by Susan Hill
‘Charges high?’
‘You could say.’
‘Has he looked after you?’
‘God, no. Wouldn’t come within a million miles.’
‘Because you’re friends?’
‘No, though that isn’t the best thing. No, other reasons. You could call it … clash of interests.’ Will laughed.
Simon had the feeling in the pit of his stomach which came when he sensed he was getting somewhere. It happened during questioning. They gave you nothing, blocked you, dodged, stone-walled, played dumb, and then something gave – maybe a give so slight only an experienced interviewer would recognise it for what it was, but once the hairline crack had opened up, it was almost always just a matter of time before the entire structure crumbled.
‘Not sure I follow you,’ he said.
‘Yes, you do. He’s a top barrister, he earns a mint, he gets the high-profile work. He can’t afford to be careless. He can’t be seen to associate with – me. My sort. Your sort. Oh, come on, Johnno!’
‘Ah … got you. Yes. I see. Sorry – being obtuse there.’
‘Too right. And while we’re on the subject – don’t for God’s sake say anything … you don’t know, you haven’t been told a thing. He’s a mate of mine, he’s willing to give me – us – a place to stay for as long as it takes, but that’s it. He won’t talk. You don’t talk.’
Simon held up his hands. Then he said, ‘I’ve been here before. One or two – well, friends. Public profiles – businessmen. A big-name journo. Headmaster. I even know an MP.’
‘Only one?’
It was easier once it grew dark. They left the open flat lands behind and skirted along the edges of hedged fields. They came to a B-road and a shack of a shop with petrol pumps attached. One jeep was pulled up getting fuel but the shop seemed empty.
‘I’ll go in, you stay round the back,’ Serrailler said. He knew there would have been a blackout on their names and photographs being put out over the media, and if the unit had its way, a total block on any news of their escape at all, but however small the chance, in the event of any problem he was better able to deal with it than Fernley. Simon had no money. Will tossed him a fiver. He bought bottles of water, sandwiches, chocolate and biscuits. The television was on behind the counter and he glanced at it. The weather forecast. Dry, mild night, sunny day tomorrow, dry again. They could have worse. Behind the rack of crisps, he pressed a button on his watch, merely to send the pre-recorded message that he was OK.
Beside the petrol station, what had once been a garden was now a dumping ground, with a dilapidated caravan and some ancient but serviceable plastic furniture. A hedge hid them from sight of both the shop and the road. They sat there and drank and ate ravenously and in silence. Three cars and a van went past.
‘How far?’ Simon said, wiping his mouth.
‘Couple of miles, across country again, to the stables. There’s a disused airfield not far from here, though. I wondered if we could hide out in the buildings instead. I don’t know about you but I’m still pretty knackered.’
‘Isn’t that the sort of place they’d expect us to make for?’
‘There are several old airfields in this part of the world. They wouldn’t have the manpower to search them all, though I guess they’ll get round to it. Worth a chance?’
Simon waited before replying, staring at the ground, chewing the last of his sandwich. Then he said, ‘OK. You’re probably right. They don’t have the resources to look everywhere and if you add up the empty houses and decommissioned churches and airfields and God knows what else, we could be anywhere. Let’s go for it.’
The night was so balmy that they lay outside on some rough grass verges around one of the hangars, rusting and boarded-up, even the danger notices falling into disrepair. Keep Out notices were attached to the perimeter fences but there were plenty of gaps and they had no difficulty getting onto the site. The inside of the few flat-roofed buildings that remained were damp, rat-infested and unpleasant. The floors were broken-up concrete. It was better on the grass. They lay on their backs, looking up at a night sky thickly scattered with stars. There was a half-moon and no cloud, so they could easily see all the way around them.
Simon was dozing, going over events, trying to plan ahead, when Will Fernley said, ‘Doesn’t it all seem a bit odd to you?’
‘What?’
‘Well, taking into account the area to cover and all of that – still, wouldn’t you have expected more patrol cars and helicopters around? That petrol station sold local papers but the boards didn’t mention a breakout, I looked – they were about a man being drowned and the football team. They must be throwing everything at it – they ought to be. There isn’t a peep.’
‘There was.’
‘One chopper and one siren, first thing. If I lived around here I’d be baying for blood. Two convicted paeds out of Stitchford? The earth ought to have stopped revolving.’
Serrailler did not reply.
‘Doesn’t seem odd to you, Johnno?’
‘Now you mention … I’m not going to worry about it though. We could have gone in several directions – they’re searching the others. We got lucky.’
Fernley leaned on his arm and looked at Simon, searching his face as if to find something out there. ‘Why did you trust me?’
‘No option.’
‘Of course you had an option. You needn’t have come.’ ‘Are you mad? Chance to get out of that hellhole? It was pretty clear you’d got it planned. I just decided to risk it. Who wouldn’t?’
‘Oh, a lot wouldn’t. Most of them in there. You’d been there a few weeks. You didn’t give it much of a go.’
‘I knew it the minute I walked in. That it was a big mistake. By the time I was in the first group meeting, I was absolutely bloody certain. Therapy? All right, it works for some – a few. Though I guess it’s damage limitation more than anything, but if they’re prepared to go through with it, good luck to them. They’re desperate. They want to change, to crawl out of their old skins and into new ones. And Stitchford is their one and only chance.’
Will rolled onto his back. ‘Cassiopeia. The Plough. The Bear. The Pleiades …’
‘Always wish I’d been able to make sense of that. Beautiful – beautiful names. I’ve tried endless times – got charts and so on, and it still all looks the same to me.’
‘I’ll teach you.’
‘You couldn’t.’
‘You’re like me, Johnno. Tell the truth.’ ‘I told you, the night sky all looks –’
‘Fuck it, not the sky. How we are. You and me. That’s why we wanted to get out. I knew it as soon as we started talking.’
‘Knew what?’
‘As I said – those guys want to change. Want to be different. Cured. Whatever. They hate who they are. But we don’t. I don’t. You don’t. We don’t want to change because we like what we do. We enjoy it. We’re hooked. You can only change a druggy or an alcoholic if they want to be changed. Tell me I’m wrong.’
Serrailler was silent for a long time. He looked at the Bear. Orion … Then he said, ‘You’re not wrong.’
He lay awake for some time after Will had rolled over and gone to sleep, head on his arm. He wondered how many of the others felt like Will, that having got a hard-won place, they had to play along with the treatment and keep their real feelings concealed. Not so many, he guessed. Will had always struck him as too relaxed and easy-going about the whole thing. Now he knew why. Will had stuck it out only because it was less frightening than being a nonce in prison, where the aggression and hostility and sometimes outright violence wore you down. But Will had also known that it might be slightly easier to escape from a therapeutic community prison than a regular one, and although security was presumed to be tight at Stitchford, he had been right. The chink in the armour had not been hard to find.
It was going to be harder from now on. Serrailler closed his eyes. The air was pleasant, it wouldn’t drop down cold at dawn. He would n
ot let himself go to sleep yet. He needed to think himself more thoroughly into his undercover persona now, to behave as the paedophile Johnno Miles behaved. If he was successful, he would not feel good about it.
Forty-three
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Simon …’ Rachel said, trying and failing to sound casual.
Cat was setting out the remains of the previous day’s cheese flan, and making a salad, having persuaded Rachel to stay for supper. It had not been difficult.
‘I wish I had.’
‘Does he have no way of leaving messages even just to let you know he’s OK?’
‘He may have but if so he doesn’t use it. He’s disappeared like this before and then simply reappeared like a genie.’
‘Don’t you find it unnerving? The radio silence?’
Cat set the salad bowl on the table, looking at Rachel quickly as she did so. Rachel looked back, her expression hard to read. But her eyes were troubled.
‘I’m used to it and it doesn’t happen often. Don’t fret that he hasn’t been in touch, Rachel … it isn’t you.’
‘But I think it is. I understand what you’re saying about him not being able to contact anyone, only perhaps if he had wanted to as much as I want him to, he’d have found a way.’
‘Perhaps.’
Cat cut the flan and passed Rachel a plate. They had opted not to drink anything other than water. Cat was having every other night wine-free and Rachel was happy without. Fine, Cat thought, but a glass would have relaxed her just enough. If she wanted to talk about Simon, she might have found it less awkward after a drink.
Instead, Rachel asked, ‘Do you know a man called Rupert Barr?’
‘Sir Hugh’s brother? We’ve met a couple of times but I don’t really know him. Why?’
Rachel told her about the possibility of investing in the bookshop.
‘Hmm. That’s a big decision. You seem very fired up about it. Are you sure?’
‘Look, I have money and I need something to do, something to absorb my spare energy and … take my mind off Simon. If I don’t I’ll go mad … I could just waste the time away brooding about him and being depressed, or I could do something, and this is the perfect opportunity. I know what’s wrong with the shop, I know why Emma isn’t making it work, and why she wants out, I know I can turn it around. With someone else backing me – not just financially but with their own enthusiasm and initiative – I could have a really good business and it will make all the difference to me. Whatever your brother chooses to do.’
‘It sounds good – and you’re right, brooding is the worst thing you can let yourself waste your life on. But listen, I’m not prying, and I have no idea what’s in Si’s head, because I haven’t talked to him about it and that is God’s truth. But suppose he comes back next week and asks you to marry him – what would you do then about taking over the bookshop?’
‘Oh, that’s easy. I do both.’
‘I hoped you’d say that. Simon would definitely want you to say that, I do know that much.’
Rachel was looking across the table at her intently. Too intently.
I should not have said any of that, Cat thought. I should have kept my mouth shut.
‘Cat …’
Cat held up her hand. ‘I don’t know anything. If anyone epitomises the “plays his cards close to his chest” metaphor, it’s my brother. I haven’t a clue what he thinks or feels about you or what his plans might be, if he has any. Though knowing him, he almost certainly hasn’t.’
That was a lie. Simon always thought things through in detail, looked at a situation from every angle, and had a plan. She was afraid that his plan regarding Rachel was no plan. No marriage. But no split, no drama, no quarrels either. In his own odd way, he probably loved Rachel more seriously than he had ever loved anyone. It was just that, in Simon’s case, that was never enough.
She wanted to tell Rachel to get out while she could, go and open a bookshop at the other end of the country. Give up on Simon. But she wouldn’t waste her breath.
She merely said, ‘Don’t rely on him, Rachel. I’ve learned not to and I’m only his sister. He’s wedded to the job, he’ll take off without a word, he keeps his life in compartments and not ones which have interconnecting doors.’
‘Are you saying he has several women at the same time?’
‘No, I’m not. But you should count yourself lucky to have got as far as you did – moving in? Good God, Si has never let a mouse move in with him before.’
‘Why are you telling me this, Cat? If he’s said something or if he’s asked you to –’
‘He wouldn’t dare. I’m not doing his dirty work. I’m telling you all this to try and save you a lot of heartache.’
‘I’ve had that already.’
‘I know.’
‘How many others have you made that little speech to?’
‘Enough.’
‘And has it worked? Have any of them taken any notice?’
Cat laughed. ‘I want to know more about the bookshop. Emma really does intend to chuck it in?’
‘Yes. Her heart hasn’t been in it for a while. It’s got so much harder and she isn’t one for a fight. She just likes running a quiet, modestly profitable bookshop – but we need to do a lot more than that to survive, let alone do well.’
‘Has Rupert Barr any experience of bookselling?’
‘No, but he’s got plenty of enthusiasm, he’s been a management consultant, so he’s used to homing in on what’s wrong and turning things round. He’s got plenty of money – not that I need a financial backer, I don’t, but it will be a handy backstop. And it’ll be nice to do it alongside someone, not all on my own.’
‘You think you’ll get on with him well enough?’
‘Yes, I do, and in any case, he’ll leave the day-to-day running to me. But we’ll have plenty of meetings, and I’ll consult him about all the changes I’ve got in mind and get his take on them. I’m excited.’
‘I can see. Will you be in the shop yourself?’
‘Yes, but not full-time. I’ll need some very reliable staff, especially when we open the coffee bar.’
‘I knew it! Great plan too … it works. People come for coffee and stay to browse the books.’
‘Coffee, tea, hot chocolate and home-made cake, no food otherwise. There’s only room for six small tables, but that’s enough. Intimate. Books all around, and beanbags and a toy box. Shop copies of books for the children to look at without it mattering about making fingermarks. Author events – “An Evening with …” you know the sort of thing. Informal. Glass of wine. Someone doing a friendly interview, questions, mingling. Signing copies. Nothing fierce – I’d like people who don’t usually dare come into a bookshop to find they can enjoy it … I know a bookshop is small beer in comparison to some ambitions, but I want to make a mark. I never have. I’ve been married to a wealthy man who was ill for years. I made his life comfortable and as happy as it could be, but I think whoever I was disappeared somehow. And now …’
‘And now … Rachel, listen. You do this. And don’t let Simon make any difference. Whatever happens.’
‘What do you think will happen?’ She was pleading, wanting Cat to tell her that she knew Simon loved her, would surely marry her, and Cat could not. She had learned over a long time not to trust her brother with women’s feelings. He could be charming, attentive, loving. He could also be ruthless and selfish and cowardly. Cat doubted if he would ever change enough to share himself with any woman at all, though she did not doubt that he needed to. But he would stick pins in his eyes before he admitted as much, even to himself.
Forty-four
As she drove up to the front entrance and before turning past it to a door at the side, Rachel had a flashback to the first and only time she had been to the castle. Then, the drive and the entrance had been floodlit, the side area was a car park full of waiting Bentleys and their chauffeurs, and she had been walking out down the flight of stone steps with Simon
, after the Lord Lieutenant’s dinner.
Now, there were three or four much more modest cars parked in the gravelled area where she pulled up. There was a truck with ladders and two men lopping some branches of a great horse-chestnut tree. A food-delivery van moving off.
‘Good morning!’ Rupert Barr came out to her. He’s handsome, Rachel thought. She hadn’t taken it in before. Handsome and charming, well mannered, well spoken, well dressed. It all went together. She smiled to herself. Simon would fit in perfectly here, although he did not have the money. He had the air of easy, almost casual command, though. Was that another way of saying ‘air of superiority’? Not quite but self-belief and confidence, certainly.
‘Rachel.’ Rupert kissed her lightly on both cheeks. ‘Listen, it’s such a beautiful morning, would you like to walk down through the top garden to the gazebo? We can sit in there and have our coffee and talk work.’
‘I’d love that. I’m a gardens freak.’
‘Well then, when we’ve finished work I’ll show you round. It’s been my brother’s lifelong task to restore the grounds – they were a bit down at heel when he inherited, so he’s spent a lot of time and effort on them. Nothing’s been altered too much, just spruced and repaired and he did a lot of replanting – and some drastic tree felling. It looks wonderful now but I’ve scrutinised the original plans and there are plenty of Edwardian photographs. It’s still recognisable. Gertrude Jekyll had a hand in some of the west garden.’
They began to wander down some wide stone steps onto a great lawn. At the end a magnificent copper-beech tree stood on top of a grassy bank.
‘The Theatre Lawn. We host the Lafferton Players every other year. Traditionally they do A Midsummer Night’s Dream of course.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Come and see – it’s next year.’
‘Are the gardens open?’
‘No, only for that and for one outdoor concert, but not the gardens alone. I think my brother likes people to enjoy them but he prefers to do it by invitation not as a regular thing. When he was Lord Lieutenant there were masses of garden parties for charity and I wish he’d do it again. But he feels he spent such a lot of time being on duty as a public figure, he wants to be quiet and peaceful here now.’