by Jill McGown
Rob drove back into Stansfield, being hailed almost as soon as he was within its boundaries. He drove past to a V-sign, switching off the FOR HIRE sign, and cutting the radio.
He had more important things to do.
CHAPTER FOUR
“YOU COULD HAVE RUNG,” LLOYD GRUMBLED.
“I tried to—Ginny’s phone was out of order.” She looked penitent. “It’s not as though anything spoiled,” she said.
“You didn’t know that!” Lloyd poured himself a drink, then remembered that it was, after all, supposed to be her birthday celebration. “What do you want?” he asked.
“A G and T will be fine,” she said. “I knew you weren’t likely to be doing a soufflé when you didn’t even know when to expect me,” she said.
“I did expect you sometime before seven forty-five. I intended to eat at eight.”
“So how long’s it going to take? Does it matter when we eat?”
“Not to you, obviously.” He handed her her drink as churlishly as one could hand someone else a drink. In truth, the birthday dinner was one which would take as long as it took the tiny late new potatoes to cook; there had never been a problem about that. He had been worried, that was the problem. Worried because she was gone so long, and that nutcase was ringing her up. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. She was already far too personally affected by Drummond without his adding to it.
She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just got worried about Ginny after that phone call.”
“Perhaps you could give her some lessons in self-defense,” Lloyd said.
Judy sat down, too. “Is that what this is all about?” she asked.
“Well, no, since you ask. It isn’t what it’s about. It’s what brought it home to me, though.”
“Brought what home to you?”
He looked at her for a moment before he spoke. “This is your fortieth birthday,” he said slowly. “I have known you since before your twenty-first, and I don’t believe I know you any better now than I did then.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He and Judy had met in London, when he had been trying to make it in the Met, and she had been a probationer. He had been married then; she had been single. They had met again in Stansfield ten years later, when he was no longer married, but she was. Despite that, they had embarked upon the love affair for which he had always known they were destined, and her marriage had ended in divorce. But it was still a love affair, not a relationship. He told her that.
“That’s nonsense.”
“Is it?” he asked. “Is it?” His voice rose. “You teach self-defense, apparently—now that’s something I would have thought most people might know about their partners, but me? No. Why not, Judy? Why don’t I know?”
She shrugged a little. “No reason,” she said. “It just … never came up.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! It isn’t something you just find yourself doing! You must have thought about it, arranged it, publicized it—and you never said a word. Something must have made you think of doing it—what?”
She flushed a little, and put her drink down on the table. “Drummond,” she said, looking at him at last. “I made inquiries with the college the day after my interview with him. And you already thought I was obsessed with him—what do you suppose would have happened if I’d told you?”
“What?” he said, feigning a lack of comprehension. “What would have happened?”
The air of innocence wasn’t cutting much ice with Judy. “You wouldn’t exactly have approved, would you?”
He would not. He had given her many lectures on fear-mongering, on press-promoted hysteria, which was what he thought it was, Drummonds were few and far between. He sipped his whisky, trying to make himself change the subject, to stop the row that he was quite deliberately starting, but he couldn’t. “That won’t wash,” he said. “Because that’s just one thing. I see you at the weekends, and high days and holidays, like this. What about all the rest of the time?”
She shook her head slightly. “What about it?”
“I don’t know what you do You have a life I know nothing about, Judy!”
“Well, I don’t know what you do.” She picked up her drink again.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You know all there is to know about me. You know what I do to relax, you know who my friends are, you know which pub I go to, and when you’re likely to find me there. You do, Judy. You know. I don’t. What do you do when you’re not teaching self-defense?”
“This is silly.”
“Tell me!”
“I don’t know! I—I do normal things. Visit friends, stay at home and do things that need doing, like ironing or washing … I’m going to have a go at putting some tiles up in the bathroom—I don’t know! Oh—” She looked a little sheepish. “I do some stuff for MADS,” she said.
“Who?”
“Malworth Amateur Dramatic Society.”
“Oh—you act. I’m sorry I didn’t catch your Hedda Gabler.”
“I don’t act! I do their admin—their books.”
He stared at her, shaking his head slightly. “How did you get involved with something like that?” he asked.
“You’re making it sound like a pedophile ring.”
“I just want to know how you got involved! I didn’t know you had the slightest interest in amateur dramatics.”
“I don’t. A friend of mine was in it—”
“Which friend? Anyone I know, by any remote chance?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No, I don’t imagine I do. What sort of friend?”
“What sort of friend?” she repeated, puzzled, then her brown eyes widened a little. “Not the sort I sleep with, if that’s what’s bothering you,” she said, tight-lipped.
“I wasn’t suggesting that you—”
“Oh, yes, you were.”
“Well? Why not? How am I supposed to know what you’re getting up to?”
“Getting up to?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know what you mean. And I don’t like it.”
He didn’t think she was getting up to anything. But he felt as though she was a stranger, sometimes. Once, he’d thought it was because she was locked into a dead marriage that she had kept a part of her life- to herself. Out of loyalty to her husband, or consideration of his own feelings, even. Now that marriage had long since ended in divorce, and he knew that her motives were, as ever, selfish. She didn’t want him to be part of her life, not her whole life. She just wanted him to be there when she needed him, or wanted him. Damn it, it wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, and he hit back sometimes, despite himself.
“I don’t like it, either!” he shouted. “You could be doing anything, for all I know! You shut me out, Judy! You go home to that damn flat and shut me out!”
“You’ve got a key, Lloyd,” she said, maddeningly reasonable. “You’re welcome to use it morning, afternoon, evening—in the middle of the night, if you like. But you don’t, do you? I thought I had burglars this morning—that’s how often I get a visit from you.”
“That’s because I don’t want to visit you!” he shouted. “I want you with me.”
“Where you can keep an eye on me? See what I’m getting up to? Well, tough.” She put down her untouched drink, and stood up. “And I’m going,” she said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Judy—” He got to his feet in a half-hearted attempt to stop her, but she brushed him aside.
“This isn’t going to get any better, and I’m not going to let it get any worse,” she said, going out to the hall, shrugging on her jacket. “Good night.”
The door closed, quietly, and she was gone. She didn’t even slam doors. She didn’t shout. She didn’t let rows run their natural course. She just walked out on them, left them up in the air, unfinished, unresolved. Always. If she stayed, he hurt her, with his wicked tongue. Always. She knew that, so she didn’t stay. And who could blame her?
Oh, to hell. At least it was a good night on the telly. He switched on the television, got himself a beer, and sat down as the program started. Within fifteen minutes the policeman hero was bedding yet another desirable woman in his ceaseless search for whodunit.
Life wasn’t really like that, he thought, then amended that. It sometimes was. But not if you couldn’t stop yourself saying things you didn’t mean, and buggering everything up. All the same, it couldn’t always be his fault. She did shut him out. She did hang on to that flat and her independence because that was how she wanted it, and to hell with what he wanted. Oh, he could force the issue—make her do things his way, give her an ultimatum to move in with him or else. In an uncharacteristic moment she had shown that she needed him enough for that to work.
But that would make him feel guiltier than ever, and she knew it.
Lennie’s good humor of the morning had entirely vanished. He had eaten in silence, drunk his tea, and now he was watching television. When the credits went up, he switched off the TV and shrugged on his jacket. “Get your coat,” he said.
Ginny went upstairs and got the fake fur jacket that he’d bought her for her birthday. Once, she had dreamed of real fur, but now it was cruel, so she’d got fake. “Where are we going?” she asked, as she came down.
“You’ll have to work the park,” he said.
“The park?” she said, dismayed. “Why, Lennie?”
“Because I’m telling you to.”
“But it takes too long for them to bring me here with the bypass.”
“They won’t be bringing you here.”
She frowned. “Where, then?”
“You can work out of the van,” said Lennie.
“Aw, Lenny—you said I wouldn’t have to do that anymore!”
“Well, now I’m saying different.” He opened the door. “Out,” he said.
“No!” she said. “It’ll be bloody freezing in the back of that van! And you can’t charge as much as you can if they come here, so it’s stupid!”
“You can do more punters,” said Lennie.
That didn’t sound at all like a good idea to Ginny. “Not if I don’t go!” she shouted.
He caught her by the arm, and his other hand delivered a stinging backhanded slap to her face. “You’re going!” he said, pushing her out.
“I won’t get any punters at all if I’m covered in sodding bruises!” she shouted, as she stumbled on to the pavement.
Matt walked around the corner to see Lennie pull his side door shut, and manhandle Ginny toward the Transit.
“Get in the fucking van!” he said, delivering a blow to the back of her head. “Now!”
Matt strolled into the alley. “Can’t get the staff these days, can you, Lennie?” he said.
Lennie let go of Ginny and turned, looking Matt up and down. “Joined the Foreign Legion, have you?” he asked.
Matt hated the uniform, aping as it did a police uniform except that it was black. He felt like some sort of fascist soldier. “Watch your lip, Lennie,” he said.
Lennie smiled. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Half an hour of your wife’s time.”
“Yeah? It’ll cost you thirty.”
Matt shook his head. “You must be joking,” he said.
“That’s what she charges. Take it or leave it.”
What she charged. The money went straight to Lennie, useless parasite, and God help Ginny if she tried to hang on to a couple of quid. “It wasn’t too long ago she thought a fiver was big time,” said Matt.
“Times have changed.”
Hadn’t they just. Matt looked at Ginny, sullen and silent, leaning against the van. He’d just seen Lennie in action—he didn’t want to let the kid in for any more of that. Trouble was, he couldn’t pay thirty quid for her; he hadn’t got that sort of money. But there was something desperate about Lennie’s air that made him think that he could beat him down without too much difficulty. “Ten,” he said.
“Twenty.”
“Ten,” he repeated. “That’s more than she’s worth.”
“Fifteen.”
Matt gave him the money; Lennie unlocked the door and went into the house, jerking his head at Ginny, who pushed herself away from the van and brushed past him, taking off her jacket and hanging it over the stair post as she went up ahead of Matt. She started taking off the rest as she got into the room.
“You can keep your clothes on,” Matt said, closing the door. “I just want to talk.”
“Aw—I’m no good at that sort of thing,” she said from inside the thin, sleeveless top she was pulling off over her head.
Matt frowned, then his brow cleared. “No,” he said. “Talk. As in I want a word with you.”
She pulled her top back down. “Why’d you pay fifteen quid for it, then?” she asked, her voice heavy with suspicion, her eyes alarmed.
Matt sighed. “Because I don’t suppose Lennie knows about your part in that little charade with Drummond,” he said. “I don’t want you on my conscience.”
“You what?” Her eyebrows drew together in a total lack of comprehension.
“As far as Lennie’s concerned, I’m here for a screw, and you don’t tell him any different or he’ll knock your head off. Understand?”
She nodded uncertainly, her brows still meeting.
“Now. They’re holding an inquiry into Drummond’s arrest. You’re going to get policemen asking you what happened that night in Hosier’s Alley.”
She understood one word, at least. “Cops? Here? Lennie’ll go spare!”
“Well, I can’t do anything about that. They’ll ask about what happened in Hosier’s Alley with Drummond. They’ll go on about perjury and perverting the course of justice, but they can’t prove a thing.”
“What?”
Dear God. This was the hardest fifteen quid he’d ever spent. “They’ll tell you that you can go to prison,” he said. “But don’t let them scare you. They can’t prove anything if you just stick to your story.”
“What story?”
Matt sank down on the bed, and prepared to start again. Maybe Lennie did earn his money after all.
The ten o’clock news was all Drummond, as the six o’clock had been. Carole watched despite herself; she longed to switch it off, to stop listening, but she couldn’t.
She had finally left the garage, and knocked on a neighbor’s door. She had vague memories of ambulance men and urgency. Then she had opened her eyes to find Rob, still in uniform, at one side of the hospital bed, and a policewoman, not in uniform, at the other.
She had had to lie to the police about where she had been, and she had been relieved, so relieved when the spotlight had moved on to someone else. Relieved, she had eventually realized, that someone else had gone through that hell. She had gone to counseling more because of the guilt she felt about that than because of the attack itself.
But her lies had come back to haunt her, and she had had to tell the truth in the end. Rob hadn’t done any of the things she had imagined he would do, and that had just made her feel guiltier than ever. He hadn’t flown into a rage, hadn’t hit her, hadn’t called her names. He had understood, had confessed to the odd infidelity of his own in Ireland. Separated, lonely … it happened, he had said. He had truly understood.
They had had a happy marriage, once. But he was right; she had been lonely, with him away so often and for so long. And she had met someone. It had got more serious than she had intended. Even so, she would probably have finished it when Rob had come home from Ireland. But that wasn’t how things had worked out.
When the police had come back, almost three months later, wanting to know where she had been, she had been so scared. Drummond’s statement said that he’d followed her from Malworth, they had said. Had she been in Malworth? The DNA wasn’t Drummond’s. Did she know whose it was? On and on, until she had had to tell them, and then poor Stephen had had to get involved and have his private life investigated until they elimin
ated him as a suspect. His marriage had broken up; he’d given his wife the house, and now the Child Support Agency were taking more money from him. He was living in a flat in a high-rise, all because of Drummond.
Rob had come out of the forces, and had bought a secondhand taxi with his money from the army and a loan from the bank. Her physical injuries had healed, and the strong-mindedness which allowed her to reject the memory of the rape had eventually made it possible for her to want to resume relations with Rob. But that was when it had all gone wrong.
Rob couldn’t. Not wouldn’t—couldn’t. He had tried. He had wanted to, naturally, after months of being patient. But he just couldn’t. Nothing happened when he tried to make love to her. She had been raped. Defiled. And he couldn’t handle that. To start with, they had kept trying, but after six months of it Rob had started working at night so that he didn’t have to share her bed, didn’t have to face it. He had changed, become cold and hard and uncommunicative.
And a few months after that, he had apparently discovered that he could do it with Ginny. When Carole had finally realized that, she had reasoned that if he was all right with someone else, then she could leave, let him find someone else. She didn’t tell him she knew about Ginny, but she had suggested that they divorce, so he could find someone else. He had said that she was his wife, that he didn’t want someone else, and that was an end to it.
Ginny was a stopgap, obviously. He still thought things would be all right between them. But they wouldn’t. Not now. Not now that she didn’t love him anymore.
* * *
Rob glanced at his watch as he indicated the right turn into Parkside across the six-lane carriageway, and waited at the break in the central reservation. On his left was the turnoff that took you into Malworth proper, and in between sat the park, a dark, cold and dismal no-man’s-land. He could see a couple of hookers hanging around on the far side, leaning on the railings, waiting for customers. He had to wait long minutes for on-coming traffic, even at this time of night, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. At last, the road was clear, and he went down the B-road that now took you into what was left of Parkside, past the dark tower of the bonfire, to the squat block of fiats. He left the engine running, and got out of the cab.