A Question of Guilt

by Frances Fyfield

  Evenings had become sacrosanct. For Annie, now that the worst of the murder enquiry was over, and it was not, as it had been, weekend inclusive, allowing him the odd visiting hour, the odd Sunday stroll, he had invented a figment known as weekend duty; for his wife, the necessity for overtime prevailed. Both were unquestioning, one out of admiration, the other out of suspicions she preferred not to define. But recently, Annie had changed perceptibly, not because of him, only because of a new-found confidence in her adopted town, new friends in the nanny sorority, new things to do with her evenings, more excitement than waiting for a boyfriend to cease working, or waiting in by the television. It was this threat which made genuine overtime such a burden. Not only did Ryan have to compete with fresh entertainments, but he had also to contend with the fear that the local talent halls would contain local contemporaries, and that by some awful, accidental means, the truth of his popular progress, as well as his marital status, would out. Not yet, he prayed, not yet, not until I’ve explained, as if it could be explained, the love and the mess of it all. He could almost deceive himself she would not mind, but for the moment that was not to be faced, could not be endured, the thought of losing her. The only way to minimise either of the risks was to be with her, since as soon as he appeared, with or without warning, late or early, she forgot everything and everyone else, fussed, fluttered with pleasure, made him tea or coffee, drank the wine he had brought with him although she disliked it, and drew him down on to her bed with a sigh of relief.

  ‘We don’t have to do this every time I see you,’ he had mumbled once into her thick, baby-smelling hair. ‘Oh, don’t we?’ she said with a giggle as soft as the hands unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Who says we don’t, officer?’

  In the car, outside Bernard’s house, knowing she was at home while he had genuine leave of absence from his own, Ryan scratched his chest in mimic of her hands, and sighed at the memory of her touch on the buttons. There was never anything hurried about her: never grasping, open-mouthed, crude, never a hunger he did not share. Slow in the casting off of clothes, his and hers, each time a seduction as if it had been the first. His tie, his shirt, her blouse, his hand beneath her skirt, hers unbuckling his belt, touching and stroking their way to nothing but skin, exploring with mouths, still slowly, more giggles, more words, love, admiration, falling away into all those subdued sounds with himself feeling massive inside her smallness. No hurry still in the undulating closeness: she was supple, moved like a passionate angel while he waited, holding back for her, damp in the whispering warmth, legs entangled long, long after. She it was who made him so skilful, so generously complete. He could feel now the softness of her buttocks, the full bosom crushed against his chest, and shivered, agonised and embarrassed in the darkness. No doubting where he wanted to be: quite simply, he had never known anything like it, not since an adolescent in love, new to the feel of another body.

  Instead, he was outside Peter Jaskowski’s mean, terraced house, at odds with its gentrified neighbours for garish paintwork and ugly double glazing, looking at lighted windows, a closed door and a blank wall. Who would know if he stayed there or not, or moved to the front of Mrs Cartwright’s empty maisonette to sit there, just as still, as bored and as cripplingly frustrated as he would be when he parked outside Bernard’s, two doors away from Annie? Who would know if he ignored Bailey’s foolish suspicions, which were simply designed to destroy the greatest treasure and pleasure of his life? Five weeks was a long time for such a girl to live on short rations. Too long, too much, even for a sense of duty as strong as Ryan’s. He started the car, and did not stop until he reached the house where she lived.

  Summer advanced.

  ‘I saw your DC Ryan, steaming through Islington near Bernard’s house quite late the other night,’ Helen told Bailey. ‘At least, I think it was him. Pursuing further enquiries?’

  ‘I hope so. I asked him to keep an eye out. He didn’t seem as keen as usual, so I’m glad he’s doing as told. He’s a bit off-colour lately. Domestic difficulties, I’d guess. Observation duties might distract him, but I doubt it. Anyway, he deserves the overtime. He works hard. By the way, he got those extra forensic reports. All the notes we recovered will smell of spirit forever if kept wrapped. Added weight to Jaskowski’s evidence, added effect for the jury. Same chemical as the stuff found in her house.’

  ‘Is that what you phoned to tell me? I hoped you just wanted to chat. Might have known better.’

  ‘So you ought. The reports can wait. They only say in three pages what I’ve just told you, and I’ve warned the scientists we’ll need them for court. No, I was just wondering if you’d like to browse round an Antique Fair, sort of auction? On Saturday.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I would. I’d give anything to browse round an auction instead of what I’ve got to do. That would apply to most days of the week, but this Saturday in particular. I’ve got to go to a wedding, obligation, not pleasure. My ex-husband’s, in fact.’

  ‘Why do you have to go? It seems odd for them to invite you. My ex-wife certainly didn’t, but I would have gone if she had. I sent them a present instead.’

  ‘I think I’m expected to do both.’

  ‘What, a sort of no hard feelings exercise? The seal of understanding and approval; him showing that the old and new order don’t conflict, nothing in the past but pleasant bygones and honest mistake?’ She had told him something of her marriage, turning it into anecdotes, and was pleasantly shocked by the understanding.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Will it be hard work?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well. I can see why you’d consider yourself bound to go, sometimes best to give people what they want, however unfair, but all the same, I wish you didn’t have to. Something more relaxing would be better for you.’

  She liked the genuine concern, the luxury of his reassurance pushing a new thought into her mind.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me? It’s only a buffet thing. Moral support?’

  Damn! Wishing she had left the thought where it belonged, stopped it dead on its insolent way through her mouth. Presumptuous, even to a friend of far longer standing, to suggest a chore so personal, an entertainment so close to home, even though she had felt with the words what a relief it would be, the mere idea a comforting cream on inflamed skin. She waited for evasive refusal, irritated response to embarrassing request, prepared herself to make a joke of it.

  ‘Yes, of course I will, if you really think it would help.’

  There was no hesitation whatever, and no laughter either.

  ‘Well, it would, and I’m grateful.’ She was stuck for the phrase to describe how grateful, how much lighter the day had become.

  ‘No need for that. What time shall I pick you up?’

  ‘A lift as well? Eleven-thirty? Wedding at twelve, champágne and bits immediately after. What time’s the Fair?’

  ‘Three-thirty. Shall we do both in our finery?’

  ‘Even better; no lingering over the sparkling once I’ve been seen to do my duty, and you’ve been scrutinised by the laser eyes of my ex-mother-in-law.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll enjoy that. How do you want me to be? South London yob, with connections in the motor trade. Or severe, tight-lipped, disapproving, teetotal, officer of the law? I have suits for either role.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you. Wait till you see her. Don’t know what I should be.’

  ‘Whatever they’re least likely to approve, I should think. Can’t expect you to turn up, salve consciences and behave well, surely? Put your hat in the Fair later. See you eleven-thirty.’

  Suddenly the Saturday prospect was relieved of all anxieties, a pure penance turned into a pure pleasure, no fears or reservations for her small uncomfortable place in the limelight of the has-been. Helen smiled, stretched, ran her fingers through her hair so that it stood inelegantly upright. Yes, that would do. Pulled a face at the wall, cancelled the plan to buy a dress, and dragged the next se
t of papers towards her.

  Ryan kissed Annie, loving the reaction of slight shyness, the usual little reserve of her delighted greeting which revealed the fundamental innocence of her and made him so protective. His woman, he called her. Then she put her arms around his neck and kissed him again, longer and even sweeter, swaying together in the doorway of her room. Meetings confined to late at night had a sharpening, clandestine air; they spoke in delicious whispers as if they could be heard.

  Peter Jaskowski Junior slipped in through his ground-floor bedroom window, clearly visible from the street, whose indifferent observation he would not have minded, but free from the view of his aunt and uncle, which would have been more awkward. It was the same window he used to get out. He knew that Ed would not be there until long after midnight, if at all.

  A light burned in Mrs Cartwright’s house, unnoticed by uncaring neighbours as Edward left his own additions to the collection, more familiar with it now than he had been when he first discovered it, more careful not to disturb familiar patterns in the arrangement, aware of occasional checks by the police and a man from an Insurance Company, never at night and never thoroughly, only for omissions, not extras. A safe house for a long time now; he liked its brooding, old-fashioned darkness even more than he had liked it when she had showed it to him such a long time ago. Even Ed, with his peculiar memory, chose not to remember the details.

  Helen had long since decided that the peculiar rustlings and signs of movement in her garden were more than her cat, or even a confederation of cats. At the same time she had decided that whatever it was, it carried no threat of harm. It was a secret, was all: not a threat, but not to be told.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  If they had chosen to ask him why he had begun to watch her, he would have shrugged his shoulders; standard reaction dreaded by teachers and uncles, who saw it as insolence or indifference, qualities he recognised but rarely felt. Far from hostile, this shrug of his, only an alternative to speech, quicker than searching for words suitable for adults. In his twelfth year, Peter withdrew from older company, making noise only with other boys whom he chose deliberately for their failure to question him. He was accepted in turn for his energy in games, liked for his reliable determination and his disinclination to challenge leadership. Peter arrived unaccompanied for school or football: participated, departed without trace of curiosity. Second school after Father’s scandal: gossip faded into indifference, and he was always useful to a team.

  Alone in the streets he whistled for company, looking for none. When he saw her for the second time walking in the street parallel to the playground, he was whistling towards evening football practice, and she caught his eye with more than vague familiarity. He could not have described what made her special, not beauty, age or colour of hair; simply the fact of her passing smile, not issued through him or over his head, but into his eyes, and he smiled back, brimming with the warmth of it, glowing with the comfort of approval, turning to look long after she walked on. Then he remembered: she was the one Ed had showed, pointing at her in the distance with one stubby finger.

  A long interval between that time and this, all time eclipsed since Dad went to prison: Mam indifferent and himself nagging Ed for company. Ed had protected him from the Uncle and Aunt, which was something, but it meant they had no time for him either. Baby brother Stanislaus was twinned with his cousin, baby sister was a blob, and he was the odd one out. Let me join in something, he asked in those days when Ed was still trying, and it was then he had been shown the house where she lived. One spring evening they had stood at the far end of the street and watched her come home, smart in a black coat, carrying a case, not like anyone he knew. Ed had told him it was all for fun since he had nothing better to do, a remark he resented while knowing it was accurate. When he was grown up, he was promised he could help Ed be a detective. That was why Ed stayed out so late at night; learning.

  ‘If you want to be useful,’ Ed had informed him, ‘you can watch her. See when she comes in and out, how she locks her door, who comes to visit her, and when.’

  ‘Why?’ Peter had replied in his most irritating refrain. ‘Is she nice?’ a a question of such naïveté Ed almost struck him.

  ‘You don’t ask why, and it doesn’t make any difference whether she’s nice or not. People like that never are, anyway.’

  ‘People like what?’

  ‘I knew you were hopeless,’ said Ed, suddenly relieved to have an excuse for argument, ‘hopeless and stupid. You never understand anything. Nothing at all.’

  ‘I do, I do,’ Peter had cried. ‘Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it, Ed, please.’ But Ed had seen the unreliability of any ally foolish enough to question and young enough to speak if ever questioned himself. Better not. Peter would be as obvious as a flag, as reactive to the breeze.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Oh, Ed.’

  ‘Forget it, I said. Come on, I’ll buy you some chips.’

  Peter was easily seduced. He had forgotten, accepted the bribe instead. Ed gave him a pound to go home. Ed was always giving him a pound to go home, just like his father. Mam occasionally managed ten pence, which reflected the size of her pocket rather than the extent of the guilt.

  Then he had seen her again, the lady who smiled, and at first, that was all. Not significant, more than enough. Hours of life intervened before the next football practice, hours of school and home where the door closed on them all and harassed Aunt Mary was happy to accept his preference for his own company in the confinement of the room he shared with Ed whenever Ed was there. In its conspicuous tidiness the room paid tribute to the effort both made to control their own uprooted lives and keep them hidden, while Mary took the unnatural order of it as the only sign of consideration they gave her apart from Peter’s distant politeness, which was preferable to Ed’s silent challenges. Pete and he were an odd couple in an odder union which, for all its fragile consistency, was not unsociable or even insecure, a mutual loneliness both dignified and undiagnosed. To some extent Peter relieved his peculiar isolation by reading anything and everything, gathering a disjointed vocabulary which owed more to printed pages than speech. At school he submerged himself in teams and games, survived the rest, but all the same, as the woman who smiled would notice, he had mastered remarkable powers of quiet concentration.

  No more than accident, and a kind of benign envy at first which drew him to watch her, not because Ed had told him to do so long ago. That was forgotten. After the smile, he arrived early at the empty playground with his own ball and kicked it aimlessly while waiting for the others. Slowly at first, then harder for the satisfying sound of it. Idleness turned into energy: finally one massive kick lobbed it over the wall which separated the ground from the back of the houses in the next street, and he watched in disbelief as it sailed out of sight into silence, knowing it was a good ball and he would not get another soon enough. He stopped for breath, then ran at the wall, scrabbling up to the top, pulling himself astride determined on pursuit, paused instead, paralysed with pleasure when he saw what met his eyes.

  The houses in the street beyond the playground were large, split into generous flats, but it was only the garden he noticed. One of his shoes was entangled into the branch of a huge climbing rose which seemed to escape rather than grow in its impatience to be seen. Ignorant of gardens as a child of the tenth floor, his muddled notion of plants was derived from books, photos of formal arrangements, tedious lessons and one school outing, none of which meant much and had led to no sense of wonder before he saw this luxurious wilderness guided, rather than controlled by human hand. Rich and small, enclosed entirely by walls, a mass of shrubs and flowering plants paying tribute to generations of indiscriminate planting on rich soil; a garden which required hacking back to save it from choking, now at its fiery best on a warm summer evening when the light exaggerated the colour and contour of it all, and the heaviness of the air emphasised smells.

  A sunken area of cracked paving sto
nes led to the only exit at the door of the basement flat, and even these stones were decorated with flower tubs spilling with life beneath the russet creeper covering the walls. These had been Helen’s only contribution to the garden: the rest she had found, and kept on finding in her ever increasing love and conflict with all this determined life. A cat basked in the lowering sun: traffic sounds, any sound was dim and distant, and there, half turned from some business about the tubs, trowel in hand, was the woman who had smiled into his eyes.

  ‘Do you know, your ball gave me a fright,’ she had told him in her pleasant voice. ‘I thought it dropped straight out of the sky, a message of some sort. Then I hoped someone would follow, and here you are.’

  She showed no sign of alarm. Tongue-tied, he nodded and smiled, gesturing stupidly at the football which lay by the door, watching as she obeyed the mute request to retrieve it, laughing as she pulled a face in throwing it towards him and over his head, waving in response to her grin before he disappeared back the way he had arrived over the wall.

  The vision was beyond his control. She haunted him as he ran, caught, kicked, shouted, she and the cat and the picture of that sanctuary. As darkness fell, he wondered if she could see from her flowers the lights of the ground, guessed her work would be complete and the garden empty. Pushing and shoving, the boys left the ground, teacher last, checking for litter and abandoned clothes. Shouting faded across the road before Peter emerged from his dark corner, climbed the wall cautiously this time, dragging against the roses as he slithered through the other side. The habits of silence were instinctive, and although fear contorted all his movements, he could not have stopped in the face of a dragon.