Devices and Desires (14 page)

Dalgliesh said: “Agnes Poley would have understood that atmosphere too. It was the one she breathed.”

For a minute they walked in silence, hearing the rustle of the long grasses over their shoes. Dalgliesh wondered why it was that, when walking towards the sea, there came a moment when its roar suddenly increased, as if a menace, quiescent and benign, had suddenly gathered up its power. Looking up at the sky, at the myriad pinpricks of light, he seemed to feel the turning earth beneath his feet and sense that time had mysteriously
come to a stop, fusing into one moment the past, the present and the future: the ruined abbey, the obstinately enduring artifacts of the last war, the crumbling cliff defences, the windmill and the power station. And he wondered whether it was in such a disorientating limbo of time, listening to the ever-restless sea, that the previous owners of Martyr’s Cottage had chosen their text. Suddenly his companion stopped and said: “There’s a light in the ruins. Two small flashes, like a torch.”

They stood still and watched in silence. Nothing appeared. She said, almost apologetically: “I’m sure I saw it. And there was a shadow, something or somebody moving against the eastern window. You didn’t see it?”

“I was looking at the sky.”

She said with a note of regret: “Well, it’s gone now. I suppose I could have imagined it.”

And when, five minutes later, they made their way cautiously over the humpy grass into the heart of the ruins, there was no one and nothing to be seen. Without speaking they walked through the gap of the east window and onto the edge of the cliff and saw only the moon-bleached beach stretching north and south, the thin fringe of white foam. If anyone had been there, thought Dalgliesh, there was plenty of opportunity for concealment behind the hunks of concrete or in the crevices of the sandy cliff. There was little point and no real justification in attempting to give chase, even if they had known the direction in which he had disappeared. People were entitled to walk alone at night. Meg said again: “I suppose I could have imagined it, but I don’t think so. Anyway, she’s gone now.”

“She?”

“Oh yes. Didn’t I say? I had the distinct impression it was a woman.”

By four o’clock in the morning, when Alice Mair woke with a small despairing cry from her nightmare, the wind was rising. She stretched out her hand to click on the bedside light, checked her watch, then lay back, panic subsiding, her eyes staring at the ceiling, while the terrible immediacy of the dream began to fade, recognized for what it was, an old spectre returning after all these years, conjured up by the events of the night and by the reiteration of the word “murder,” which since the Whistler had begun his work seemed to murmur sonorously on the very air. Gradually she re-entered the real world manifested in the small noises of the night, the moan of the wind in the chimneys, the smoothness of the sheet in her clutching hands, the unnaturally loud ticking of her watch and, above all, in that oblong of pale light, the open casement and the drawn curtains which gave her a view of the faintly luminous star-studded sky.

The nightmare needed no interpretation. It was merely a new version of an old horror, less terrible than the dreams of childhood, a more rational, more adult terror. She and Alex were children again, the whole family living with the Copleys
at the Old Rectory. That, in a dream, wasn’t so surprising. The Old Rectory was only a larger, less pretentious version of Sunnybank—ridiculously named, since it had stood on level ground and no sun ever seemed to penetrate its windows. Both were late Victorian, built in solid red brick, both had a strong curved door under a high peaked porch, both were isolated, each in its own garden. In the dream she and her father were walking together through the shrubbery. He was carrying his billhook and was dressed as he was on that last, dreadful autumn afternoon, a singlet stained with his sweat, the shorts high-cut, showing as he walked the bulge of the scrotum, the white legs, matted with black hair from the knees down. She was worried because she knew that the Copleys were waiting for her to cook lunch. Mr. Copley, robed in cassock and billowing surplice, was impatiently pacing the back lawn, seeming oblivious to their presence. Her father was explaining something to her in that overloud, careful voice which he used to her mother, the voice which said: “I know you are too stupid to understand this, but I will talk slowly and loudly and hope that you won’t try my patience too far.”

He said: “Alex won’t get the job now. I’ll see that he doesn’t. They won’t appoint a man who’s murdered his own father.”

And as he spoke he swung the billhook and she saw that its tip was red with blood. Then, suddenly, he turned towards her, eyes blazing, lifted it, and she felt its point pierce the skin of her forehead, and the sudden spurt of blood gushing into her eyes. Now wide awake, and breathing as if she had been running, she put her hand up to her brow and knew that the cold wetness she felt was sweat, not blood.

There was little hope of falling asleep again; there never was when she woke in the early hours. She could get up, put on her dressing gown, go downstairs and make tea, correct
her proofs, read, listen to the BBC World Service. Or she could take one of her sleeping tablets. God knew they were powerful enough to knock her into oblivion. But she was trying to wean herself from them, and to give in now would be to acknowledge the potency of the nightmare. She would get up and make tea. She had no fear of waking Alex. He slept soundly, even through winter gales. But first there was a small act of exorcism to be performed. If the dream was to lose its power, if she was somehow to prevent it recurring, she must face again the memory of that afternoon nearly thirty years ago.

It had been a warm autumnal day in early October and she, Alex and her father were working in the garden. Her father was clearing a thick hedge of brambles and overgrown shrubs at the bottom of the shrubbery and out of sight of the house, slashing at them with a billhook while Alex and she dragged the freed branches clear, ready to build a bonfire. Her father was underclad for the time of year but was sweating heavily. She saw the arm lifting and falling, heard the crack of twigs, felt again the thorns cutting her fingers, heard his high commands. And then, suddenly, he gave a cry. Either the branch had been rotten or he had missed his aim. The billhook had sliced into his naked thigh and, turning, she saw the great curve of red blood begin to bubble in the air, saw him slowly sink like a wounded animal, his hands plucking the air. His right hand dropped the billhook and he held it out to her, shaking, palm upwards, and looked at her beseechingly, like a child. He tried to speak but she couldn’t make out the words. She was moving towards him, fascinated, when she felt a clutch on her arm and Alex was dragging her with him down the path between the laurels, towards the orchard.

She cried: “Alex, stop! He’s bleeding. He’s dying. We’ve got to get help.”

She couldn’t remember whether she actually said the words. All she later remembered was the strength of his hands on her shoulders as he forced her back against the bark of an apple tree and held her there, imprisoned. And he spoke a single word.

“No.”

Shaking with terror, her heart pounding, she couldn’t have broken free even if she had wanted. And she knew now that this powerlessness was important to him. It had been his act and his alone. Compelled, absolved, she had been given no choice. Now, thirty years later, lying rigid, her eyes fixed on the sky, she remembered that single word, his eyes looking into hers, his hands on her shoulders, the bark of the tree scraping her back through her aertex shirt. Time seemed to stop. She couldn’t remember now how long he had held her imprisoned, only that it seemed an eternity of immeasurable time. And then, at last, he gave a sigh and said: “All right. We can go now.”

And that, too, amazed her, that he should have been thinking so clearly, calculating how long it would take. He dragged her after him until they stood over her father’s body. And, looking down at the still-outstretched arm, the glazed and open eyes, the great scarlet pool soaking into the earth, she knew that it was a body, that he had gone forever, that there was nothing she need fear from him ever again. Alex turned to her and spoke each word loudly and clearly as if she were a subnormal child.

“Whatever he’s been doing to you, he won’t do it again. Ever. Listen to me and I’ll tell you what happened. We left him and went down to climb the apple trees. Then we decided that we’d better get back. Then we found him. That’s all there is, it’s as simple as that. You don’t need to say anything else. Just leave the talking to me. Look at me, look at me, Alice. You understand?”

Her voice, when it came, sounded like an old woman’s voice, cracked and tremulous, and the words strained her throat. “Yes, I understand.”

And then he was dragging her by the hands, racing across the lawn, nearly pulling her arm from its socket, crashing through the kitchen door, crying aloud so that it sounded like a whoop of triumph. She saw her mother’s face draining as if she too were bleeding to death, heard his panting voice.

“It’s Father. He’s had an accident. Get a doctor quick.”

And then she was alone in the kitchen. It was very cold. There were cold tiles under her feet. The surface of the wooden table on which she rested her head was cold to her cheeks. No one came. She was aware of a voice telephoning from the hall, and other voices, other steps. Someone was crying. Now there were more footsteps and the crunch of car wheels on gravel.

And Alex had been right. It had all been very simple. No one had questioned her, no one had been suspicious. Their story had been accepted. She didn’t go to the inquest but Alex did, although he never told her what happened there. Afterwards some of the people concerned, their family doctor, the solicitor, a few of her mother’s friends, came back, and there was a curious tea party with sandwiches and homemade fruitcake. They were kind to her and Alex. Someone actually patted her head. A voice said, “It was tragic that there was no one there. Common sense and a rudimentary knowledge of first aid would have saved him.”

But now the memory deliberately evoked had completed its exorcism. The nightmare had been robbed of its terror. With luck, it might not return for months. She swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown.

She had just poured the boiling water on the tea and was standing waiting for it to brew when she heard Alex’s footsteps
on the stairs and, turning, she saw his tall figure blocking the kitchen door. He looked boyish, almost vulnerable, in the familiar corded dressing gown. He pushed both hands through his sleep-tousled hair. Surprised because he was usually a sound sleeper, she said: “Did I disturb you? Sorry.”

“No, I woke earlier and couldn’t get off again. Holding dinner for Lessingham made it too late for comfortable digestion. Is this fresh?”

“About ready to pour.”

He took down a second mug from the dresser and poured tea for them both. She seated herself in a wicker chair and took her mug without speaking.

He said: “The wind’s rising.”

“Yes, it has been for the last hour.”

He went over to the door and unbolted the top wooden panel, pushing it open. There was a sensation of rushing white coldness, scentless, but obliterating the faint tang of the tea, and she heard the deep growling roar of the sea. As she listened it seemed to rise in intensity so that she could imagine, with an agreeable frisson of simulated terror, that the low, friable cliffs had finally crumbled and that the white foaming turbulence was rolling towards them across the headland, would crash against the door and throw its spume on Alex’s face. Looking at him as he stared into the night, she felt a surge of affection as pure and as uncomplicated as the flow of cold air against her face. Its fleeting strength surprised her. He was so much a part of her that she never needed or wanted to examine too closely the nature of her feeling for him. She knew that she was always quietly satisfied to have him in the cottage, to hear his footfalls on the floor above, to share with him the meal she had cooked for herself at the end of the day. And yet neither made demands of the other. Even his marriage had made no difference.
She had been unsurprised at the marriage since she had rather liked Elizabeth, but equally unsurprised when it ended. She thought it unlikely that he would marry again, but nothing between them would change, however many wives entered, or attempted to enter, his life. Sometimes, as now, she would smile wryly, knowing how outsiders saw their relationship. Those who assumed that the cottage was owned by him, not her, saw her as the unmarried sister, dependent on him for houseroom, companionship, a purpose in life. Others, more perceptive but still nowhere near the truth, were intrigued by their apparent independence of each other, their casual comings and goings, their non-involvement. She remembered Elizabeth saying in the first weeks of her engagement to Alex, “Do you know, you’re a rather intimidating couple?” and she had been tempted to reply, “Oh, we are, we are.”

She had bought Martyr’s Cottage before his appointment as Director of the power station, and he had moved in by an unspoken agreement that this was a temporary expedient while he decided what to do, keep on the Barbican flat as his main home or sell the flat and buy a house in Norwich and a smaller
pied à terre
in London. He was essentially an urban creature; she didn’t see him settling permanently other than in a city. If, with the new job, he moved back to London, she wouldn’t follow him, nor, she knew, would he expect her to. Here on this sea-scoured coast she had at last found a place which she was content to call home. That he could walk in and out of it unannounced never made it less than her own.

It must, she thought, sipping her tea, have been after one o’clock when he returned from seeing Hilary Robarts home. She wondered what had kept him. Sleeping lightly as always in the early hours, she had heard his key in the lock, his foot on the stairs, before drifting again into sleep. Now it was
getting on for five o’clock. He couldn’t have had more than a few hours’ sleep. Now, as if suddenly aware of the morning chill, he closed the top half of the door, drove home the bolt, then came and stretched himself out in the armchair opposite her. Leaning back, he cradled his mug in his hands.