‘What did you come for?’ She was surprised to find her voice level.
‘What? Oh, I was sent. You’ll find out.’ She saw that his hands, gentle enough holding the clock which he had placed on the bed, were clenched. He rubbed one fist into the palm of the other, involuntarily, nervous, as if wanting to postpone the clear message of the gesture, and Helen, aware of the danger from the first, knew now how inescapable it was.
‘Why not just concentrate on nice things? Not many here, but you can have what you want. Provided you leave me alone.’ The voice was still level, almost polite.
‘Sod off,’ angry now. ‘Don’t make no difference. I can have whatever I like, anyway.’
‘Can you? You’re luckier than me, then.’
‘Sod off.’ He was by the side of the bed where she curled, shouting at her, willing her to cringe away while she willed herself to refuse.
‘No need to shout, you’ll waken the neighbours …,’ her remark was so ridiculous, she began to laugh, an hysterical giggle which gurgled in the throat until she coughed it back, not before he had noticed, and hit again, staccato punches to the ribs, swift and hard, each a stabbing pain, numerous stabbing pains which left her weak, rasping for each breath, ending with a final blow to the abdomen, when even her hands ceased their token resistance. He stood upright, panting, trembling himself, the scent of his excited fear overpowering, choking her more than her lungs. ‘That’s enough from you … See … who do you fucking think you are …? Me luckier than you! Fuck off, will you …’ Even in the haze of misery, closing her eyes against what might happen next, knowing how powerless she was, Helen knew that there was worse, and that he, for reasons she had no need to fathom, was postponing it. Her silence calmed him, but he could not for now, stand the sight of her. ‘Wait,’ he commanded. She waited.
He had gone. Entirely? There was a moment of hope, quickening of all bruised senses, stretching-out of limbs and opening of eyes into silence, finding the room empty, sitting upright, still clutching the sheet, stifling the cry of pain as she moved, surprised to be able to move, listening on into the death of the hope, hearing him shuffling and exploring yards away, the sound of him determined but nonchalant, not in this room, but certainly in the next, passing now into the one beyond, moving clumsily on small feet, examining as he went, looking for nice things, coming towards her again, head round the door, checking, triumphant, the failing confidence somehow renewed by his discoveries.
‘What’s this?’ Holding up a watercolour sketch, an inexact, lively portrait of an old wrinkled woman, removed, she noticed, from its frame. He held it close to his eyes in the corridor light.
‘By, W. H. Ford. Is he famous?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t like it. Why did he paint her? Wrinkly old thing.’
Tearing the old parchment in half and then in half again, scattering pieces on the floor. Helen closed her eyes, pretending complete weariness and the indifference of pain, her voice low and beseeching.
‘There’s more paintings in the sideboard. Nice things. Perhaps you’ll like some of those.’ Not moving.
‘I’ll see: I suppose you think you know what I like, but I’ll see …’ Defensive, but distracted, still looking for an excuse to postpone the real purpose, and the room was empty again. It occurred to her she was not the only one who was afraid.
Now. Now the door of the only cupboard in the room furthest away from her would be opened, distracting him. Now was the time, there was no other time, would be no other time, she knew it, could smell the blood on him, he would not stop: he would find something else to enrage him into the courage he needed. Now. Breathe deeply, then move: you are not old, you are not infirm. Move … You want to live, don’t you? Move then. Bloody well move, you lethargic coward. Move!
She sprang from the mattress, forgetting the nakedness, pushing the whole bed towards the door and across. It was a light, modern thing, comfortable, never enough to keep him at bay for more than a few seconds, surely enough to open the window, get out of it, into the relative freedom of the garden. Where was it Peter found it easiest to climb the wall? somewhere to the left of it, she would need shoes, or she would go into the next garden, over the steep bricks, another decision to be made in the dark. Fumbling with the catch on the window, she could hear him at the door. Why, oh why had she failed to notice that he had screwed down that catch, always clumsy to undo she had sworn at it in better times than this. Open. Too late. The window was up, curtains flapping in the breeze which was the beginning of the storm, herself entangled in them, the boy’s arms embracing her like a lover, dragging her back, hissing unloverlike, away from the freedom of the ground: both of them writhing on the floor of the room, the window so close she could touch the frame, he lifting her back on to the shifted bed like a sacrifice, himself full of the same sickening smell. ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch …’ no other words as he leaned on her, hand over her mouth, until she choked to breathe and stopped moving. ‘Now,’ he said, a deafening whisper, ‘now …’ Her eyes were swollen, blows and tears, but she could see the thick belt in his hand, from where she could not tell, she had not noticed him wearing it, but it was unmistakably his, with buckle glinting, swung at her, once to forehead harmlessly, then again. Its cut was noiseless, the effect a whiplash as she squirmed away over the wrinkled sheets like a squirrel, feeling the sting against ribs, breast, thigh, arms, evading some, catching the most, sobbing and crying rather than screaming, finally subdued with that muscular, fat arm around her neck, pulled to his chest, her head pressed into the pillow face down and retching, no end to it. Fighting, whipping, amazed at the sudden strength of her, the boy was momentarily tired, knew he must not stop, turned her, held her there, elbow across throat, panting, still avoiding the eyes, grinning into the space beyond her head. The grimace receded: she knew it, even seeing nothing but the mouth below the damp, frayed mask as the left side of his jaw began to twitch uncontrollably, making his face so intense she could only stare. He withdrew the hand not pinning her, raised it above her, and it was then she screamed, sad, strangled sound it was from a throat so compressed, thrashing in captivity at the sight of that little, lethal, knife lunging towards her. They were words she formed, nonsense obscenities, reserving the last strength to twist away once and more, half conscious of the blade grazing ribs, twisting back to avert the fist before another thrust, her hand round the knife, watching the blood of her own fingers from a distance. Whose blood was that? Feeling nothing at all like pain. There was a point, one glorious point, when she thought for a moment she had won: the point when she crouched, freed for a moment, picked up the clock and threw it through the window before she knew she was lost, and there they were both, sticky, sweaty, full of the smell of a butcher’s shop, all fresh meat, nothing frozen, but losing the sense of touch and all the talents of sight, his black, pale face fading into obscurity. Once in a far off distant state, she remembered; she fastened her teeth into his solid, repulsive arm. Aware, from somewhere, of the longest, loudest scream. Not her own. A sound from the garden, a wail of horror, ending in a shrill and ghostly cadence, No … ooo, no, no, no …, something familiar, half known on the other side of the window. And the sound, at the same time of the relief of pressure on her throat, of her own, insistent doorbell.
I saw him, I saw him; that was my brother. She bit him, on the arm, and I know she is not dead, or Ed would have stopped before. There was nowhere for me to go but out of there, and never home, because he knew it was me, I know he knew it. He will take his little knife to me: I know that too. Ed stopped when I screamed, I saw him, after he was bitten when I saw the knife, it was then I screamed, I couldn’t help it, how could he do that? I stopped him, shouting like that. Then I stayed down in the bush while he came out of the window like a cannon ball, looking all round, but not looking at all, straight for the wall, he knew, how did he know? I didn’t show him, he knew where to go. Slower than me; I can climb better than him.
Then I watched some more,
too scared for anything. She moved, and I could not move, but I cried when I saw her move, not dead, not nearly dead, but hurt, I couldn’t bear it, it was Ed did that. So much hurt I hardly knew her face, so strange, the rest of her too, with no clothes, like one of Grandma’s skinned rabbits … My lady, Ed did that, and I want to kill him for that, but he will find me first.
Lady, I was coming to help you when you tried to get out of the window, couldn’t sleep, you see?, so I came into the garden just to see if you were there: I wouldn’t have woken you, I promise. And then, when Ed ran away, I was coming down to the window, but I heard the shouting, the bell, and it was like the other time, I couldn’t let them find me, and besides, I knew they would help you, and I couldn’t let them take me home, not with Ed going there, with his little knife, knowing I had seen him.
I hate him. Why did he do that? I am afraid of him, of what he does, so afraid he did that to punish me, and it’s all my fault, but why did he have to try and kill her, hurt her like that, just because I fibbed to him; it wasn’t so bad, was it, not telling him where I went, fibbing like that? All my fault Lady, I never wanted anything like this to happen to you: you told me you were my friend, and I believe you, and I shall have to come back. To tell you I didn’t just leave you. I’ll come back very soon, I promise … Where else can I go?
Over the wall, struck in the face by great gobs of rain, frozen in light at the top, dropping down, running anywhere through the wet, the hair plastered to forehead, thinking where to find shelter for more, and more crying, he would have to go back. Tomorrow, next day, before Ed found him. Brothers beneath their saturated skins, running from scrutiny, questions, capture, one another. One child, lightfoot with horror, loyalty curdled, aiming nowhere, the other, trudging now, aiming for base, remembering self-taught skills, hiding in doorways: stockily silent, aware of the blood on him, putting the knife into a drain and the T-shirt mask with it, glad of the damp which so masked his progress by blinding stray eyes to his stained chest, washing his arms free of the spatters. It was the bite which ached more than the rest of him ached, weary and sick. She had vomited: he remembered it, could smell it on the front of his shirt until he too, retched in the street, disgust and relief pouring from him in a thin stream. Ed had not eaten for many hours, stomach clenched beyond digestion or appetite: there was nothing to eject but the poisonous fluid of disappointment, anger and grief.
Not for her. Bitch. Grudging, hate-filled admiration for her; fought like a cat, the bitch, but no regrets for her except not finishing it, but shame for the boy who had seen. Peter’s scream, as clear as a siren, the same skinny scream he had heard from the garages when the kids had trapped him in there, arm-twisting, chanting. Dad’s in jail, Dad’s a con; a helpless shriek, piercing his eardrums like pins, his own first temptation to violence. Poor little bastard, daft little sod, couldn’t do it with him wailing like that, knowing he was there, watching. You bastard, Pete … Wait till I find you. Stopping me: I told you long ago, don’t dare interfere.
The street deserted, warm rain running down gutters, no one stirring, cosy lights in windows, not even a man with a dog. Inside Eileen’s maisonette, a careful trembling wash in the dark. She bit me, look at those marks on me, and look at my hands, shaking like Pete’s shake. He will not tell. Ed knew him better than that; he had never told for as long as he could form words, which he did so rarely now, too loyal, too frightened, always the same, even in the days when he chattered. And in all the plans for this, every single version of events cast over in his mind, including the prospect of losing courage which he had been honest enough to admit, Ed had never envisaged discovery: to do so would have introduced too huge an element of fear, taken away his legs for the whole enterprise. Besides, what need to consider? In years of escaping, he had always escaped: he was not his father, and even his father had escaped, although he plaited his own noose afterwards. Pete spoke so rarely these days, with so much difficulty, he would never confide in strangers, never: Pete could not do that. In the last three weeks’ intermittent contact, he had not said a word.
The trembling was slower; Ed willed his hands to stop, no, he would not think of it, and all the same, he would find Pete tomorrow, then think of it. After he had slept with the sound of the scream haunting him more than the face of the woman, waking him from the floor where he lay in a sweating chill. In the morning, he would find Peter.
Why the doorbell? She was not expecting anyone, not even relatives, neighbours, friends, this time of night, but she could hear it, deafened by the sound of her own breathing, peculiar loud sound. Look at the mess of this place, look at it. What shall I do? Who would have believed I could live with this mess, I must be sick to have let it happen: I must get up and tidy it all, what is the matter with me, I must answer the door, but I have no clothes. Answer the door anyway. Press the thing which lets them in upstairs, it doesn’t matter who: then tidy up: I’m so ashamed, such squalor here, so dirty, but I feel so weak. Help me please, I hate to ask, but help me, please …
Half-way down the corridor, still clutching a sheet, one step, two steps, five steps closer to the Entryphone: trying to press the small red button, unable to make one wavering finger actually touch, mind failing to co-ordinate with eye, irritating until she was aware she had done it with one gummy palm. Time to sit down. Slowly, legs buckling, back smearing the white wall, knocking aside another picture. I shall just wait here, only for a minute, I would smooth my hair if I could prise my fingers apart.
And thus Ryan found her, hearing such strange sounds on his way back from the pub in the stillness which announced the storm. Found immaculate Helen West, unrecognisable, squinting upwards through one huge eye, the other closed by swelling. ‘Hallo,’ she said, irrelevantly polite. ‘Sorry to keep you.’ Then she had begun to sob, covering her face with sticky red paws, hurting, crying, and even then he had not known her.
‘Called the doctor, sir. The ambulance will wait for the doc to finish.’
‘Forensic?’
‘Sir.’
‘Send the rest away … no, wait, leave two, the Sergeant and one more; the rest can look for him.’
He was pale, Ryan thought, ashen with worry, frightening in his white skin, older by a hundred years. The mess, perhaps: torn pictures, broken glasses, gunge up the bedroom wall, trailed along the carpet to the door, even red brown footprints, and now the rain obliterating traces in the garden full of wet uniforms. Trainers, she had said; he wore jeans and trainers like a dozen others. He went through the window: his luck he walked into a rainstorm, not a chance, not a cat in hell’s chance. And as for her, poor woman, Ryan had always liked her, looking like a boxer at the end of round sixteen, still fighting, but far from pretty.
‘Not as bad as it looks,’ Ryan wanted to hold his arm as he might have done to his son, to any child in need of comfort. ‘She’ll be all right, sir: the doctor said,’ repeating the common touching faith in the medical man even as he appeared, soft-spoken to patients, loud otherwise, full of staccato phrases, economising on all his information.
‘… Doesn’t want to go to casualty: told her she must. No choice, silly girl. Stitches, fair bit of embroidery. Punctured lung, one or two ribs, nasty, very. She’ll live to a ripe old …, a few scars. No statements, not now please: I’ve noted it all. Shock, you see, nasty thing. Brave woman, that. Tries to laugh. Apologising for all the fuss, I ask you.’
Pausing, fussing for breath, adjusting a battered jacket against the still heat.
‘Are you called Bailey?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s all right then. It’s you she wants. Don’t know why. Concussion, I expect.’
Helen, he was telling himself: I love you for all the things you are, and all the things you say. Who else would have struggled so hard to keep dignity, trying to refuse the offer of a stretcher, pretending she could walk, a two-step, drunken lurch, but only just? Refused to stay long in hospital, covered in more stitches than he could count, even with all his
hands? Broken ribs will heal as well at home, she said. Oh yes? So will multiple, superficial stab wounds, split lip, displaced nose and the blackest eye he had ever seen on a woman. ‘Is it that bad?’ she asked him, shaking all over and joking at the same time, a funny combination which turned his mind sideways, ‘Will I have to paint the other one to match it?’
Helen, beware of shock, he warned her. Tomorrow, you will feel so low, the earth could swallow you. Stay in hospital.
Then she told him about the boy, the little boy, gabbling she was about the boy Peter although he tried to stop her talking in the ambulance, feeling the pressure of one good hand in his, thought it best to let her tell; she was right, he did not understand, not at first, and not completely, but on the incomplete comprehension spent the next day looking for a small boy named Peter, one of how many in Islington, confused as to why she was more concerned with him than the man who tried to kill her. He was not mistaken in that, knew he was not, but that was what it was. Ryan told Bailey to take no part in finding him, an order, not a request, taken with the wisdom meant, since if the searching succeeded in this present and everlasting mood, it would be a brutal affair.
Someone was deputed to tidy her flat. You cannot stay there alone, he told her, even with patrols outside it, and all the measuring, checking, fibre-picking, photo-taking finished. But he believed her when she insisted. ‘If I do not,’ she said, ‘I shall always be afraid of it, and I cannot live like that: I am already afraid of so many things.’ News to me, he told her. ‘Geoffrey, you are sometimes short-sighted,’ the next humble remark from Helen still breathing shallow in that hospital bed, still holding on to his hand. But he may come back, he warned. ‘That’s why I must go home,’ she said, drowsy with drugs. ‘Supposing he comes back and finds Peter? I couldn’t bear it.’ Then he believed in Peter, the real reason for going home: not herself – the child.
A Question of Guilt Page 22