‘If you want to add Mad Writer, it might work,’ said Jed, pulling Fancy to her feet. ‘Shall we meet for a drink before supper?’
‘No parties tonight?’
‘I’ve turned them all down. Too much work.’
‘I’ve another bedroom party to go to in the ABC.’
‘Tell me the room number and I’ll gatecrash.’
Fancy almost lost her footing on the grass slope. Jed caught her, held her steady. A wave of dizziness came over her.
‘You should take more water with it,’ she vaguely heard him saying. The joke did not appeal to her. She’d heard it before. Old as the hills. The lawn seemed to rise up in contours; trees swayed, flowers wobbled, above was a thunderous black summer sky. Like an earthquake. Did Derbyshire have quakes?
‘Cliché,’ she said, blinking. ‘Boadicea,’ she added, not knowing why she said the woman warrior’s name. ‘AD Sixty, Queen of Iceni.’ Her brain was not working properly. Something had happened to it. It was as if the mass of cells did not belong to her any more. ‘Massacre,’ she added.
‘Fancy?’ said someone. She was not sure if it was Jed. She couldn’t remember who Jed was. ‘You’re talking nonsense. I’m taking you back to your room. I think you ought to lie down for a bit.’
‘What room?’ she asked. ‘My room at home? My church bedroom? Please stand still. You are making me … dizzy.’
‘Fancy, do you remember where you are? This is a writers’ conference in Derbyshire. You’re a lecturer here. Tell me where your home is.’
‘My home? It’s … it’s . . over the rainbow.’
The man was shaking her now. Fancy did not know who he was. She was so tired, she wanted to sleep forever. She closed her eyes.
‘Walk, Fancy. I’m taking you to your room in Lakeside. Do you know what number it is? Tell me the number of your room.’
‘I’m not a number. Squadron Number Something.’
‘Doors opening,’ said a male voice. ‘Doors closing.’ The lift rose.
She was being propelled along a corridor, one foot in front of another, like a robot. The walls of the corridor were caving in, ceiling receding in waves.
‘Stay awake, Fancy. Don’t go to sleep on me. Where’s your key? Is it in your bag?’
Fancy didn’t answer. She was swimming now in deep, deep water, her nostrils filling. She was drowning, like Melody, in the lake. She had forgotten how to swim. But she knew she could still swim.
Jed opened the door and pushed her inside. She fell onto the bed. He filled a glass with water from the bathroom and tried to make her drink from it.
‘Open your mouth, Fancy, and drink this. Drink some water, damn it.’
The water trickled down her chin and soaked into her T-shirt.
‘What’s happened? What’s the matter with Fancy?’ It was Jessie at the door, looking in anxiously.
‘I think someone has slipped her the date-rape drug, Rohypnol. She can’t remember anything. Rambling. She’ll be asleep in a few moments.’
‘How dreadful,’ said Jessie. ‘Thank goodness she’s already done her evening talk.’ That was her first thought. Always the conference. ‘I’ll stay with her. We’ll organize a rota. Will she sleep it off? Does she need a doctor? We’ve got a doctor among our first-aiders.’
‘Yes, get the doctor.’
‘This is awful. Poor Fancy. Another accident.’
‘Not funny, Jessie. Not an accident.’ Jed’s voice was firm.
TWELVE
Late Afternoon
The doctor, Dr Arthur, wrote obscure poetry in his spare time. When he had any time, that is, which was hardly ever. The conference was his holiday, his break, his own personal extravagance. But he came immediately and pronounced Fancy to be in no danger. The pupil of her left eye was dilated, the other a tiny speck. He agreed that she had been given a mild form of the date-rape drug, Rohypnol.
‘We even give low dosage of Roofies to kids on the wards to quieten them down,’ he said. ‘She’ll be very still, very quiet. The short-term memory goes. Won’t remember much when she comes round. Pity, she’ll miss supper. Celebration supper tonight. I think we get a complimentary glass of wine.’
‘I think we’ll both pass on the celebration supper.’
‘So how was the drug administered?’
‘I don’t know. It could have been slipped into her cup of tea,’ said Jed. ‘Or in the bottled water on the speaker’s table in the Orchard Room. Fancy had a workshop there earlier. I guess the kitchen will have put everything through the dishwashers by now, but I could check the water bottles.’
‘Her hands are healing nicely,’ said the doctor, looking at the pink skin under the cling film. ‘Good sign.’
‘She’s pretty fit.’
‘For a writer,’ the doctor added. ‘It’s a mystery. Why slip her the drug? And in full view of everyone. Not exactly a date scenario. Unless you are dating her. Though I doubt if you would need a drug to get a date with this young lady. She’ll be very obedient now. That’s the point of this drug.’
‘Obedient? That’s not like our Fancy. I doubt if she’s ever been obedient.’
‘It’ll flush out very quickly. Make sure she has plenty of water to drink.’
‘It’s either another warning or they wanted to stop her going to tonight’s party.’ Jed looked at the invitations, which Fancy had fixed to the edges of the mirror. Tonight’s party was in the ABC building, the posh one. The room number meant nothing to him, nor the host names.
He would be going, he decided. He took the invitation card down and put it in his pocket. No one would check that it was addressed to Fancy. Someone might be there who should be prevented from meeting her. He wondered who it was. Well, he was going to find out.
Jessie, in her usual efficient way, had put together a rota of carers. No one was asked to do too much because so many other things were going on. Her rota was in twenty-minute shifts which she reckoned meant that no one missed the whole of a party, or the whole of supper, or the whole of that evening’s speaker.
‘There’s such a lot going on this evening,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anyone to miss anything.’
‘If the shifts change on time,’ Jed said.
‘I’m making sure everyone knows that prompt arrival is essential. It would not be fair to be late. Shall I put you down for a shift, Jed?’
‘No need. I’ll be popping in and out all the time, to see how Fancy is getting on. I shan’t leave her for long.’
‘Ah,’ said Jessie, knowingly, remembering the public kiss. ‘Of course.’
‘Thanks, Doctor,’ said Jed. ‘Hope we haven’t kept you from anything.’
‘Going to a poetry workshop in the lounge. A few of us poets getting together.’
‘Enjoy yourself, and thank you again.’
Jed did not expand on the kiss. That kiss had been an impulse, part of an excess of emotion, making up from the new lake quarrel. He did not regret it, not for one moment. But he did wish that it had been less public.
Too late for any regrets.
He went down the stairs to his old room in Lakeside. He needed a shower and a change of clothes. Living in two separate bedrooms did not make life easier. He never knew where anything was, upstairs or downstairs. Not that he had brought much in the way of luggage. A canvas carry-on held all his belongings.
He sat on his bed and switched on his laptop. He had some reports to send. They had not heard from him today. They would be wondering what was happening. He typed in his password. He wished he could tell Fancy. One day she would know and then she might never speak to him again. And that would be devastating.
He never thought that he would meet someone that he liked so much. He had been alone for so long it was a way of life, not needing female companionship. Work was busy enough. Any spare evening was spent writing reports, examining cold cases, listening to jazz. He rarely went out after work. And, like Fancy, he was always tired, short-changed on sleep.
He type
d fast. There was a lot to report. Wheels were moving fast. Fancy must not know. She would be too alarmed.
He also sent an email. He needed backup. He couldn’t protect Fancy on his own, all the time. The conference was becoming a dangerous place. Too much had already happened to her. He might not be able to save her if they got any nearer.
The bedroom party was in full swing by the time Jed arrived. It was crowded with happy, sparkling people, drinking and laughing. Music was blaring from a portable stereo. It was playing Jeff Hooper, the Matt Monro of today, who had won New Faces when he was seventeen. Jed had brought a bottle of a good red as an offering. The room was already hot with body heat, stuffy with mingled perfumes, hair spray, deodorants. The scent was overpowering, stifling.
‘Come in, come in,’ welcomed the hosts, two friends who shared a room, offering bottles of red and white wine in each hand. ‘Did you bring a glass? Never mind, we can find one for you. We’ll wash out the toothpaste first.’
‘I might like toothpaste,’ said Jed. ‘It would make a change.’ Their wine was vintage supermarket. Few writers were flush with money but they had generous hearts. They brought what they could afford.
He cruised the room, bumping knees, treading on toes, raising his glass in greeting. He knew most of the people at the party. There was no one who seemed a particular threat to Fancy, or someone she should not meet. She knew everyone here, had already talked to them frequently during the week.
‘Where’s Fancy? I thought she was coming. She’s such a fun person,’ said a white-badge magazine writer, crunching crisps. ‘I want to ask her something about The Lady magazine. She might know the right person.’
‘She’ll be along soon,’ said Jed. ‘Unless she has another party to go to. I think there are several on the go this evening.’
‘What it is to be so popular and so successful.’
‘It’s the price you pay.’
So why the date-rape drug? It would not harm her, only send her to sleep for a few hours. Something must be planned to happen in those hours. He didn’t like it at all. So was someone else protecting her? Nothing made any sense. Jed felt out of control, facts and acts swimming in his head in an attenuated way.
It was the heat of the room, as well as the warmth of his dark alpaca jacket. He had to get out. He hurried along the corridor and the sloping path to Lakeside. There was no light on in Fancy’s room, which was strange. He went up in the lift to room 425 and flung open the door.
The room was empty. Fancy had gone. Her bed was empty.
Where was the rota of carers? This shift of volunteers giving up twenty minutes of their time in turn to look after Fancy.
Jed ran across to the opposite room, to the one he had been using. No one there either. No sign of occupation.
He ran down the stairs, two at a time, and out onto the lawn. People were drifting around, those not invited to parties, drink in hand to show that they didn’t care too much. He knew the feeling.
‘Where’s Jessie? Have you seen Jessie?’ he asked. ‘Have you seen Fancy?’
He drew a blank everywhere. No one had seen Jessie, or her rota. No one knew anything about a rota. They thought Fancy was at a party or having a rest.
‘There are several parties. You might have gone to the wrong one or maybe she’s cruising between two parties. People do that.’
He saw Richard, earnestly talking to Fergus – some conference business – at the corner table reserved for them near the bar.
Jed gatecrashed without thought. ‘Have you seen Jessie? Have you seen Fancy? She’s missing. She’s not in her room.’
The two men looked at him, blank-faced, surprised, slightly put out at being interrupted. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, old boy. Is she supposed to be in her room? Nothing to do with us.’
‘Not in trouble again, is she? Not another fire?’
‘Jessie set up a rota to sit with Fancy,’ said Jed.
‘News to us. Don’t know anything about a rota. Do you know, Richard?’
‘Never know what Jessie’s doing,’ said Richard. ‘She’s a mystery to me. She doesn’t even answer her emails. No idea at all. Ask someone else.’
Jed backed off. This was a waste of time. He left them to their cold beers. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do next. He could hardly phone for backup. Backup for what? A crime writer who had gone walkabout? She might have gone home. Fancy had seemed a bit fed up, homesick, perhaps.
He began combing conference rooms. They were all empty. His imagination was in full flight now. Perhaps she had a new lover, had fallen for someone younger at the conference. Perhaps she had faked the drug and was even now under the duvet in a different Lakeside room. But he knew it wasn’t possible. Her collapse had been genuine enough. And so had that kiss.
He checked her vintage car. It was still in the car park. Empty. Locked.
He ducked under the crime-scene tape and hurried through the shrubbery to the old lake. The swans were still circling the water, unperturbed by the day’s activities. The willow’s leaves glistened in the fading sunlight, a rosy glow in the sky. There was going to be another glorious sunset.
Then he saw movement on the far side. It was only the faintest stirring, a water vole or underwater fish, maybe? He ran round, almost slipping on the damp path.
‘Fancy,’ he shouted.
She was in the water, trying to swim, feeble paddles of her arms barely keeping her afloat. Her weight was pulling her down and she was gulping water, her head falling under, her feet stuck in sludge. She was still half-drugged and only the coldness of the water was fighting it.
Jed strode straight into the lake, water up to his knees, put his good hand under her armpit and round her back and heaved with all his strength. A one-handed rescue was a struggle. For the first time he cursed his lack of dexterity. He bent down and gripped her sodden T-shirt with his teeth but the cotton ripped.
She was starting to struggle, unaware of what he was trying to do.
He cursed again. Standing on one knee, balancing himself, he brought his other knee up under her body so he could get a better leverage on her. It seemed to work. He staggered back, pulling her along, keeping her head out of the water.
‘Wake up, Fancy. Wake up, give us a hand. I can’t do this by myself.’
‘Can swim,’ she muttered, coughing.
‘I know you can, girl. Come on, do some swimming. Show us how well you can swim,’ he said, gritting his teeth, and heaving her through the weeds towards the further side of the lake.
She did nothing. She was a dead weight, still drugged, her own body and her own shoes dragging her down. But she was breathing, coughing and choking, her dark hair slicked across her face. He tried to bring his useless hand up to clear her mouth, but it was impossible. It wouldn’t move beyond a vague wave on the water.
‘Blasted arm,’ he shouted.
He struggled out of his jacket, one-handed, and somehow got it under Fancy’s body, thrashing around in the water to grab a sleeve from the other side. Clutching both sleeves with his good hand, he pulled on his jacket, using it as a sling. The way Iron Age people used to move things before wheels.
She began to move like a sluggish parcel.
It wasn’t what he had bought the expensive jacket for, but he reckoned it was worth the sacrifice as Fancy began to move towards the side, inch by inch. He took a deep breath, using every ounce of strength, and was able to lift her over a clump of weed, cutting his wrist on something sharp as he did. She lay face down on the path, water dribbling sideways out of her mouth. She was not a pretty sight. The sleek and elegant novelist was a sodden mess.
She was breathing, gulping great gasps of air. Jed began rubbing her arms and legs to get the circulation going. She seemed to be coming round, the cold water helping , the cold air giving her goose pimples. Jed had nothing warm or dry to put round her. He was soaking, too.
Everyone had gone in to supper. The lights in the dining room were bright and
welcoming, but Jed steered Fancy clear of the festivities. No supper tonight. No orange custard. He fancied getting Fancy into a tepid bath before she died of hypothermia. And he might well join her in the bath.
Not how he had envisaged their first bath together, but it would have to do.
THIRTEEN
Same Evening
Jed had done his first-aid training and was up to date in hypothermia treatment. He had twice fished would-be suicides out of the river; once in Liverpool, once in Manchester. Both had jumped off bridges in an alcoholic haze.
No hot baths and no alcohol. Both methods damaged the already cold blood.
First he had to get those wet clothes off Fancy, but not here in the open, somewhere warm and indoors. She might not appreciate a semi-conscious striptease, but she wouldn’t know about it.
He carried her back to Lakeside, her own feet doing some of the walking in a semi-drunk fashion. Anyone seeing them would think they had been to a very inebriated party. Keying in the door code was difficult with only one hand.
‘Ouch,’ said Fancy.
It was a good sign. They stumbled into the lift, dripping water everywhere. Doors closing, said the voice. Fancy slumped against Jed, their wet bodies so chilling. Doors opening, the voice said again at the third floor.
The door to room 425 was still open. No anxious volunteer sitting there, white-faced and panic-stricken. Jed kicked it shut. He drew the curtains and put on all the lights. They would generate some warmth – he knew that the radiators were turned off for the summer. He plugged in the hairdryer and propped it up on the desk. The hot air fanned into the room.
Peeling off Fancy’s wet clothes was not easy without her cooperation. He left her bra and panties on, taking his eyes off their lacy feminine curves now tinged a murky lake-water shade. He dried her gently, knowing that roughness would damage her skin. Her feet were torn and bloodied but they would have to wait.
Then he wrapped her in both sheets and the duvet, rolled her into the centre of the bed. She didn’t have a coat to add on top and the towels were damp.
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