“It’s a good age,” Harry said, staring back. “We won’t have time to go off each other or regret it.”
“It only took me five years with Mario,” she said, but realised she’d once again said quite the wrong thing. “But I won’t go off you, Harry. I’m big enough to know my own mind now.”
“We can do the marriage thing then?”
Sylvia was stunned. She’d been waiting and hoping for affection, a vague declaration, even sex, close encounters of the first kind and warm winter cuddles. But an offer of marriage had never occurred to her in any shape or form. “Are you sure you want such a thing?” she asked, puzzled. “People just live together these days.”
“I don’t,” he said, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m old fashioned, can’t imagine why.”
“Then let’s get married,” she said. “Crazy idea. But I do think I’m in love. It feels like it, except being a bit different to the first time. But then, the first time didn’t last. But he was rich, which was useful.”
“I’m not. You know that.”
“Do you want to come and live at the Rochester? Then you could sell this house and you’d be rich too.”
Clearly Harry’s plans hadn’t developed that far. “Well, perhaps. The money would obviously belong to both of us, with us living in your house.”
“Otherwise,” she laughed, “I’d have to do the housework.”
“We could hire a cleaner.”
“And a chef?” Sylvia snuggled back down next to him and kissed his ear, then both eyes, the tip of her tongue across his eyelids. “No. Come to my place. It’ll only cost a tiny bit to add your name to the list of residents, and then if we become senile, it’s easy to get a nurse in like a couple of the others. It’s comfy and spacious and the chef is good, and we do what we like. There’s space enough for some of your belongings, but not everything of course. There’s no room for two double beds.” She paused, then swallowed. “Am I being too bossy. I get controlling after living alone for so long. Sorry. Have you gone off the idea of marrying me yet?”
“What, and being rich overnight? And getting rid of most of this vile furniture which I hate. It was almost all my wife’s choice anyway.” He smothered a yawn. “Sleep now. Tomorrow we can be sensible and make sensible plans. Now I’m just simmering with happiness. All bubbles. I may burst.”
She said, “If you change your mind in the morning, just tell me.”
Neither changed their minds, and Harry helped with her zip, and she threatened to help with his, and he drove her home with a wide and persistent grin that made him look slightly drunk.
They had missed breakfast, so they went straight to Sylvia’s bedroom and lay down on her bed, immediately close. He brought his knees up behind hers and wrapped one arm around her waist. It was true, she didn’t have much of a waist at all, but he found it delectably cosy. “You’ve got a nicer bed than mine.”
“Yours was lovely.”
Harry nuzzled the back of her neck and whispered in her ear. “I bought it after Audrey died and got some linens I liked better. Nothing against Audrey, just that her taste wasn’t my taste. I’ll tell you about her one day if you ever want to hear.”
“You don’t want a church, do you?”
“Absolutely not.” Harry decided that more love-making already might be beyond his powers and hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to that blue stuff everyone talked about. “And you don’t want a long white dress and a reception with two hundred guests, do you?”
She giggled, muffled by his arm. “Don’t be daft. We could slip off to a Registry Office and then have a drink at your pub. Or do the marriage here with one of those celebrant people. Anyway. There’s time for all that. We’ve got three weeks of banns first. They still do those things, don’t they?”
“No idea.” He smiled at the ceiling. “I think my smile’s permanent now. Etched in.” He seemed to fit so comfortably into the mattress, as if it had been designed for him. Already he felt at home, loving her taste, the furnishings – and the luxury he had so rarely experienced in the past. “Are you still tired?” he asked the back of her neck. “I’m sleepy too. Perhaps it comes with unexpected happiness. Go to sleep then. It doesn’t matter if you crease your dress. You’ve got your wardrobe here.”
She rather liked his gentle snoring, it was friendly, and reminded her that he was there beside her. She was fairly sure she snored too.
Arthur held his son fast and tight, even though David wriggled. The facility was pleasant enough, and Arthur was granted entrance whenever he turned up, but he wanted his son home.
“I loves you, you know, my boy,” Arthur said, a little gruff. “And I wants you home. T’ain’t the same wivout you.”
David gasped out, “But you killed me –”
“I reckon you knows I didn’t.”
The boy’s face was desolate, trying with desperation to unite the parts of his mind telling him diverse stories. “Didn’t? But if it weren’t you, then who dunnit? You is me dad, ain’t you?”
“Always was, always will be. Listen, son. Yer mum were a lovely lady but she got sick. It weren’t anything aginst you. She didn’t want to die, but she got awful sick. Not my fault. Not your fault. Not nobody’s fault. Now there’s just you and me. Friends. I loves you. If you don’t love me, it don’t matter. I loves you all the same.”
“But you done beat me. You hits me.”
Arthur sighed. “Sometimes I loses me temper. Tis hard not to, when you keeps saying I’s a killer. But fer every time I hit you, you says it a hundred times. Makes it mighty difficult for me, lad. Be a good boy and I won’t never hit you again.”
“Never?”
“Not never. I promise.”
David crawled willingly to his father’s lap, hugged him, and rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder. “I loves you too, Dad.”
Arthur looked over the top of David’s head to where the doctor stood nodding in approval. “Nice while it lasts,” murmured Arthur. “But reckon he’ll be back to normal by this evening.”
“We’ll keep working at it,” said Doctor Grimm, his expression living up to his name. “You come here whenever you are free, Mr. Sims, and in the meantime, I shall do whatever I can. This will work in the end, don’t you worry.”
Since Lavender gave him plenty of time off, knew the full story and sympathised with the situation, Arthur was aware of his options. The doctor seemed convinced that over time, this conviction of his son against him would die out. The boy would remain mentally troubled, and his condition would not improve in the near future. But he could be reunited with his father, and a peaceful affection could be reignited. Being basically content with his job at the Rochester Manor, Arthur would make no attempts to leave or move away once David was quiet and stopped accusing him of every crime the boy heard about. Not only did these accusations make Arthur’s life a miserable travesty, but he knew it must surely make the poor boy’s life into a troubled fiasco of fear and suspicion, adding emotional tragedy to his already confused comprehension.
Arthur returned home and reported to Lavender. “Tis improving, Mrs. Dawson,” he nodded. “I got a mighty fine cuddle this afternoon. My boy put his arms around me. T’was the first time that’s happened for many a year. I must admit, I damn near wept, I did.”
Lavender wiped her eyes. “Oh, Arthur! I’m delighted. You must go there again tomorrow.”
“But there be plenty of work still to do in the manor,” Arthur pointed out. “Reckon I better work this evening to catch up.”
“Not at all,” said Lavender. “I’ll get the new man, Ralph Tammy, to fill in for you tomorrow.”
“The fellow’s a cook.”
“Not a very good cook,” sighed Lavender. “He’s willing and helpful and I don’t regret hiring him, but he may end up becoming your assistant, Arthur, rather than Francesco’s. One day when all the gossip and newspaper rubbish goes away, I’ll hire another replacement for Pam. In the meantime, don’t worry. We’ll manag
e. You go off to bed and sleep well. You need your strength for young David.”
Arthur returned to his quarters, feeling better than he had for some considerable time. He had not, of course, killed his wife and nor had he ever beaten his son. He had occasionally hit the boy, and spanked him for wrong doing. It was hard to accept that never-ending list of insults from the only person in the world that he loved. He had a temper like everyone else, he decided, and even a half-wit boy needed some discipline.
Of course, what he did not admit to anyone, and never would, was the one murder he had committed many, many years ago, when he had throttled his mistress after she had threatened to tell his wife of the affair. He could hardly remember the woman’s name now. Muriel? Mavis? Marilyn? But he could definitely remember the feel of her neck between his fingers, his own desperate surprise at how long it took to kill her, and then the slight snap and breathless gurgle as he heard her die. Then the disgust at the act, at himself, and at the world.
And David, just three years old at the time, had witnessed the death. Too young, Arthur had assumed, to remember such a thing. He had picked up the boy, told him it was all a dream, and rushed from the house.
Instead, no. The act had crept into David’s muddled brain, and remained there confused and tip-tilted, but engraved deep and bold. Expecting the police, Arthur had tried persistently to convince the boy that what he had seen was a mistake. Luckily the police never connected him to the death of a woman miles away, and no one else had ever discovered either his affair, or the death he had caused.
But he understood David.
17
The small sterile room was so white, it bleached away energy. A monitor buzzed like a tired yet persistent blue bottle, but silence overcame all other sound. A white blind covered the window and banished the daylight. The hospital bed, shrouded in white, held one little figure huddled beneath the pale blankets.
The bandages, all white cotton, white plastic or white plaster, further hid the only patient, but Carol was not asleep. Although medicated and half doped, she found sleep whispered to her, but would not settle, blinking around her head but always out of reach. Instead her memory shouted louder than all the winds, and she stared within her closed eyelids at the creature who had wanted to kill her, and nearly did.
She saw his hands. She smelled his hands. She felt those huge damp palms around her throat, tightening and squeezing, the tips pressing into her flesh. She saw his feet lunge out, kicking at her. His punches were hard as metal, as though she had been pounded with a hammer. Shuddering and cringing within, she relived the nightmare over and over and over. She could smell him as soon as she opened her eyes. He had smelled of rot and dirty sweat, stale beer and cigarette smoke. Through the shadow of his hood, she again saw his eyes, small bright black beads. And she saw his mouth open in rage, cursing her. He had no special accent, but his voice was gruff, as though the words spat up from his stomach.
Describing it yet again to Morrison and his assistant, Carol flinched as though struck, then sighed with relief as the detective shut the door behind him, and once more she was free to wriggle deep under the covers.
She was surprised when two other strangers walked in, one male and one female, elderly, well-dressed, polite, but clearly not hospital staff. She un-wriggled, sat up and smiled. “Hello. I like visitors,” she said. “It helps me not to think about what I don’t want to think about. But I don’t know you. Have you got the right room?”
“I’m Sylvia Greene,” said the woman. “And you are the extremely courageous and remarkable Carol Knight. Yes indeed, we’re in the right room. But I’m afraid we haven’t come to help you forget.”
Her face beneath the bandages drooped. “Are you reporters?”
“Papers don’t employ people as ancient as we are,” said Harry. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Harry Joyce. Sylvia and I are – ex-detectives, and we’re working on your case because of some special circumstances, having discovered the first body, and been acquainted with the last.”
“Would you consider talking with us?” Sylvia asked with special caution, “You could help us enormously, and I swear not a word you say will ever be repeated to the newspapers.”
The girl stared. “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you actually know who this monster is?”
They shook their heads. “That’s exactly what we’re working on,” Harry murmured. “And we haven’t taken the place of the police. But the more experienced people work on the case, the better.”
“It seems strangely unlikely.” Carol squirmed down lower into her bed covers, “I’ve only just been talking to the police. Morrison, isn’t it? He didn’t mention you.”
Sylvia smiled. “Because he didn’t know we were coming at that time. But we’ve just seen him in the passage, and so here we are.” This was basically true. Morrison had been seen as both Harry and Sylvia peeped around the corner, but they were careful not to let Morrison see any more than their unrecognisable shadows.
Carol sighed. “Do I have to go through all that horrible experience again?”
“Only the man’s description.” Harry shook his head, and pulled up a small chair for Sylvia to sit at the bedside. “It’s finding him, arresting him, protecting every woman out there, and eventually incarcerating him that matters.”
The window, fully closed by the thick white blind, had given no hint of weather change until a sudden patter spoke of rain, and the patter thrummed with the threat of a storm. Sylvia hoped Morrison would not return. “We’ll be as quick as we can,” she said. “Can I get you a cup of tea? Biscuits? Water?”
“No,” said Carol, “let’s get on with it. What I saw, I remember clearly. I wish I didn’t. But the man was all covered up and I could hardly see his face at all, I’m afraid.”
“Whatever you can.”
And she told them. This time, sitting forwards, she felt more assertive and didn’t sink back. Instead of feeling intimidated, she felt angry. “The pig stank. He was dirty. His clothes were dirty, and he smelled as though he’d been rolling in excrement. Rotten corpses. He honestly smelled that way. He had big hammy hands with huge thick fingers. He had great big feet too, even though he wasn’t unusually tall. More or less your height.”
“I’m six foot,” Harry said, “in the old money.”
“Northern? Cockney? Foreign?”
“No. Just sort of ordinary. Like all of us.”
“No car? No rings? Tattoos? Nothing weird?”
“I wish there had been. But no. He was almost ordinary except for the smell. And I scratched him a lot. I honestly think he’d have big scabs on his nose and his cheeks too. Bruises on his legs.” Hooked to the monitor and further restricted by her own pain beneath the bandaging, Carol’s fury ebbed. “Sorry, I’m sort of doped. It makes things difficult. I feel all angry and upset, but the emotions sort of collapse inside and I just want to sink into the mattress and never move again.”
“The police call you a heroine,” Sylvia said, although she had no idea whether this was true, “and so do I. You fought back. You got away. That’s amazing. Now we can catch this beast before he kills again. But it still won’t be quick.” She paused, then managed a smile. “You’re quite sure there was only one man?”
“I wouldn’t know. I only saw one. And no one came to his help when I clawed his face.”
“A good point,” said Harry. “And can you remember anything of his clothes?”
“Oh yes. I’m not forgetting anything.” Carol tried to sit up again but collapsed flat. Harry extended a hand to help her up, but she said no. “I’d regret it. And that buzzing machine is important, I don’t want to unclip it. Anyway, yes, I remember his clothes, but they weren’t interesting. I mean, it was cold. He wore a big padded grey jacket with a hood that came down over his eyes. It was zipped right up to his chin. Thick jeans. And big trainers. Not Nike or anything, just dark and ordinary. But everything stank.”
Harry turned, looking down at Sylvia. “He must have
recently come from his secret place. He can’t smell so vile all the time, surely.”
“Which means it isn’t too far away.”
Carol muttered, “He stank like a sewer. And filthy fingernails.”
It was when a nurse trotted in with a tea tray that Sylvia stood suddenly. “You’ve been a wonderful help, but I think we’d better not interrupt your rest any longer.”
The nurse stared, surprised, but said nothing. It was Harry who managed to add, “Any objections to us visiting your mother, Miss Knight?”
“Gracious. If you want to. She’s in a state. Perhaps she could do with some chat. But be kind and tell her I love her.”
The nurse watched as Harry scribbled down the address he was told, and then followed them outside and back into the corridor. “You’re not detectives. Are you authorised to come here?” she demanded.
“Naturally,” said Sylvia. “Mrs. Greene and Mr. Joyce.
They hurried back into the outside chill, and Harry grumbled, “Not as much help as I’d hoped.”
“I don’t agree,” Sylvia said. “An average man, but has huge hands and feet. That stands out whenever you meet someone. Remember on the coach we saw that large man’s glove. I thought it was a trick, or something just to keep his fingerprints safe. But perhaps it was really his glove.”
“True,” conceded Harry. “But we’ve got to meet the man first before noticing hands and feet. O.K., it’s not fitting Tony. Not your Arthur either. None of my pub friends fit. But we don’t know about Stoker.”
“We need a new list. But what if there’s two people? The smelly Bigfoot, and Tony in the car waiting.” She gulped. “He’s disappeared for some reason or other. What if he’s already killed Isabel?”
“More likely she’s killed him.”
They huddled into the car, brushed off the MacDonald’s’ crumbs, and drove in the direction of Mrs. Knight’s address, given by Carol. The small house crouched at the suburban tip of Cheltenham, and a worried face peeped from behind the net curtains when Sylvia knocked on the door. Then the voice came through the letterbox on the firmly closed door. “Go away. I’m not speaking to reporters.”
The Games People Play Box Set Page 16