by Vicary, Tim
‘Hi, Mum. We’re back.’
A pair of grubby, smelly, paint-sprayed global protesters shambled into her living room and collapsed in happy exhaustion on the sofa. Her seventeen year old daughter Emily was wearing some sort of ex-army battledress fatigue, torn and ripped and covered with pink and purple day-glo painted slogans - for extra camouflage, no doubt - and her hair, Sarah saw, was bright green. Beside her, his fingers locked through hers, lounged Larry, with his wispy beard and ponytail, in black jeans, combat boots, and ancient leather jacket. Both young people’s faces shone with simple happiness.
‘Did you see the demo on telly?’
‘It was tremendous. Three hundred thousand, the pigs say, but it must have been nearer a million. There were banners and music everywhere ...’
‘You couldn’t hardly move ...’
‘People from all over Europe - China even!’
‘And huge balloons in Trafalgar Square!’
Sarah had given little thought to this since the quarrel with Bob last week. She had seen the TV news briefly in the hotel, but had forgotten what the protest was about. It looked like fun, though, and they were back safely - that was all that mattered. For a while she carried on ironing, asking questions and listening to their cheerful responses, then they made themselves something to eat and took it up to Emily’s bedroom where the music started booming away.
Bob came in, looking shattered. She switched off the iron, all the clothes in a neat pile, and boiled the kettle for tea. ‘How did it go?’
‘Oh, fine, I suppose.’ He slumped at the table wearily, listening to the sound from upstairs. ‘Emily’s back, I see.’
‘Yes, they’ve been telling me about it. They had a great time.’
‘I’m glad someone did.’
She made two mugs of tea and joined him, studying his face carefully. He looked drawn, weary, sad. ‘You didn’t, you mean?’
‘Not really, no.’ He sipped the tea gratefully. ‘Oh, the conference was all right - boring, of course, but then administration always is.’
‘And the hotel?’
‘Fine.’ He helped himself to a biscuit, avoiding her watching eyes. So it’s Stephanie, she thought vindictively. Well, serve the bastard right. But then ...
His eyes met hers, then looked nervously away. ‘We, um, said some rather unpleasant things yesterday, at the wedding ...’
‘You did, you mean.’
‘We both did, Sarah, be fair. I’ve been thinking about that over the weekend. I ... probably shouldn’t have said what I did.’
‘Sorry, I think is the word you’re looking for,’ she prompted, when no more followed. But then I said those things too. Worse, probably, last week.
‘Yes, all right, sorry then.’ He looked up, searching for forgiveness. ‘I wish I’d stayed at the wedding now. Did you have a good time?’
‘Yes, pretty good. I danced with Terry Bateson. He sent me flowers afterwards. Look - in that vase.’ So there, she thought, I’ve said it. No concealment necessary.
‘Your admirer, you mean?’ He gazed at the extravagant, expensive bouquet, the painful thought clear on his face: a woman doesn’t get flowers like that from a man unless ...
‘My admirer, yes. He was very kind and attentive.’
‘Sarah, you didn’t ...?’
‘How did it go with Stephanie, Bob?’ There was a time, Sarah thought, that I looked up to this man. He was older than me, wiser, endlessly patient and attentive. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have anything I value. Not this house, not these children, nor my career either. I could never have even begun studying without Bob’s support. He was my rock, my foundation, my safe haven. He was never forceful or aggressive, but I never wanted him to be; I could do that for myself. Yet I always respected him, until now. Something’s changed: perhaps he feels age creeping up, or the world’s altered and he doesn’t understand it any more.
Or he fell in love with someone else and broke the thing that mattered.
Either way this isn’t a man to look up to; it’s one who’s uncertain, hurt, afraid. Afraid of me. The foundations of our marriage are shifting; I don’t need him any more, I could leave if I choose. And I might, too.
‘Stephanie ... oh, she had a great time, I think. As far as I could tell.’
‘But not with you, Bob, you mean?’
‘Not with me, no.’ He heaved a long, weary sigh. ‘There were several younger men there, Sarah, and she spent a great deal of time with one of those. Wrapped around him, in fact; it was quite embarrassing. And, er, rather painful, I must admit. It showed me what a fool I’ve been for the past few weeks. It must have been painful for you, too, I should think.’
He gazed at her like a man waking from a dream. But Sarah wasn’t about to forgive him just yet. I could make him crawl, she thought. Will that help, or make things worse? How could I stay with a man I despised?
‘Painful?’ she said, ‘Yes, it was. But what’s sauce for the gander, Bob, might just be sauce for the goose as well.’
‘Don’t say that, Sarah, please.’ Bob glanced at the flowers. ‘Don’t start something that might go wrong.’
‘Why not? You did.’ Even when I threw up, she thought, my lover was a perfect gentleman. I could ring him now, if I dared; leave Bob here, show him how much it hurts.
Bob reached across the table for her hand, his fingers warm from the tea, his grip firm. ‘I’m not going to plead, if that’s what you want.’ Sarah considered pulling away but didn’t. Their hands knew each other, after all; had done for eighteen years. ‘I’ve been a fool, I see that now. But I could never have left you for Stephanie, that wasn’t what it was about, at all.’
‘Oh, so she was just a bit of fun, was she? A shag on the side?’
He winced. ‘You always had a cruel way with words, Sarah. But if I wanted that it never happened. Never will now.’
Poor feeble sheep, Sarah thought. But then who am I to talk? Neither of us seem to have the gift for adultery.
But if I want to, I will. Next time. If there is a next time.
‘Ooops, sorry!’ Emily poked her head into the kitchen, saw her parents holding hands across the table, staring earnestly into each other’s eyes. ‘I’m just going into town for a while with Larry, okay? Be back before ten.’
‘All right,’ Sarah said. ‘Take care.’
‘Will do, Mum, Dad. Aged parents.’ Emily beamed at them, Larry’s arm draped carelessly round her shoulder. ‘Behave yourselves now, while we’re out.’
‘We’ll try,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll try really hard.’
40. Flight Plan
‘IT’S A pity you had to leave so soon,’ Andrew Walters said.
‘I know, Dad, but I have to think of Bruce as well. And Sophie. Look, Dad, I’ve been here a week longer than I expected, but I have to go home some time and ... I can’t bring Shelley back to life, can I?’
‘No. No one can do that, sadly. Or get revenge, as your mother seems to want.’
Miranda looked out of the car window as the high, bare hills of the Pennines flashed by in the early morning light. It wasn’t a line of conversation she wanted to encourage, and besides, her father needed all his attention for the driving. Since the trial he had been sunk in gloom, sitting alone in his study when he was at home, but frequently out of the house, either walking the dog or God knows where - most likely with the mistress her mother had told her about. Well, she was welcome to him, Miranda thought; he was the shadow of the father she remembered, a broken, exhausted, incommunicative man barely able to stumble through everyday tasks, let alone give support to his wife and daughter. And her mother was little better. Since her arrest she had seemed defeated, more like a child than the forceful mother she had once been. The verdict had diminished both parents, kicking them violently down the slippery slope towards second childhood. The only responsible adult left in the family was Miranda herself.
Responsible. Miranda smiled bitterly to herself. The plan that obsessed her now was
the opposite of that. I’m a mother with a child and a husband - those are my responsibilities. Not this, not ...
But it was a perfect plan, and it filled her mind, to the exclusion of everything else. It had come to her like that, clear and simple and deadly, at four o’clock in the morning. For hours she had tossed and turned, consumed by fury and frustration, knowing what she wanted to do but unable to work out how. And then suddenly there it was, all the details exact and precise, the result beautifully satisfying, the escape route certain, the revenge - if it all worked out as it surely must - so sweet she could taste it on her tongue.
It was risky, surely, but possible - more than possible, certain, if only she made no mistake - and if she achieved it, as she surely would if she kept her nerve, then no one else need ever know. And that would make it perfect.
But first she had to attend to each detail, one by one. And this trip with her father was the first.
In the car park at Manchester airport she hunted up a trolley while he lifted her suitcase from the boot. At the check-in desk she turned to wish him goodbye. ‘I’ll send you a text when I get there, Dad, all right? And if you want to ring me use the mobile, all right, or better still, send a text, it’s easier. You know how you and Mum are always getting the time difference wrong and waking us up in the middle of the night. I’ll be jet-lagged, I’ll need my sleep.’
‘All right, love. Just so long as we know you’re safe.’
‘I will be. But I may be in a hotel in New York, if the flights are all full to Wisconsin. If you ring too soon you’ll upset Bruce, you know what he’s like.’
‘Okay, love. Take care. You’re all we have now, you know.’
‘I know, Dad.’ He hugged her tightly, tears in his eyes. Then she walked away, through the security check, into the international lounge. Her father went for a coffee until the flight was called, then went outside onto the viewing platform to wave as the plane took off.
Entering Gillygate two days later, David Kidd crossed to the sunny side of the street. It was only a hundred yards to his flat, but after so many months locked up on remand, the warmth of the sun on his skin was important to him. Every little sensation - the roar of a bus, the scent of bread from a bakery, the chime of the Minster clock - helped him to savour his freedom. It was a freedom he didn’t intend to lose; prison and the trial had scared him, and the rational part of him knew that next time - and there was bound to be a next time - he might not be so lucky.
Entering his flat, he saw the little red light flashing, which meant he had a message. He picked up the phone and dialled 1571. To his surprise, he recognized the voice of the American girl who’d come to his flat the other night. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again, but here she was - speaking from a train station or airport, to judge by the background noise.
‘Hi. It’s me. David, it was sweet of you to make me breakfast that morning and I left rather suddenly, I’m afraid, without thanking you properly. I think I was a bit woozed probably, had too much to drink. Anyway, I enjoyed our evening together and I’ve got a draft of my article to show you. So wondered if we could go out again, maybe in that fancy car you mentioned. If you’re free, that is. My mobile number is ...’
He was pleased. It seemed the roofies had worked this time, wiped the girl’s memory clean so that she had no idea what had gone on under the influence. Either that or she’d enjoyed it. Anyway he’d liked the girl, and why not? She’d be going back to the States in few days so there’d be no ties. All he had to do was be careful, not let himself get out of control.
So he rang back, and made a date to meet that evening.
David went into the bathroom to wash his hands, glancing casually at the bath to his left as he did so.
41. Lotus
‘SO YOU came?’
‘Sure, why not? I brought the article.’ Miranda pulled two sheets of folded paper from her bag.
‘I’ll read it later. Over a meal.’ David stood in the door of his flat, devouring her with his eyes. He seemed to have dressed for the occasion - pressed jeans, snakeskin boots, a soft silk shirt. But he looked flushed and nervous, too, more than Miranda had expected. Was some part of his strange perverted mind worried about the impression he was creating, perhaps? Hoping she would love him while he abused her, was that it? Too late for that now, sonny boy.
Miranda had dressed carefully too, in a way that she hoped would give her control. She wore tight black trousers, a short white top showing her belly, and a soft suede jacket of her mother’s. Enough, she hoped, to give him the message that she was respectable, persuade him to take her out somewhere decent. At least make him pause before he jumped her.
She wasn’t wearing heels though, but old black trainers. She carried a small handbag slung over her left shoulder. All the rest of her luggage she’d left in New York two days ago. ‘It’s my last night,’ she said with an attempt at a smile. ‘I’ve got to fly home tomorrow. I thought maybe you could drive me to the station.’
‘What, you’re not staying?’
‘In the morning,’ she said as sweetly as she could. ‘The train leaves at nine.’
‘Oh yeah? You’re hoping to be up by then?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I can take a taxi. I just thought ...’
‘Don’t worry. Where you flying from? Heathrow?’
‘Manchester. At 12.30.’
‘Okay. No worries - I’ll drive you. It’s quicker in the Lotus.’
It was the reaction she had hoped for. Her plan hinged around the boasts he had made about his Lotus last time they had met. It was his biggest toy, it seemed; he had to show it to her. ‘What about tonight?’
‘Well ...’ He slid one hand round her waist and pulled her to him, urging her lips apart with his own and forcing his tongue into her mouth while his other hand squeezed her bottom. This was the worst part; she was expecting something like this but still she tensed, every part of her rigid with fear and rage. He laughed, pressing her hard against him. But it was no use fighting; she had to go through this, or her plan would fail. She forced herself to relax, closing her eyes and letting her muscles go limp as though she was in a yoga session and not here at all, jammed up against the wall with his thumb inside her knickers and ...
‘No! No, wait.’
‘What for? Come on, now, darling.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s do it in the Lotus.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since you told me you had a car like that, I ...’
‘Are you crazy?’ He paused, considering the idea. ‘There’s no room.’
‘I’ll make room. It’s speed that does it for me. Please, David. It’ll be ...’ Words failed her for a second. ‘Like nothing you’ve ever had in your life. I promise.’
‘All right.’ He pulled back, grinning, while she adjusted her clothing. ‘It better be good though.’
‘It will. Ever since I was a kid I’ve liked screwing in cars. Come on, let me see it.’
Somehow she had regained the initiative. He was only an overgrown boy, after all, she had managed enough of those in her youth. Not half as strong as Bruce - God if he was here, this jerk would be a pile of bones on the floor. Well, he will be.
‘Where do you keep this car?’
‘In a lock-up at the end of the road. I’ll show you.’
They walked along Gillygate to Lord Mayor’s Walk, the little man swaggering assertively beside her. Two ivy covered garages nestled under the city wall behind the houses. ‘How did you get this?’ Miranda asked as they approached the one on the left.
David jerked his thumb at one of the houses on the right, where an elderly man was watching them through a window. ‘Old guy over there can’t drive, lets me have it for a tenner a week. It’s worth it, you’ll see. Car like this left outside, the wheels’d be gone in five minutes.’
The door slid up smoothly. David flicked a switch and a covered shape appeared. That’s him, she thought, fus
sy bastard. A brick garage isn’t enough, he needs a dust cover too. As he pulled back the cover the nose of the gleaming grey Lotus Elise emerged. David touched it with his fingertips gently.
She was glad it was grey. She’d feared it might be bright yellow or red, the sort of car no one could easily forget. A Lotus was conspicuous enough, but she didn’t get to choose. For her plan to work, she had to use whatever car he owned. A Mini would have done just as well.
She waited while he drove it out and opened the driver’s door. ‘Come on, get in.’
He locked the garage door, then climbed back in beside her. ‘There, what do you think?’
‘You’re right, it’s quite snug.’
‘All the power’s in the engine.’ He put his hand on her knee, squeezing it roughly. ‘I’ll put her through her paces on the way to the coast. Then I’ll put you through yours.’
As Terry sat at his desk, gloomily considering his situation, his phone rang. A woman’s voice - light, husky, slightly nervous.
‘Hi, Terry. It’s Sarah. Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Just rang to thank you for the flowers. That was a nice gesture, Terry. I appreciated it.’
Flowers? He struggled to remember what she was talking about. ‘Oh, good. I’m glad you liked them.’
‘Exactly what I needed to restore my confidence after the fiasco of the night before. I do apologize for that, Terry, really.’
‘Nothing to apologize for.’ He smiled at the memory. Sarah’s voice, however, sounded embarrassed.
‘I, er, felt pretty silly next morning. I hope you don’t think too badly of me for it.’
‘Sarah, don’t torture yourself. I was flattered, really.’ Terry struggled to find the right words. ‘I’ve always ... I mean, perhaps we can meet for dinner sometime.’