re like the filth, we ask the questions, not you. You shut the fuck up.’
He produced a mobile phone and dropped it in her lap. He seemed to have forgotten she couldn’t use it without her hands. Leaning towards her, his face very close to hers and his breath smelling of curry, he said, ‘Tell me your mum’s number.’
‘I don’t know what it is.’
Of course he didn’t believe her. They gave her two pills after that, capsules really, half red and half green. Redhead held her down on the couch while Scotty forced the red and green things into her mouth, sitting on her legs and holding her lips crammed together with both hands. She swallowed them in saliva, not daring to hold them in her mouth.
Lizzie thought she would have a few minutes to take in the room in all its squalid detail, note that outside it was now getting light, but unconsciousness was coming fast. She just had time to wonder why Redhead had asked for her mum’s phone number, and not her mum and dad’s, when a black door slammed over her eyes and she passed out.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TOM AND DOT were vaguely concerned that they had still not heard from Lizzie, but they had become used to her disappearing for days on end, only to find that she hadn’t really disappeared, just gone off to lead her own life. And she was of course a young woman in her twenties, not a teenager any longer.
Tom had observed, with interest, that when your child is living in the parental home, you worry when she is out in the evening after eleven, say. You are worried sick if she is still out after midnight. You watch the clock and pace and open the front door every ten minutes to try and spot her coming down the street. Sleep is out of the question. But when she is no longer living at home, although you know she goes out in the evenings just as much, stays out just as late, if not later, you scarcely worry at all. You go to bed and sleep. You wake up in the morning and have no doubt – if you even think about it – that she came in at midnight or one or two, safe and sound. Why was this? Why did you worry when she was living with you but not when she wasn’t? He had asked other parents about this, and they all felt the same.
‘She probably got the wrong day and thinks she’s due here to supper on Friday rather than last night,’ he said to Dot. ‘She’ll turn up.’
Lizzie awoke to broad daylight. It hadn’t been a natural awakening. One of them – Scotty, she thought – had shaken her while the other pressed an ice-cold rag against her face. It felt as if it had been in the freezer.
‘We want a phone number,’ Redhead said.
‘But I haven’t got my bag. I haven’t got my phone. How can I have a number?’
‘You’ve got a memory, haven’t you? You know your own mum’s number.’
What had her mother to do with anything, Lizzie thought, and why would she give these obviously violent men her parents’ number? ‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
Her voice was breaking again. She tried to say she couldn’t think, but the words wouldn’t come. Scotty slapped her face hard and she burst into howls. Her hands were shaking in the cuffs, which were wet with sweat. Yvonne, she thought suddenly. She took deep breaths in and out as slowly as she could as she thought about Stacey’s beautiful flat, and how unfair it was that Yvonne, who had her own mansion in Swiss Cottage, had inherited this too.
No, she decided in a fit of spite, she wouldn’t give Scotty and Redhead her mum’s number; she’d give them Yvonne’s instead. She knew her telephone number too, and could almost visualise it from when she’d seen it on the pet-clinic computer screen that day. Closing her eyes and concentrating hard, she recited the number to her captors.
A little path runs down from Lisson Grove, a short cut into the pink- and green- and blue-painted blocks that fill the area north of Rossmore Road. Nicola and Carl had walked through the Church Street market, bought some fruit and a couple of avocados, which Carl put in his backpack.
Nicola was surprised to see the antique shops at the other end of Church Street. She had never been there before and wanted to go into every shop. They held no interest for Carl, but once inside, the various vases and urns and small pieces of furniture caught his attention, even distracting him momentarily from his general despair. A chess set of which half the big chessmen were carved from golden wood and the other half from white attracted him so much that if he’d had the money he would have liked to buy it. The cost would have been beyond his means at any time.
Nicola fell in love, as she put it, with a green goose in a shop called Tony’s Treasury. It was an ornament of no possible use, but it had its charm, being made of pottery, green with white edges to each of its feathers and a purple head with red wattles and beak. It was big, rotund, the size of a football and very heavy to lift.
‘It would look lovely on your hall table,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy it for you.’
Impossible to say he didn’t want it and equally impossible to get up much enthusiasm. He didn’t ask how much it was but found out when he saw her hand the shop-owner two twenty-pound notes and a ten. The goose was so heavy he had to carry it in his backpack with the groceries.
They crossed Lisson Grove and he led the way down the little path that ultimately brought them into Jerome Crescent. These streets here, Carl thought, could aptly be called respectable. They were clean, the buildings in a good state of decoration and the postcode one of the most prestigious in London. No one called the blocks council flats any more – it would have been politically incorrect – but that was what they were.
‘Up there is where Sybil Soames lives.’ It was the first thing Carl had said to her since they left the antique shop. ‘That bastard’s girlfriend. Those flats that are painted green, that’s where she lives with her mum and dad.’
Nicola followed his gaze. She took in the bicycle on the balcony and the net curtains. ‘You only call them that because you’re a snob. You’d call them her mother and father if you didn’t despise them.’
He said nothing. He was looking at the yellow nasturtiums in a flower bed, the scaffolding on the block opposite the green one and the stack of bricks on the pathway. The goose in the backpack weighed heavily on his shoulders.
‘Why did we come here?’ she asked.
‘Something seems to draw me to this place,’ he said. ‘I can’t get away from him, you see. And he’s here. He may be up there now. I dream about him. I don’t want to let him out of my sight and yet I hate him. I loathe him.’
‘Oh, Carl.’ She took his arm, held it and clutched his hand. ‘What shall we do?’
‘What you want me to do I can’t do. I never will. Come on. Let’s go home.’
As they walked back to Falcon Mews, along the sunlit streets, under the green trees, Carl became increasingly agitated, uttering angry denunciations of Dermot, cursing him, going over once again, twice, three times, what had happened and what his tenant had done.
Nicola kept silent; she had nothing to say because she had said it all. Now she was thinking what she must do. Should she force Carl to take some drastic step, perhaps? Leave the house in Falcon Mews, rent a room for both of them, find himself a regular day job? Or should she abandon him, leave him behind? She thought, I used to love him – do I still love him? He hardly speaks but to rage against Dermot. He sleeps a little, dreams violently, cries out and sits up fighting against something that isn’t there. I would be better without him, but would he be better without me? She didn’t know the answer.
How pretty Falcon Mews was on a sunny day. The little houses wer
e all of different shapes and heights, their roofs of grey slate or red tile, their windows diamond-paned or plate glass in white frames, some walls covered in variegated ivy or long-leaved clematis. Flowers were everywhere, sprays and bunches of them hanging on the climbers amid festoons of dark green leaves. It was all so lovely, a beautiful place to live and be happy in. They went into the house, into the dim silence. Carl put the food and drink into the fridge, took the backpack upstairs and dropped it on the bedroom floor.
Nicola was looking out of the kitchen window into the back garden, where she could see Dermot in one of the deckchairs reading a magazine. Sybil had acquired a pair of lawn trimmers and was cutting the edges, where the grass met the flower beds where the nettles used to be. She was the kind of woman, Nicola thought, who always had to be doing something: weeding, cutting, chopping, cooking, cleaning – a gift to a man. Carl was silent now, but when he saw those two, as he must sooner or later, he would start his agonised complaints again. She couldn’t leave him, but nor could she put up with him much longer.
Suppose she did what Dermot hadn’t yet done and might never do? Only she and he knew the truth of what had happened on the day Carl sold the DNP to Stacey Warren. If she told the whole story to a newspaper, and if, say, the Paddington Express used it and passed it to the Evening Standard, it would be in the public domain – wasn’t that what they called it? – just as much as if Dermot had told them. Dermot wouldn’t have been responsible for its appearance, she would, but the effect would be the same. Dermot would no longer have anything to hold over Carl. His inverted blackmail would no longer work. He would therefore be obliged to pay Carl’s rent once more or leave. Also, Carl might demand rent arrears and surely get them. Once that had been done, he could evict Dermot.
And what of her? She would have to tell Carl it was she who had – well, betrayed him. He might never want to see her again, but as things were, she couldn’t continue with him like this. She went to the fridge and opened the still rather warm white wine they had bought in Church Street – well, not they; it was she who had bought it. Carl had almost run out of money.
She poured the wine and carried in the glasses and found Carl at the back window, looking through a barrier of leaves and branches and privet bushes at Sybil chopping away at the lawn edge and Dermot apparently sleeping in his deckchair.
Carl took the glass and gulped down half of its contents, the way he always drank these days. Nicola drank more slowly, studying the man she still loved, wondering what she should do.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DERMOT WASN’T IN love with Sybil, but aspects of her pleased him very much. She reminded him of his mother, always busy, never sitting down for long except in church. A woman should have a faith, he thought now; women needed religion more than men. She spent a lot of time in his flat but he hardly ever saw her relax. Washing machines, microwaves and freezers held no attraction for her. ‘Made for lazy people’ was how she described them. When she had finished doing his washing by hand and putting up a line to peg it out on, she settled down with his mending. Even his mother no longer mended socks or sewed on buttons, though he remembered her doing his father’s darning when he was a little boy. Sybil cooked his dinner on Saturdays and Sundays too, and it was the old-fashioned food he liked: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and shepherd’s pie. Until now he had never thought about getting married, but that might have been because he had never met a girl he could contemplate marrying.
One thing he particularly liked about Sybil was that she had never shown any kind of sexual interest in him. He had started kissing her, because that was what you did with a girl, but only on the cheek. Holding hands was something else he did with her, and she seemed to like it. He didn’t know, because he had never put it to the test, how having sexual relations would be with her or anyone else. But he was convinced he would only be able to perform this duty if they were married. Then it would be all right. But it would be far from all right and would fail if he attempted it before marriage, because that would be immoral.
He was thinking along these lines and resolving to ask Sybil to marry him when Yvonne Weatherspoon walked into the pet clinic with Sophie in her cat box.
‘I haven’t got an appointment, I know,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s nothing really wrong with her, but I thought maybe Caroline would give her her injections, you know, for worms and fleas and whatever, even though it’s a few weeks early.’
‘Maybe Melissa can, I’ll enquire.’ Dermot did, and got an exasperated agreement. Yvonne was one of their more demanding clients. She needed more attention than Sophie.
Yvonne took Sophie out of the box and held her in her arms, closely snuggled.
‘Better not,’ said Dermot. ‘We had a cat escape last week when a client opened the door – no more than an inch or two, but you know what cats are.’
Yes, she knew what cats were: highly intelligent, beautiful and good. Very reluctantly, Yvonne put Sophie back in the box. ‘Nasty Dermot’s a real spoilsport. We need our cuddles, don’t we?’
Dermot was still thinking about what form the question he planned to ask Sybil should take. Of course he wouldn’t be asking her yet; it was Tuesday, and they only met at the weekends and on Friday evenings. They had discovered quite early in their relationship that they were in perfect agreement on this subject. Both worked hard, went to bed early and got up early. Otherwise, how could they do their jobs properly? That was what weekends were for, relaxing (in his case) or catching up on all the domestic tasks that needed to be done (in hers). Yes, he thought, she would make him a good wife. A good old-fashioned wife, none of your post-impressionist feminist partners, or whatever they called them. Would he have to buy her a ring? That was something to give some thought to. They could live in the flat for the first few years, and then maybe he could buy a house in Winchmore Hill or Oakwood.
Nicola had found a website for the Paddington Express. It had offices in Eastbourne Terrace, walking distance from Falcon Mews. With all the contact information in hand, her plan of action seemed real. She would go there and ask to see the editor (or news editor or features editor), and she or he would be very interested, record what Nicola had to say and perhaps take it down in shorthand as well. Did people still use shorthand? They would ask if they could send a photographer round. They would find out that Carl didn’t know she was telling them what he had done. It wasn’t as simple as it had seemed at first. It now appeared almost treacherous. If she did this, she would have lost him. This must be the end.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have to do it herself. Or not do it in person. She could send an anonymous letter. Nicola marvelled that she, who was surely an honest, decent sort of person, should even contemplate such a thing. Perhaps honest, decent people imagined this kind of behaviour, but they didn’t carry it out. Of course they didn’t. When the time came, she would go herself and be straightforward and truthful. There was nothing else for it. The only question was when.
Yvonne Weatherspoon arranged the white-chocolate-coated circular shortbread biscuits she knew she shouldn’t eat, and therefore restricted herself to one a day, on an oval china plate. She put the plate on a tray with the coffee pot and two cups, the jug of semi-skimmed milk and the two sachets of sugar substitute. The thin milk and thinner little packets were to make up for the biscuits.
Yvonne was setting the tray on the table by the open French windows when the landline rang. She picked it up.
A coarse voice, quite a rough male voice, said, ‘Mrs Weatherspoon? Mrs Yvonne Weatherspoon?’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve got your daughter. She’s OK at present, and you can have her back …’ the man paused to speak to someone, ‘for a lot of money.’
Yvonne laughed. ‘That’s very funny, as my daughter is sitting here beside me. You can speak to her if you like.’
The phone was abruptly cut off.
Yvonne and Elizabeth agreed on few things, but this was one of them. They both laughed, Elizabeth hysterica
lly, Yvonne with more restraint. ‘Do you think we should tell the police?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Let sleeping cops lie.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘ARE YOU GOING to set me free now?’ Lizzie asked, using a phrase she had learned from a TV drama about royalty in the thirteenth century.
Scotty and Redhead looked a bit rattled, she thought, as though their plan hadn’t gone entirely as they had expected.
‘Why would we do that? That wasn’t your mum, just as you must have known it wouldn’t be.’ Redhead fetched her a mug of water. ‘We’re going to have to move you, so we’re going to give you enough pills to knock you out for twenty-four hours.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Don’t say we don’t look after you.’
‘Would you put the cuffs on my hands in front?’ she asked, feeling alarmed. ‘Please.’
But the handcuffs remained where they were, and soon the two men appeared to be ready to leave, Redhead with a suitcase and a big holdall, and Scotty with a bottle that must contain the sleeping pills. He shook not two but three of them into his hand and signed to her to put her head back and open her mouth.
What’s the maximum safe dose? Lizzie wondered, but she opened her mouth and swallowed the pills, washing them down with the rest of the water in the mug.
They walked her downstairs, both supporting her, talking as they went, grumbling about who they had thought she was, and what they were going to do with her now.
The car was in a side entrance outside a back door. Consciousness was going and Lizzie stumbled down the last few steps, wondering vaguely what time it was, early or late, as blackness and oblivion descended.