Plots and Errors

by Jill McGown

  SCENE IX – BARTONSHIRE.

  Saturday, September 27th, 9.30 a.m.

  The House at Little Elmley.

  Josh rose at eight, and by nine o’clock had breakfasted, showered and shaved, and thought of nothing but Sandie. She should be halfway there by now, assuming that Paul’s urges hadn’t held them up too often and for too long.

  There was a long day ahead of him; the hot summer had produced a lot of new recruits, and the one-to-one tuition offered by the school meant that the volunteer instructors were kept very busy. He had two beginners’ theory classes; one at ten o’clock this morning, and one at seven-thirty this evening, each consisting of just two or three people. In between, he had three recruits all at various stages of training. And when he’d finished the evening theory session, it would be time to go down to the diving platform with the night-divers.

  He left the car in his garage and walked to the club; it wouldn’t do for Angela to spot his car in Little Elmley when it ought to be in Penhallin. At ten o’clock, he began his marathon day. All the same, he thought – judging from his half-brother’s anguished phone-call last night – Sandie had an even more arduous day ahead of her than she might have supposed. And hers had almost certainly started already.

  SCENE X – CORNWALL.

  Saturday, September 27th, 12.30 p.m.

  Bodmin Moor.

  Paul had been sorely tempted to use the Range Rover’s off-road capabilities as soon as the surrounding countryside afforded him the opportunity, but he hadn’t. He had driven straight to where he was going.

  Sandie had been waiting for him when he had arrived at her flat, wearing a short cornflower-blue summer dress that he hadn’t seen before, a bag over her bare, sun-tanned shoulder, her big straw hat shading her eyes. Her weekend bag had joined his in the boot, and she had got in and started chatting to him, as she always did. He hadn’t said much to her, but her mere presence had aroused him, and there was even a hint of excited anticipation in her eyes, on her face, which he had never really seen before. Perhaps the long separation had been getting to her, too. But he hadn’t stopped the car, because he had a particular destination in mind, one which would admirably serve both his purposes.

  He had thought about the situation he had found himself in, thought about it long and hard, and yesterday’s bombshell about the boat had made it essential that he find out what Josh was up to. Sandie might well be in on it, because Josh was right about her; she was only interested in money. For all he knew, Josh was plotting with Elizabeth against him, on the promise of a pay-off, and they could have bought Sandie’s co-operation. If they had, he was going to buy it back.

  Sandie had brought sandwiches and cold drinks which they had consumed on the move, and it wasn’t until they were in Cornwall that he had put the Range Rover through its paces, driving out on to the moors which he had spent his childhood roaming. It wasn’t difficult to take the car further from civilization than Sandie had ever been, and when he stopped in the shade of the towering rock formations that shielded them from even nature’s prying eyes, he made up for the last bleak month.

  He lay back, eyes closed, opening them as he felt Sandie get off him. He watched as she reached over to the front for her cigarettes, taking one from the packet, then opened the door and got out. She lit the cigarette, throwing the lighter back in through the open driver’s door on to the seat, then leant against the car, releasing smoke to drift up into the still-cloudless sky. After a few moments, he joined her, closing the rear door.

  ‘What’s Josh up to?’ he asked.

  ‘Josh?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m the first to admit,’ he said, ‘that I can’t think quickly, not like you and Josh. But I’m not stupid, and I’ve had a lot of time to think at my own pace.’

  She frowned. ‘Think about what?’

  ‘Josh is far too good with boats to ram one into a harbour wall. He’s far too good with boats not to know when one is overdue for maintenance. He did that on purpose, and then kept it in dry dock for as long as he could. Do you know why?’

  She looked a little wary. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘And why did he tell my mother a totally unnecessary lie about where you’d be this weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know he had.’

  ‘Did he think that when he told me he wasn’t taking the boat out this weekend, I’d be so desperate after all this time that I’d jump at any suggestion he made?’

  Sandie shook her head, her eyes puzzled. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Paul, getting into the car, closing the door. He pulled on his driving gloves and started the engine, as she stubbed her cigarette out on the rock, and walked round to the passenger side.

  ‘The door’s locked,’ she said, through the open window.

  ‘I know. And I’m going to drive away and leave you here unless you tell me what’s going on.’ He looked at her as he fastened his seatbelt. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘You’re not really going to leave me,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know where we are.’

  ‘I do. I grew up here. Josh and I used to walk here every weekend. I know exactly how to get back to civilization, but you don’t. And you don’t get too many tourists coming this far at the best of times, never mind this end of the summer, so you probably won’t find anyone to ask.’

  She shook her head slightly. ‘You wouldn’t leave me here,’ she said.

  ‘I would. And I will. I’ll be driving off with . . .’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘ . . . your shoes, and your shoulder-bag, your weekend bag, your cigarettes and lighter. Even your sunhat and your knickers. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘But I don’t know what’s going on. You can’t leave me here like this!’

  He didn’t really think she did know, but this was a fairly certain way of making sure. He drove off, bumping over the moorland, watching her dismay in the rear-view mirror. He’d go back for her in half an hour or so, but he had to make absolutely certain first.

  ‘No – wait! Wait!’ she shouted, running after the car. ‘Wait, Paul! I’ll tell you!’

  She did know. She was in on it with them. He jammed on the brakes, and got out, waiting for her. He would pay her whatever she charged for loyalty, but first he had to know what was going on.

  Sandie slowed to walking pace, and arrived reluctantly at the car. She took a breath. ‘I didn’t know he’d done that to the boat on purpose,’ she said. ‘I swear, Paul, I didn’t.’

  ‘But you do know why he isn’t taking it out this weekend,’ he said. ‘Has it got something to do with the cottage? Is Elizabeth going to turn up there, or something? Is that why he wanted me to go there?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her eyes wide, her head shaking. ‘It’s nothing like that!’

  ‘If you know it’s nothing like that, then you know what it is like. Why didn’t he take the boat out this weekend?’

  There was a heartbeat before she answered. ‘Because he thought if we were going to the cottage, you’d want us to arrive separately, in case someone was watching. He thought you’d go down on your own, and . . .’ She swallowed. ‘And I wasn’t supposed to go at all.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Why?’

  Her eyes looked briefly, imploringly into his, before closing. ‘Why do you think?’ she whispered, then opened them again, with a look of resignation.

  It took him a moment, and then his eyes widened as he realized. It was the one, simple explanation that he hadn’t even considered. ‘You’ve been screwing Josh,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. He wanted me to stand you up this morning, but I wouldn’t.’

  He was paying through the nose for services he hadn’t been receiving, worrying himself sick about what was going on, and all that time, she’d been screwing Josh?

  ‘I told him he wasn’t worth losing my job over,’ she said.

  SCENE XI – BARTONSHIRE.

  Saturday, September 27th, 1.10 p.m.r />
  The House at Little Elmley.

  Angela’s plan for making Elizabeth see sense wasn’t working out. Sandie had turned down her invitation to dinner; she had said that Elizabeth made her feel uncomfortable, being so suspicious of her all the time. She was afraid that she might blurt out the truth, just to make her see that her suspicion was unfounded, but Josh had made her swear not to tell anyone, in case she shouldn’t be working at IMG.

  Elizabeth might just be spiteful enough to use the information against Paul, and Angela had agreed that it wouldn’t be wise to have them both to dinner after all. She had always lived by the precept of least said, soonest mended, and had deviated from it only once, with disastrous results.

  She had found that working on her autobiography was proving therapeutic now that the narrative had reached that crisis point in her life. The careful sorting out of incidents and the marshalling of facts was putting the whole business into some sort of perspective at last. She even felt that she could face editing the correspondence, to which end she had asked Elizabeth to begin transcribing the letters to the word-processor, but of course Elizabeth was in London to get the ticket for her concert, so that was going to have to wait until tomorrow now.

  Angela wasn’t entirely sure who this group or band or whatever you called them these days was, but she knew that they were some sort of Seventies supergroup, and seeing them had been an ambition of Elizabeth’s since she was a teenager. So it was nice that she was at last getting the chance to see them, even if it was on her own. Paul should really make more of an effort to share things with Elizabeth, Angela thought, if he didn’t want her being so suspicious of him all the time. She might have a word with him about that.

  She was about to have her monthly treat; she would be going into Barton to have lunch, then she would go to the beauticians and be pampered. Then she would shop for dinner, and tonight she would cook, and eat, and try to make Elizabeth understand that Sandie was not having an affair with her husband, without letting any cats out of any bags.

  SCENE XII – CORNWALL.

  Saturday, September 27th, 2.30 p.m.

  Outside Angela’s Cottage.

  They arrived at the cottage just before half past two, two hours later than intended, because of the moorland detour. Sandie didn’t move as Paul got out of the car, took their bags from the boot, and unlocked the cottage door, waiting for her to join him.

  Gingerly, she dabbed at her mouth with a tissue; it had stopped bleeding at last. His fists had connected so suddenly and so swiftly that she had had no chance to protect herself; now, she reached up and turned the mirror so that she could see the result. The fragile skin around her right eye was already blackening, her cheek was swollen, her jaw bruised. When she had raised her arms to protect herself, a body blow had left her on her knees.

  ‘Is he worth that?’ he had said, and had walked away.

  Yes, she thought, as she looked at herself, he is. She opened her bag, and took out her sunglasses, putting them on, to see if she looked any less horrific like that. Not really.

  He came back to the open door of the car. ‘Are you going to get out of the car?’ he said. ‘Or do I have to drag you out?’

  She sighed. ‘I could go to the police,’ she said. It was difficult to speak; it was the first time she had tried. Her mouth started bleeding again, and she pulled another tissue from the box.

  ‘You do that,’ said Paul. ‘You go to the police. I’ll be long gone by the time they get here. And do you know something, Sandie? I can say I was anywhere I like when that happened to you, and they’ll believe me. So it’ll do you no good.’ He opened the door wider, and stood aside.

  Still she sat there, for long minutes, while he waited. It was only when he swore at her and reached in, ready to make good his threat of dragging her out, that she gave in. Her bare feet touched hot paving; she pulled her legs back in and found her shoes, and her cigarettes and lighter. Then she walked slowly to the porch, and leant against the upright, trying to ignore the ache behind her sunglasses, taking out a cigarette. If it was difficult to talk, it would probably be even more difficult to smoke, but she needed this cigarette as she had needed no other.

  He pointed the remote at the car, and its lights flashed on and off. Then he looked at her, and sighed loudly. ‘Do you have to do that?’ he said.

  ‘You won’t let me smoke in the car, and you won’t let me smoke in there, so I’ll have one here.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, taking the packet and the lighter out of her hand. ‘But it will just be one. I’ll be in the bedroom, when you’ve finished.’

  ‘And you want me in there with you?’ she said. ‘Like this?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me.’ He picked up the bags. ‘And if it bothers you, you should have thought of that before you started screwing Josh.’ He went in, kicking the door shut behind him.

  She had had to tell him about her and Josh, or he would have left her there; she had known what was going to happen when she did. She had vomited after the fourth and final punch, and had heard him getting into the car and driving off. She had thought she had been left in that Godforsaken place despite her confession, and she had never been so scared in her life. But he had come back; the car door had opened, and she had been told to get in and not to let any blood get on the seats.

  She drew smoke deep into her lungs and let it out in a huge sigh of relief. Bruised and bloodied though she was, she was here, and it was a beautiful day, she noticed, for the first time. A fresh sea breeze lifted the folds of her blood-stained, soiled dress, and soothed her damaged skin a little. The view of the shifting, murmuring sea was marred by a van which had been abandoned at the top of the rocky incline down to the shoreline, but it was still uplifting enough to raise her spirits.

  Out of the corner of her good eye she could see Paul moving around downstairs, getting glasses from the sideboard, behaving as though nothing at all had happened, just like last time. He’d said she would get worse if she came on to Josh again, and she had. She wondered what he had meant about being able to say he was anywhere he liked if she told the police, but since she had no intention of going to the police anyway, it hardly mattered. She dropped her cigarette-end, and ground it out.

  And that was when Paul came back out, his face pale, his eyes blazing. ‘We’ve got to go straight back,’ he said, as the car lights blinked again, and he heaved himself into the driving seat, reversing out as he closed the door, letting down the window. ‘I’ll be back for you!’ he shouted. ‘Take care of things in there!’ He turned the wheel furiously as his speed took the Range Rover off the confined roadway and towards the rotting, rusting van, missing it by inches as it roared back down the road, signalling the turn for the harbour.

  Sandie watched him go, then went into the cottage to take care of things in there, as instructed. It wouldn’t do to cross him again.

  SCENE XIII – CORNWALL.

  Saturday, September 27th, 3.10 p.m.

  Penhallin Harbour.

  Paul left Lazy Sunday, and approached a group of people who were walking towards one of the other boats, trying to calm down just a little, trying to remember what impression he wanted to give. He would be angry if he’d come all this way to find that Josh hadn’t turned up, but he wouldn’t be panic-stricken.

  ‘Have you seen anything of Josh Esterbrook?’ he asked. ‘He owns the diving boat.’

  They shook their heads, called to some other people. No one had seen Josh, not today. Not for a few weeks.

  Right, thought Paul. That would do. If anyone was checking up, he’d been asking around for Josh. He got back into the car, and headed back to the cottage. She had better have done what he’d told her. He had unpacked some stuff, so she’d better have made certain she packed it all up again. If there was anything at all in that cottage to suggest they’d been there . . . well, a few more bruises wouldn’t make any difference, as she’d realized when she had scrambled out of the car.

  He shouldn’t have lost
his temper with her; that had been stupid, but she was on the ground before he’d even thought of the consequences. The state she was in would need explaining, and whatever she said had happened to her, Elizabeth would guess. He’d driven off, intending to leave her there, intending to say he’d been somewhere else, anywhere else. He’d had his driving gloves on; there were no bruises on his fists to give him away.

  But someone would have found her wandering about on the moor; his alibi would have been subjected to real scrutiny if he was being accused of abduction and God knows what all. She could have cried rape, even, with all the evidence the police needed to convict him. Whereas, as long as she wasn’t actually wandering about the moors when she told it, he could disprove her story, and she wouldn’t be believed. So he had gone back for her.

  Even with the less congested late-season traffic, there were stops and starts all the way from the harbour, and he cursed and swore at everyone else on the road until he was free of the town and at last driving along the headland. He checked his watch; it was twenty past three, and Sandie was waiting outside the cottage, the bags at her feet, wearing her hat and her sunglasses to disguise the bruises as best she could.

  ‘Is everything out of the cottage?’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said.

  SCENE XIV – BARTONSHIRE.

  Saturday, September 27th, 7.30 p.m.

  On the Road to Little Elmley.

  By half past four, they had got on to the A38; Paul was taking a rather more direct route back than he had taken coming, and by seven o’clock he had left the M5. Now he was on the last lap, swearing at every car he was obliged to overtake, at every give-way sign, at every speed-limit, at every opportunity.