Blind Date (36 page)

I
f it really had been ten to four in the afternoon, all her responses would realign themselves. There would be the common sense generated by daylight, the logic invited by sunshine and the bravery she had always felt at dawn. But now, on the verge of midnight, after her long dawdle home all that deserted her. So he had managed to change the clock. Brute strength could turn the hands from the back. Strength was something he had along with the ability to tease.
“I think I know …”
was what he was saying, last time she heard him speak, and her response, I'm out of here. Gone on an errand to find someone else who reckons you might be a thief and support my strange, distorted view of men. Getting it wrong, again.

H
e's a nice man, Lizzie: deceitful without subterfuge. Compared to you, an absolute innocent. We are tainted, Lizzie, you and I; tarnished beyond rot and belief. What will happen if you go down the road and call 999 because the clock does not read the same time as when you last glanced? Fool. She was a powerless fool, fumbling with the key, realizing as it turned what a grand old, creaking noise it made, what a nuisance it was, how powerless this key which turned to no effect when all the time, the door was open. Shut but unlocked. Sshh, she told herself, shhhh: it is all hysteria. This is home, you have to go in; there is no choice and no option to run away. But she delayed, lit a cigarette, waited a minute, watched the red tip glow, walked around and saw there was no light from any of the windows, and then set off up the stairs, humming. Never had much of a voice, teacher said: never had much of anything except that blood-minded obstinacy. Quite unable to abdicate from a problem which was her own, because the curing of it had also to be hers, even if it killed or hurt. She did not feel brave, treading up the steps: merely fatalistic, doomed to do as she did. She was making an offering to the gods.

For the
hundredth time she admired the way the bell-ringing chamber never quite achieved darkness. There was gloom rather than black, sepia rather than colour. She felt for the light, let her hand drop. She could see perfectly well. There were flowers trampled into the floor and a man sitting at the table, staring at her and smiling.

“Hallo,” he said quietly, “I'm your date.”

Then she did turn on the light from the switch which was placed high on the wall. No stranger would ever be able to follow the mind of the amateur who had wired this place.

“How nice,” she said.

She crossed the floor briskly, treading over the flowers, as if it were normal to have the floor of her living room strewn with broken blooms. She was extending her hand, challenging him to take it as if this was an everyday encounter with all the standard pleasantries. It was crucial for her to be able to touch him, feel his skin, lessen the fear and the revulsion which went with it. Perhaps achieve some advantage. He was surprised into the automatic response, extended his hand, too, and let it be shaken. The hand was cooler than the last she had touched: his palm was soft and dry. He was not a man who had ever used a spade. The contact confused him: he withdrew from it, quickly.

“I've been waiting for you,” he said, petulantly, “a long time.”

“Have
we met before?” she asked conversationally. “Only I think we may have done. Have we?”

He smiled. She had seen similar smiles on dead bodies. It melted away into a frown.

“Oh yes. Of course.”

“Let me guess,” she said playfully. “You're my date, but not quite a blind date. Where did we met? In a club? In a pub? By the seaside?”

He was shaking his head, disliking questions. If they were his to ask, he was in control, but in response, he could not quite find his way to a lie. He had to be literal.

“Where was it?” she prompted.

“Seaside,” he replied grudgingly, and then added, “You look like your sister. But not as pretty.”

He was handsome, she noticed. Sculptured hair. She did not recognize him, but thought she might have found a clue in Patsy's evasive description. She was not as pretty as Emma, not as vibrant as Patsy, never, ever would be, now. He wore dark-coloured trousers and heavy boots and his mind was clearing. She could see him now as one of Emma's consorts. The sort of man Emma encouraged before she became a wife.

“If you're my date, who sent you?”

He was remembering instructions. Bring her flowers. Be nice. Kill her.

“Mummy sent me.”

There was a rising note of panic in his voice. She looked like Emma, but she would not look at him. She had a twist to her neck and seemed to look at a spot beyond his shoulder, tempting him to turn. There was no sign of fear in her and he was used to fear. Fear was the trigger, the eyes, staring straight into his own, the final catalyst which created the frenzy. Fear and pleading and lies. Not questions.

“And what does Mummy want?”

“You.
Rubies and diamonds and you.” The voice was rising.

“For God's sake, why?” Her voice was shriller in return, breaking the fragile, artificial peace, losing it. This was the man, she knew it, sensed it with utter conviction, who had whispered to her as she lay on the ground in the alley in Budley. “Diamonds,” he had whispered, “where are they? I want them for the friend of mine you killed, and even if she takes away my friends, I want them for my
mummy.”
She knew who he was.

“JOE!” she screamed. “JOE, JOE, JOE!”

“He's dead,” Michael shouted. “Dead. SHUT UP!”

But she went on screaming until he hit her once across the face. It was a loud sound in the silence. Her head snapped sideways: she did not feel pain, only damage and the abrupt end of her scream. Then he was rocking her in his arms, holding her in a tight bear-hug which was clumsy and strong, his body pinioning her arms to her side and squeezing until she thought her ribs would crack. She could smell the scent of soured perfume, feel his teeth against her neck and the bulge of his erection against her groin. She stood still. His excitement had a strange and calming effect. Thus she had stood with Jack by the river, feeling his crude, confused desire, thinking in self-defence how ludicrously powerful and cruel this beast of a tool was, what a lousy trick it was of nature to play on man that it should turn them into self-deceiving fools. Thinking of it too, as a rotten piece of fruit. Scorn made her objective then and worked that way now, clasped in the embrace of a virgin.

“Emma,” he was saying. “Emma.”

Had Emma fought with him? Pleaded with him? Shrieked at him with the full array of normal responses to such a threat? Instead of this paralysis, of which she, Elisabeth, was so capable because she had schooled herself out of any normal responses except that overriding fear of pain. He released his grip. They were much of a height. She could sense, as he raised his head, the impression of his teeth in the wasted muscles of her neck and she wanted to vomit all over him. His teeth were bared, shiny white, carefully tended, polished teeth, and what happened to him and to her did not, in that moment matter much. It was Joe who mattered. The Innocent.

“Listen
to me,” she said, clearly, despite the tremulous, sing-song note she could not control. “I've some pretty jewellery. My father's treasures. That's what Mummy would like, isn't it?”

He shook his head. He had retreated from her warily. Ready to burst, waiting for the trigger, and now, armed with the switchblade. Elisabeth had not seen it appear, only heard the click of the blade. Jesus, poor Joe … she was choking back the fatal scream. He's a nice man, Joe. Keep calm: think of a rotten banana. You cannot fight this man: you always knew it would not be possible, because he will tear you into shreds, like the flowers. Cannot fight, cannot run.

“Look,” she said, businesslike, “I didn't have them before, but I do have them now. They've been hidden here, all this time. Mummy should have thought of that, shouldn't she? Tcch, tcch, all this fuss for nothing. C'mon, I'll show you. You can bring the knife.”

Unhurriedly, she went to the door and began up the steps. He followed, close enough to grab, cautious enough to stay back in case she should turn and kick. He must know, she thought, that if I kicked, it would scarcely effect him. He has on his kicking boots. He might not know that I can scarcely carry a bag of shopping further than a taxi and a flight of stairs. Or how my legs are the consistency of jelly and my flesh so very weak.

They drew level with the door to the clock room. She paused and looked inside, felt the point of the knife pierce her hip.

“Not
in here,” he grunted. “No. Don't look in there.”

She managed a desperate glance, seeing more than he would see in the gloom, knowing the highlights of the room. She could see enough to see nothing: no Joe supine on the bed, or anywhere, and she felt a huge sense of relief, followed by sorrow. He had gone, fled, safe; but he had abandoned her. Would Joe do that? No. There was still only the two of them, hunting each other up the steps. Joe was not free: he was dead. This man had not yet told her a lie. But she did not have to believe him.

Up steps, on and up. She made herself chatter like a tour guide.

“Watch out for cobwebs. Mind your feet. Dark, isn't it? Not as old as it looks in here. What's Mummy's favourite, then? Does she think emeralds are unlucky? My father did. Said it was rare to find one perfect. So often flawed.”

She paused again, panting, short of breath, nudged on by another vicious jab from the point of the knife. He was not breathless: he seemed to be gaining strength.

They stood on the threshold of the bells. The moonlight was half as bright as day through the wooden slats. The chicken wire over the wood made the room resemble a prison, while the bells themselves with their dulled gleam, made it look like an engine room.

“Here?”

“Yes, here. But I'm not quite sure where.”

Again the pinprick of the knife. She could feel blood seeping down her trouser leg.

“We need more light,” he announced.

“There is no light,” she lied.

“Hold out your arm.”

She did as she was told. White flesh in the moonlight.

He flicked at it casually with the knife. Blood welled and she almost screamed. Rebuilt muscle, damaged again. She had nothing more to lose. He pulled the door behind them. It was stiff and unwieldy, the least used door in a place whose architect had a passion for medieval doors. There were planks of wood by the side, left over from previous restorations. He flung one across the door. The ease with which he lifted it filled her with momentary envy: she had once been stong, almost like that. The plank and the door and the wound would delay escape. Yes, he was mad, but not foolish. Elisabeth stood, one arm cradling the other.

“Where
are they?” There was panicky greed in his voice as he came closer again.

“Under this one. Taped inside at the top. Only a few.”

“Rubies,” he murmured. “She loves those best.”

“Two. At least.”

“Get them out!” He was hissing: she could see the knife blade tremble.

“I can't,” she whimpered. “I can't. I can't. I hurt.”

There was no lie in that. The bell, suspended on a cross beam, hung eighteen inches from the floor. Room for a small and agile man, even better, a boy to put his head and arm beneath, and reach. He looked at the space in the semi-dark, looked back at her.

“Lie down.”

She sat and then lay. The fresh woodshavings on the ground tickled her spine. Obedience was all he required: there was a greater need, even than that, a need which he could not control. Michael touched the bell, feeling a half-ton of smooth metal. Then lay beside it and pushed himself beneath like a man examining the underside of his own car. He shifted further, reaching blindly into the dark of the cavern, first the rim. Robert Cross made me.

She was
on her feet, grabbing the axe beneath the rag which lay by the planks in the place which he could not see in this dim light. She had memorized the spot. She could not, even then, have brought it into contact with soft flesh, but she swung it high above her head and down. Once onto the bell, making it shriek and boom, then onto the cross beam which held it. The beam shuddered and cracked. Once more, the muscles in her back and arm groaning and tearing, the beam splintering, the bell thumping down and the whole bell chamber shuddering in protest. There was the kind of silence which followed the blast of a bomb. Until he began to scream.

She did not want to see what she had done. She was hauling the plank from the door, making her hands bleed, fumbling with the latch, scramling back down into the pit, hugging the wall. Joe, Joe, where is Joe? She knew where; she knew each inch of this place. Into the clock room, turning on the light set high in the wall, over to the mechanism he so liked. There he was, hunched into the narrow space reserved for the pendulum, clutching it, and as she reached for him, he tumbled into her arms like a monstrous, bloody puppet. She fell beneath his weight, cushioned his fall, pulled herself out from under him and looked for what she could see. Only blood and more blood. Blood in his beautiful hair and upstairs, endless screams.

D
awn on the southwest coast. It was fair today, rain expected later. Matthew Davey slipped out of his grandmother's house, went through the garden and out of the gate which led to the sea. It was brilliant, the light so intense it pricked his tired eyes. The sky was whiter than chalk, filled with the mist which cloaked and weighted the sea and made it unnaturally calm. Matthew shivered. One of these days it would be cold again and people would talk about the light.

He took off
his trainers, took the packet from his pocket and tipped the stones into one shoe. Then he changed his mind, scraped them back into his fist and into his pocket, and put the trainer back on his foot. Then he picked them out, one by one. First he tried to skim them across the flat surface of the water, but that was never going to work: they were not flat: they were too light, so he played a different game. He threw them individually as far as ever he could, running towards the edge of the water, flinging overhand, each one further than the last, a tiny plop, into the swell of a wave.