The String Diaries

by Stephen Lloyd Jones

  What was she thinking?

  Then another thought overtook him. Far darker than the first.

  What have you done?

  Driving back to the place where the Hillman had left the road, Charles turned through another U and nudged the Stag up on to the bank, out of the path of following traffic. He switched off the engine and rubbed his face. Examined his trembling fingers.

  Was he responsible for the accident? Certainly, he had wanted to help her. But he could not pretend that his motivation had been entirely altruistic. He had been driven, just as much, by an urge to satisfy his curiosity. And a desire to see her again.

  He opened his car door and jumped out. Bracing himself for what he might be about to see, he scrambled up the raised grass verge. A bramble-choked drainage ditch separated him from the field. Beyond the ditch stretched a brittle carpet of close-shorn wheat stalks, except where Nicole’s car had gouged a dark scar.

  The Hillman was a buckled and twisted box, caked in earth and dust. It must have flipped full circle at least once, because it had come to a rest on its broken axles. Smoke fluttered out of the engine block, dispersing on the breeze. Behind the car lay a litter of metal and broken glass, evidence of its destructive progress through the field.

  Charles slid down the far side of the verge and into the drainage ditch, his shoes slipping on weeds and stones. Grimacing, he pressed through a tangle of gorse, blackberry and ragwort. Thorns tore through his shirtsleeves. Barbs pricked his arms. He felt blood running long before he fought his way clear.

  Dragging himself up the far side of the ditch and out of the last clutches of undergrowth, Charles fell into the field. His arms burned where brambles had raked him and nettles had brushed his skin. His scalp itched from the burrs he had collected. Something buzzed near his ear. He waved it away and studied the Hillman. Close up, he saw it was even more damaged than he had first thought: a contortion of jagged metal.

  And then, with a lurch of adrenalin and fear and excitement, he spotted Nicole’s passenger. She was moving gingerly, picking her way around the far side of the vehicle as if feeling her way through mist. Blood seeped from a cut on her forehead, and her cheek was swollen and red. But she was alive.

  Jubilant, Charles shouted out to her. On hearing his voice, the woman looked up, hesitated. She glanced back at the wreckage. Then she raised a hand and stumbled towards him.

  The sun had baked the earth to a hard crust. Beneath the bristling mat of stalks, the ground was fissured with cracks. It made fast progress difficult, and by the time he reached her, he was panting with effort.

  She had once, Charles saw, been a handsome woman. Age lines – he could not have called them laughter lines – criss-crossed her face, but they had not concealed the defined features beneath. When her eyes flashed over him, he thought they looked almost black. Her hair was the same rich auburn as Nicole’s, but it had lost its lustre long ago. He wondered if the scowl that tightened her lips into a thin line was caused by pain.

  As he closed the last few feet, she bent at the waist and moaned. Concussion, he wondered? Broken ribs? He stared down at the top of her skull, at the speckled white skin of her crown that peeked through a frizz of unstyled hair. It reminded him of chickens’ feet. ‘Are you all right?’

  She ignored him. Or perhaps she did not understand him. Or was in too much discomfort to answer. From this angle, he couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open, whether they were haemorrhaged, whether she was suffering.

  Charles reached out to her and as he did she straightened. He saw what she clutched in her hands just before she swung it up at him.

  The blunt edge of the rock crunched into his nose, snapping back his head. Pain rushed screaming into his face. The world tilted, unbalancing him, and he found himself on his back, the air knocked out of him, blinking up at the sky. He lifted his hands and cupped them around his nose. Their touch triggered an electric spasm of agony. He felt the gushing warmth of blood on his fingers.

  Points of light skittered and danced. Bright fireflies of pain. He squinted through eyes blurred from tears and sun, seeking the old woman. Her expression terrified him. She stepped across his chest and raised the rock above her head.

  ‘No!’

  The shout came from inside the Hillman. Charles’s eyes slid over to it. Dizziness was beginning to overcome him, but he had enough sense left to raise his arms against what was coming.

  A crash and groan of metal. A car door being kicked off its hinges.

  ‘Mama. No!’

  His attacker turned, rock still raised high. Nicole struggled free of the vehicle. She fell on to her hands and knees. Gasped. Climbing to her feet, she raised a flat palm and shook her head.

  Stop.

  The woman stared at Charles. Her black eyes seemed devoid of emotion, but he saw that tears had traced clean lines through the grime on her cheeks. She pitched her rock off to the side and stepped away from him. When Nicole appeared beside her, the older woman began to gabble in French, jabbing her finger at him. The pair engaged in rapid-fire conversation. Charles was too dizzy to follow it.

  Nicole broke off and scowled at him, eyes blazing. ‘What are you doing? Why are you here? You could have killed us.’

  He rolled over on to his side and spat blood into the soil. ‘That’s rich. She just tried to stave my bloody head in.’

  Nicole lunged for the discarded rock. ‘I’ll finish the job unless you tell me what you’re doing here.’

  He forced himself up on to his hands and knees and shook his head to clear it, dislodging a flurry of sparks. ‘I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing here. I wish I wasn’t, I can tell you that much. You were the one who left me a note in the library. What the hell was that about?’

  ‘Were you the one who telephoned the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you ask for Préfontaine?’

  ‘Because that’s the name you registered at the library. Why are you using a false name?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions, Charles. Why are you in a different car?’

  He realised, too late, that without the distinctive Jag, she would not have understood who pursued her. ‘I have two cars.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like cars. Jesus.’

  ‘You’re a university professor.’

  ‘I can’t like cars?’

  ‘Not on a lecturer’s salary.’

  ‘I’m not just a university professor.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that.’

  She brandished the rock.

  ‘Look, for Christ’s sake, there’s nothing sinister! There was some inheritance, that’s all. Land, mostly. Some of it I developed. It worked out quite well.’

  ‘Why did you follow me?’

  ‘I told you; I don’t know. I was . . . I wanted to see you again. And after the bizarre conversation I had with your delightful mother here, I wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  Nicole’s mother snatched at her daughter’s arm. She pointed past Charles’s shoulder. ‘Dépêche-toi.’

  He turned to see the lorry they had overtaken pulling to the side of the road. Air brakes hissed. He felt the tension between the two women intensify.

  Nicole switched her focus back to him. ‘You just wanted to see me again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. I just—’

  ‘You just felt compelled.’

  Charles gambled that she was not going to strike him with the rock unless he did something particularly reckless, and climbed to his feet. She moved backwards, granting him space.

  ‘Idiotically compelled,’ he said.

  ‘Instinct.’ She was searching his eyes.

  ‘Something like
that.’

  ‘And what does your instinct tell you now?’

  He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood pooling on his upper lip. ‘That you’re a couple of lunatics.’

  ‘Charles. Look at me. I am deadly serious.’ She stole a glance at the lorry. ‘What does your instinct tell you now? About me?’

  ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. Forget for one moment what just happened. If you can. When you first met me, and this very moment as we stand here – do you think you can trust me?’

  She was speaking faster, looking more anxious.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He paused, shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Then listen to what I have to say, Charles. We have to get away from here right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain. I need you to make a leap of faith. I’m asking for help. It doesn’t happen often and I’ll only ask once. If you want to help us you need to get us away from here.’

  This was crazy.

  ‘OK. Just . . .’ He nodded. ‘OK. I will. I’ll help. But what about your car? We can’t just walk away.’

  ‘Charles—’

  He blew out a breath. And accepted a step into the unknown. ‘Fine. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

  Nicole turned to the woman. She spoke rapidly, pointing first at Charles and then at the road. The woman protested, but she seemed to have lost the argument.

  ‘Passports.’ Nicole ran to the rear of the Hillman, twisted the boot lock and cursed when it would not move. She banged on the crumpled lid, jiggling the lock in frustration.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s jammed. Our bags are inside.’

  ‘Let me try it.’

  ‘There’s no time. It’s stuck fast.’ She went to the driver’s side, reached through a broken window and pulled out a large bundle tied up with string. It looked like a collection of old leather-bound books. ‘Come on. We need to go.’

  ‘You can’t leave your passports here.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Nicole crossed the field, slipped down the slope of the ditch and pushed her way through the brambles, pulling the woman behind her. Charles found himself following.

  The lorry, an old Bedford with a red bonnet and black wheel arches, had pulled up twenty yards behind the Stag. A man appeared from the far side. Pot-bellied, green vest, lank hair. He cupped a cigarette in his hand. ‘’S’why we have speed limits, son. Everyone still got their arms and legs?’

  Charles ignored him. He followed the two women to his Stag, opened the passenger door and loaded them in. Jumping behind the wheel, he started the car and accelerated away from the verge.

  In his rear-view mirror, he watched the receding figure by the lorry. The man stared after them. After a moment he flicked his cigarette into the bushes and turned away.

  They swept through Oxfordshire countryside. Charles rolled down the windows, grateful for the purifying rush of air. The fields they passed were mostly empty, the harvesters having stripped them of their grain. The heat of the sun had scorched the earth that remained. It had been a hot month, although nothing like the summer of ’76 three years earlier, when the government had introduced the Drought Act.

  Where they passed dairy farms, cows grazed on pasture right up to the fences bordering the road. The animals raised solemn faces as the Stag sped past. Nicole turned often in her seat to scan the road behind them. Charles wondered if she was searching for something in particular, or if her habit was so ingrained she found it impossible to stop.

  Either way, he resolved to say nothing for a while. He needed to give himself a chance to think about what had happened. His nose ached like hell, and a headache was pinching and pricking behind his eyes. Again, he asked himself what he was doing, why he had felt such a compulsion to get involved, to follow this girl.

  He cast glances at her as she fidgeted in her seat. On her lap lay the bundle of books tied with string. Some of them were so old they were falling apart, the leather of their bindings cracked and dusty, the pages clumped and brown. Nicole rested her hands on top of the pile, her fingers fiddling with the knotted string. Her face remained impassive as she studied the road ahead, eyes narrowed against the wind and the glare. She looked strong, determined, yet at the crash site he had seen a fear in her as fleeting as it was unsettling. He knew she had been telling the truth when she told him she seldom asked for help. It was clear in her every interaction with him – in her speech, even in the way she held herself – that she was used to standing alone. He wondered what events, what life blows or choices, had chiselled her that way. He wondered if he would find out.

  The London Road out of Oxford led to the motorway, and rather than following it south he chose the northern branch. He took the exit near Wendlebury and circled Bicester before taking country roads back west towards Woodstock. It was a circuitous route, but he sensed that Nicole needed time to gather her thoughts. By the time he was on the homeward stretch, she had ceased checking the road behind them and had fallen into a daze.

  Charles examined himself in the rear-view mirror. His nose, never a graceful appendage, was swollen and purple. Blood caked the rims of his nostrils and flecked his chin. His clothes were scuffed with mud and torn from brambles. His forearms were scratched white and streaked with crimson where thorns had punctured his skin.

  Strange, but despite the pain of his throbbing face, the pressure building behind his eyes, he felt exhilarated. He knew some of that was due to the adrenalin racing through his system. But there was more to the feeling than adrenalin alone. It felt as if a hidden part of him had been unlocked, and as the daylight flooded in it was beginning to rejoice.

  Thinking of the woman who had so efficiently clobbered him, he angled the mirror to get another look. Nicole’s mother caught his reflection and returned his stare. No warmth resided in that look, no trust. He supposed that had he not chased them down so impetuously they would never have crashed off the road. She owed him little gratitude. Yet her behaviour when he had gone to help her defied understanding. She had been ready to kill him, genuinely intent on cracking open his skull and letting his brains leach into the earth. Charles recalled his conversation with her as he stood in the telephone box outside Balliol College. She had called him démon and Jakab. Clearly she believed he was someone intent on doing them harm. If it wasn’t for the memory of her black eyes as she stood over him and clutched the rock above her head, he could even feel pity. But it was far too soon for that.

  He angled away the mirror.

  They crested a hill. An avenue of oaks flanked the road below them. Thick trunks thrust into the sky, their crowns forming an arch of foliage. As the Stag barrelled into a tunnel of green they were plunged into shadow, the sunlight flickering and dappling as it fought through the leaves.

  In damp mulch at the side of the road, bloated and ripe, lay the carcass of a deer. Something – presumably another vehicle – had shattered its jaw and twisted its head around its neck. Blood had flooded from its mouth and ears and nose, and flies crawled and danced in its fluids. Charles winced as they drove past.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The sight of the dead animal had shaken Nicole out of her reverie. She sat up in her seat, instantly alert. ‘Charles, where are we?’

  He heard the suspicion in her voice, and it depressed him. He knew he needed to tread carefully, needed to avoid his natural inclination to lead. It was not ground that they could occupy in harmony. ‘We’re north of the city,’ he told her. ‘We just passed through Bunker’s Hill. I have a house in Woodstock, a few more miles from here. If you want I can take you there. If not, I can drive you anywhere you want to go.’ He closed his mouth, resolving to say nothing more. He could feel her considering her options.

  Nicole twisted round in her
seat, looked at the woman behind. ‘Can we all go there? To your house?’

  ‘You can even bring Joan of Arc, if she behaves herself.’

  ‘Charles, watch your tongue,’ Nicole snapped. ‘That’s my mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘I’ve noticed a charming similarity.’

  Charles felt her glaring at him. He concentrated on the road ahead but when he sensed, a few moments later, that she was still examining him, he met her gaze and found that she was grinning. It transformed her face so spectacularly that he found himself grinning in return.

  ‘What’s funny?’ he asked.

  She laughed, quick and guilty. ‘Your nose, Charles. It’s like a strawberry.’

  ‘Nice of you to mention it.’

  ‘Does it hurt very much?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody hurts.’

  Nicole laughed again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He nodded. ‘How about you? Are you OK? When I saw the state of your car, I didn’t think anyone could have survived.’

  ‘I’ll live. I’m sure I’ll feel a lot worse tomorrow.’

  ‘What are you going to do about the Hillman?’

  ‘We can’t go back to it now. It’s rented. There’ll be a—’ She stopped, and he knew she had caught herself, dismayed at what she had been about to reveal.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, Charles.’ She seemed ready to say more, but he could feel her tensing again. She stared at the road and swept her hair away from her face. Quietly she added, ‘Our passports are gone.’

  They drove through the open gate to his cottage shortly afterwards. Nicole peered out of the window as he parked next to the Jaguar, under the shade of a silver birch. ‘It’s beautiful, Charles.’

  Cotswold stone framed tiny sash windows gleaming with pale green paint. Wisteria vines twisted about the stone, bunches of purple flowers hanging thick and heavy with pollen. Above it all a tiled roof sagged with age.