Vivian glanced up, but kept stroking Bobby’s back as he played with the tin plane Max had bought him in Berlin. Samantha nursed, nestled into the crook of Vivian’s arm.
‘Vivian, I’m so…’
‘Shush.’
Max approached the bed. Vivian’s face had never appeared so harsh, so shadowed.
‘That cheek looks painful,’ Vivian said.
‘It’s fine.’ She perched next to Bobby, and he flew the plane towards her, making a nyyaaa sound.
‘Look, Auntie Max!’
‘Yes, darling.’ He flew it around her head as she gripped Vivian’s hand tightly. Vivian’s nails dug into her flesh, but Max didn’t let go.
Eventually a servant knocked on the door and whispered that Bobby’s lunch was ready.
‘Could you hold Samantha?’ Vivian asked. ‘I’d like to take Bobby upstairs.’
‘Of course.’ Anything she could do to make up for... the warm weight of Samantha rested in her arms. Samantha stirred, and Vivian waited, but she kept sleeping. ‘Go. I’m fine.’
Max paced carefully. She watched Samantha sleep as she cradled her. Samantha’s mouth puckered and sucked against nothing at all. Her eyes didn’t fully close. Did they ever? Did the tiny eyes watch Max back, splicing her face into little wispy dreams? What did infants dream? Endless milk, soft breasts, or the warm embrace of the womb? Would Samantha have even a brief memory of her father’s face? Max had ripped that from her—not only by killing Brian, but by prompting Vivian to come to Norfolk. Samantha would have had one more week with her father, peering down at her small face, holding her tiny fingers.
After Vivian returned, Max let herself into John’s room. She avoided looking in the mirror at her livid cheek.
She extracted his case and opened it on the bed. It had been neatly made, the morning of the ball. Yesterday. Max collapsed onto the counterpane. Could she honestly do this? Walk into a hospital room and tell John it was over?
She gritted her teeth and stood. She needed to pack, not wallow.
Murder on the Orient Express rested on his bedside table. The French copy he’d read to her. The pages flicked against her fingers, and then its corners lined up precisely against the base of John’s bag. She’d only think of him every time she saw it in the library.
Max folded his shirts neatly. She’d forgotten to list packing when she enumerated her domestic skills. She rated her packing skills highly. And no one would know if she held his shirts to her face to smell him before she placed them in the case. His suits followed. Had his evening jacket gone all the way to the hospital pressed to Henry’s back, or had it been left on the grass outside? Had Lucy binned it? It couldn’t be worn again. His gun she found underneath his pyjamas. Maybe she could get Dad to check it before she packed it. She didn’t want to touch it, but neither should the servants. The socks and pants in the drawer were tidily folded, as she expected.
Max emerged from John’s room and ran into her father.
‘I don’t know how long they think he’ll be in hospital,’ he said. ‘Presumably he’ll want some of his things anyway. Toothbrush, real pyjamas.’
‘I’m taking everything,’ Max said.
‘Does that mean he’s a light packer or you’re ending it?’
Max kept her eyes down.
‘Darling, this isn’t the time to make this decision.’ Mrs Gould came around the corner, and her father opened John’s door and pushed her in. ‘You’re exhausted, you’re in pain, and you’ve had an incredibly traumatic experience.’ He pulled the bag away and took her hands. ‘I did things in war, but not like last night. I can’t imagine.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ She wouldn’t relive the wash of blood, the nausea, the thud of the body. Pressing her hands against Henry’s back, the horrid heat of his wound. The dull thwack of the gun butt hitting John, his body sagging against Brian. The utter stillness of Brian on the plane. The tight lines of Vivian’s face as she nursed Samantha and held on to Bobby’s body.
‘What about Marcus? Would you talk to him? You have to have gathered that he’s head of…’
‘I’ve made my decision.’
‘Knox really loves you. God knows where we’d be now if it hadn’t been for the two of you.’ He let go of her hands. ‘I would have sworn you were in love with him.’
Max kept her eyes on the black leather of John’s bag.
‘If you’re sure.’ He reached in his pocket and drew out an envelope that clearly held a small square box. ‘He asked me to look after this, that night. You might give it back to him.’ He held it out, but Max didn’t take it. He bent and tucked it in the bag.
‘There’s a gun in the third drawer down. Can you check it’s safe, please?’ How could her voice sound so flat?
Her father removed the gun and emptied out the bullets, sliding them into his jacket pocket. He dug underneath her careful folding to place the gun at the bottom of the bag.
‘Thank you. Could you see if Mrs Gould is in her room, please?’
He nodded, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘Whatever you do today, I’ll leave Marcus’ direct office line in your bedroom. He’d be a good person to talk to.’
‘Thanks.’ She found a smile, although her cheek ached. ‘I’ll be okay.’
‘I know.’ He stuck his head out the door. ‘It’s safe. Be careful, darling. Are you going now?’
She shook her head. All she wanted to do was get to her own room. She brushed past her father. She’d walked this path from John’s room to hers and… She closed her door and locked it.
The bag she placed precisely in the middle of the room. She stared at it from the bed. Bloody hell. She opened his case. Papers with phone numbers, the phone message from him. The note from—yesterday morning. What else did she have to remember him?
No need to touch the envelope. Her hands found a folded white shirt, not the one Tommy’s blood had spattered, nor the one Bobby had peed on. Those had been laundered, had hung crisply in the wardrobe. They smelled like the family’s detergent, like her clothes. This one he’d worn, and it held memories of aftershave, smoke and John. She held it to her face. If a few tears spotted it, no one would see. What the hell. Maybe he’d think it was lost in the laundry system. She folded it again and hid it in her drawer.
Close the case, go to the car. She lifted the envelope and weighed the small box in her hand. It could only be one thing. The envelope tore easily. She cradled the black velvet box and closed her eyes. Why hadn’t he given it to her? The lid creaked as she opened it, and she brushed the gem’s surface gently, her eyes still closed. She shouldn’t look. It would haunt her.
It’d haunt her either way. The light felt too bright as she focused on the diamond. Small, but perfectly formed. A ring she could work in, a ring she’d wear forever. The band was white gold, or platinum. A pear-shaped diamond, with a baguette on either side. When had he bought it? And why hadn’t he given it to her? Pressure built behind her eyes, but she gritted her teeth. Solid and real, Vivian had said. This ring, from John Knox the journalist, would have felt solid and real. Now it seemed too flimsy to tether her to a life that frightened her far too much.
She closed the bag, hoisted it, and went downstairs. Victor paced in the entryway.
‘You look dreadful.’
‘Thanks.’ Her fingers tightened on the grip. ‘I’m going to go to the hospital now.’
‘Want me to drive you?’
Max nearly said no, but she couldn’t imagine safely driving home by herself. ‘Yeah. Please.’ Her sweaty hands stuck to the handle. ‘If John asks, will you say you packed his room?’
‘What, did you unearth dirty magazines?’ He sobered. ‘You found the ring, didn’t you?’
‘You knew?’
Victor nodded. ‘I thought it was pretty, for what it’s worth.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You’re telling him no, aren’t you?’ Somehow, he pulled her into the empty drawing room and pushed h
er onto a sofa. He slammed the door. ‘This is not a decision to make lightly.’ He swore. ‘He should have given it to you already. And you shouldn’t have taken so damned long to make up your mind. Bloody hell. The two of you should be together.’
‘When do you want to go?’
Victor paced. ‘Max, this isn’t—John’s job isn’t the huge stumbling block you make it. It’s very possible to combine…’
‘How do you know that? Wartime isn’t the same as…’ She should drop his bag on the floor, but she held it on her lap, struggling not to clutch it to her chest. ‘I’ve made my decision.’
‘What if I told you…’
He took five deep breaths with his eyes closed. ‘Trust me. Please. You’ve known me for years. Believe me this time. Have I ever lied to you?’
‘Besides about knowing John?’
‘Besides that.’
‘Victor, of course I trust you. It’s not the job alone, it’s…’ Flicking those switches on the plane, her idiotic run towards Mr Rawls. Those sharp barks when Catherine fired the gun and blood exploded on Henry’s back, John’s leg. The drape settling over Brian’s body. ‘It’s the right decision.’
‘You’ve gone completely white. Rest. Tomorrow, at least. Get at least a little sleep.’
‘How am I supposed to leave him in the hospital alone?’
‘Believe me, John would rather wait a few more hours than say goodbye to you permanently. I’ll ring the hospital. He knows you’re injured too.’
Permanently. The word reverberated in her mind. ‘I need to go now. I can get a taxi.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ Victor said. She’d never seen his face set in such grim lines. ‘But I think you’re mad.’
‘Hello, Dr Falkland.’ Mr Burke had a chair now, but he rose as she approached. ‘John’s been asking about you.’
Max nodded. She paused. How many doors would she potentially go through to find a wounded John in a lifetime? The right decision. Mr Burke opened the door for her and then closed it behind her.
Even more small bandages dotted John’s face. She had no doubt larger bandages lurked underneath his white hospital gown. A sling held his right arm pressed against his chest. The blood bottle had disappeared, but clear fluids filled the tube going into his arm.
‘Max.’ He smiled, although moving his face that much clearly hurt.
‘How are you?’
‘Better now.’
She sat on the chair, but he patted the bed. She perched awkwardly, and he reached for her hand. ‘How’s your cheek? Did you sleep at all?’ He stroked under the bruise with his left index finger. ‘No kiss?’
She leaned in, and he crushed her in a tight one-armed hug and kissed her. Her tongue found the gap from his missing teeth, and her own torn lip throbbed. She drew away. She pushed his hair off his forehead, carefully avoiding his livid eye.
‘I love you.’
‘Me too.’ She kept her eyes down. ‘Are your ribs okay? I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I was with Vivian and Bobby.’
‘Max, look at me. I’m starting to have a bad feeling about this.’
Max stood up from the bed to pace. ‘John, I can’t do this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I nearly got you killed. I keep you from doing your job properly. If you’d slept with Catherine, if I hadn’t been in Berlin—’
‘Firmin and Rawls both knew me under my real name. It would have ended up the same.’
‘Or if I hadn’t been so stupid, if I’d stopped to listen to you, you and Henry wouldn’t have been shot.’
‘It was a rational decision based on…’
‘It was the wrong decision. And then I chose, on the plane, I had to make that choice and… That’s what you do. I’ve had this tiny taste of it, and I have no idea how you can do that with me hanging around.’
‘Isn’t that up to me?’
‘No. It can’t be. I can’t do it. I can’t spend my life waiting to see if you’ll come home, never mind worrying that you’re with someone else, or that you aren’t and it gets you hurt or killed. I can’t.’
‘What are you saying?’ His lips tightened. His left hand clenched. She focused on his fist rather than his face.
‘Bobby and Samantha are going to grow up without a father. Because of me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘I chose to turn the engines off in a perfectly functioning plane. And I killed somebody I considered a friend. It could have been you. Bobby. What would I have told Vivian?’
‘Do you think Vivian would have rather Brian disappeared into the maw of the Soviet Union? People don’t often make it back, Max.’
And any children she had with John could end up without a father too. ‘I love you.’ She swallowed. ‘But I can’t marry you.’
‘If you think it’s best.’
Best? He had to be joking. ‘I can’t see another way.’ Would he have some type of revelation? Offer to quit again?
‘It’s your choice. I’ve said that since the beginning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I love you.’
If she spoke again, she’d cry. Max nodded. Her hands closed over the nearest part of him, his feet under the blanket. She couldn’t remember them being hurt, but he flinched.
‘I’m sorry.’ She swallowed. ‘Victor packed your things.’
‘Then everyone knows?’ His face hardened.
Max closed her eyes. ‘Only Victor.’ And her father, she added silently.
‘Fine. Thank you.’
Max meant to head to the door, but she stopped next to the bed. She leaned down to kiss him again. John wiped her cheeks, but she stared at her tears spotting his pillow. Not at his face. He didn’t smell like smoke or aftershave, only antiseptic and faintly of blood. Max heaved a deep breath, controlling the tears with effort.
‘Bye.’
He didn’t move his hand from her face, and she raised hers to his. She pressed a kiss to his palm, and then pulled free. He’d kissed her palm the first time she went to his flat. She took one step, and then another. Away from him.
‘Hang on.’
What would he say?
‘How are you getting home?’ His voice shook.
She didn’t turn. ‘Victor drove me.’
‘Good.’
The door slapped shut behind her. Mr Burke rose, but he sat back down silently when he saw her face. She found her way to a WC before she started sobbing.
She wore her sunglasses when she went outside into the sunshine. Victor leaned against his car, and he extinguished his cigarette as she approached.
‘Okay?’ he asked.
‘Take me home, please.’ The quicker she could retreat to her room, the better.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Victor.’ He held the door for her.
‘You could always…’
Max pushed her sunglasses more firmly into place. ‘Just leave it, please.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FOR ONCE, EMMA’S table didn’t have a bright tablecloth. Max stared at the whorls of the wood grain. ‘What happened to the tablecloth?’ Max asked.
‘Victor spilled a pot of coffee over it this morning. I haven’t had a chance to get out a clean one yet.’
‘Sorry, you’re busy and…’ Max hadn’t even called.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Emma put a mug of tea in front of Max. ‘Drink that. You look dreadful.’
‘Thanks.’ She managed a smile. ‘At least now the bruise is sort of passable under heavy makeup.’ Twelve days in Norfolk, trying to shield Vivian from Mrs Gould’s insistence that they all fly to the States together. Yesterday, she’d driven Vivian and the children back to the Falkland townhouse in London, while Mrs Gould was taken to the airport.
‘True.’ Emma sat down beside her and pushed a plate of biscuits towards her. ‘How’s Henry doing?’
‘Mother’s still in Norfolk. All the reports are positive. But they don’t think he’ll walk again.’ Because of her. ‘B
ut she says he’s in good spirits.’ Henry could remain cheery with a life sentence of a wheelchair hanging over him, with his son arrested and facing trial. Whereas she fell apart.
‘What have you been doing?’
‘Helping Vivian, where I can. Taking a lot of walks. The super moon last week was rather amazing.’ And walking alone on the estate had made her even lonelier.
‘I tried to paint it, but I wasn’t happy with how it turned out.’
Yesterday she’d had a call that Emma’s painting she’d bought for John could be collected from the framer’s shop. She’d never get to give it to him now.
Emma picked up a biscuit, but Max didn’t. ‘You should eat something. You look pale. So, what now?’
‘I’m finally working on turning my thesis into a proper monograph.’ Max half smiled. ‘I applied for the job, although I’m sure I won’t get it.’
‘You never know. Would you consider…’
‘No.’ She couldn’t call John.
‘I was going to say moving.’
‘Oh.’ Max flushed. ‘Sorry.’
Emma rose from the table and came back with milk for her tea. ‘I’m a little optimistic this month.’
‘Emma, that’s won…’ This month. Max clenched her tea mug. This month. She pressed her hand to her mouth.
‘Max? You’ve gone—oh.’
‘Do you have a calendar?’
Emma fumbled the kitchen one down from the wall. Max tried to ignore Victor’s scrawl labelling their trip to Norfolk and the ball, looped inside an exuberant circle. She flipped the page back to June. It had been after Berlin. She counted with numb fingers although she knew the answer already.
‘How long?’
‘Three days.’
‘That could be stress. Lord knows you’ve had enough to be stressed about. It’s very possible… Are you usually regular?’
Max nodded.
‘Do you feel funny?’ Emma sat down beside her. ‘I usually feel dizzy almost immediately, and my sense of smell gets very strong.’
The Running Lie Page 31