by Trevor Hoyle
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You can stop.’
With the engine silent and the headlights switched off, she started to panic. The sheen of her jacket trembled.
‘Why here? There’s nothing here …’ And then with a note of vindictive triumph: ‘You’re trapped! They’ve got you cornered. Do you think you’ll get away? And you won’t use that stuff on me. You daren’t. They’ll put you away for life—’
‘Get out of the car.’
‘No.’
I took her gently by the throat and let her feel the point of the needle an inch below her left ear. Her throat worked inside my palm. I said, ‘Calm down and get out of the car. I don’t have the same faith in Wayne that you do. I think this stuff sends you crazy before it kills you. What do you think?’
‘You can’t expect me to walk in these shoes,’ she complained when we were standing on the cinder track. She shivered in the thin, expensive jacket. ‘Listen to me for a minute, just listen. Please.’
‘All right. I’m listening.’
‘This is all a stupid mistake.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes! I – I don’t even know your name …’
‘Of course you know my name, darling. We were married for eight years before you ditched me and went off with Benson. And then you had me put away in the Oxtoby Clinic. Surely you remember that.’ I pushed her in front of me. ‘Through here.’
‘Where? I can’t see …’
‘The gap in the fence.’
‘No, please … why? What are you doing?’
‘Showing you the harbour by moonlight.’
Inside the fence the cinders gave out and the ground became sticky, sucking at our shoes. After a few steps she lost hers, the heels stuck in the mud. I grabbed her arm as she slithered in her stockinged feet.
There was a little moonlight breaking through the heavy clouds, barely enough, but just enough, to make shadows of the ships’ hulls with their broken superstructures and peeling funnels, leaning this way and that, ready to topple but held in terrific suspension.
We went on, sinking up to the ankles.
She started to gabble suddenly. ‘What was I supposed to do? You don’t remember what happened, do you? You had a breakdown. You tried to kill me. The brakes of the car, remember?’
‘I must have had a reason,’ I said.
‘I had to put you in the clinic. I had no choice. You were ill … Peter. I did the best I could for you.’
‘Funny,’ I said, supporting her, shoving her on, ‘and all the time I had this crazy idea that you were dead. I was certain of it.’ We were both panting now. ‘What made me think that?’
‘I don’t know. Oh Peter – ’
‘Sometimes, you know, I was convinced I’d killed you. I thought you’d gone off the road near where you used to meet Benson on the sly – when the two of you were having an affair. You must remember that. Your affair with Benson. Then other times I thought you’d committed suicide. I even thought you’d gone blind. Isn’t it stupid? The mind plays all sorts of tricks.’
‘That was your illness.’ She was panting hard, sucking in air like sobs. ‘Oh listen to me! Peter. Yes, I was seeing Neville – it’s true – and you found out. We weren’t happy together, you and me, don’t you remember? I wanted a divorce.’
‘No, sorry,’ I said, ‘that part’s gone. The shock treatment. Not far now.’
‘You broke down when I told you – you had a breakdown.’
‘Never mind, darling,’ I said, ‘not to worry. That’s all in the past now, gone and forgotten. Yesterday’s dishwater.’
She screamed suddenly, ‘Let go of me, you bastard! You’re not my husband! He’s dead!’
When I let go of her she skidded about, arms flailing, comically trying to run, and the harder she tried the deeper she sank. Up to her calves now, arms doing a wild backstroke, she flopped full-length and lay imprinted in the black radioactive mud.
I bunched the front of her silk-satin jacket in my fist and hauled her up. On her smooth blonde hair she looked to be wearing a black skull-cap. She clung to my arm.
‘Please don’t hurt me, Peter, I beg you.’
‘Come on.’
‘Don’t. You can’t.’
I started to laugh. ‘Who’s going to stop me?’
‘It was for your own good – ’
‘Was it really?’
‘Peter,’ she moaned, ‘you can’t do it. I’m Susan, your wife!’
I could feel her heart beating against my fist.
She went rapidly on, ‘I’ve done wrong, I know, I admit it. But you won’t hurt me, you can’t, because you still love me. I know you do.’
‘You think because I still love you that I won’t hurt you,’ I said. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Peter, darling – ’ She leaned against me. Her hand caressed my neck. ‘It was him, not me. Benson made me do it.’
‘To have me put away?’
‘Yes, he forced me to do it. At the time you thought you’d killed me by tampering with the brakes of the car, and he said – Neville said, “Let him go on believing it. Don’t tell him or let him see you’re alive and he’ll think he really did do it.” That’s why you came here, I mean came back, looking for him … because you thought I was dead and Benson was to blame.’
‘I can’t get it straight in my mind,’ I said. ‘Sometimes it was Benson that killed you and other times it was me. You went blind before you died, did you know that? We lay side by side, in the darkness, and when I woke up you were gone. I just knew you were dead and somebody was to blame …’
‘I’m not dead, darling. And you’re not dead. The two of us are alive, here and now, together.’
She pulled my head down and I felt her lips, full and warm and soft, envelop mine. My senses started to slide. Again I had the strangest feeling – the same feeling as before, in the kitchen – of being a stranger in my own body. Was this really the woman I had married? Or the right woman and the wrong me? Her hot breath whispered against my cheek.
‘Take me back to the car, Peter. I love you.’
Her arms tightened around me. I picked her up and turned clumsily, dragging my feet out of the black mud. With my eyes closed I stumbled blindly on, this woman in my arms, back to the memory of another woman stumbling blindly towards death, and helped along the way.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Are you familiar with this town?’ the blonde woman asks him, hinting slyly that he might be lost and their steady, smooth progress an aimless wandering.
‘Well enough by now,’ he says.
‘So you know where you’re going?’
‘Oh yes. Just keep driving.’
The streets peter out to a cindery track with water-filled pot-holes. The last of the houses here are abandoned, boarded-up, vandalised. She drives slowly, the Mercedes’ fat tyres crunching through cinders and broken glass, swaying portentously on its suspension, the headlights picking out the chain-link fence to their right, here and there sagging, in places torn down. She says breathlessly: ‘This leads nowhere. It’s a dead-end.’
‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘You can stop.’
With the engine silent and the headlights switched off, she starts to panic. The sheen of her jacket trembles.
‘Why here? There’s nothing here – ’ And then with a note of vindictive triumph: ‘You’re trapped! They’ve got you cornered. Do you think you’ll get away? And you won’t use that stuff on me. You daren’t. They’ll put you away for life – ’
‘Get out of the car.’
‘No.’
He takes her gently by the throat and lets her feel the point of the needle an inch below her left ear. Her throat works inside his palm. He says, ‘Calm down and get out of the car. I don’t have the same faith in Wayne that you do. I think this stuff sends you crazy before it kills you. What do you think?’
‘You can’t expect me to walk in these shoes,’ she complains when they are standing on the cinde
r track. She shivers in the thin, expensive jacket. ‘Listen to me for a minute, just listen. Please.’
‘All right. I’m listening.’
‘This is all a stupid mistake.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes! I – I don’t even know your name …’
‘Of course you don’t know my name. I came here looking for your husband, Peter Holford. He killed my wife, did you know that? In cold blood. Injected her. Murdering bastard!’ He pushes her in front of him. ‘Through here.’
‘Where? I can’t see …’
‘The gap in the fence.’
‘No, please … why? What are you doing?’
‘Showing you the harbour by moonlight.’
Inside the fence the cinders give out and the ground becomes sticky, sucking at their shoes. After a few steps she loses hers, the heels stuck in the mud. He grabs her arm as she slithers in her stockinged feet.
There is a little moonlight breaking through the heavy clouds, barely enough, but just enough, to make shadows of the ships’ hulls with their broken superstructures and peeling funnels, leaning this way and that, about to topple but held in terrific suspension.
She screams suddenly, ‘Let me go! Let go of me, you bastard!’
When he lets go of her she skids about, arms flailing, comically trying to run, and the harder she tries the deeper she sinks. Up to her calves now, arms doing a wild backstroke, she flops full-length and lies imprinted in the black radioactive mud.
He reaches down and bunches the front of her silk-satin jacket in his fist and hauls her up. On her smooth blonde hair she looks to be wearing a black skull-cap. She clings to his arm.
‘Please don’t hurt me, I beg you.’
‘Come on.’
‘Don’t. You can’t.’
He starts to laugh. ‘Who’s going to stop me?’
‘Listen to me,’ she moans, ‘please listen … I’m your wife.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Yes! I am!’
‘Liar.’ He strikes her across the mouth and starts dragging her. It is impossible to locate the exact spot where he saw his own body lying in the mud, but it was somewhere around here. Anywhere here will do: they are up to their knees.
‘I’m your wife. For God’s sake—’
‘You can’t be, can you, if she’s dead?’
‘I’m not dead.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Swine! Why are you doing this? Why?’
‘I’ve already told you why, Mrs Holford. Your husband, murdering bastard, killed my wife. So now I have to kill you. Don’t you see? It’s simple …’
They are both stuck fast. Further movement is impossible. In the fleeting wash of moonlight her mouth is a dark muddy smear where he struck her. She says with utter loathing and contempt, ‘You won’t kill me, you can’t, you daren’t, and you know it. Because you’re a zero, a nothing, a non-person.’ She hawks and spits in his face. ‘You don’t even exist.’
‘Then I can’t kill you, can I? Lucky for you.’ He wipes the spittle away and grins at her. ‘That’s logical, isn’t it?’
A quivering sigh flutters out of her mouth, seeming to deflate her. ‘You just want to scare me, that’s all – isn’t it? You won’t really harm me, will you? You won’t really kill me.’
It is a chant: solace in the power of words.
‘I can’t harm you if I don’t exist,’ he says, smiling at her. ‘Not me. But watch out for Smith.’
‘Who?’
She stands without moving, a cloud obscuring her face, stands there uncomplaining, the needle embedded in her throat, and with his thumb he presses home the plunger, discharging the rose-coloured fluid into her. She looks puzzled, though he can’t be sure in the shifting light. Her frown might be a dark cloud obscuring the moon. She kneels down at his feet and pulls the empty syringe out of her throat. She looks at it in her hand. That’s careless of him, forgetting to take it out of her, and with his fingerprints on it. Foolish – and unjust – if he were to be apprehended and accused of a murder Smith had committed.
He throws the empty syringe far off into the darkness.
She claws at his knees, bubbling in her throat, and slowly subsides face down and curled-up, hugging the last bit of life left in her. Then he has to wait for what seems ages: it takes far longer than he imagined it would for her to sink.
She was right, of course. He didn’t and doesn’t exist. He’s been dead for some time, since they dumped him in the harbour. He knows this for a fact because he’s seen the evidence for himself – his own pale and bloated body on the mortuary slab. Inspector Blend confirmed it was him.
His final thought is: ‘That’s that then. Over and done with. The two of us lying together, husband and wife, side by side, at last and forever.’
Chapter Sixteen
1
By the green quartz clock on the walnut fascia it was one-thirty-eight.
I sat in the driver’s seat in my muddy shoes, my wet trousers caked and clinging up to the knees, shivering while I thought what to do. But it was the cold wet mud that made me shiver; inwardly I felt serene and nerveless, aware of my own presence, in possession of myself. Those mud-stained hands on the wheel were my own, and it was my heart I could feel beating.
I reached across and opened the glove compartment, which contained a thick clothbound road atlas, some maps, and an AA members’ handbook. I tore a page out of the handbook – something to write on but nothing to write with – there wasn’t a pen or even the stub of a pencil. Then, in one of the little shelves underneath the dashboard, I found a lipstick, and wrote ‘Flight to Arras’ on the torn-out page in thick red letters, folded it and put it in my pocket. I knew I had to write it down while I still remembered it, and before another blank dead patch sucked my memory into a black hole, as had happened only a few minutes ago (or so it seemed) when I had been strapped in the chair and Wayne had turned towards me with the enamel tray in his hands …
And then what? How had I got from there to here – sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes with mud on my shoes and caked up to the knees? I remembered moonlight behind heavy broken cloud. The woman’s hair a silvery cap and a shadow obscuring her face. We had been in the harbour – that explained the mud – it was slowly coming back to me. But then my memory began to falter and fragment, as if I had two separate memories of the same events, one laid on top of the other.
I shivered again and touched my lips. Had she actually kissed me and murmured that she loved me? No, that was ridiculous, quite fantastic. She had wanted to kill me, hadn’t she? She had told Wayne to go ahead and use the needle. And the fat
Murdering Bastard!
had been about to, had turned towards me with that greedy smile on his lips, his eyes puffy slits of hatred.
It was then that the black hole had sucked me in, and I became deaf, dumb and blind –
Suddenly I gripped the wheel so hard that my hands turned white.
You murdered her
No. No I didn’t—
Yes you did
You murdered once before
And now you’ve done it
Again
It wasn’t me. It was Smith.
Same difference
Getting to be
A habit
Isn’t it?
No!
Getting a taste
For it
Aren’t we?
You and me
I’m not you.
Then who are you
If not me?
I’m not you. I’m … I’m …
Cat got your tongue?
I never murdered anyone.
Diane said you did
She found the cuttings
In your diary
Careless of you
Leaving them there
To be found
It isn’t my diary – it’s yours.
And now you’ve gone
And done it
Again
<
br /> I unwrapped my bloodless hands from the wheel and stared at them. If the blonde woman, Susan, Benson’s mistress, wasn’t dead, then where was she? Where was she? I could see the needle sticking in her white throat and I could see myself carrying her through the mud to safety. Which one was true, and which one false? They couldn’t both be true. She was alive or dead. Not both. Alive or dead. But which?
A thin musical note sounded, as if someone was striking a child’s toy zylophone. I had never been in a car with a radio-telephone and it took me a moment to realise what it was. The high thin note went on and on, pettishly calling attention to itself. Glancing down I saw the cradled handset in a walnut box. A red light like a tiny ruby winked on and off.
I picked up the handset.
The voice was so intimately near it startled me.
‘Susan? Susan, are you there … ?’
I could even hear breathing as Benson waited for a reply.
‘Is that you? Susan, for God’s sake!’ Benson’s voice rose a pitch higher, then just as suddenly sagged. ‘I’ll do a deal with you. Let her go, let Susan go. That’s all I’m asking. You’re free to leave Brickton, go anywhere, nobody following, I promise. Nothing will happen to you if you let Susan go, you have my word … Do you understand? Say something! Just answer me …’
I dropped the handset back in its cradle. On the small panel I found a switch marked ‘Call Alert’ and switched it to OFF.
Benson had sounded to be very close – here in town perhaps – though with these new-fangled gadgets I really had no idea: he might have been miles away or as near as the tattoo parlour. He knew that Susan was missing, however, which meant that Wayne must have been onto him like a shot and reported what had happened. Just for once, then, Benson was in a situation outside his control: instead of throwing his weight about and crushing everything that stood in his way, Mr Big of Brickton found himself trying frantically to make a deal with someone he normally would have squashed like a gnat.