Close Her Eyes

by Dorothy Simpson

  Thanet knew better than to approach the station officer in charge of operations at this particular moment. Human life came first, curiosity could be satisfied later. Though what prospect there could possibly be of saving anyone trapped inside that inferno, Thanet could not imagine.

  Out of breath, he skidded to a stop beside the two ambulancemen and showed them his warrant card.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Some crazy bastard’s trapped inside. They went in, to try and get him out, but he’d barricaded himself in the attic. Now they’re going to try and break in through the skylight.’

  Thanet looked up. The small black oblong of glass set into the roof was still black. The fire, then, had not yet penetrated there. Pritchard—for it must be he—still had a chance, if he chose to take it. No one can rescue a man determined not to be saved.

  Thanet put the question he dreaded to ask.

  ‘Where’s his wife?’

  He was scanning the faces of the watchers now, seeking Mrs Pritchard’s slight, submissive figure, that distinctive, old-fashioned bun.

  ‘Got out just in time, apparently. When she couldn’t stop him splashing petrol around she ran to the phone box and rang the fire brigade. By the time she got back, the place was well alight. He’s a real nut-case, if you ask me.’

  Petrol. That would account for the ferocity of the blaze, the speed with which the fire had gained hold. And, now that the word had been mentioned, Thanet could smell the sharp, pungent tang of it in the air.

  But Mrs Pritchard was safe, thank God, and now he spotted her, an island of immobility in the shifting, restless crowd on the far pavement. She was gazing intently upwards, the knuckles of one hand pressed against her mouth. Thanet had just begun to move towards her when there was a collective groan from the crowd, audible even above the roar and crackle of the flames.

  The black oblong in the roof was now illuminated by a flickering glow from within. The fire had reached the attic. The redness was increasing in intensity with terrifying speed, the fire feeding itself no doubt upon the accumulated clutter of a disused attic, tinder-dry from years of storage. And according to the ambulancemen, Pritchard himself had accelerated matters by piling it all into one place, against the door.

  Thanet hoped that it would not become the man’s funeral pyre.

  One of the firemen had now almost reached the skylight, which was two-thirds of the way up the roof slope. Suddenly it was flung open and Pritchard heaved himself out. The fireman steadied himself and put up his hand to grasp Pritchard’s, but Pritchard ignored him, turning his back and scrabbling to secure first one foothold then another on the upper edge of the window frame. Spreadeagled against the roof, his body contracted in readiness to spring and then launched itself upwards in a desperate lunge, hands clawing for the roof ridge.

  Along with the crowd behind him, Thanet caught his breath, tensed himself for the inevitable fall.

  But it didn’t come. With an agility born surely of desperation, Pritchard had somehow managed to secure a handhold, had hauled himself up and was now attempting to stand. Slowly, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker, he managed it, teetering slightly as he straightened up. He stood for a moment steadying himself and staring down at the furious activity below, then lifted his face to the sky.

  ‘God is my witness!’ he cried.

  The words floated faintly down to the silent watchers in the street below. Then something must have collapsed in upon itself in the attic, for almost at once and so swiftly that it was over almost before it had begun, a fountain of sparks erupted from the skylight opening, spraying out in all directions, and tongues of fire spread with lightning speed up Pritchard’s legs and body and along his outstretched arms.

  Some of the petrol, Thanet realised, must have splashed on to the man’s clothing.

  For a brief, appalling moment, Pritchard stood in flames against the sky, a horrific parody of the cross which he had always denied. Then, with an agonised scream, a seething, writhing mass of fire, he slid diagonally down the roof, cart-wheeled over the edge and landed with a sickening thud in the street below.

  Mrs Pritchard started forward with a cry as firemen rushed to put out the flames. Thanet caught her by the arm.

  ‘I should give them a few moments.’

  She stared blankly up at him for a moment, as if wondering who he was, and then she recognised him, gave a little nod. But she did not speak, simply stood watching the activity around her husband’s body, hands pressed to either side of her face.

  The flames were already extinguished, the ambulance men carefully transferring Pritchard to the waiting stretcher.

  Thanet touched Mrs Pritchard’s arm. ‘I’ll go and ask how he is.’

  Pritchard was still alive, apparently. Just.

  ‘Should think he’ll be dead on arrival, though.’

  ‘His wife’ll want to go to the hospital with him,’ said Thanet.

  ‘OK. But hurry.’

  Thanet helped Mrs Pritchard into the ambulance and then jumped in beside her. She didn’t seem to register his presence. She still hadn’t said a single word and throughout the brief journey sat staring into space.

  Shock, thought Thanet. And who could wonder? Mother, daughter, husband, home, all lost within the space of one short week. The only way to survive such an experience must be at first to blank out reality, to curl up inside yourself like a snail in a shell and stay there until some instinct tells you that you can now begin to cope with life again.

  They were almost at the hospital when the attendant who had been keeping a watchful eye on Pritchard glanced up and caught Thanet’s eye. His expression of regret and slight shake of the head were enough to tell Thanet that Pritchard was dead. Mrs Pritchard had not noticed the brief exchange of glances. Better to break the news when they were no longer cooped up with her husband’s body, Thanet decided.

  He waited until a whispered request had produced a small, private room and a cup of tea from a sympathetic night sister.

  ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Mrs Pritchard.’

  His tone had forewarned her. Suddenly she was alert, her eyes wary.

  ‘Your husband. He died, on the way to hospital.’

  For a second she froze. Then her cup began to rattle in its saucer.

  Thanet reached out, took it from her, set it on the table.

  ‘There was nothing they could do. I’m sorry.’

  She gave a fierce nod, pressed her shaking hands together. ‘Just give me a few moments.’

  Thanet waited in a sympathetic silence, admiring her effort at self-control.

  At last she flung back her head, took several deep breaths. When she looked at him again he flinched from the pain in her eyes.

  ‘He was … unbalanced,’ she said, forcing each word out with difficulty. ‘Perhaps even …’

  But she could not bring herself to say it. Thanet said nothing, waited. If Mrs Pritchard needed to talk, who else was there to listen? Her sister, perhaps, but she was far away in Birmingham. And as for her brother-in-law Jethro, or his wife … no one in a vulnerable state could possibly seek either comfort or understanding there.

  ‘You know he …?’ Again, she could not put it into words.

  He had to help her. ‘Charity, you mean?’

  She nodded. ‘He didn’t mean to … It was an accident.’ Then, fiercely, as if even now it mattered to her that her husband should be exonerated of evil intent. ‘You must believe that,’ she cried.

  ‘I do.’

  But his acceptance was not enough. Now that she had begun she had to continue, to justify, elaborate, explain. ‘It was while he was waiting for you to come back from Mrs Hodges’ house …’

  It had all happened exactly as Thanet had thought: the impulsive decision to go and look for Charity along the footpath, the lashing-out in anger, the immediate return to the house, confident that Charity would soon come creeping home in a properly chastened frame of mind. And when she didn’t, the growin
g fear that he had hit her harder than he had intended to, that she was lying unconscious, perhaps, in the alley—and, finally, the genuine grief and agony of mind when at last he saw her, dead …

  ‘I had a feeling there was something wrong, right from the beginning,’ said Mrs Pritchard miserably. ‘He was upset, of course, that was only to be expected, he really loved her, in his own way. But there was more to it than that, I was sure of it and then, when we heard that Charity had been … carrying on with someone, it was almost as if he was glad! He began to go on and on about how bad she was, how the Devil had been in her right from the day she was born … And in the end it dawned on me that what he was really saying was that it was a good thing she was dead, that he was talking as though whoever did it had done something … praiseworthy.’ Her voice cracked in disbelief.

  ‘Looking back, now, I can see that he was trying to justify himself, but that was when I began to wonder … when I began to be afraid …’ She pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth, in that characteristic gesture of hers, as if she were trying to batten down the horrific memory of her dawning suspicions.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t believe it, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw that it would make sense. I began to feel that if I couldn’t talk to someone about it, I’d go out of my mind. But I couldn’t think of anyone to go to, anyone who’d understand. This morning, when I saw you, I almost told you then … But how could I? You’re a policeman. I just couldn’t betray my own husband. And yet … If he had done this terrible thing …’

  She could control her distress no longer. Suddenly her face crumpled and the tears began to stream down her face.

  Thanet thrust a handkerchief into her hand, patted her on the shoulder and said, ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ He left the room, granting her that which she had so far denied herself, the luxury of abandoning herself to grief. Quickly, he arranged that she should be kept in hospital overnight. She would, he was assured, be given a sedative that would ensure her a good night’s sleep. Then he returned to her.

  Her eyes were red and swollen, her face puffy, but she had stopped crying and was looking calmer. She nodded gratefully when he told her of the arrangements he had made, but protested when he said that he thought it would be best for her if they continued their conversation tomorrow.

  ‘I’d much rather finish telling you tonight. Otherwise, I shall just lie awake, going over and over it in my mind.’

  ‘If you’re sure …’

  ‘I am. Truly.’

  ‘Very well.’ He sat down again.

  ‘I was trying to explain to you how I was feeling this morning …’

  ‘You were in an impossible situation.’

  She nodded, blew her nose. ‘I’d never want to live through these last few days again.’

  But you will, thought Thanet sadly, you will. In your imagination you will live them again and again. Perhaps the memory will gradually fade, the pain become less acute, but they’ll be with you till the day you die.

  ‘By this evening I felt I couldn’t stand it any longer … the doubts, the suspicions … I felt I just had to know. And there was only one way of finding out, really. I knew he’d be angry, but honestly, I was past caring …

  ‘At first, I didn’t dare ask him straight out if he’d killed her, so he didn’t know what I was talking about—or perhaps he did know, and was just pretending to misunderstand. So in the end, I asked him outright. He … he just stared at me, and for a minute I thought he was just going to walk out on me. Then he started …

  ‘He went on and on about how evil Charity had been, how the Devil had always been in her, how he thought he’d got rid of it when she was a little girl, but he hadn’t, and it had been there, lurking inside her all these years, waiting for its chance to come out into the open at last … Then he began to cry, said how much he’d loved her, that he hadn’t meant to hurt her, not Charity, his little girl … He begged me to believe that. But I must see, he said, that it was all for the best …

  ‘I just couldn’t speak, couldn’t say anything, and in the end he began to get angry with me. He said he could see I didn’t believe him, but he could prove that he had been right to do what he did. If God hadn’t wanted Charity to die, she wouldn’t have, he said, and God would give me a sign to show me that he’d only been acting as God’s instrument. If our eye offended we should pluck it out, he said, and if the evil lay in our only child, then our only course was to sacrifice that child on the altar of duty … He went on and on and I couldn’t bear it. I kept on thinking of Charity, of how much I’d loved her, how God would surely never have asked that of me … And in the end I put my hands over my ears. He was beside himself with rage then, grabbed my arms and forced my hands down. I would listen, he said, whether I liked it or not. He’d told me he could prove that he was innocent of evil and he would do so. Then he rushed out of the house.

  Thanet could guess what was coming.

  ‘When he got back he was carrying this huge can of petrol. He wasn’t shouting any more, he was quite calm. God would be his witness, he said. Like Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego he would walk through the fire unharmed and I would see at last that every word he had been saying was God’s truth. All the while he was talking he was splashing the petrol about, everywhere … in the bedrooms, down the staircase, in the sitting room … He was cool, methodical, and now I was the one who was screaming, begging him to stop. He just shook me off and went on with what he was doing …’

  Thanet already knew the rest, but he went on listening, patiently, as Mrs Pritchard told the remainder of her tragic tale. When she had finished she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, exhausted, as motionless as a mechanical doll that has run down.

  Thanet waited for a little while and then said gently, ‘He must have been in torment over the last few days.’

  She opened her eyes and there was gratitude in them, for his understanding.

  ‘He was. I think he knew, really, that there was no justification, never could be any justification for what he had done. He was desperate to convince himself otherwise—well, you saw him for yourself, tonight. In the end I don’t think he could have gone on, not knowing. I think he just had to find some way of giving himself the final proof.’

  Had Pritchard known, in the last, few agonising moments of his life, that he had been deluding himself, Thanet wondered. Perhaps Mrs Pritchard was right and deep down inside he had known all along that he was, and had come to feel that he could not live with the knowledge.

  Mrs Pritchard had closed her eyes again. Now that she had unburdened herself, perhaps she would be able to rest. Quietly, he left the room, went to fetch the Sister.

  Before she was led gently away Mrs Pritchard attempted a smile. ‘Thank you for listening to me.’

  Thanet touched her shoulder and left.

  Outside, on the hospital steps, he paused to take in great lungfuls of fresh air. He felt as though he were sloughing off the claustrophobic, unnatural atmosphere of Pritchard’s world and emerging into a universe where sanity was the norm and optimism possible again. His car, he remembered, was still parked near Town Road and he decided that the walk would do him good. For once he would break his own rule and leave writing up the day’s reports until tomorrow.

  In the car, the pace of his driving reflected the exhaustion that was beginning to steal over him and by the time he turned into his own driveway he could think of nothing but falling into bed and sinking into oblivion. He couldn’t be bothered to put the car away, but left it in the drive. As he trudged wearily to the front door he was surprised to see a line of light around the sitting room curtains. His mother-in-law was usually in bed long before this. There must be something on television she especially wanted to see, he decided, as he let himself in. Yes, the sitting room door was ajar and he could hear the murmur of conversation.

  As he shut the door behind him the sound cut out.

  ‘Luke?’

  He
stood stock still. Joan’s voice? Surely he had imagined it.

  There was a movement within the room, a shadow across the band of light spilling into the hall, and the door opened wide.

  Joan stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t. She wouldn’t be home for two more endless weeks. This vision had been conjured up by his own tiredness, need and longing.

  ‘Darling? Are you all right?’

  The light in the hall clicked on and now he had to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Joan really was here, only a few steps away. Without a word he opened his arms and she came into them, smiling, kissing his cheek and then laying her head against his shoulder. He folded his arms around her, burying his face in the springy golden curls, breathing in the unique smell of her.

  She was real, she was here.

  Even in the days of their courtship, when to see and hold her had been his paramount need, Thanet could not remember feeling quite like this. It was as if the body pressed against his was truly the other half of him and only in her presence was he complete. He closed his eyes and let the joy and peace wash over him.

  They stood for a moment or two longer and then she leaned back in his arms and wrinkled her nose at him. ‘You smell like Bonfire night.’

  If only she knew why, Thanet thought. Briefly, the horrifying image of the burning cross that had been Charity’s father flashed across his mind and he was pierced by a painful shaft of pity for them all—for Pritchard, for Mrs Pritchard and for Charity, their ill-starred daughter, doomed by heredity and environment to her brief, unhappy life and untimely death. With an effort he wrenched his thoughts back to the present and essayed a smile. ‘Do I?’

  She was watching his face. ‘What is it, darling? What’s happened?’

  He shook his head and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Tell you later.’

  She waited for a moment to see if he would say anything more and, when he didn’t, stepped back a little. Smiling, she lifted her hands as if to display herself. ‘Well … surprised?’