Rachel opened her eyes. ‘Something else would have happened.’
‘Right, like I’d’ve got punched.’
She laughed, but Alan looked away, his mind quickly elsewhere. ‘I want to talk to you later,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you tonight.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve told you, it’s not possible.’
‘After what you told me earlier, I want to call you. I want to know you’re OK. There must be a way. I’ll call at seven o’clock. Rachel? At exactly seven.’
She closed her eyes again, then, fifteen seconds later she nodded slowly.
It was a minute before Alan spoke again. ‘Only trouble is, you smile at anyone at a bus stop in London, they think you’re a nutter.’
This time they both laughed, then rolled together. Then fucked again.
When they’d got their breaths back they talked about all manner of stuff. Films and football and music.
Nothing that mattered.
Alan lay in bed after Rachel had left and thought about all the things that had been said and done that day. He wanted so much to do something to help her, to make her feel better, but for all his bravado, for all his heroic notions, the best that he could come up with was a present.
He knew straight away what he could give her, and where to find it.
It was in a shoebox at the back of a cupboard stuffed with bundles of letters, a bag of old tools and other odds and sods that he’d collected from his father’s place after the old man had died.
Alan hadn’t looked at the bracelet in a couple of years, had forgotten the weight of it. It was gold, or so he presumed, and heavy with charms. He remembered the feel of Rachel’s body against his fingers – her shoulder-blades and hips – as he ran them around the smooth body of the tiger, the edges of the key, the rims of the tiny train wheels that turned . . .
After his father’s death, Alan had spoken to his mother about the bracelet. He asked her if she knew where it had come from. The skin around her jaw had tightened as she’d said she hardly remembered it, then in the next breath that she wanted nothing to do with the bloody thing. Not considering where it had damned well come from.
Alan put two and two together and realized how stupid he’d been. He knew about his father’s affairs and guessed that, years before, the bracelet had been a failed peace offering of some sort. It might even have been something that he’d originally bought for one of his mistresses. His father had been a forensic pathologist and Alan was amazed at how a man who exercised such professional skill could be so clumsy when it came to the rest of his life.
It wasn’t surprising that his mother had reacted as she had, that she’d wanted no part of the charm bracelet. It had become tainted.
Alan was not superstitious. He sensed that Rachel would like it. He wouldn’t give it to her as it was though. He would make it truly hers before he gave it.
He knew exactly what charm he wanted to add.
From Muswell Hill it was a five minute bus ride to Highgate tube. Rachel leaned back against the side of the shelter. Her hair was still wet from the shower she’d taken at Alan’s flat.
She’d thought so often about how she might feel afterwards. It had been a vital part of the fantasy, not just with Alan but with other men she’d seen, but never spoken to. The sex had been easy to imagine of course. It had been gentler than she was used to and had lasted longer, but the mechanics were more or less the same. Where she’d been wrong was in imagining the feelings that would come when she’d actually done it. She’d been certain that she’d feel frightened, but she didn’t. Fear was familiar to her, and its absence was unmistakable. Heady.
She waited a couple of minutes before giving up on the bus and making for the station on foot. Had there been anybody else at the bus stop, she might well have smiled at them.
Lee didn’t think that he asked too much. Not after a long day talking mortgages to morons and assuring mousy newlyweds that damp was easily sorted. At the end of it, all he wanted was his dinner and some comfort.
He couldn’t stand her so fucking cheerful.
Taking off his jacket and tie, opening a beer and asking just what she was so bloody chirpy about.
Had she been up to those fucking woods again?
Yes.
Who with?
Don’t be silly, Lee.
Sucking off tramps in the bushes, I’ll bet.
Then she’d laughed at him. No outrage like there should have been. No anger at his filthy suggestions, at the stupid suspicions that he’d only half tarted up as a joke.
A jab to the belly and another to the tits had shut her up and put her down on the floor. Now he straddled her chest, knees pressed down on to her arms, his hands pulling at his own hair in frustration.
‘We were going to do the business later on. I was well up for it and tonight could have been the night we did something special. Made a new life.’
‘Lee, please . . .’
‘You. Fucking. Spoiled. It.’
‘We can still do it, Lee. Let’s go upstairs now. I’m really horny, Lee . . .’
He shook his head, disgusted, gathering the spit into his mouth. She knew what was coming, he could see it in her eyes and he waited for her to try and turn her head away as he leaned down and pushed the saliva between his teeth. Instead, she just closed her eyes, and he thought he saw something like a smile as he let a thick string of beery spit drop slowly down on to her face.
As soon as the seven o’clock news had begun, Alan reached for the phone and dialled the number.
It was answered almost immediately, but nobody spoke.
Alan whispered, realized as soon as he had that he was being stupid. He wasn’t the one who needed to be secretive.
‘Rachel, it’s me . . .’
Suddenly, there was a noise, above the hiss and crackle on the line. It was a guttural sound that echoed. That it took him a few moments to identify. An animal sound: a gulp and a grind, a splutter and a swallow. It was the sound of someone sobbing uncontrollably but trying with every ounce of strength to assert control. Trying desperately not to be heard.
Alan sat up straight, pressed the phone hard to his ear.
‘Rachel, I’m here, OK? I’m not going anywhere.’
He watched the comings and goings with something like amusement.
For a fortnight he watched her leave the house in Barnet mid-morning, then come home again by late-afternoon. He stayed with her most of the day when he could, saw her meet him in the woods or sometimes go straight to his flat when they couldn’t be arsed with preliminaries.
When they wanted to get straight down to it.
He watched her leave the flat, eyes bright and hair wet. The smell of one man scrubbed away before she went home to another.
He wondered if the man he saw climbing into the silver sports car every morning knew that he was a cuckold. On a couple of occasions he thought about popping a note under his windscreen to let him know. Just to stir things up a bit.
He hadn’t done because he didn’t want to do anything that might disturb the routine. Not now that he was ready to take her. Besides, mischief for its own sake was not his thing at all.
Still, he couldn’t help but marvel at the things people got up to.
On the day Alan had hoped to give Rachel the bracelet, his mother tripped on the stairs.
So many things that could have been different . . .
Two weeks before, the jeweller had shown him a catalogue. There had been charms that would have carried more or less the same meaning but Alan knew what he wanted. He’d ordered one specially made. He’d decided against the diamond spots and gone for the enamel, but still, it wasn’t cheap. He’d thought of it as a dozen decent sessions with one of his private patients. He always thought in those terms whenever he wanted to splash out on something.
A fortnight later, half an hour before he was due to meet Rachel in the woods, he walked out on to Bond Street with the bracelet. Then, his mother called.
‘Don’t worry, Alan. It’s just my ankle, it’s nothing . . .’
A message that said ‘Come and see me now, if you give a shit.’
He phoned Rachel and left a message of his own. She was probably on her way already, was almost certainly somewhere on the Northern Line. He made for the underground himself, steeling himself for the trip to his mother’s warden-controlled flat in Swiss Cottage.
As he walked, he realized that his mother would see the bag. It was purple with white cord handles and the name of the jeweller in gold lettering. He couldn’t show her the bracelet for obvious reasons . . .
He decided that if she asked he’d tell her he’d bought himself a new watch . . .
Lee wasn’t stupid – God, it would all have been a lot easier if he were – but it couldn’t be very much longer before he noticed how often she was going to the toilet or taking a shower just before seven o’clock . . .
She collected her bag on the way upstairs, then, once she’d locked the bathroom door, she switched the phone on, set it to vibrate only, and waited.
Tonight she was desperate, had been since Alan had failed to meet her at lunchtime. She’d waited in the woods for twenty minutes before she’d got a signal, before the alert had come through. She’d listened to his message once then erased it as always. Walked back towards the tube, unravelling.
Sitting with her back against the side of the bath, she thought there was every chance that he might not ring at all. His excuse for not turning up had sounded very much like an excuse. Not that she could blame him for wanting to call a halt to things; she knew how hard it was for him in so many ways . . .
She almost dropped the phone when it jumped in her hand.
‘Where were you?’
‘Didn’t you get the message? I was at my bloody mother’s.’
‘I thought you might have made it up.’
‘Jesus, Rachel.’
‘Sorry
A sigh. Half a minute of sniffs and swallows.
‘God, I wish I could see you,’ he said. ‘Now, I mean. I’ve got something for you. I wanted to give it to you this afternoon . . .’
‘I’d like to see you too.’
‘Can you?’
The hope in his voice clutched at her. ‘There might be a way . . .’
‘By the tree in half an hour. The woods don’t shut until eight.’
‘I’ll try.’
When she’d hung up she dialled another number. She spoke urgently for a minute, then hung up again. When she heard the landline ringing a few moments later she flushed the toilet and stepped out of the bathroom.
Lee was holding the phone out for her when she walked into the lounge. She took it and spoke, hoped he could hear the shock and concern in her voice despite the fact that he hadn’t bothered to turn the television down.
‘That was Sue,’ she said afterwards. ‘Her brother’s been in a car accident. Some idiot talking on his mobile phone, ploughed into the back of him on the motorway. I said I’d go round . . .’
Lee’s team had been awarded a penalty. Without turning round to her, he waved his consent.
He was astonished to see her leave the house alone at night. The husband did of course, jumped in his sports car every so often to collect a takeaway or shoot down to the off licence, but never her . . .
He’d been planning to do it during the day; he knew the quiet places now, the dead spots en route where he could take her with very little risk, but he wasn’t a man to look a gift horse in the mouth.
This was perfect, and he was as ready as he’d ever be.
He presumed she’d be heading for the tube at High Barnet. He got out of his car and followed her.
It took Alan ten minutes to get to the woods. By half past seven he’d got everything arranged.
He hadn’t wanted to just give her the bracelet. He’d wanted her to come across it, to find it as if by some piece of good fortune. Luck had played such a big part in their coming together, after all, which is why he’d chosen the charm that he had. There was only really one place that he could leave it . . .
The light was fading fast. The few people he saw were all moving towards one or other of the various exits. He dialled her number.
‘It’s me. You’re probably still on the tube. Listen, come to the tree but don’t worry if you can’t see me. I’ll be nearby, but there’s something I want you to find first. Stand where the ball was found, then look up. OK? I’ll see you soon.’
He moved away from the tree so that he could watch from a distance when she discovered the bracelet. It worried him that it would soon be too dark to see the expression on her face when she found it. He sat down, leaned back against a stump to wait.
It was the away leg of a big European tie and one-up at half time was a very decent result.
Lee was at the fridge digging out snacks for the rest of the game when the car alarm went off. That fucking Saab across the road again – he’d told the tosser to get it looked at once. The wailing stopped after a couple of minutes, but started up again almost immediately, and Lee knew that uninterrupted enjoyment of the second half had gone out of the window.
He picked up his keys and stormed out of the front door. The prat was out by the looks of it, but Lee fancied giving his motor a kick or two anyway. He might come back afterwards, grab some paper and stick a none too subtle note through the wanker’s letter-box. Maybe a piece of dogshit for good measure . . .
Rachel’s phone was lying on the tarmac halfway down the drive.
Lee picked it up and switched it on. The leather case had protected it and the screen lit up immediately.
He entered the security code and waited.
There was a message.
Rachel had realized her phone was missing as soon as she came out of the station. She knew Alan would be worried that she’d taken so long and had reached for the phone to see if he’d left a message. A balloon of sickness had risen up rapidly from her guts, and she’d begun running, silently cursing the selfish idiot who’d thrown himself on to the line at East Finchley, then feeling bad about it.
A few minutes into the woods and still a few more from where Alan would be waiting. It was almost dark and she hadn’t seen anyone since she left the road. She looked at her watch – the exits would close in ten minutes. She knew that people climbed over fences to get in – morons who lit bonfires and played ‘chase me’ with the keepers – so it wouldn’t be impossible to get out, but she still didn’t fancy being inside after the woods were locked up.
She thought about shouting Alan’s name out; it was so quiet that the sound would probably carry. She was being stupid . . .
Still out of breath, she picked up her pace again, looking up at the noise of feet falling heavily on the path ahead, and seeing the jogger coming towards her.
Alan rang again, hung up as soon as he heard her voice on the answering machine.
He looked at his watch, leaned his head back against the bark. He could hear the distant drone of the traffic and, closer, the shrill peep of the bats that had begun to emerge from their boxes to feed. Moving above him like scraps of burnt paper on the breeze.
He slowed as he passed her, jogged on a stride or two then backed quickly up to draw level with her again. She froze, and he could see the fear in her face.
‘Rachel?’ he said.
She stared at him, still wary but with curiosity getting the better of her.
‘I met you a few weeks ago in the pub,’ he said. ‘With Alan.’ Her eyes didn’t move from his. ‘Graham. The cardiologist?’
‘Oh, God. Graham . . . right, of course . . .’
She laughed and her shoulders sagged as the tension vanished.
He laughed too, and reached round to the belt he wore beneath the jogging bottoms. Felt for the knife.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I think my brain’s going. I’m a bit bloody jumpy to tell you the truth.’
He nodded but he wasn’t really listening. He spun slowly around, han
d on hip, catching his breath. Checking that there was no one else around.
‘Well . . .’ she said.
He’d have her in the bushes in seconds, the knife pressed to her throat before she had a chance to open her mouth.
He saw her check her watch.
The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology] Page 46