Requiem Mass (6 page)

‘But what about being a doctor? You always said you wanted to help people – and earn decent money to look after your family. And singing, well—’

‘Look,’ interrupted Kate, ‘there’s someone waving to us from over there. I think it’s Sticky.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Good grief, look at the time. It’s nearly 3.15 and we were due back at three o’clock at the latest. They’ll have been worried sick. Come on!’

All five leapt up and started back at a run – all except Octavia who walked at her own pace, increasingly falling behind. When Carol glanced back over her shoulder, she broke her stride and turned to rejoin her friend. Together, they started a slow jog along the cliff top.

Deborah, the least fit and slowest, found herself panting with a stitch between Leslie and Kate, way ahead, and Octavia and Carol behind, but close enough for her to hear some of their conversation.

‘You’re crazy, you know. Music is an awful career. I should know, look what it’s done to my mum and dad.’ Octavia’s protesting voice carried all the concern of a worried parent. ‘You don’t know what you’ll be getting into. It’s a cut-throat world – you’re just not tough enough.’

‘I can toughen up.’

‘Oh, come on, you’re little Miss Softie. Even in games you only win because of skill and speed, you’ve no aggression. And anyway, what do your parents think? And your aunt and uncle – what about them?’

‘They’re all dead against it, of course. Can’t understand me, think I’m crazy. Auntie even blamed you at first but I told her
you didn’t even know. No, they’re still convinced I should take up medicine. Apparently they’d even started saving against the time I would go to university but they’ve made it clear they won’t be wasting money on music!’

‘What, you mean they won’t support you? How on earth are you going to be able to study then?’

‘I’ll think of something. I already have one idea. Please try to understand, Octavia, this means a lot to me.’ Carol stopped and grasped her friend’s hands. ‘We both have the same problems – parents who have no money and ambitions that are beyond us. But it hasn’t stopped you being determined so I don’t see why I should give up without at least a damned good try.’

‘You’re mad. I’ve been planning this and working towards it for years. I know you’ve got talent but you’re basically untrained. Have you spoken to Miss Sharpe yet? She’ll be bitterly disappointed – she had you marked out as her star of the form.’

Carol’s reply was lost in Deborah’s panting breath as she plodded her way to the top of the final rise and, with a yelp, ran pell-mell down the long slope to the waiting minibus.

The gentle reminiscences lulled Deborah into a fitful doze despite her acute discomfort. Wherever her skin rubbed against the stinking plastic sheet it was starting to get sore and her lips and throat were parchment dry. The muscles in her upper arms, stretched by the angle at which her wrists had been pulled and tied to the bed were locked in a spasm of pain which no twisting or arching of her neck could relieve. The smell in the room was disgusting. Outside the noise of the gale reached a crescendo. Gusts of air found their way through minute crannies in the window frame, billowing the flimsy curtain into spectral shapes that danced in the dim light from under the door. Howls of wind drowned the fitful animal whimpers of her sleep, providing a fitting accompaniment to her torture.

At about three in the morning – in the dead zone of night when spirits fail and hopes die – the storm wrenched a slate tile
from its pins and sent it crashing into the stone yard, waking Deborah. Startled, disorientated, chilled to the bone and conscious only of a desperate thirst, she lay with staring eyes, trying to remember where she was. The room was in pitch darkness. For long moments she remained confused, convinced that her nightmare was continuing. There was now no feeling in her restricted arms and legs, only a slow-burning pain running in rivers from fingers to toes. Then a manic gust sent the curtain flying from its rail, letting in the faintest of storm light to create grey shadows in the room’s darkness.

She caught a glimpse of the white binding on her ankle, which secured her leg to the bed. The sight brought immediate and total recall. A pathetic scream rose from her parched throat and was forced out through cracked lips. Once it had started she was powerless to stop it. It went on and on, forming itself into cries for help.

‘Oh God, help me. Please. Oh Mummy, Oh God, help me, please help me. Help me. What have I done to deserve this? Dear God, have mercy on me, please have mercy on me. Don’t let me die. Please God, don’t let me die. Mummee …’

He sat comfortably outside the door, relaxed yet alert despite having had no sleep for twenty-four hours. The sounds of her waking distress crept through the keyhole and door frame to his waiting ears. Now he knew he had her. In a few hours he could begin his work.

CHAPTER FIVE

In Harlden, at number 24 Meadow Gardens, life continued with little amiss until 6.30 and Derek Fearnside’s return home. He was mildly perplexed to find the house quiet and dark in the fine spring evening but reassured to see three messages on the answerphone.

Beeep
… the high-pitched whine always annoyed him. ‘Hello, Debbie, this is Mavis. It’s 5.30. You could at least have called to let me know you were going to be late!’ The tone was amused to take the sting out of the words. ‘The children are starting to ask what’s going on. If you do pop in at home first, please ring to tell me when you’ll be here. Thanks.’

The bemused tone of Deborah’s friend filled the hall as Derek browsed through the day’s post and the tape played on. He only half listened as it continued, waiting impatiently for the message from his wife he was sure would be next on the machine.

Beeep
…

‘Hello, Debbie, this is Leslie. Just thought I’d let you know the trip to the headmaster was a
fiasco
– you wouldn’t believe it. I won’t spoil the story. Give me a call when you get in. By the way, you did say you’d try to get them to pick me up later. I guessed because I didn’t hear from you, that wasn’t possible. Call soon. ’Bye.’

Derek stopped reading the latest bank statement and really listened for the first time. Wasn’t Debbie meant to be with Leslie? What did that last message mean?

Beeep
…

‘Hello, Debbie, it’s me again, Mavis. It’s gone six o’clock and the children are getting restless. I hope everything’s OK. Give me a call, love, as soon as you can. ’Bye.’

Derek pressed the replay button as soon as the last message finished and listened intently to all three messages. It was nearly quarter to seven. His wife had been due back more than two hours ago and it was clear her friend was getting worried. Where was she? He had encountered no problems with the trains and the second message was from Leslie; he had been sure they were meant to be together today.

A cold sickness churned his stomach as the first flutterings of fear touched him. His rational mind was busy telling him not to worry, there would be a perfectly logical explanation for this … it was just that he could not think of one for the moment. He noticed that his hands trembled as he reached for the address book and he cursed himself for being stupid, suddenly, superstitiously concerned that his nervousness would add substance to his fears.

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ he told himself out loud. ‘She’ll turn up any minute with some feeble excuse about late-night shopping,’ (but it was Monday his brain insisted), ‘or drinks with the photographer. Stupid woman.’

But even as he told himself this it felt false. Whatever her faults, Deborah would never forget the children. She would at least make contact with them to explain her delay. The overloud ring of the telephone echoing in the empty hall made him jump and drop the address book. He snatched up the receiver and was rewarded by the sound of a woman’s voice.

‘Debbie, is that you?’ he bellowed, a contradictory mixture of anger and relief tightening his voice and making him breathless. ‘Where the hell are y—’

‘Hello, Derek, no, this is Mavis Dean. I was hoping Debbie was home. I take it she isn’t there.’

For many seconds Derek stood dumbly staring at the handset. A nausea of disappointment crushed his voice and fear leapt back unrestrained in the pit of his stomach.

‘Derek, are you all right?’

‘Yes, Mavis, I’m fine. I – I thought you were Debbie, that’s all. I was – I was about to call you; sh-she’s not home yet, you see and I thought she might be with you.’

‘No, she’s not. I haven’t heard from her all day and I’m starting to get concerned.’

‘I’m a bit worried too. You see, there’s no message from her on the machine.’

The woman’s words of reassurance filled his ear, echoing his own previous attempts at rational explanation. Disgusted with his own weakness and lack of control, he strove desperately to sound calm as he replied: ‘Mavis, I can’t think where she is. There were no delays on the trains. Have you any ideas?’

‘Have you tried Leslie Smith? They were going up together, you know. She could be there. Do you need their number? I’ve got it right to hand, it’s 232496, got that?’

‘Yes thanks, I’ve got it. Look, I don’t like to ask but could you—’

‘Look after the children? Yes of course. You just get on and sort this all out. I’m sure there’s a perfectly sensible explanation and that she’s fine. Give me a call later.’

Derek replaced the receiver absently. He was furious with Deborah for making him so worried. For long moments he stared dully at the hall wallpaper, light beige and cream Georgian stripes. He could still remember the awful row they had had whilst choosing it. He had insisted they buy something ready-pasted and forget the design; Deborah was adamant that this was
the
design for the hall, even though it would be difficult to hang. The trivial domestic squabble in the car park outside the DIY store (having bought nothing) deteriorated into an indictment of their marriage; Deborah criticised his pragmatism, lack of imagination and stifling contempt for anything stylish that, she claimed, had robbed their whole marriage of excitement. He had retaliated in kind, bringing up the effect of her latest extravagances on their delicate bank balance and her basic lack of common sense – a gloves-off fight with no winners but plenty of emotional lacerations and deep bruises.

In the end he had stormed back into the store. She had driven the children home where, two hours later he turned up with the contested wallpaper. It turned out that he had bought too much and the dye numbers did not match, making hanging it a nightmare. Neither of them had referred to the incident again but they both secretly hated the resulting décor. Now, as he focused blankly on the maligned and unappreciated stripes, he wished the whole incident away. What did it matter if it had taken longer to hang the bloody stuff? Once, he believed he would have done anything for her; now he realised with sudden self-loathing that for years she could justifiably have felt he had done as little as possible to disturb his routine.

He dialled Leslie’s number, offering up a silent prayer as he did so: please, just let Debbie come home.

Leslie couldn’t help him. Their plans had gone awry, she explained. She told him of the problems that morning, adding that the irony of it all was that the headmaster had not even wanted to see her and had disowned the phone call. In the quiet that followed her indignant explanation they both realised the possible implications of the hoax. It was a nightmare thought but once even the remotest suggestion of conspiracy had been admitted, it would not go away.

‘I’m not sure what I should do. D’you think I should call the police?’

‘I don’t know, I really don’t. It’s only 7.30 – ever so early to trouble them – and what would you say?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I’ve got to do something! I can’t just sit here and I don’t know what else to do, short of going up to London. Do you have the address of the studio, by the way?’

‘Only the one we went to for the first photos and we were told we would be going somewhere different today. Look, before you go off after her, are you sure she actually got the train? Is her car at the station still?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘We’re only a short walk away from the car park. I’ll get Brian to look if you like and call you back.’

It was some action at least. While Leslie’s husband made the
brief journey Derek searched in vain for any information on the modelling studio or catalogue. Deborah had apparently taken the folder she had been using with her and there were no stray papers anywhere. He searched his memory for any clue as to where she might have gone. There was none. He had been deliberately indifferent to her adventure and anyway, he told himself, there had not been much detail to discuss.

Upstairs in the bedroom he noticed that her make-up and her favourite perfume were not there. This made him curious to find out what else was missing. It was impossible to know whether any clothes had gone; certainly nothing obvious was missing. Her toothbrush was not there, neither were her hairbrush and hairspray. All this was consistent with a modelling assignment so he was not unduly surprised.

Then he noticed that the photograph from beside the bed was missing. It had been a family group in an antique solid silver frame, a bequest from Deborah’s maiden aunt. Without doubt it was her favourite possession. And it had gone. For the first time he wondered whether she had left him but he immediately rejected the idea.

He went back downstairs. Her passport was still in the bureau but her chequebook had disappeared. She had saved up quite a bit over the years and its absence worried him; it would mean that she had money to rely on. He went completely cold for a moment and had to sit down on the sofa. It just didn’t make sense. He couldn’t see her leaving after all the years they’d had together; she had always been so dependent on him. And then there were the children. She might just contemplate leaving him if she was really angry but she would never abandon them.

The phone call from Brian resolved nothing.

‘Her car’s still there, old man, securely locked up, but no sign of her, I’m afraid.’