“No, I’m not, Tom”, murmured Emily almost inaudibly.
“What have I done?” asked Beckett in a sudden surge of disappointed anger.
“Please don’t hate me,” replied Emily, clutching her tumbler to quell her shaking hands as she stared into the depths of the glass.
“Please don’t hate me,” she repeated.
“I don’t hate you, Emily, what the hell makes you think that, have I done something to upset you?”
As he completed the question he felt an internal kick to the back of his head, he swooned and shook his head.
“Christ, I’m going to have to give up the booze,” he gasped. Beckett stood up, his right leg buckling, and reached out to the wall for support. Emily appeared horrified as she watched him stumble.
“Tom, are you okay?”
“No Em, I think the whisky has done me in, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Shit...”
Fear seized Emily Spelman. She had no idea what the drug was that Slingsby had procured and she had no inkling that it would take effect so quickly.
She sprang to her feet and went to his side. He raised his hand to ward her off but in doing so, he lost his balance and staggered against her. Somehow, Emily caught him and held him upright as best she could whilst their fellow drinkers followed Becketts drug induced dance around the floor. A few tut-tutted with disapproval, others smiled knowingly.
The barman watched Beckett’s antics and quickly came to her aid.
“Do you need a hand, miss?” he enquired, yet instantly grasped Beckett as Emily struggled to prop up the maladroit man.
“What the hell am I to do!” she demanded despairingly of the barman, who had no idea of the true meaning of her wretched words.
“Don’t worry. Hold on a sec and I’ll get a pass key, I know Mr Beckett.”
The barman swiftly returned and together they helped Beckett up the two flights of stairs, the Bristolian apologising profusely all the way. Beckett’s seemingly drunken insistence that his physical state was inexplicable fell upon the barman’s discrete ears. The barman passed Emily the key and together they helped Beckett into his room and on to the bed. Had Slingsby been watching he would have considered that the plan was proceeding extremely well.
From Emily’s point of view there was no plan, she felt utterly distraught. All that concerned her now was the well-being of Tom Beckett, for he seemed to have lost all motor coordination yet appeared to be far from unconscious.
“Will you be okay?” asked the Barman tenderly.
“Thank you,” said a flustered Emily, keen to be rid of the man for fear that he would detect her guilt if he stayed a second longer.
Emily struggled to remove Beckett’s sodden coat, he alternated his protests with apologises as she rolled him over to extricate him from the garment. She threw the coat on the floor by the door and laboriously unlaced his hiking boots, letting them fall to the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed.
“Thanks, Em.” His voice was beginning to sound a little more slurred, for which she was grateful and horrified in equal measure; she knew now for certain that she really was not cut out to be Lady Macbeth.
“Em, I don’t feel well,” there was a sudden terror in Beckett's voice. Emily stood at the foot of the bed staring at the prostrate Beckett. “Em, I don’t feel well,” he repeated. He started to cry, pitiful moans of self-reproach, “I didn’t drink that much, honestly, it’s not fair, I didn’t drink nothing!” he managed to say, each word punctuated by sobs.
Emily reached a monumental conscious decision of life altering consequences, perhaps the first selfless decision she had ever made. She slowly took off her coat and walked to the side of the bed where she carefully laid down beside the weeping man. She placed her arm tenderly around him and cradled his head against her warm breasts, whilst gently stroking his wet hair.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she whispered in his ear before she too began to cry uncontrollably as the clock on the Crooked Spire struck midnight.
CHAPTER 23. OUT OF THE FRYING PAN AND INTO THE SLAUGHTER.
The car windscreen wipers beat a steady rhythm against the persistent rain. Emily sat quietly in the passenger seat, her legs tucked under her body, her head pillowed against the side of the car by her red coat. She felt exhausted, physically and mentally. She said very little during the night drive from Chesterfield in the early hours of Monday morning, she did not even ask where they were going.
Her eyes were closed against the world and the preceding twelve hours. They had succeeded in what they had set out to do, but she took no pleasure from the outcome.
When Slingsby had first informed her about the great relic that was being surreptitiously traded, she was excited and saw the possibilities that revealing the sword could offer. She had imagined TV interviews, a documentary, naturally presented by herself, concerning the history of the blade and of Anglo Saxon history in general. She savoured the garnered respect bestowed on her by the stuffy aging clique who ran Oxford, who had held her back all these years. Yet somehow, all this now seemed a ridiculous pipedream despite them possessing the sword, or perhaps because of the way the sword had been obtained.
There had been no feeling of triumph or elation as she left the hotel and joined the waiting Slingsby. He had been annoyed, berating her for her tardiness. She had not forgotten the fear he had instilled in her only a few hours before. Hence, their departure from Chesterfield had been conducted in silence and trepidation and the journey had continued in a similar manner as she wallowed in self-recrimination.
It was after four o’clock on Monday morning that Slingsby drove into the still sleeping world of Wells-next-the-Sea. Emily sensed that they were nearing the journeys end.
“Where are we?” she asked sleepily.
“Wells-next-the-Sea,” said Slingsby in an upbeat manner that may or may not have been genuine, it was certainly not the Slingsby from Queens Park.
“When do we reach Oxford?” she asked.
“We don’t, we’ll be staying here for a few days.”
“Why?”
“‘Cos we stay here for a few days to let the fuss die down,” replied Slingsby, the laid-back manner of his voice dissipating with every word he spoke.
Emily lowered her feet to the floor and realised how stiff her legs had grown after having had them in the same position for several hours. She looked about her, peering into the sodium lit, orange world hoping to gain sight of a familiar landmark. Slingsby navigated the silent streets with apparent familiarity and parked the car in a small car park nestled between the town houses. He climbed laboriously out of the car, reached for a cigarette from his sport coat pocket, lit up, and took a long slow draw.
“Come on, old girl. Out of the car,” he said firmly.
Emily Spelman reluctantly left the warmth of the womb-like interior and shivered as she watched her breath condense in the cold damp morning air. The rain had stopped but the dew hung heavily about them. Slingsby grabbed a suitcase from the boot and carried the wooden sword case in his other hand.
“Come on, Emily,” he said more forcibly and walked off into the dark morning gloom.
Emily followed him, noting what she took to be a village green edged with large dormant trees surrounded by Georgian houses. She watched Slingsby pause outside one of the properties to allow her to catch up. By the time she had reached the gate in the small brick garden wall Slingsby had already unlocked the heavy door, bordered by two ornate white Greek columns standing as sentinels on either side. She reluctantly followed him, she felt too weary to argue or do anything other than what he ordered. He hovered in the hallway, waiting for her to enter and closed the heavy door behind her.
A high ceilinged hallway with a staircase off to the right greeted her; the walls were painted in a deep red and seemed to close in ominously around her. Still carrying the two cases, Slingsby mounted the stairs two at a time. She obediently followed as he led her into a large bedroom at the rear of the property. It was a beautiful
ly furnished room dominated by a king size bed, adorned by a plump, inviting red duvet. Slingsby put the two cases in one corner of the room.
“Make yourself at home; I’m desperate for a slash,” he said as he made for the en suite bathroom.
She lowered herself onto the bed and immediately the plush quilt caressed her weary body as she listened to Slingsby whistling an irritating tune in the adjoining room. Whilst in the car, it had not occurred to her how damp her jeans were following the evening spent in the rain with Beckett, but against the inviting warmth of the quilt, she felt cold and clammy. She struggled to pull her boots off, forced herself to stand up, and unfastened her cloying jeans. She quickly undressed and snatched a long tee shirt from the case, which she hurriedly pulled on before Slingsby returned.
Emily trudged apathetically towards the bathroom with her washing kit and instinctively flinched as she passed the journalist as he re-emerged into the bedroom, she fixed her eyes on the cream carpet to avoid looking at him.
Staring into the bathroom mirror, she scarcely recognised the face she saw, she did not look or feel like the Emily of only a few days ago. She looked tired and was frightened by the haunted look in her eyes.
Upon her return to the bedroom, she discovered Slingsby already ensconced in the bed, his clothes in an untidy pile by the side of the bed. He pulled back the duvet in an open invitation to Emily. She really did not want to get into bed with him but she felt too weary to protest. All she craved for was sleep and oblivion.
“Come on, a few hours’ kip and we’ll both feel a lot better.” He smiled at her, the old smile she remembered from happier times. She padded slowly towards the bed; the thick pile carpet nuzzling at her feet as if she was walking on shifting sand. Climbing into bed, she curled into a comforting foetal position as he slid across and wrapped a protective arm around her but all she sensed was the memory of his fierce grip from their encounter in the park. Slingsby pulled the quilt up over them both.
“You sleep tight, you’ll be fine. Just think of what we can now do,” said Slingsby softly.
“I won’t sleep.” It was her first words since abandoning the car. “I won’t sleep, I feel disgusted,” she spat. Despite her words, she fought the disjointed thoughts that were racing through her head. She tried to rearrange them into a semblance of order but fatigue ruined her efforts and her mind became a morass of clouded images.
“Don’t then,” said Slingsby gently, “you just lie there and relax.” He withdrew his arm from around her and drew his body away from her so that he could gently caress her back. His hand moved in a slow circular motion and he felt her body tense and relax against his palm.
“I reckon I could fall in love with you, Emily, if I wasn’t such a selfish bastard,” he said quietly. He continued by telling her of all the things they would do in the coming days, he told her of his dreams and ambitions, his hopes and unusually, of his fears. Emily missed all of Paul Slingsby’s words of hope as she had fallen soundly asleep.
Emily had no idea how long she slept, she guessed the time to be after eight o’clock on Monday morning, judging by the level of daylight that illuminated the bedroom. She awoke in response to the attentions of Slingsby. She did not want to make love; she was aghast to think that after Sunday night he would ever think she would be prepared to have sex with him again. She had gone along with the sex as an admittedly pleasurable sideline from their business venture. Slingsby was a skilful lover and teacher and to her own shame, she admitted she was more than a willing student.
Emily was a naively passionate woman; she knew she was considered to be attractive by men and to be a threat by women. Yet she had badly miscalculated her influence over the veteran journalist and whatever relationship they had was in tatters following Slingsby’s intimidation and the subsequent drugging of Beckett. She had foolishly revealed intimate things to him, which he had now threatened to use against her. She was now a criminal and did not like the feeling one bit; she was not cut out to play Bonnie and Clyde.
Emily was about to protest when Slingsby’s hips suddenly ceased their tentative thrusting. Although she welcomed it, the abrupt cessation was disturbing and unexpected. She manoeuvred her head to look over her shoulder at her partner in crime but before she could complete the turn, she saw the reason why he aborted his attempts at lovemaking. A short man in his twenties stood in the doorway watching them with a naughty boy smirk on his face. He styled his brown hair in a crew cut and wore a baggy grey sweatshirt with stylishly faded jeans.
“Good morning! Please don’t stop on my account, I was hoping to enjoy the show,” said the man.
“What the hell are you doing here?” shouted Slingsby. Emily thought he sounded embarrassed and certainly more than a little angry.
“Well, it is our house, Mr Slingsby, just thought I’d drop by and survey the old property.” Emily noticed the American accent, East Coast, New England.
“But...” Slingsby did not know what to say.
“May I introduce myself, Dr Spelman,” said the American as he raised and pointed a Browning Automatic pistol, “please, both of you remain quite still.” He moved quickly and agilely to the foot of the bed.
“I’m Brad; you’ve been dealing with my Pops for the past few months. Unfortunately I’m not like Pops, he’s the man of integrity, I’m just the wayward younger son.” The man talked with confidence and perhaps a rehearsed precision. “When Pops embarked on this odyssey to England he brought me along with him, thinking that a little taste of European culture would do me good. And it has, I know how to eat properly with a knife and fork, how not to shovel my peas, I know that a faucet is a tap,” he tapped his gun on an imaginary surface before him, “and I walk on a pavement not a sidewalk. And I just love cul-de-sacs and duel carriageways, it’s oh so fucking colonial. And the women, well just take a look at what we have here.”
“Does your father know you’re here?” asked Slingsby, finding his voice. He may have discovered his voice but still considered it imprudent to move.
“No, Pops thinks we took a car to discover the delights of Cornwall, wherever the fuck that is. No, my visit here was our own inspiration. We listened to all this shit that was going on, pieced together the story and thought, hey, we could steal a little action here. This sword that people kept talking about in reverential terms is our ticket away from the families that think were so stupid!”
Brad’s voice rose to a crescendo at the end of his speech. It sent a shiver down Emily Spelman’s spine. She listened how he spoke as opposed to what he said. She was used to a world of impassioned calmness, where displays of overt emotion were considered a weakness. She could certainly detect emotional frailty in the young man, and such a weakness and a firearm were not a promising combination.
“I’ve been expecting your arrival. I’ve had to live pretty frugally, I didn’t want the house to look lived in, but hey, I needn’t have worried, all you two love birds wanted was to hit the sack.” Brad walked over to where the cases lay in the corner of the room. Slingsby sat upright, causing Emily to scurry lower down the bed to hide herself from the intruder. Slingsby noticed that the sword case was already missing.
A well of despair opened up before Paul Slingsby. He had been in many bad situations as an investigative journalist, he had made business dealings with some shady characters to whom he was heavily in debt, and he knew this situation was as about as bad as it gets. To him life, since the year dot, was made up of players and victims. There was nothing in life quite as wretched as a victim, someone who had no control over their life; victims were the playthings of the players. The players hunted, the victims starved. The players made money, the victims went broke. The players had guns, the victims sat naked in bed.
Slingsby was a victim, he no longer determined his destiny, but worse still, he exercised no control over the fate of the woman at his side who he now belatedly decided he loved. He remembered how he always considered love to be a human failing, but at this moment the pa
ssion he felt for the woman next to him was all he had left in the world.
“I’d like you to come with me, Paul; I have something to show you.” Brad beckoned with the gun for Slingsby to extricate himself from the bed. He slowly pulled the quilt to one side and slid out of the bed.
“Please, Mr Slingsby, you have an admirable body, but please do put your pants on.” Slingsby hastily pulled on his trousers and felt better for concealing his nakedness, a strange reassurance had he been in a position to appreciate it. Brad indicated with the gun that he wished Slingsby to head for the bedroom door. “Kindly remain where you are, Miss Spelman.”
“Doctor, if you please,” said Emily defiantly from the assumed sanctuary of the bed.
“Oh, I do please, Doctor, and you could certainly please me,” replied Brad. He stooped low, with one hand he bundled up Emily’s clothes, and threw them out through the open bedroom door. He returned to the corner of the room and picked up the suitcase before ushering Slingsby out of the room at gunpoint. Emily heard the turn of a key in the door, audibly informing her of her incarceration.
Slingsby led the way downstairs and along the hallway towards the kitchen until he approached a small door in the sidewall beneath the stairs. Brad gesticulated that Slingsby should open the door. Before him, a dark stairway descended into a basement.
Slingsby padded carefully down the stone steps into darkness, the steps felt cold and frightening against his bare feet. He trembled with fear as he sank into the black void. As he progressed, the nightmarish gloom of the unknown embraced him like a cloak and he placed his hand against the right-hand rough hued stone wall for reassurance. Brad threw a switch and a harsh unshaded light bulb flooded the space. Slingsby blinked and shielded his eyes against the punishing glare. The cellar was smaller than he imagined and appeared to be dry but still possessed a dank, subterranean muskiness. It was clearly a laundry room; a washing machine and drier were plainly visible in the unflinching light.
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