Dead in the Water

by Aline Templeton

  She kept thinking about the poor, poor Flemings – they wouldn’t be getting much sleep in that house tonight. If it was Janek – she couldn’t bear even to frame the thought.

  But she had other worries too. While she had been out in the garden with Janek this afternoon, the phone had rung. She heard Rafael answer in English, then switch to Polish. He didn’t sound very pleased, but after a few minutes he said, ‘All right, all right. I can’t lend you much, and I’ll need it back soon, OK?’ Then, ‘Yes, I’ll come down tonight. But this is the last favour – you hear?’

  With a sinking heart, Karolina guessed who was at the other end. She expected Rafael to come out and tell her about it, but he didn’t, and when she wandered casually in a few minutes later, asking who had phoned, he said, ‘Oh, just one of the boys. A few of us are going for a drink, but I won’t be late.’

  She should have told him immediately that she had overheard instead of pretending she hadn’t, but challenging him would have led to a row in front of Janek, who had come running in at that moment to demand something to eat.

  Karolina had tried again when he came back from the pub. ‘Who was there?’

  ‘Oh, the usual crowd.’ He was looking everywhere but straight at her. ‘Are we just going to bed? I’d better rake out the fire.’

  ‘Was Kasper there?’

  ‘Kasper? Oh, I think so. I wasn’t really speaking to him.’

  The unnecessary vigour with which he was riddling the fire betrayed him. Karolina said gently, ‘I think you have something on your mind, Rafael. What is it?’

  He looked startled, then muttered something about a problem with settling in the new stirks, which might be the truth but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. He went straight upstairs and certainly appeared to be asleep by the time she had finished up downstairs and joined him.

  She was angry he should have done this without consulting her. They had few enough savings, and it wasn’t his money, it was theirs. If Rafael had lent money to Kasper, he was a fool. They both knew he wasn’t to be trusted.

  But Rafael still felt more of an alien in their new country than she did. He believed that Poles had a duty to look after one another, and he knew that she would have said no. Kasper didn’t deserve looking after: he just needed to work harder and keep his temper.

  Rafael had all but ordered her not to tell Marjory what she knew about Kasper’s past, but she hadn’t promised. If there was any more trouble, that was exactly what she was going to do.

  It was the worst night of Marjory Fleming’s life. The first flight they could get was the following afternoon, and Bill had wanted to set off immediately by car instead. It had been hard to convince him that in their distraught state this would be madness: neither of them had driven on the continent before, and they wouldn’t even get there sooner. He knew that, really, but he had a desperate need to do something – anything!

  She had never seen Bill like this before, her calm, wise Bill, always a rock of common sense in any crisis. Now he was so frantic in his anxiety for his son that he was unable to keep still, hardly able to speak. Cat, though white-faced, had been more collected, and it was she who had spoken directly to the French doctor, understanding enough to relay that Cammie was in intensive care and deeply unconscious.

  It had been the rugby coach who had phoned, distraught himself, to tell Bill that a tackle which had caught Cammie awkwardly had broken his leg, but this was a minor problem compared to an injury to his neck which had occurred in the ensuing ruck.

  Marjory, who found herself calm with the cold numbness of shock, had spoken to the man an hour later and could almost hear him wringing his hands over the line. There was no change, and Cat’s phone call confirmed that there would be no more news tonight, unless . . .

  They could all fill in the blank. She didn’t know how they had got through the evening. She had put food on the table and she and Cat had pretended to eat, but Bill wouldn’t even pick up his knife and fork, just sat staring straight ahead, his face working. At last he burst out, ‘I shouldn’t have encouraged him in his rugby – it’s such a dangerous game! But I urged him on, to practise, to train—’

  ‘We all encouraged him,’ Marjory said firmly. ‘And anyway, he didn’t need encouragement. It’s what he wanted to do himself, more than anything. You couldn’t have stopped him if you’d wanted to. And this could have happened crossing the road.’

  ‘He’ll be in good hands, Dad,’ Cat urged. ‘The French health service is great – years ahead of us. And Cammie’s tough – he’ll be OK.’

  Bill looked at them blindly. Then he said, ‘I can’t just sit here. I’m going out.’ He got up. ‘Meg!’

  The collie, scenting distress, had been curled miserably in her basket. She leaped out and followed him, close at her master’s heels.

  Marjory watched them go and felt her eyes at last fill with tears. ‘Oh, Cat, how are we going to get through this?’

  Cat’s lip was trembling too, but she said stoutly, ‘Hang in there. Believe he’s going to be all right. Pray. That always helps.’

  ‘I’ve been praying already,’ her mother admitted, ‘though I haven’t been very good at doing it when everything’s all right.’

  ‘I guess God’s used to that. We should get Gran on to the job – she’s got a better record.’

  ‘We’ll wait till the morning. I don’t want her worrying all night. She’s getting old – she doesn’t need the strain.’

  ‘I think she’d want to know. Gran’s lived through a lot and I think she’d like to be here for you. And – and I’d like her to be here as well. It’d make me feel better.’ Cat sniffed.

  ‘I know, love – me too. But we can’t be selfish, always making demands. It’s our turn to look after her.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong about Gran,’ Cat persisted. ‘You keep trying to stop her doing things, and I think that makes her sad. She likes us needing her.’

  ‘We can show her that without making use of her. I don’t want her wearing herself out.’

  ‘I don’t think she would,’ Cat said stubbornly, but Marjory just shook her head.

  ‘I’m not going to upset her till we know a bit more.’ Lurking at the back of her mind was an unacknowledged fear that if Janet, like Bill, was too distressed to comfort her daughter, Marjory wouldn’t know how to find the strength to be comforter in her turn.

  At last Bill came back and the long, silent evening dragged on and on until they could all go to bed. Marjory lay on her back in the darkness with her eyes open, while Bill, who always fell asleep instantly, tossed and turned. But at last his breathing thickened, grew regular, and he was asleep.

  It was she who was restless now. Taking care not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and went through, heading for Cammie’s room. There was still a light under Cat’s door, but she didn’t go in.

  Cammie had never been a tidy child, and his packing had typically been done at the last minute. He had insisted on doing it himself, and the bed and floor were strewn with untidy clothes. Automatically, Marjory bent to pick them up, fold them and put them away, trying not to look at the rugby posters on the walls. There was a rugby ball in the corner, and team photos on his noticeboard; his weights and a chest-expander were thrown down in one corner. Rugby had been everything to her boy.

  However often Karolina cleaned, the room always had that faint scent of boy – something to do with sweaty trainers and sports kit, probably. The clothes he had been wearing the day before were lying crumpled in the general vicinity of the laundry basket and she picked them up, burying her face in his sweater for a moment.

  She was tired, so tired! She lay down on the badly made bed, the sweater still clutched to her like a comforter. It might be better if she could cry, but the tears just wouldn’t come. Her mind kept going round and round the terrible ‘what-ifs’ – coma, death, coma, paralysis, coma, brain damage . . .

  She must have fallen asleep. She heard the phone ring, and was out of bed to answ
er it before she realized it had been in her dream. The house was silent, apart from the pounding of her heart, so loud that she almost felt it would wake the others.

  She looked at her watch. One o’clock – still hours and hours of terrible night until morning – and who knew what that would bring?

  The car park of the Cross Keys at Ardhill was the recycling centre for the village, with huge bins for glass, paper and unwanted clothing. The bins hadn’t been cleared for almost a fortnight; they were full, and impatient depositors had simply dumped what wouldn’t go in around the base.

  Beside the sticky, smelly bottles and over-filled plastic bags was what might almost have been a heap of old clothes, if it hadn’t been for the hand which protruded from the sleeve of a dark jacket.

  17

  Rafael got out of bed before six. He’d moved quietly, but Karolina woke up.

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ he whispered. ‘I want to tell Bill that everything’s in hand before they leave. I can get my own breakfast.’

  ‘I’m awake now. But don’t wake Janek.’

  The sun was streaming into the living room when she came downstairs. Rafael went to sit down at the table while Karolina made breakfast. He had a lot on his mind today; perhaps this wasn’t the moment to tell him what had been bothering her last night. But it was bad to let things fester between husband and wife . . . yes, she would. She turned to face him.

  ‘I need to tell you this. I heard you speaking on the phone yesterday, and I think you said you would lend Kasper money. Is that right?’

  Rafael’s face turned a dark red. ‘You were listening?’

  ‘I heard. That’s different.’

  ‘So – perhaps I did,’ he said defensively. ‘I know what you think of Kasper, so I didn’t mention it. He’s in trouble – the bastard foreman has cheated him—’

  Karolina struggled to keep her temper. ‘With Kasper, it’s always someone else’s fault, and he won’t learn, if people like you say, “We are Poles, we must stick together against everyone else.” How much did you give him?’

  ‘Only a little. Twenty pounds – he’ll pay it back next week.’

  ‘Pay it back? Kasper? You think so?’ She laughed. ‘Suddenly we have twenty pounds to make presents to people who aren’t even our friends? We need our money, Rafael, you know we do – especially now.’

  Rafael got up. ‘I did it, so that’s that,’ he said, and went out.

  ‘Your breakfast—’ she called, but he didn’t come back.

  Eyes stinging, Karolina looked after him. She knew hatred was wrong – you should forgive people, seventy times seven times, and then more – but when she saw what Kasper had done to her happy, contented marriage, she hated him, all right.

  Then she sighed. At confession next week, she knew what the priest would say.

  Marjory woke with a start. She sat up, her eyes thick and sticky from unrefreshing sleep, and for a confused moment didn’t know where she was. Rugby posters – Cammie’s room – oh, God!

  She put her head in her hands for a moment, then got up slowly, limbs stiff from tension, and went to the bathroom where she splashed her face. She needed a shower, but that might wake the others. Judging from the light, it wasn’t yet six, but a perfect sunny morning with a clear sky of a tender blue. There was painful irony there.

  She tiptoed through to the shadowed bedroom where Bill still lay in exhausted slumber. They’d been told there was no point in phoning the hospital before nine, and though France was an hour ahead, the longer Bill and Cat could sleep the better.

  Grabbing jeans and a sweater, she dressed in the bathroom, then went downstairs. She’d have liked to seek the soothing company of her hens, but whenever she let them out the rooster would start his morning challenge to all comers, and no one could sleep through that.

  She made a cup of tea instead and sat down at the table, sipping it bleakly. Meg, puzzled by her master’s absence, had greeted Marjory politely, then gone back to her basket, keeping a wary eye on the kitchen door. Rafael would come in soon to take her with him on his sheep rounds; Meg would stay with him while the Flemings were away.

  The first available flight was at three. With the journey and security they’d need to be on their way shortly after ten – not a bad thing. At least they’d be doing something.

  Marjory found a notepad and started a list. Passports, flight confirmation, credit card, mobile phone . . . In her present state, she could leave her head behind if it wasn’t attached. Phone her mother – but she’d wait till they’d spoken to the hospital first.

  And phone Headquarters. She should really have done it yesterday, but she hadn’t felt strong enough for what, with Bailey away, would be a difficult and complicated business. The Chief Constable, for whom she had considerable respect, was still away at a conference, and she had a low opinion of his DCC, Paula Donald, a woman more versed in management-speak than in down-to-earth policing.

  There had been, too, a tiny, stubborn spark of hope that perhaps if there was good news Cammie could fly home with them tomorrow or the next day and she’d be back before absence was a major issue.

  This morning that optimism seemed to have vanished. Cammie had got through the night, thank God, but at the thought of the phone call Cat would be making at eight o’clock, Marjory could only feel sick and despairing.

  It was early, for a Saturday, when the landlord of the Cutty Sark let himself into the pub. There was stock-taking to do, and he went through last night’s beery fug – no stale-smoke smell now, at least – and headed for the small office off the kitchen. There were crates of empty bottles still lying on the floor, and a smelly bag of rubbish too.

  He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Norrie really was a glaikit lump – so dopey you might as well talk to a blank wall. If he’d told him once he’d told him a hundred times: empties and all rubbish out to the bins, last thing.

  They weren’t going to walk out there by themselves. Swearing, he opened the back door, grabbed two crates and carried them to the bin area in the car park. He set them down and was turning to fetch the rest when something caught his eye.

  ‘What the—’ He bent, recognizing the man as the older one of the Polish builders and wondering if he’d got drunk last night and was sleeping it off. Then he saw the knife sticking out of his back.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  Recoiling, he stood, running his hand down his face. Police. 999. That was all he could do.

  By five to eight, the Flemings were assembled at the kitchen table, staring at the phone which Cat was holding, along with the paper with the hospital’s number. She had black circles under her eyes, but Marjory could see a sudden maturity in the way she was steeling herself. A good girl, her Cat.

  Bill was calmer this morning, more like her steady, stoical husband, but his hand shook as he drank his tea. She was glad she’d finished her own before they came down: her own hands weren’t steady, but she didn’t want it to show. If the news was bad, she might have to be strong for them all – no tears, no breakdown, however she might feel.

  At last the hands of the clock inched round and Cat dialled the number. There was the agonizing wait while connections went through and the appropriate person was found, then Cat, in her careful French, was asking how Cameron Fleming was, and listening with painful attention to the answer.

  Her face lit up. She forgot her French. ‘Oh, is he? That’s wonderful, just wonderful!’ Putting her thumbs up to her parents, she tried to collect herself. ‘Ah, je m’excuse! Merci bien, madame – c’est magnifique!’

  After a few more minutes, Cat put the phone down. ‘He’s sitting up, eating breakfast. He came round in the early hours, and he can move everything, apart from his leg. It’s quite a bad break, but he’ll be OK.’

  A huge grin spread over Bill’s face. Cat got up and did a jubilant little dance. And Marjory, at last, burst into tears.

  After breakfast, when they had all found that after all they were hungry, Marjory went upstairs to
finish packing. It was years and years since she had been to France and now, she thought guiltily, it almost felt like sneaking a holiday. Oh, poor Cammie would be having a hard time with his injuries, but they’d managed to have a word with him and, though wobbly, he was clearly all right. The broken bones would mend.

  Immediately afterwards she had phoned her mother and got what was, coming from Janet, an ear-bashing.

  ‘He’s not just your son, he’s my grandson. If there’s something wrong with him, I don’t want you keeping it from me.’

  ‘I just wanted to spare you a sleepless night,’ Marjory had pleaded. ‘There was no point—’

  ‘At my age, I think I’ve learned to cope with sleepless nights. But of course if I can’t be a help, I’d rather not be a nuisance.’

  The hurt in her mother’s voice made her feel dreadful. ‘Of course you’re not a nuisance! Cat wanted me to tell you, felt you would be a help—’

  ‘Then I wish you had. But never mind that now. The important thing is, the laddie’s going to be fine. And I can look up to the house after you’ve gone, if you like, get things ready for you coming back—’

  ‘Honestly, there’s no need. Karolina’s all ready to take care of it.’ Having hurt her mother’s feelings, Marjory wasn’t going to compound her own feelings of guilt at her misjudgement by making use of her. ‘But the minute we land at Glasgow I’ll phone you, so you can be here to see him for yourself whenever he’s back.’

  She’d have to phone Tam too and tell him the good news. She’d asked him last night to cover for her, and now she could say that she’d definitely be back on Monday sometime, depending on flights. She was just zipping up her case to take it downstairs when her mobile, lying on the dressing table, rang. She picked it up, glancing at Caller ID. That was handy!

  ‘Tam! I was just going to phone you. Great news . . .’