Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  He just managed a smile. ‘Then there’s nothing to be sorry for, is there? We made no promises.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘We made no promises,’ he repeated. ‘Forget it.’

  She followed him to the door. ‘Shall I send you an invitation?’ she asked, trying to keep it light and failing.

  ‘No,’ he said. He raised the folder. ‘Just send me the bill for your expenses on this.’

  She looked as if he’d slapped her. ‘That was unfair,’ she said, reproachfully.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Unfair.’ The word bounced back and forth between them, and she couldn’t meet his eyes.

  He opened the door into the chilly concrete corridor that betrayed nothing of the income received or spent by the trendy tenants of this vast and peculiar edifice. At the end of the hall a tall narrow window gave a slightly more angled view of the black river that divided one diamond-spangled bank from the other. The reflections on the water made it look oily, slow, and full of menace.

  ‘I feel like I’m a long way from home,’ he said, softly.

  ‘Putney isn’t so far.’

  He glanced at her. ‘That isn’t the home I meant,’ he said.

  And left.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tess never did remember much about Sunday morning.

  The clink of a cup in a saucer woke her from her exhausted sleep, and she opened her eyes. Mrs Grimble stood beside her bed, holding a large tray.

  ‘What time is it?’ She struggled up against the pillows, and looked at the clock on the bedside table, but avoided looking at Roger’s face in the photograph beside it. She didn’t want to have to explain to him what had happened to his house, his wife, his son, their life. Twisted, torn, all of it. Gone.

  ‘Near noon, as you can see.’

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘The professor’s upstairs. That blonde bit of his is here again. Or still, maybe I should say. She arrived yesterday while the coppers were grilling him.’ Her tone of disapproval only just covered a deep and salacious satisfaction at sin uncovered and proven. ‘Disgusting, I call it. Her only a slip of a thing, probably no better than she should be, and him old enough to be her father, if you ask me.’

  From the attic flat overhead there came a sudden burst of music, quickly muffled. Then silence.

  ‘Perhaps she helps him with his research,’ Tess said, weakly. Oh, Tess, grow up, she told herself.

  ‘Research, is it?’ Mrs Grimble sniffed. ‘That’s a new name for it.’

  ‘How’s Max?’ Tess asked.

  ‘Max is proper wore out, that’s what he is. White as a sheet and too weary to complain, poor mite, what with the police and all making him so excited he was up half the night. He’s gone back to sleep.’

  ‘What did the police do?’

  ‘Which police, you might ask.’

  ‘Which police?’ Tess responded dutifully.

  ‘The police from around here, they did this and that, poked about a bit, took photos, threw some kind of powder all over everything, just more for me to clean up, they don’t care. Them from Scotland Yard, all they did was ask questions. Put Mr Soame through it, proper. Asking him when did he come, when did he go, why did he this and why did he that. All sorts.’

  ‘But why should they do that?’

  Mrs Grimble shrugged. ‘Why do they do anything? To make themselves look good, that’s all. They talked to Max. Wanted to talk to you, but I said you was asleep, and that was that. I said you’d had enough, and showed them the door. They’re coming back this afternoon, so eat your breakfast. You’ll need your strength.’

  Mrs Grimble thumped the tray down onto Tess’s knees. ‘Come on, get it down, while I run you a bath.’

  She went into the bathroom and there was a sudden rush of water thundering into the old lion-clawed bathtub Roger had brought home in a taxi one evening, rescued from a skip near King’s Cross. A scent of peach and primrose filtered out in a cloud of steam that hung around the bathroom door and dampened the edge of Tess’s dressing table. Condensation formed on the glass top and one side of the mirror.

  ‘Not too hot, I don’t want to faint in there,’ Tess called. She ate a little, just to be able to say she had, and spread what was left around the plate. ‘About the mess downstairs—’

  Mrs Grimble reappeared in the doorway. ‘Oh,’ she said, archly, arms folded across her scrawny bosom. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ She pointed upwards at the ceiling, presumably in reference to John Soame rather than the Almighty. ‘He’s going to arrange for some special firm to come and deal with it tomorrow, he tells me. Bunch of hippy students, like as not, probably steal you blind. That’s why I’m staying on. I made up the guest room for me. Somebody has to keep an Eye On Things.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Tess was beyond protest and very grateful. Mrs Grimble had ‘stayed on’ when Tess was ill on various occasions over the years, most notably after Max was born. It was bliss for Tess, but Roger would usually lose his temper after being told for the fifteenth time to eat up his greens, and would send her home in a taxi. ‘But, what about Walter?’

  Mrs Grimble looked uneasy at the mention of her brother. ‘He’s gone to stay with his son and snooty daughter-in-law in ’ampstead.’ The old woman’s glance slid away, then returned. ‘Well, they’ll be after him again, won’t they?’ Mrs Grimble said, defiantly. ‘It wasn’t him did this. You know that, and I know it.’

  No, Tess thought, I don’t know that, but I hope it’s true. ‘Anyway, he’s old, now. He can’t take all that questioning and knocking about.’ Mrs Grimble went on, as if to excuse the warning she had very obviously passed on to her brother.

  ‘They wouldn’t knock him about, would they?’ Tess asked.

  ‘Well, they’ve done it before. Like to keep their hand in, that lot do. The trouble is, Walter won’t stand up for himself any more. In fact, he’s been real quiet lately. Wonder if he’s sickening for something nasty?’ She frowned, thinking back, then continued briskly. ‘Be a bit more grateful for all I do for him when he comes back, though, you can be sure of that – he’ll be locked in his room out there, like as not, and fed scraps under the door, if she has anything to say about it. Stuck-up cow. Her family isn’t exactly royalty, neither, come to that, seeing as how her old man made his pile scrapping cars that weren’t always his. Bet her la-di-dah friends would be interested to hear about that’ Mrs Grimble smiled grimly. ‘Anyway, here I am and here I stay until you’re better, and I don’t want a word said about it, so just finish your breakfast.’

  Tess looked down at the scrambled egg, which was coagulating on the soggy toast, and the greasy strips of bacon which bracketed the pale yellow curds. There was an aroma rising from it all that was faintly reminiscent of school dinners. That, combined with the sweet steam from the bathroom, was too much for her. Her head was pounding and her stomach was clenching in protest.

  Thrusting the tray aside, she threw back the covers and made a dash for the loo. As she closed the door behind her, she heard Mrs Grimble gathering up the tray and muttering to herself something about ‘keeping it warm’.

  It was in the nature of a threat.

  After her bath she slept again; mercifully spared the reappearance of her breakfast or any other offerings. When she awoke she was aware of bustle and conversation downstairs, interspersed by the tinkle of glass and the occasional thump. She slept and woke again, several times. In between the blanks, she caught glimpses of Max peering around her open door, looking worried. She saw John Soame standing over her, she saw her doctor standing over her, she saw Sergeant Nightingale standing over her, and once, just for a minute, she thought she saw Roger standing over her, looking sad. She smiled and spoke to them all, but never knew exactly what she said. Or they said. She would have liked to know what Roger said.

  At four she awoke completel
y.

  Simon Carter was sitting beside her bed, watching her. He smiled brightly, and closed the book he was reading – from the cover, a fairly lurid thriller. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’ Alarm shot through her. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ he said, quickly, and patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Everything is just fine. Mr Soame is talking to the police downstairs, and Mrs Grimble has gone home to feed her canary and fetch some fresh clothes. Max and I had a nice chess game, and now he’s asleep again.’

  ‘Is he all right? He hasn’t got a fever or anything?’

  The young curate shook his head. ‘No, Mrs Grimble keeps checking, but it’s just exhaustion, poor lad. I’m afraid all this has really upset him. He’s found out about the other things that have been happening – he’s rather cross at being left out of that. Mostly, I think, he’s worried about you.’

  ‘That’s precisely why I didn’t tell him about all the other things,’ Tess said, bleakly. ‘Losing his father was bad enough – I didn’t want him to think the other props of his life were being rocked, as well. Was that wrong?’

  ‘Well, in my limited experience I’ve found that children generally prefer the truth, however difficult it may be. That was certainly the case in the hospital,’ Carter said. ‘And it seems to matter a great deal to Max. He is troubled, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Tess said, feeling exhaustion sweep over her. ‘The nightmares and everything. I just don’t know how to help him.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll just have to help himself.’ He smiled. ‘With God’s support, of course. Max is stronger than you think, Mrs Leland. He’s bright, and he’s clever. And he loves you very much.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you for giving him so much of your time.’

  Simon Carter flushed a becoming pink. ‘One reaches out, you know. Stuck with the impulse, can’t stop it, really. Too squeamish to be a doctor, too lazy to be a lawyer, too impatient to be a social worker – Church the only thing left. Embarrassing, sometimes, not much for incense and all that.’

  ‘A worker priest?’

  ‘Mmmmm, but don’t tell the bishop.’ Carter grinned. ‘Speaking of work, I thought someone should be with you in case you needed anything when you woke up. Do you?’

  She badly needed to go to the loo, but she could hardly tell him that. He looked so eager to please, so hopeful of some kindly assignment, that she requested a cup of tea. As soon as he bounded off, she slipped to the bathroom. When she came out again, it was not the young curate who awaited her return, but Detective Chief Inspector Abbott. He seemed entirely undismayed by the sight of a woman in a rumpled nightgown, with toothpaste on her chin and the beginnings of a black eye.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Leland. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  But there were more than a few.

  Some time that night, Max came and got into bed with her. Waking in the semi-darkness she discovered him beside her, curled tightly against her ribs. She murmured to him sleepily and wrapped her arms around him.

  ‘Mummy, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes, lovey, of course you can.’

  It was a long time coming, and when it did it was a past midnight question, perhaps not quite what he meant to say. ‘They can’t put children in gaol, can they?’

  Simple reassurance rather than a semantic discussion seemed called for. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But they can take them away from their mothers if they’re bad, can’t they?’ His voice was very small in the dark.

  ‘They can – but they try very hard not to. It depends on how bad the children have been, and how often.’

  ‘If they’ve been very bad?’

  Tess started to wake up. ‘Have you something you want to tell me, Max?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’ He took a deep breath, and it caught somewhere in his throat.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The really tall one with green eyes.’

  So Abbott had been questioning Max, too. She wondered if he’d used the same tactics as he had with her – going over and over the same ground, asking for the same things again and again – the times, the words spoken, a hundred small details, things she’d forgotten, things she hadn’t known she knew. And always, always, with that oh-so-patient air of faint disbelief that kept you babbling, rushing to testify, fretful of mistakes.

  ‘He’s only trying to help us.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Tess felt the shivering begin, and held him more tightly. She waited, giving him a chance to continue, but he was silent, and the silence stretched. Tess sighed, blowing his hair gently away from her mouth, like feathers lifting and falling. ‘Go to sleep, darling. We can talk about it all in the morning. Mummy’s head hurts, now, and we’re both pretty tired, aren’t we?’

  He twisted around and kissed her on the chin, which was all he could reach. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Don’t cry any more. They won’t take me away, I promise. I won’t let them.’ He hugged her and snuggled down again, his arms around her as protectively as hers were around him. His breathing steadied, slowed, and became softly even.

  She was puzzled and worried by his questions. What could be bothering him? She frowned, and found that her face was stiff with dried tears. Realization swept over her – she must have been crying in her sleep. Ill and exhausted as he was, Max had heard and come to her – not only seeking comfort, but offering it as well.

  For a long while, until she herself was overcome by sleep, she lay in the dark, holding the solid little shape, silently apologizing.

  On Monday morning, when she awoke, Tess gritted her teeth and stretched, all over, until she knew the worst. It was not so bad. Except for her head, of course, which was no longer muzzy, but still ached dully.

  There was a pale, diffuse light in the room. She rolled over and looked at the clock – nearly ten thirty, yet it was dark enough to be much earlier.

  She could hear Max’s voice down the hall, talking to Albert in a scolding tone. Apparently the kitten had committed some small, furry crime, and was being chastized. Feathers and pillow seemed to come into it, but there didn’t seem to be much anger in Max’s voice.

  Tess stretched again, remembered, and groaned.

  Mrs Grimble, who was either psychic or lurking in the hall, immediately appeared in the doorway. ‘They’ve Started,’ she announced, ominously, and disappeared. After a moment she stuck her head back around the door. ‘Breakfast in ten minutes. Brush your teeth.’

  Tess stared at the empty doorway, and then, hearing noises and men’s voices from below, realized the firm that John Soame had engaged must have arrived to put the house to rights.

  Tess hauled herself to the bathroom, groaned again at the sight of two no longer faint black eyes, and decided to do more than brush her teeth. She was back in bed, towelling her hair carefully by the time Mrs Grimble returned with a breakfast tray.

  ‘They’re thorough, I’ll say that,’ she announced with grudging approval. ‘But they won’t find any cobwebs in my corners.’

  Tess crunched a piece of toast and found it good. ‘What are they doing?’ she asked, in a muffled voice, as she cut her bacon.

  ‘Well, two are picking up pieces and putting them together, so to speak. There’s one sewing up upholstery, and another one is sweeping and chucking out. Don’t worry, I gave him a box and everything he thinks to chuck out I tell him to chuck in, instead. Up to you, I said, what goes out. Even a piece of something might be important to you, sentimental the way you are.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘’Course you are. Why not? Them little things might seem like junk to other people, but they have memories attached, don’t they? Worth more than the price,’ she said. After a moment, she added, ‘Have to be.’

  ‘Where’s John?’ Tess asked.
r />   ‘If you mean Mr Soame, he’s gone to Scotland Yard to play with the detectives.’ The scorn in her voice could have been usefully employed removing tarnish from the copper pans hanging on the kitchen wall. ‘Full of investigating, he is, all mouth and magnifying glass.’ She paused, then plunged ahead. ‘His lady friend was here again. Left last night about eleven, made a big noise of it so’s I’d hear.’ She sniffed. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if she crept back, after, though. Butter wouldn’t melt her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s very nice,’ Tess said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

  ‘Hmmmm. Well, I don’t care if he is some sort of professor, sometimes I think he’s not quite right in the head. This morning he announces they’re going wrong down at Scotland Yard, and off he goes to put them right. Honestly. Maybe I should go down there and tell them about what I found him doing this morning. Maybe they’d be interested in that!’

  Tess pushed the tray away, and was surprised to see that someone had eaten everything on it. ‘What was he doing?’ she asked.

  Mrs Grimble leaned forward as if to grasp the tray, but merely glared at short distance into Tess’s eyes. ‘He was

  measuring.’

  Tess felt inclined to laugh at the menace with which this announcement was imbued, but managed to control herself. ‘Measuring what?’

  ‘The walls,’ Mrs Grimble said, and snatched up the tray. ‘He was measuring the walls, as bold as glass.’ With this announcement, and the tray, she departed.

  Tess slid back down in the bed and decided she was not going to think about anything, ever again. Everybody else could take over her life – like the men downstairs, other people would have to put it all back together. She felt heavy with fatigue, and her headache was tightening again. The nausea she had felt yesterday was gone, but she still felt empty – hollow in arms and legs, dreamy in mind, and sad throughout.

  She allowed herself to be cocooned by weakness, and stayed that way for another hour or so, listening to the mutter of the radio beside her. She tried to concentrate on a short story about an elderly cat burglar making a comeback and a programme on the virtues and value of double- glazing in saving energy. Supine and defenceless, she received a stern talking-to from a man with a squeaky voice about the waning butterfly population, and a warning of bad visibility from several coastal stations. But when asked to consider the dangers of allowing the present government to continue on its wayward course unchallenged, she lost her nerve and switched off.