A Place Of Safety (28 page)

And, after all, everything passes. Louise took this stark consolation to her heart as she spent the next half-hour alternately tormenting and comforting herself by wondering how this wretched union would eventually be severed.

Perhaps Jax would simply get bored. No, she was quite sure that feelings of either interest or boredom were simply not relevant as far as this affair was concerned. He could be bored to tears but as long as there was something to be gained from the relationship, it would continue. Valentine might hope that he was a special person to Jax but Louise was sure that the great cold landscape of the boy’s heart was impregnable. The only special person in Jax’s life was himself.

Neither could she imagine Valentine getting bored with Jax. One did not tire of an obsession. It burned itself out or it burned you out. For the same reason it was impossible to picture Val falling in love with another person.

Fleetingly Louise remembered how happy her brother had been during his years with Bruno Magellan. So distraught was Val for months after his partner’s death, endlessly reliving all their earlier joys and pleasures while sliding further and further into a pit of depression, she had despaired of ever seeing him find the will, energy or courage to start another relationship. And then, after months of slowly struggling back into the light, to be seized by a passion so sterile and reckless it appeared to be hurling him once more into the depths of despair was heartbreaking.

Was that Val coming down? Louise, sitting by the window, turned her head sharply towards the stairs. It struck her that for weeks now that was all she had been doing. Either constantly watching her brother, or listening for him.

She listened for Val’s return when he was out and for signs that he was about to leave when he was in. She listened to him on the telephone and tried to guess who the caller was. She listened to his voice when they spoke, attempting to anticipate the twists and turns of his emotions before they were made manifest to twist and turn against herself. To her shame she had even looked through her brother’s correspondence which was how she discovered a credit slip from Simpson’s in Piccadilly for a leather blouson (American Tan) costing eight hundred and fifty pounds.

Now Louise thought for the first time of how her behaviour might appear to Val. She had assumed, blinded as he was by his frenzied attachment, that he had never noticed this close surveillance. But what if he had? How then would it make him feel? Crowded, that’s how. Spied on. Unable to escape, like a prisoner in a cell with a little peephole. Helpless to avoid observation any time the jailer chose. No wonder, thought Louise, with a quick, blinding intuition, he wants me gone.

And she couldn’t stop observing because she couldn’t stop caring. Because that meant she had stopped loving. And I shall do that, she vowed silently, when I’m in my grave.

A movement in the road caught her eye. A blue car was turning into the Old Rectory drive, drawing up at the front door. She recognised the two men who got out. They were the same policemen who had come to interview herself and Val. Louise wondered what they wanted. She noticed they didn’t ring the bell for the main house but crossed over to the garage flat.

Louise arranged the expression on her face, tried various opening gambits on for size and mentally tuned her voice to a note of amiable casualness. She had heard Val’s footsteps dragging down the stairs. Not all that long ago he would have bounded down two steps at a time.

When his bowed head came into view, Louise said, ‘Hi.’

‘Waiting up?’

Louise ignored the gibe. ‘I was just going to make tea. Would you like some?’

‘I’d rather have a drink.’

‘OK.’

‘OK.’ Val caught the wary passivity with spear-like accuracy. ‘Do I hear a whiff of “sun not quite over the yardarm”?’

‘No. You can pour Jack Daniel’s on your cornflakes and throw up all over Richard and Judy for all I care.’

‘That’s more like it. I was wondering where the real Louise had gone for a minute.’

‘So.’ She crossed to the drinks table. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Don’t care. Just make it strong.’

‘Jameson’s?’

‘The very man.’ He watched her rattling around in the ice bucket. Observed her cast-down face, noticed the slight thickening under her chin, hollowed cheeks and tired lines, which he had never noticed before, printing the fine skin beneath her eyes. Poor Lou. She hadn’t asked for any of this.

‘So, as we seem to be playing house, what did you do today, Mrs Forbes?’

‘Well,’ Louise drew a deep breath like a child about to recite in front of the grown-ups, ‘I worked in the garden. Made several phone calls - putting out feelers for work. This afternoon I went to Causton and had my ends trimmed.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘They give you some coffee afterwards.’

‘I’d need an anaesthetic first.’

‘What about you?’

‘I didn’t garden. I made no phone calls. And my ends are absolute hell.’

‘Come on, Val. You must have done something.’

‘Looked over the proofs of the
Hopscotch Kid
. Messed about generally. Then Jax rang around three and I went over.’

‘Uh huh.’ Louise took a deep breath. ‘How is he then, Jax?’

‘Fighting fit.’

‘So you had a good time?’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Good. Actually when I was in Causton, I—’

‘Until the bloody police turned up.’

‘Oh? What did they want?’

‘What do they ever want? Bullying him with endless questions. Once you’ve slipped up in this country, Lou, you’re done for. It’s a waste of time even trying to go straight. I didn’t used to believe that. I thought it was just criminals, you know, whining. But it’s true.’

‘What a shame it’s happening now.’ Louise gagged on the words but somehow managed to squeeze them out. ‘Being down here, well away from the sort of people who got him into trouble, could have given him a completely new start.’

‘Exactly!’ Valentine drained half the Irish in one swallow. ‘I don’t have much time for Lionel, as you know, but his idea of sanctuary for youngsters in trouble is really great.’

Youngsters? That man was never a youngster. Cunning like his is as old as the hills.

‘I think I’ll join you.’ Casually Louise turned away to pour herself a drink. She knew it would be a mistake to show how pleased she was at the way the conversation was progressing. And an even bigger one to try and build on it. She said, ‘I got a partridge for tonight.’

‘Lovely.’ Val drained his glass and walked over. ‘You could freshen my drink.’

‘You haven’t got a drink.’ Louise laughed, letting go a little with relief at the first hurdle cleared.

‘My ice cubes then.’

After she had refilled the glass, Valentine carried it across the room, flung himself onto the huge pale sofa and put his feet up. He already looked slightly less tired. His face was smoothing out. As he stretched his legs and flexed his toes, Louise sensed a quickening of vitality. Could it really be possible that a few transparent lies on her part could accomplish such a transformation? Lies which his sharp intelligence would normally see straight through?

It seemed so. Oh, why hadn’t she realised months ago how hard her fear and dislike of Jax had been for her brother to handle? Even obsessives have moments of clarity and it must have seemed to Val that she had withdrawn her love and support just when he needed it the most. If only she had made allowances for his irrational state of mind. Listened more sympathetically. Bided her time. But, because there had never been pretence between them, this had simply not occurred to her. Not until now, when it was too late.

‘Sorry, Val.’ The sound of his voice had registered but not the words.

‘I cut you off when we were talking before. Something or other happened in Causton?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ll never guess who—’

But then the telephone rang. And after the call it was impossible to continue that or any other conversation. The terrible news about Ann Lawrence not only stopped Louise’s mouth but was so devastating in the light of what she had been about to relate that it almost stopped her heart as well.

 

‘Are you all right, Lionel?’

‘What?’

‘How do you feel? I mean,
really
?’

‘I’m not sure.’

It was a good question. Very perceptive. How did he feel, really? He knew how he ought to feel. And perhaps, if Ann hadn’t been so cruel to him, he would appropriately be feeling it. Frantically worried, praying to God for her recovery, dreading the heartbreak that follows the loss of a beloved spouse.

And he had loved her. All these years he had been a good and faithful husband. The trouble was, as the ugly scene the previous day had so clearly illustrated, she didn’t love him. So he could hardly be blamed if his response to the dreadful news he had just received was somewhat muted.

‘I should go, shouldn’t I?’

‘Fact is, Lionel, she won’t know whether you’re there or not.’

‘That’s true.’

‘If she comes round, well . . .’

‘Then, of course.’

‘Obviously. And if it’s not out of line, I’d like to say you have my deepest sympathy.’

‘I know that, Jax. It means a lot having you here.’

‘For some reason unknown, Mrs Lawrence never took to me.’

‘She had - has a nervous disposition.’

‘But I’m not the sort to take offence. And I can only pray that God is on our side at this moment in time.’

‘Thank you.’

An hour or so earlier, after the person at the other end of the line had explained what had happened and Lionel had listened in thunderstruck silence, he had stood for a long while with the phone glued to his ear staring at the faded wallpaper.

Then, when the first shock had passed, he felt curiously empty. He sat down and waited to see what would happen next. What happened next was that Lionel found he very much needed to pass the information on. Any suggestion that this was nothing more than the normal human response when receiving disastrous or exciting news would have outraged him. Lionel knew himself to be purely in need of consolation and support. But where to find it?

The only person he could think of was dear Vivienne at the Caritas Trust. She had always been most
simpatico
on the increasingly frequent occasions when he had felt the need to unburden his heart.

Lionel dialled the number with what he was pleased to see was a very steady hand. But he had hardly begun to speak before Vivienne cut him short. She was interviewing and also had someone waiting. When Lionel suggested he should ring later, she said she would call him but not to hold his breath.

Bewildered, he hung up. So who else was there? It was a moment or two before he thought of Jax largely because, in his understanding of their relationship, he himself was always firmly cast in the role of comforter. But he had nothing to lose by asking. Jax might even welcome the opportunity to repay some of the kindness he had been shown.

And so it proved to be. He had rushed over within minutes, bringing a bottle. Lionel had been so grateful he had not demurred when Jax opened the red wine straightaway and insisted that he drink some. And Jax, ‘as this is rather an unusual occasion’, agreed to join him. Now the bottle was nearly empty.

‘This is really delicious.’ Lionel drained his third glass, not noticing that Jax’s remained almost untouched. ‘It certainly seems to take the edge off the pain.’

‘Mr Fainlight gave it me,’ said Jax. ‘I did a little job for him.’

Lionel looked at his watch. ‘D’you think . . .’

‘It’s not vintage or nothing.’

‘Perhaps I should ring.’

‘They said they’d contact you if there was any change.’

Lionel didn’t remember that. He stared around the room, frowning. Jax crossed over, bringing his glass, to sit next to his benefactor on the sofa.

‘I can see I’m going to have to look after you, Lionel.’

‘Oh, Jax.’

‘Just till Mrs Lawrence gets better.’ Jackson hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should stay over here tonight.’

‘Oh, would you? I get so lonely sometimes.’

‘I’ve noticed that, Lionel. And many’s the time I’ve wanted to make an overture of friendship, believe you me. Just been afraid to overstep the mark.’

‘I don’t know how to express my gratitude.’

Jackson prided himself on his sense of timing. There would be a moment to suggest how Lionel could best express his gratitude but this was not it; it was too soon after the sad event and the Rev was more than a little swacked. It was not drunken promises that Jackson was after. Such promises frequently did not survive the harsh scrutiny of the morning after. Thankfulness recollected in sober tranquillity was the ultimate aim.

Lionel’s glass once more being empty, Jackson offered to exchange it for his own, even going as far as to place it in Lionel’s hand. He curled the limp fingers round the stem and his eyes shone with encouragement and approval.

The doorbell rang. Lionel gave a great jump and his wine went everywhere. Jackson stepped back, his expression one of controlled rage, and left the room.

Even in his present state Lionel recognised the two men Jackson showed in. He struggled to get up, making indignant incomprehensible gurgles. Reeled, steadied himself with one hand.

‘Mr Lawrence?’ Barnaby stared in amazement.

‘He does live here,’ said Jackson.

Barnaby, who had only rung the main house bell after getting no joy at the garage, said, ‘Why aren’t you at the hospital, sir?’

‘What . . . what?’

‘Haven’t you heard from Stoke Mandeville?’

‘Yes . . . that is . . .’ He turned to Jackson.

‘They said Mrs L was unconscious.’ Jackson spoke directly to Barnaby. ‘And that they’d ring if there was any change. If there is, naturally he’ll be straight down there.’