Perfectly Pure and Good (21 page)

Rick loves me: he said so.

The sun was beginning to filter through the branches above him and warm the back of his head, not the sand beneath. The light was intermittent, like being in the disco above the Ark Royal with strobe lighting. Stonewall shivered with an uncomfortable sensation of fear, watched the sand flies leaping in front of his nose. What did you do with my Sal, you, you with the white hair like the headmaster? Sal's collar still dug into his groin; fear was displaced by anger, then by his own importance in seeing the ghost in which others now believed. They'd catch him all in good time, Rick and he.

Rick loves me. We can do anything.

A spider was creeping along a dew defined tightrope of web, suspended in front of Stonewall's freckled nose. Edward and the old man beneath were certainly not talking with the ease of old pals. The conversation was clipped, infrequent, with much staring out to sea and long pauses, not men at ease, not like him and Rick.

`That's a new stick you have,' Edward was saying. 'Where did you get it? I thought you hadn't any money.'

Òh, I stopped by to visit some old dear, for tea and chat, of course. Somehow acquired the stick on the way out.' Edward made a tut-tutting sound of warning, played with a blade of grass.

`You shouldn't do things like that,' he said petulantly.

À man must eat. I shouldn't break into your brother's surgery either, but you didn't have qualms about that.'

Silence, the wind moaning, blurring sound.

. . did you find?'

`The medical records of one Elisabeth Tysall. Details of a complicated prescription for soporific poisons. Particulars of an adulterous murder, to my mind.'

Òh no, not quite that,' Edward protested. 'Not as such.'

`Yes, as such. Letters from her which he received. Bitter letters to her he never sent. Why did he keep them out of his own house?'

`Because my mother is so inquisitive, I suppose.'

Ì could kill him,' said the man calmly. 'That's the idea, is it not?'

`You mean Charles Tysall could kill him?'

`With his bare hands,' said the man laconically. 'Although I daresay, he'd endeavour for a little more subtlety.' Edward wriggled uncomfortably. The man shifted in sympathy and moved further away. His piercing blue eyes abandoned their constant survey of the shore and bored into Edward's own. They seemed slightly out of focus, the man himself more of a vagrant than he had ever been before. Only his speech was perfectly controlled.

`Which would suit your purposes, I presume, as we discussed, however obliquely. It would suit you even better if your mother perished in the same accident. You and your beloved sister, lord and lady of all you survey, now that would be a lovely landscape to play with.'

‘I suppose so,' Edward muttered, still uncomfortable, but his body tingling with excitement. He would still have preferred his ambitions to be guessed, remain beyond definition, carried out without his knowledge. In the light of morning, his dreams became violent and vulgar; he wanted first to cherish and then, postpone them. Plans were so much more pleasant before they became real.

`We've still got this woman staying,' he said hurriedly. 'Makes it a bit awkward.'

`The one your sister called the cow.'

`She doesn't do that any more. Look, we ought to think about this.'

Òf course. I think all the time.'

mean, lay low, for a while—'

Àre you changing your mind?'

`No, no.'

`You would prefer, perhaps, not to know?'

`Can we just arrange another meeting, say two days' time? I've brought you a key to a caravan, all mod cons, fourth row down on the left, on the end . . . What's the matter?'

The long, thin man was heaving with mirthless laughter, an unpleasant wheezing sound which shook his whole frame and made the stick vibrate.

`Nothing. It's too late to change your mind. Do you really think I'll stay in a place of your choosing, where you can find me.'

Ì can turn you over to the police,' Edward blustered.

`For what? And have me repeat our conversations? Really!'

Again, there was that revelation of the balance of power between them, which Edward tried to pretend did not exist, but had been there all the time, since the very first, denying his control of the man, giving the lie to the little illusion that he was a grand benefactor and this was the grateful servant.

Just don't do anything until I tell you.'

The man raised his eyebrows, spread his hands. 'Would I? Did your sweet sister make you sandwiches today?'

`Yes, sorry I forgot them.'

Edward left without a backward glance, breaking into a jog along the beach, running awkwardly, disturbed, anxious to be away. The man rose too, moved to the left, out of sight.

Stonewall had missed most of the talk, apart from the odd bit about caravans. Something froze him, belly down, the inertia of hunger which stopped him getting up and following the ghost, the sun on his head, his long squinting at the spider, the light falling in lumps through the trees.

Thinking of his mother's wrath, wondering if it was better to wait here longer until her anger would be tempered by anxiety, thought after ten minutes' indecision how that might well make things worse. Thought, too, of which lies to tell to explain sneaking out of doors so early on a Monday morning, drawn by the allure of Rick's boat, not able to mention where he had been in case that meant a total ban, and somehow, in between all these anxious machinations, something more than the memory of Sal nagging at him, like being halfway to school on games days and realizing he had forgotten his shoes. Stonewall hated Monday mornings like that: they were the days for guilt.

Rick loves me.

Reluctantly, he scrambled to his feet and turned to run downhill back into the woods. Stopped, took a step back, heart in mouth, tripped, fell heavily on his bottom, winded. The white-haired man was standing there, towering above him from nowhere, looking at him, leaning on his stick like a man who had no need to lean.

Ì know you,' said the man. 'Don't I? And you know me.'

Stonewall shook his head in frantic denial, tried to scramble up, but the sand slipped from beneath his feet. Oh yes, he knew the man now. Almost a year to the day, that man striding out over the channels, Stonewall trying to stop him and tell him about the tide coming in faster than anyone could run, getting pushed over for his pains. A man who seemed to have grown taller and thinner and acquired this halo of bright white hair. He must have lived like an animal to change from that to this. His arms were like sticks, he was dirty.

`You're a spy for the good doctor,' said the man softly. 'You're just a spy. You even look like the doctor. Did you help to bury her? Did you put your grubby little fingers all over her, you and the doctor? Is that her shirt I see on you? Did you touch her tits? Did you?'

The boy was opening his mouth to protest, I never did nothing. I don't know what you're talking about, lay off, leave me alone, what did you do with my dog? There were no words, only a single sharp scream.

Stonewall's hands had flown to his head: the pummel from Miss Gloomer's stick broke three of his fingers. The second blow thudded into his skull; he could feel the crunching without pain, like a tooth coming out at the dentist, hardly felt the third blow at all. His body, halfway upright, curled into itself; fell forward, rolled down the slope through the pine needles and spiky grass, the thistles and the brambles tugging at his shorts, nothing hurting or feeling, his eyes awake to the light sparking through the pines, the moaning of the wind turning into a roar and then into a great big silence.

He ceased to notice the sun, felt a mild surprise as his body jerked again and then lay still, foetally curled with his hands to his head the way Rick had taught him to land if he fell. The final sensation was of resting against a brown tree trunk where the bark scraped his cheek and at last, that graze caused pain, humiliation, a vague sense that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, foolish, just a baby who wanted to cry and not be teased like this. He could not close his eyes but there was nothing he could see.

Rick loves me.

The man looked down dispassionately. If he followed to finish what he had started, he would probably tear his clothes and he did not have clothes to spare. Nor enough clothes to go home.

Wherever that was.

It was a mild breakfast, big brother in mild humour, Joanna noticed. Mother took hers out into the sun; there was no sign of Edward and no ill will from anyone. Mother had dressed in Monday best, wore a turban with a brooch. With a reluctant sense of fairness, which had always distorted itself to champion the younger of her brothers, Joanna was admitting to herself how it was that Julian was best with Mother, adapted to her childish level, played her games except sometimes when she went near the stove.

There was a bruise she had noticed to the side of Mother's cheek, the imprint of yesterday's earring neatly reproduced, a lower level of attention-seeking in her lunacy today, uncharacteristic, a deviation from the way she never failed to hide her battiness, always thrust it under their noses.

The dress beneath the turban was turquoise and shimmery with leg-of-mutton sleeves, the pink plimsolls the same as yesterday. Joanna could see her now, beyond the kitchen door, feeding the birds by scattering crumbs in large, unnecessary flings. Joanna sensed her restlessness. She was restless herself, wanted to tell Julian about the scene she thought she had seen last night, Edward and Mouse, something terrible.

Loyalty forbade revelation, even to herself. Edward would never do such a thing; her imagination was playing tricks. It was all part of some spirit of energy which seemed to have afflicted them all since Sarah Fortune had arrived, a long few days before.

`Jo, don't bother cooking today,' Julian was suggesting pleasantly. `Mother doesn't much care, seems a waste of the heat. Look, I meant to ask you ages ago, what happened to that boy you were seeing? Rick, from the arcade? Nice lad. I stitched his knee last year, he was extremely brave, I know we don't talk about these things, but I mean, I never even told you I liked him—'

`First I heard!' Surprise and the restless energy made her hiss.

`What on earth do you mean?'

Mother came back indoors. The full turquoise skirt was tucked into her knickers on one side. She did a waltzing turn, then beckoned to Hettie the sheep to follow from the doorway.

`Can Hettie come in?' she enquired with smooth politeness. The sheep seemed to snigger; they were only as silly as one another. 'Only she's so much better today, I've asked her for coffee.'

`Not on weekdays, Mother, you know that,' Julian admonished calmly. 'Joanna, what do you mean? What happened to Rick? You two fall out or something? I hoped, well—'

Joanna exploded in fury. How could he be so calm and concerned when all he wanted to do was put Mother in a home where they would never let her wear her own clothes? When it was he who wrecked her chances with Rick in the first place, drove him away with threats?

Ì mean,' she hissed, 'that no, we didn't fall out. But it's a bit difficult for a man to go on taking a girl out when her big brother tells him not to bother because if he doesn't, he might lose his living. See what I mean? And don't lie about it. Rick was shy enough already. You just made it worse.'

She was shoving breakfast dishes into soapsuds with shaking hands. Julian's calm only fuelled her fury.

`Jo,' he began.

`Don't call me Jo!' she screamed. Mother erupted into laughter and then went back outside, humming in some strange sort of satisfaction. Julian let it all ride for a full minute until Joanna's frenetic movements became slower, then joined her at the sink, drying as she washed, sorry all of a sudden for not doing more often as he did now.

Unbidden, Sarah Fortune came to mind. Life is too short to bake cakes, she'd said, sometime early this morning; made him laugh, made him smile now I love my sister, he thought, only I never say so. I love this place, if not this house, I'm not the worst doctor they ever had. I can live if I let myself live.

`There's the door,' he said. `Go down to the quay, I should, and ask your Rick which brother it was gave him a warning. All I can say is it wasn't this one. Oh, and do bear in mind the fact it could be simple nervousness makes a man give up on a gorgeous girl like you. You beautiful women never seem to know how terrifying you are. You scare us to death.'

She was still defiant, horribly doubtful. So much easier to blame rather than act, so much simpler to wallow.

`Gorgeous!' she spat.

Òh, ever so, ever so gorgeous,' said Mother, nodding like the sheep in the doorway.

Èxtremely good-looking, if you want to be pedantic,' said Julian gravely. Ìf only you saw yourself as other people do.'

`Such as?' she flung back, still defiant, tossing her hair out of her eyes. He pretended to consider, think of an opinion she might value. Not the vicar, the genteel verger who kissed Mother after church, not any male in their small circle he could quote.

`Sarah Fortune says so. She told me, I didn't ask. Takes one good-looking woman to know another.'

The front door slammed. Edward's distinctive cough echoed in the distance. Joanna couldn't face Edward. She stuck two fingers in the air, roughly towards Hettie, aimed towards all present, speechless, mollified, flattered, unable to say anything with grace, still trying to suppress all those warning chords in her head which had been humming with the strength of the church organ, about anything Edward had ever said.

`Come in and have some more coffee, Mother,' Julian was saying. He was trying to distract her from her obvious efforts to introduce Hettie into the kitchen, as if she needed a watchdog, but also to turn attention away from Jo's dilemma since the girl could never make a decision with the spotlight on her. Look at them both, Jo thought with fleeting concern, would he ever put Ma in a home, like Edward said? In the end, she didn't want to think about either of them at all, she simply wanted to run.

The dramatic stripes of her light cotton skirt flowed round as she walked briskly down the road, the effect of it reassuring. Sarah Fortune's influence had made her root through her wardrobe and the local shops for things which actually pleased her. If she were Sarah, how would she tackle Rick? Calmly, directly, without going pink or beating about the bush, saying, Can I talk to you, please? That's what Sarah had said when they talked about it. She said, Find out the truth and then, if you have to, find someone else. A long talk it had been, with the clothes.