Incarnate (53 page)

54

M
OLLY
lingered in front of the mirror, to be sure of what she was seeing. Apart from her black eye, which looked no worse than an accident with mascara by now, her face was hardly marked. Her jaw was stiff, but that didn’t show. At this rate it wouldn’t be long before she would begin to think Martin hadn’t touched her at all, that it had simply been another dream.

She grimaced at that, realizing how much she wished she could believe it, and took a deep breath. When the twinge of her bruised ribs made her falter, she tried again, sucked in as much of the soapy perfumed bathroom air as her lungs would hold, to prove to herself that she could. She was well enough to go to her parents, and the aching of her ribs would make sure she didn’t have second thoughts. She gave her face a final scrutiny, then she went out to Nell. “Thanks for putting up with me,” she said.

Nell was pulling on her mittens and matching hat. “I know what it’s like to need someone you can trust,” she said as she opened the door to the landing. “You stay as long as you like.”

“I have done, thanks, Nell. I’ll keep in touch.”

Nell had seemed in a hurry to get to work, but now she closed the door. “You aren’t thinking of going yet, are you?”

“I need to be at home, Nell. No reflection at all on you, you couldn’t have been kinder, but I’ll feel better once I’m with my family.” She felt almost as if she were trying to persuade Nell to let her go, which was silly; Nell might be leaning against the door as Maitland had blocked the doorway of the police cell, but that was no reason for Molly to feel like a prisoner. “I’m fit to travel, don’t worry,” she said.

Nell certainly seemed worried, so much so that she was at a loss what to say. Susan came into the room, and Nell began abruptly to speak. “You’ll want to get your things from your flat, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Molly said, anticipating the luxury of having her own changes of clothes.

“You can’t go there by yourself, in case he’s there.” Nell seemed so relieved it looked like triumph. If Molly was growing paranoid, that was another reason for her to go home. “I’ll be back from work as soon as I can,” Nell said. “You’ll wait, won’t you?”

Her eyes were glistening with anxiety. Molly couldn’t wait for her to finish work, it would lose her most of the day. She was opening her mouth to refuse when Nell said, “I can make sure he’s at work, out of the way.”

That did seem reassuring. There was no point in Molly’s growing nervous about confronting Martin if all the time he was at MTV. She could deal with him, but it would be unpleasant in she didn’t know how many different ways. “All right,”-she said reluctantly, and headed for the bathroom, to waste some of the time in a leisurely bath.’

She lay in the steaming water and felt herself float up, first her legs and then her arms. She was drifting—had been for days. She was grateful to Nell, but all the same, she would be happier once she was in charge of herself again. Perhaps then she would know where she was going.

She wouldn’t be returning to MTV. She couldn’t bear to imagine what Gould must think of her and her relations with filmmakers, first Ben Eccles and now Martin. The thought that Martin must be back at work made her shaky with rage and injustice, but getting angry wouldn’t help her think. Just now she seemed unable to. She hoped going to her parents wasn’t the same as trying to walk away from her problems.

She climbed out of the bath at last, dried herself and put on the clothes she’d arrived in, and wandered into the green room in search of the hairbrush in her handbag. She couldn’t help jumping when she saw Susan. “Won’t you be late for school?”

“We’re off today,” the child said, looking innocently at her. “It’s a saint’s day.”

“Which saint?”

Susan murmured something Molly didn’t quite hear. She went into the bathroom to brush her hair and tried to avoid her own eyes in the mirror. Had Susan said St. Quentin? She didn’t believe it was a saint’s day at all, but what business was it of hers if Susan was playing truant? Perhaps she was staying off school to keep her company. She brushed her hair quickly and told herself she mustn’t let Susan make her uneasy, for that made her uneasy about herself.

But that was how Susan affected her. She hadn’t been with the child for a quarter of an hour when she found she had run out of conversation. She kept recalling the day Susan had come to her in Hyde Park, had begged her to help. It would be cruelly insensitive to remind Susan of that, and yet she couldn’t quite believe that whatever had been wrong then had been put right so simply and completely. Susan was looking expectantly at her. “Shall we watch television?” Molly said.

“You can if you like.”

At least it would save Molly from struggling to talk. She switched channels in search of a newscast, but all she found were programs for schools and students. She settled for an undersea documentary, which might be the kind of program Susan liked. Fish swam through dimness miles deep, their great blank eyes reminding Molly that they were said never to dream. Perhaps their lives were already like dreams, she thought, for their slow progress through the massive water made her feel as if she were there too. It could hardly be Susan who was making her feel sleepy, even though the child seemed to be watching her. She must be, for all at once she said, “You can lie down in her room if you want.”

Molly started, and felt angry. “Whose room?”

For a moment the child looked caught out. “My mother’s. Mummy’s,” she said.

“I’m fine here, thank you, Susan.” But she wasn’t. She mustn’t keep glancing at the child, but keeping her gaze on the screen only made her more aware of Susan, made her feel as if the child kept saying things to her she couldn’t quite hear. She could almost believe that the face at the edge of her vision wasn’t Susan’s at” all, that the green room around her was changing. She’d had enough. She needed to be at home, especially since she seemed to be in no fit state to be left alone with a child. She shook her head to clear it, and stood up. “Thank your mother for me when she comes home, but tell her I couldn’t wait.”

Susan was on her feet at once. “You can’t go by yourself.”

“Why can’t I?” Molly said, with a laugh that was meant to hide her feelings but which came out nervous.

“Mummy said. He might be there.”

“Who?” Molly demanded, in a tone that ought to put her in her place.

“The man who hurt you.” Susan’s eyes widened. “I know, I’ll go and see if he’s there. I only have to ring your bell and say I was looking for you if he is,” she said, and was out of the door.

Molly felt touched, and ashamed of having been unfair. She listened to the footsteps running down and the slam of the door, she watched Susan hurry toward Bayswater Road. She switched off the television and settled down to wait.

But not for long, for she was waking up. How could she have let the child go? Suppose Martin was there and lost his temper with her? Perhaps it had been her nervousness with Susan that had made Molly unable to think, but that was no excuse.

She grabbed her coat and was opening the door when she thought of her handbag. She might need her keys. She snatched her bag from beside the couch and wished she had time to search for a key to Nell’s flat too. Suppose she missed Susan? The child might not have taken a key. She ran once through the flat, but couldn’t see one. Surely she wouldn’t miss Susan, surely they would use the same route. Getting out was the important thing, getting out and finding Susan. She raced back through the shaky hall, and was on the landing when she caught sight of Susan on the stairs.

Though the sight of the child was a relief, Molly felt all at once nervous. She blocked the closing door and waited. “Well?” she said as Susan stepped onto the landing.

“Someone’s in your flat, but they wouldn’t come to the door. I saw them watching through the curtains.”

So they would have to wait for Nell. If Molly tried to go now, Susan would insist on accompanying her. She couldn’t put the child further at risk. She went back into Nell’s flat and sank onto a chair. She must need more rest than she’d thought, for she was growing irrational. For a moment Susan had made her remember the dream she’d had before Martin had attacked her. For a moment she’d thought that the man Susan had glimpsed in her flat might not be Martin but Danny Swain.

55

S
TUART
couldn’t taste breakfast. Walking to the station last night in the rain had given him the worst cold he’d had for years. He drank all the coffee he could take, then he got his coat from his room and went out of the hotel in the hope that a walk around Norwich might clear his head.

He wandered through the sainted streets and down the sloping alleys, past the cathedral and its brood of churches, back and forth across the bridges over the Wensum, past fragments of the Roman wall. When it occurred to him that he wasn’t trying to clear his head so much as to evade what he must do, he went back to his room at the hotel.

He shrugged off his coat and stared at the phone. He had to call home, in case there was something he should know. There was no escaping his responsibility. All that his encounter with Guilda had told him was that he was on his own.

At least, so far as he knew—but perhaps he was being too pessimistic. That none of the Oxford subjects had replied to his letters didn’t mean they’d gone the way of Guilda and Danny Swain. Perhaps some of them might even help him, especially if the others needed help. He’d woken that morning convinced of all this, but nevertheless, as he dialed home, he began to hope that nobody had been in touch.

Trina, the landlady, answered. “I thought you were coming back last night;” she said when she recognized his clogged voice.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” He wasn’t entirely joking, for she did sound a little piqued. She had the longest legs he’d ever seen on a woman, and now and then she gave him the impression that one day he might find out where they led. “Any letters for me?”

“Not even one. Nobody must love you today.”

“Anyone been in touch?”

“Yes,” she said, and his heart lurched; he hadn’t realized how apprehensive he was. “An American. Friend of yours?”

“I haven’t any American friends.”

“Pity. He was quite a charmer. I’d have liked to get to know him better. I must say he seemed to have a temper on him, though. Maybe it was because you kept him waiting.”

“He isn’t there now?”

“No, though I did my best. I wish I’d had a spare room. I ought to have given him yours,” she said, a playful rebuke. “He’s still here in Oxford. Hang on, it’s all written down.”

She came back amid a rustling of paper. “He’s at the Randolph. Nothing under four stars for these Americans. Want the number?” She rattled it off before Stuart could ask. “I’ll see you tonight perhaps, shall I?” she said, and quickly, “Oh, I haven’t told you his name, have I? Martin Wallace.”

She rang off as he cleared his throat. He’d wanted to ask her to use her key and fetch his address book so that she could read him the addresses of the subjects who were living in London, so that he could visit them. He still did. The last thing he needed was Wallace’s interference—but suppose Wallace had news of Molly Wolfe? Suppose it was information he should have? As he dialed the code for Oxford, he wasn’t sure if he meant to call Trina or the hotel.

56

I
T WAS
early afternoon when Susan began to grow restless. Molly had heard children coming home for lunch, and now she heard them going back to school. Perhaps only Susan’s school had the day off, or only Susan herself. It wouldn’t have mattered to her, except that Susan was aggravating her nervousness making it harder for her to steel herself for the confrontation at her flat. She was beginning to wonder why Susan had stayed home at all.

She leafed through the encyclopedias on the shelf above the plants and tried to ignore Susan, who kept turning her head as if she could hear someone on the stairs. Molly tried to distract herself with the encyclopedias, but every subject seemed to hide a meaning: music was Stravinsky who had based his octet on a dream, Shakespeare seemed to have been obsessed with dreams when she thought about it, universities were Oxford… . She sat down and worked on her breathing instead.

Susan went to the window. She stood there, arms straight down by her sides, and watched for Nell. This was even more nerve-racking than her restlessness had been, this obsessive stillness that looked like a ritual. When Molly glanced at Susan’s reflection in the window, all she could see were the child’s eyes. They looked huge. Molly turned away, telling herself it must be a flaw in the glass. “I’m sure your mother will come home as soon as she can. You won’t make her come any sooner.”

“I know she will.”

The child’s voice sounded almost as if she were saying she could bring Nell home, whatever Molly thought. Her eyes in the reflection were impossibly huge and bright. “What’s wrong?” Molly demanded. “What can’t you wait for?”

“You
said you wanted to go home.”

“So I did. But I can wait, Susan. Don’t work yourself up on my behalf.”

She’d hoped her lightness of tone, forced though it was, would make Susan turn. When the child didn’t move she tried again. “You’re a strange child, do you know that?”

Susan stiffened. “Strange how?”

“Why, all that you said to me around Christmas, for one thing. About having power over people, remember? You were going to tell me more about that, but you never did. You hardly seem like the same person.”

She wondered if she’d said too much, for Susan’s hands were clenching at her sides. All at once she turned round. She had the look of a child who could no longer keep a secret, yet her face was more threatening than her voice had been. Molly wanted to laugh, but something prevented her, made her too breathless to speak.

“There was a girl who didn’t want me to live here,” Susan said in a low voice. “Do you know what I did?”

Molly tried to smile. “You tell me.”

“I put her in Mummy’s room where there aren’t any windows. When I opened the door, she was still lost in the dark where the light couldn’t reach. I made it that big.