Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  “Why don’t we stay out tonight?” I said.

  “Stay out?”

  “At a hotel somewhere. In London maybe. Just for the night . . .” I had more in my mind than this, but at the moment I felt it was safest to say as little as possible. “It’s still early,” I said. “I’ll bet we can get tickets for a concert or something, then have supper and spend the night at a hotel.”

  “And come back tomorrow . . .”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You really do have sudden brainwaves, don’t you?” But she wasn’t making any objections.

  “Come on,” I said, “let’s get ready.”

  As I got up I saw Timpson go past the house on his way round to the kitchen door. I went out to him. He had brought tiles for the roof. I told him where the leak was and left him to it.

  I was standing before the bathroom mirror rinsing the lather from my face when She­lagh knocked at the door. I called out for her to come in and she entered carrying a gaily wrapped package tied with ribbons. I rubbed clear the steamed-over glass before me and smiled at her reflection as I dried my face. “You look so pretty,” I said.

  “So do you.”

  She came to me over the soft carpet, looked up at me and touched my chin. “I’m too late,” she said. “I thought part of this”—she indicated the package—“might be useful . . .”

  “Useful for what?” I asked, but without waiting for an answer put my arms around her and drew her to me, holding her tight, tighter. There was only a towel around my waist between me and nakedness and I pressed my growing hardness against her as I kissed her. Our mouths separated. We grinned at each other. “Keep going,” I said, “and it’s going to be a long time before we get out of here.”

  Laughing, she broke away from me. “I didn’t come in here to seduce you. Only to give you this.” She held up the package. “I should have given it to you yesterday.”

  I took the package from her. “Right now I’d much rather have you.”

  She backed away. “Not now. I’m getting steamed up in here.”

  “So am I.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  The ribbon was coming adrift from the wrapping. She saw it, clicked her tongue and said, “Damn, and I thought I did that so carefully too.”

  “I didn’t get you anything,” I said. “I’m sorry. I will later, though, don’t worry.”

  She smiled. “I won’t.” She moved towards the door. “Come back,” I said, but she shook her head, said a girl wasn’t safe, and went out.

  I was still smiling as I tore off the paper and took the lid off the box. The inner soft-tissue wrapping was of white, patterned here and there with little flecks of red. My hand dipped down amongst the tissues, and my fingertips touched—not the cool hardness of the china I had expected to find, but something else—some soft-textured, rubbery thing . . .

  Even as my fingers withdrew the object, before I looked at it, I knew what it was. My eyes only confirmed my dread.

  I was holding in my hand a human heart

  28

  I stood clutching the edge of the wash-basin, my eyes shut tight, trying to blot out the image of what I had seen, while in my head the black and red haze swirled, converged, spread and fused again. There was a whisper of breathing behind me and for a second I thought it might be She­lagh. But I knew it wasn’t. And I was afraid to look around. The thing lay before me in the wash-basin where I had let it fall. And still I kept my eyes closed while nausea rose up in me and I groped my way to vomit into the toilet bowl.

  She­lagh, all unaware, at the piano, didn’t hear me creep down the stairs; didn’t see me, in my towelling robe, go outside and into the toolshed for the trowel.

  Timpson saw me, though. I’d forgotten he was there and when he called out to me I jumped as if I’d been stung. I stood shaking as he climbed down the ladder and came towards me. He had, he said, noticed that some of the slates on the garage roof needed replacing as well. “Fine,” I said, “do whatever you can.” He began to go on about the technicalities of the work while I stood there nodding my head like some rear-car-window mascot. I don’t know what he must have thought of me. I was like a zombie. All I could think of was how much I wanted him to stop, to go away. In one hand I held the trowel. In the other I held, wrapped in Kleenex, Colin’s­ heart.

  At long last he moved back to the ladder, then I walked on till I was in a part of the garden where I was hidden from his sight. There I knelt and scooped out earth from one of the flower borders. When the hole was deep enough I held my breath and forced my trembling fingers to pick up the dreadful object that lay beside me. I dropped it into the hole. Even after I had covered it up I could somehow still feel it in my hand, dry and spongy, too disgusting to contemplate.

  I patted down the soil, stood up and looked around me. It was all right; no one had seen. I put the trowel back in the toolshed and returned to the house.

  In the kitchen I washed my hands and dried them with paper towels, rubbing away at them long after they were clean and dry. It was when I lifted the lid of the trash bin to dump the sodden paper that I saw what was left of She­lagh’s wedding gift to me.

  I didn’t realise what it was at first. Just bits of broken china, I thought. But then I recognised the colours of the shaving-mug, the curving neck of the amorous swan, Leda’s head . . .

  My fingers trembled as I stooped and picked out the pieces.

  In the living-room She­lagh looked at the fragments of china I held in my hands.

  “I never thought I was marrying such a klutz,” she said. The disappointment that came through her smile was heartbreaking. Then she shrugged. “Ah, well, never mind, so what’s a priceless antique here or there . . . ?”

  In the Royal Albert Hall that evening as the rich romantic sounds of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major swept over us I was aware of She­lagh’s complete stillness at my side. I turned slowly, stealing a glance at her, saw her quite rapt; and I realised that for all my own fears she, at this moment, was happy. She knew nothing of what was happening; safe in her blissful ignorance she didn’t know how close she had been to death, of the hatred that even now awaited her in the cottage. And if I possibly could, I would keep her in that ignorance. Always . . .

  Without drawing any comment from her I had got us away from the cottage as quickly as I could; leaving with Timpson a message for Jean that we would be returning tomorrow afternoon—and this was what Shelagh also believed. I hadn’t yet mentioned to She­lagh my intention that we should return to New York on Tuesday; there would be time for that soon—the right time. Now, passionately, I looked forward to that return.

  Apart from my nagging fear of Helen—which was always with me now—I found I was also affected by anger and resentment. Yes, it was as simple as that: I was filled with anger at her. For all she had done, for the evil she had perpetrated, for the misery and terror she had caused. Angry, too, that I was being forced to run from her, that she had driven us away from the house—my house.

  From my resentment an idea began to take shape in my mind; a plan, and once lodged there it took root and grew, refusing to be budged by an external influence. And I found I had a purpose. Bruch’s violin concerto had begun, but as beautiful as it was it never, for more than moments at a time, got between me and that growing purpose . . .

  I hugged my plan, my hope to me, and it gave me strength; and that strength, plus the relief at being away from the cottage, helped me, bringing me a feeling of elation. I realised, too, that away from the cloying warmth of that welcome that always greeted me in the cottage I could think more clearly. That love, that warmth, so positive, reaching out, so totally embracing had been, I felt, like a drug to my reason and my senses . . .

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  We had booked into a hotel just off Baker Street and now, after supper, in the security of our room I held She­lagh to me. She smiled at me.

  “Oh, I feel good now. Very good.”

  “No
pain? No headaches?”

  “No pain, no headaches. Just . . . good.”

  I had drawn back the curtains and the light from the star-filled sky lit the room with shadowed greyness, softening its impersonal lines, mellowing its austerity. I drew her closer still to me, brushing back her hair as it fell across her cheek.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, “. . . let’s go home on Tuesday . . .”

  “. . . Okay . . .”

  “I think it’s the best thing. I’ll go and see Mr. Jennersen at the bank. Get him to see about selling the cottage.”

  “You’ve really decided then.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  “We’ll come back another time. One day when it’s a happier time. If you want.”

  She nodded against me in the crook of my arm. “Yes. We’ll find our own place, our own cottage. Some place of our own, where we’ll be . . . on our own.”

  “. . . What do you mean?”

  “We never were alone there, were we? How could we be?—all those memories. It’s a beautiful, beautiful place but . . . I never really felt it was ours. For me it was always so . . . so full of ghosts.”

  I turned, studying her in the dim light. Her eyes were shut and she looked peaceful. There had been no fear in her words—only sadness.

  “Yes . . .” I wrapped my arms closer round her. I felt I could never be close enough. “I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you—and you’re happy.”

  “I just want us to be together,” she said softly, her words muffled against my cheek. “I love you so much, Dave.”

  “Good, I’m glad.” Softly I kissed her.

  Long after I had drawn the curtains together again, shutting out the sky; after I had sunk back beside her on the bed, the thoughts of tomorrow came crowding back into my mind. Tomorrow, and what I had determined to do. And without She­lagh’s knowledge.

  Her breathing was soft, regular beside me. I whispered:

  “Are you asleep . . . ?”

  She stirred against me. “Almost . . .” Her voice came sleepy. “Why . . . ?”

  “I think I shall have to go and see my father before we go back to New York.” I waited for her response. There was none. “I thought maybe I’d go and see him tomorrow morning. It’ll be about the only chance I’ll have . . .”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Just to settle up a few things,” I added, continuing the lie.

  “You must do what you have to do, darling . . .”

  “Yes . . . Will you be all right on your own for a few hours . . . ?”

  “Don’t you want me to go with you?”

  I had given her a plausible excuse for my father not coming to our wedding—and she hadn’t questioned it. Now I tightened, gently, my arm around her waist. “Darling, I’m not going to see him for pleasure. It’s purely business . . .”

  Her fingers pressed my arm. “I’ll find something to do. Don’t worry about me.” After a moment she added:

  “Dave, don’t be so concerned. You think my feelings are going to be hurt because your father isn’t ready to welcome me with open arms . . . ? It doesn’t matter that much, darling, really it doesn’t.”

  I kissed the back of her neck.

  “Will you be back in time for lunch?” she murmured.

  “I don’t know. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Go to sleep now.”

  I left her sitting reading in the hotel lounge when I went off the next morning. After breakfast we had cashed some travellers’ cheques and then booked seats on a flight back to New York leaving the following day. Back at the hotel again I had made arrangements (with luck there’d been a cancellation) to keep our rooms on until tomorrow.

  “I thought we were going back to the cottage,” She­lagh said.

  “Not to stay. I don’t think so. No. We’ll just do what we have to do and then come on back here. As a matter of fact you might as well stay here while I go there. I can pack up our gear. It won’t take me long. Stay and see a bit of London while you’ve got the chance.”

  “I’d rather be with you. It wouldn’t be any fun on my own.”

  “Anyway . . . we don’t have to decide now . . .”

  One thing I had already decided: we would never spend another night at the cottage—and that’s why I’d booked the hotel room for an extra night. But the question of whether or not we were able to, in safety, had become a matter of principle to me. And to uphold that principle was part of my purpose; its success depending on whether or not I could contact Elizabeth Barton’s priest friend, and on whether or not he would be willing and able to help . . .

  I left the car in the car park and took a taxi to the address at Turnham Green where I had first seen Elizabeth Barton. Her sister answered the door. Her manner showed that Elizabeth had confided in her, I thought; she greeted me with sympathetic warmth, but then, to my disappointment, added that Elizabeth was out.

  “She’s gone back to work. I didn’t want her to, but she insisted that she felt well enough . . .”

  Well, that was it. Forget it, I told myself. Let it be. I thanked the woman, was just turning away and she said, “But why don’t you phone her at her office. Come in. You can phone her from here . . .”

  And so, fifteen minutes later I was in another taxi, armed with the address of the Reverend Ian Rogers and heading for his flat in Kensington.

  He answered at once my ring at the door; he’d been waiting for me. Inside he introduced me to his pretty young wife and then led me into a pleasantly furnished lounge where he gestured for me to be seated.

  Elizabeth Barton, he said, had told him something of the matter . . . As he spoke I studied him; he was a young man, probably not more than a couple of years older than I. Watching him I saw an economy about all his movements that smacked of calm and inner strength. Over the years I had come to associate a certain weakness exhibited in the manner of so many men-of-the-cloth, a certain fragility that spoke of their religion being a resort, a haven, a way out from the harshness of life. Here, though, studying Rogers, I was aware of no such feelings. His position as a man of God was, I instinctively felt, one occupied from strength, and certainty in his beliefs.

  I told him the whole story, everything—even to the remains of the body I had found buried in the thicket, and he sat for the most part in silence, listening intently, only occasionally interrupting to ask some relevant question for clarification. When I had finished he sat in silence for some moments then said:

  “And you want me to get rid of her.”

  “. . . Yes.”

  He sighed. “It isn’t a job I relish. I’ve had a couple such experiences in the past and the prospect of any similar task quite . . . disturbs me.” He gave a bitter smile. “I don’t mind admitting it.”

  “Then why did you agree to see me?” I asked. I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.

  “I didn’t know how—how real it was. I thought perhaps that it was all—well, in your mind . . .”

  “And in Elizabeth Barton’s mind?”

  “Well . . . she’s been under a considerable strain just lately.”

  “Yes. And now you know why.”

  He nodded. Then, after a second said:

  “You know, such a—business—isn’t very pleasant.”

  The hope that had kept me buoyant was all gone by now. I would be gone too. I moved to get up, but he stopped me, saying:

  “But there, I don’t consider I’m here only to do what is pleasant. The work to be done in God’s name isn’t always pleasant, easy. It’s not all glory and trumpets and celestial choirs and converts, believe me.” He smiled again, a brighter smile this time. “In fact it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” He paused, nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “Thank you . . .”

  “You’re staying in London right now?”

  “Yes. I left my wife at the hotel.”

  “Good. Keep her away from the
house until it’s all over.”

  “Oh, yes, I intend to.” I hadn’t told him quite everything; I hadn’t told him that we were returning to New York the next day. As far as he was concerned I wanted the cottage safe for She­lagh and me to live in.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” he asked.

  “You can go now?”

  “Let’s get it over with.”

  “About an hour, by car.” I added, “I came by taxi. My car’s still parked by the hotel. I don’t know my way around London that well.”

  “That’s all right. We’ll go in mine. Just give me a couple of minutes to get a few things together.” He got up and moved to the door. “You’re lucky, I’ve got no appointments today that can’t be put off.”

  He came back after a while carrying his jacket and briefcase. As I rose to join him he said:

  “Elizabeth told me you’ve been living in the States up till now.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you don’t intend going back.”

  I couldn’t lie to him. Not now.

  “Yes, we do. We’re going back tomorrow . . .”

  “For good?”

  “I’m not sure. We’re not coming back to the cottage, though. I’m going to sell it.”

  “Then—then why is it so important that you—you rid the place of your sister-in-law’s . . . spirit . . . ? If you’re going so soon it can’t make any difference to you one way or the other, can it?”

  “. . . Other people will go there, live there. They must be . . . safe.”

  And I was lying to him there, all right. Why should I be concerned with other people? I was after vengeance. Vengeance is mine, God said, but it would be mine, too.

  She had destroyed, and I would destroy her.

  29

  “Does your wife know where you are?” Rogers asked as he manoeuvred the car onto the motorway.

  “She thinks I’m going to see my father.” I paused, then asked:

  “Will this thing . . . take long?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  We sat in silence for a while. He said, “Go ahead and smoke if you want to,” and I took grateful refuge in a cigarette; a few more seconds, minutes killed. I felt as if I were in some kind of dream. How, when, could I ever have imagined that I might be setting out on such a mission . . . ?