No Escape (36 page)

‘I didn’t keep silent for your sake,’ she said.

By morning, Jack was responding well to his new antibiotics, Christopher’s bruises were purple, green and black, and he and Lizzie had settled on the cover story of a
mugging, though when Jack, on the phone, told his father that he wasn’t going to believe he was
really
okay unless he could see him for himself, Christopher had come away from the call
and begged Lizzie to reconsider.

‘Now he thinks I’ve been mugged, it’ll be okay – he’ll probably be impressed.’

‘It won’t be okay,’ Lizzie said. ‘It’ll be a lie.’ She paused. ‘And even if you don’t care about lying to your son, as soon as you set foot inside
the hospital, everyone will be asking you for the gory details and what the police are doing, and—’

‘All right,’ Christopher said. ‘You’ve made your point. Jack just sounded so upset about not seeing me.’

‘Whose fault is that?’ Lizzie said.

Glad as he had been to hear from her, Lizzie’s call last night had been, from Allbeury’s perspective, unsatisfactory. Too brief and too disturbing.

She’d explained away the tension in her voice; Jack was in hospital and she was, naturally enough, afraid. Yet Allbeury had sensed more than that in her strain, something perhaps not
greater than, but on equal footing with her fears for her son.

Wade at the root of it.

Christopher, the fine father, the one-time kerb crawler.

It had taken him a long time to get to sleep after that, and when he had, he had dreamed of
her
, an abstract dream in which nothing had been clear but her face and a soprano singing
something operatic and painfully shrill.

Leaving him even more disturbed, because he was becoming more certain than ever that Lizzie Wade was a woman in need of help.

The kind of help he was in the habit of giving women.

Who, ordinarily, he did not dream about.

Christopher returned to Marlow on Monday with Lizzie and Jack, for his bruising was a little less horrifying to look at by then, and the mugging tale had, as he’d
predicted, quite thrilled Jack once he had, finally, seen his dad for himself. And with the spectre of tracheotomy blotted out again for now, Lizzie found that she was more grateful for that gift
than she was repulsed to have her husband still at her side.

‘Did you fight back, Dad?’ Edward wanted to know.

‘I tried,’ Christopher said.

‘Much better not to,’ Lizzie told her older son. ‘Better to hand over what they want and be safe.’

‘Better catch the bloody bastards,’ Jack said.

‘Language,’ Christopher said.

‘Well, they were, weren’t they?’

‘Bet they don’t catch them,’ Edward said.

‘Probably not,’ Christopher agreed.

‘Does it hurt, Daddy?’ Sophie asked.

‘It did hurt, my darling,’ Christopher told her. ‘But it’s much better now I’m here with you all.’

Lizzie
was
repulsed now, knew that this time she would not, would never be, able to forgive him. No matter how wonderful he was with the children, no matter how perfect a daddy they all
believed him to be, it was, in the privacy of her heart and mind, finished for her.

‘Poor Christopher,’ Angela, scheduled to leave later that evening, said after she’d seen his face. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen.’

‘Dreadful,’ Lizzie said.

‘And so much worse for him than most of us,’ Angela said. ‘At least if any of us are ill or injured, we have Christopher to take care of us, but he has no one.’ She
smiled at her daughter. ‘Not anyone like him, I mean.’

‘Quite,’ Lizzie said.

‘You all right?’ her mother asked, then shook her head. ‘Silly question, after all you’ve been through.’ She paused. ‘Sure you want me to leave? I’d be
glad to stay on a while longer.’

‘No need.’ Lizzie drew brightness determinedly around her. ‘William’s missing you, and Gilly’s here to help.’

‘Quite sure?’ Angela laid a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘I’m still your mum, Lizzie. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time with me.’

‘I know I don’t,’ Lizzie said.

Over the next few days, Christopher seemed, in the presence of the children, to be able to hold himself together well enough to deceive them, but when they were at school or
with friends or asleep, he became, increasingly, more morose.

‘I’d be grateful,’ Lizzie told him on the Wednesday, ‘if you could try a little harder in front of Gilly. She’s no fool, and she knows something’s
wrong.’

‘She thinks it’s the mugging.’

‘I’m asking you to make an effort,’ Lizzie said.

‘Oh, I am,’ Christopher said. ‘You’ve no idea how great an effort.’

‘Am I supposed,’ she asked, ‘to thank you?’

On Thursday night, Hallowe’en, with Gilly out at a party and after an evening of sitting around the drawing room, decked out with pumpkins and candles, telling spooky
tales, because Jack wasn’t quite fit enough to go out trick-or-treating and the other two hadn’t wanted to go without him, Christopher went to bed before Lizzie, giving her an hour or
so of peace before she checked on the children and then went to bed herself.

It was just after midnight when she heard the knock on her door.

None of the children ever knocked, so it was either Gilly – back from her party – or Christopher.

She turned on her bedside lamp and drew up the covers.

‘Yes?’ she called, softly.

The door opened, and he was there, in his black silk dressing gown.

‘What is it, Christopher?’

She saw right away it had nothing to do with the children, since then he would have banged or just come straight in, and he was wearing his new hangdog expression, and he might as well have
stamped
PITY ME
on his forehead, only she had no pity left for him now, just contempt.

‘I seem to have run out of painkillers,’ he said.

‘I thought you had plenty.’

‘Plainly not enough.’

‘All right.’

She got out of bed, pulled on her robe, walked into the bathroom, opened the cabinet and took out a pack of Nurofen.

And heard his step behind her.

She turned around, saw him in the bathroom doorway.

‘I’d have brought them out.’

‘No need.’ He came into the bathroom, shut the door behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ Fear hit her hard, instantly. ‘Christopher, open the door.’

‘Don’t be afraid.’ In the bathroom’s bright light, his grey eyes appeared brighter than usual against the dark bruising. ‘You smell wonderful,’ he said,
softly.

Lizzie stepped to her right, then smartly to the door, certain, suddenly, that he was going to try and block her, but then she was gripping the handle and safely out of the bathroom again,
feeling faintly foolish.

‘The pills?’ Christopher came back into the bedroom, held out his hand.

‘Here.’ Lizzie thrust the pack at him, but it fell to the floor.

Christopher looked down at it. ‘I’m afraid I can’t bend very well just yet.’

Lizzie said nothing, just bent to pick it up, straightened again, took his left hand and slapped the pack firmly into his palm.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome.’

He took three paces towards the door – closed now, Lizzie noticed, and he must have done that when she’d gone ahead of him into the bathroom – and stopped again.

Turned back to face her.

‘Look at me,’ he said.

‘Go to bed, Christopher,’ Lizzie told him.

‘Not at my face,’ he said.

She looked, despite herself, saw what he wanted her to see.

Rage filled her.

‘Get out,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to get out,’ he said.

‘Get
out
.’ Lizzie came at him, her right hand outstretched, shoved at his chest. ‘Get out of my
room
.’ She moved past him, heart pounding wildly, reached
for the door handle.

‘I told you.’ Christopher turned, grabbed her arm, held it. ‘I don’t want to go.’

‘Let me go,’ she hissed. ‘Let me go right now, or I’ll scream.’

‘No, you won’t.’ His face was contorted, half-smiling.

‘Try me,’ she said.

He dragged her arm downwards, towards his groin.

‘Don’t you
dare
.’ Lizzie wrenched her arm free, shoved at him again, harder this time, and Christopher fell back against the door with a loud thud.

‘Bitch,’ he said, wincing with pain.

‘Get out,’ she said again.

‘Not this time.’

He recovered, came forward, and Lizzie backed away, saw that his pupils were dilated, and the last time returned to her, and realization hit her that she’d been both mad and foolish beyond
belief to imagine she could control this, go on
living
with this, even for the children.

‘I need some comfort, Lizzie,’ he said.

‘Find it elsewhere,’ she said. ‘On the street, or wherever.’

‘You’re still my wife,’ he said, and made another sudden, darting grab for her.

‘Not for much longer.’

She looked around for something to pick up, use as a weapon if she had to, but there was only a book and her bedside lamp – too heavy – however angry or afraid, she knew she would
never do such a thing to the children.

‘It’s not so much to ask,’ Christopher said and came at her again.

Lizzie picked up the book and hit him with it on his shoulder.

‘Bitch,’ he said again.

He shoved her and she stumbled against the bedside table, then, while she was still off-balance, shoved her again, harder, in the stomach, pushing her onto the bed.

‘No!’ she said, in pain, still struggling not to scream. ‘Christopher,
don’t
!’

He pulled his robe open, wrenched it off himself, like someone burning with heat, let it drop, got onto the bed, kneeling. Lizzie tried to roll away, but he grabbed at her, pinned her with one
arm, pulled up her nightdress with the other hand, thrust a knee between her thighs and raised his right hand.

‘Dad, what are you
doing
?’

They both froze at the sound of Jack’s voice.

Christopher let go of Lizzie’s arms, scrambled off the bed, retrieved his robe.

‘It’s all right,’ he said.

Lizzie, trembling, head spinning, still in pain, heart breaking at the sight of her middle child sitting in the doorway in his wheelchair, eyes wide with horror, struggled to sit up and push her
nightie back down.

‘Jack, go back to your room.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Darling, go on.’

‘No,’ he said, and began to wheel himself into the room. ‘What were you doing?’ he demanded, heading towards his father, braking sharply. ‘What were you doing to my
mother
?’

‘Take it easy, Jack.’ The unbruised portions of Christopher’s face were ashen as he fumbled with the black silk belt. ‘Nothing to get excited about.’

‘You pig,’ Jack said. ‘You disgusting
pig
!’

‘It’s okay.’ Lizzie started to get off the bed. ‘I’m okay, Jack.’

He ignored her, staring at his father.

‘How could you?’ he asked, quite softly. ‘How could you
do
that?’

Christopher put out his right arm, his hand shaking. ‘Come on, son. You don’t understand, you’re too young—’

The bellow that escaped from Jack as he drove the chair forward suddenly into his father’s legs, was a roar of purest anguish. Christopher let out a yell of pain, shuddered with it for an
instant, then stepped to his left, trying to escape.

Jack wheeled himself back several feet, then, with another of those terrible bellows, accelerated forward again, one steel front corner of the chair colliding with Christopher’s right
knee.

‘Jack, for God’s sake!’ he screamed with pain, and slid down onto the floor.

‘Jack, please!’ Lizzie began to weep. ‘Jack, darling, please stop it.’

Edward appeared in the doorway, fuzzy with sleep, then all too swiftly awake with horror and disbelief. ‘Jack, what the hell are you
doing
?’

‘Ask
him
!’ his brother said, and reversed again.

‘He’s gone
mad
.’ Christopher was hugging his leg in pain.

Lizzie’s tears ceased instantly. ‘Edward, please go and make sure Sophie stays in her room.’

‘But what’s
happened
?’

‘Edward, go to Sophie,’ Lizzie ordered. ‘Now!’

Jack seemed to hover for a second, and then the chair shot forward again.

Christopher screamed again.

And Edward ran.

The hours that followed came and went in a blur of semi-control for Lizzie. As Jack had, at last, slumped in his wheelchair, shattered and totally drained, Christopher had
limped from the room, dressed and made his escape from the house. Edward had emerged from Sophie’s bedroom to report that, miraculously, his sister had slept through the whole nightmare.

He wavered in the doorway of his mother’s room, hardly looking at Jack, who was still sitting in his chair, over by the wall, not speaking, his eyes shut. Lizzie had gone briefly to his
room, pulled the blanket from his bed and brought it back, wrapped it around him, for he was still shaking badly.

‘Is Jack going to be all right, Mum?’ Edward asked, softly.

‘I think so,’ Lizzie answered, also very quietly.

Still, Edward had not come into the room, as if he feared that doing so might allow him access to whatever mystery had sparked such horrors. In time, Lizzie supposed, dully, he would begin to
ask more questions, would want to know what his father had done to so enrage his loving, peaceable brother, but for now he was, apparently, hoping to be spared the full truth.

‘What about you?’ he asked her.

‘I’m all right, darling,’ Lizzie said.

One more lie laid on the pile.

‘Go back to bed, Edward,’ she told him. ‘If you can.’

‘You sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

He came in then, moving very swiftly, not looking to right or left, just coming quickly to his mother, planting a cold, nerve-laden kiss on her cheek, then going straight back to the door.

‘If you need me, Mum,’ he said.

‘I’ll call you, darling,’ she told him. ‘Goodnight.’