Staring At The Light (26 page)

‘An eternity of having your teeth filled,’ Julie said lightly, thinking of Imelda, who had been the sole topic of conversation
last evening, and hoping that Pauline had not heard her swearing, mild though it had been. Or seen her making the sign of
the Cross; she was even more afraid of that. A vain hope for this gaunt gentlewoman of silent footsteps: Pauline missed nothing.
Julie adored her, but the intense affection was tinged with a fear that went slightly beyond profound respect. Pauline had
more than a touch of ruthlessness.

‘And, yes, I did see you making the sign of the Cross, child. What a curious thing to do when all you had done to precede
it was snap St George’s perfectly dreadful spear. Don’t worry, my dearest, don’t worry. It really doesn’t mean that God has
got
you, like St George supposedly
got
the dragon. Not that George was really after the dragon. He was only after
the maiden, after all. Most men’s ambitions centre on the carnal, in the end.’ She tapped the dragon’s nose. ‘They have to
be the way they are for the furtherance of the species. It afflicts them all the time, even when they do it with each other
into old, old age without any discernible result. And they know, of course, by another version of the same instinct, that
the women will look after the progeny long after they’ve gone on to plant some more. So don’t trouble your head about St George’s
spear. He only wanted to get the dragon out of the way. A rolling-pin would have done.’ She touched the broken spearpoint
with her foot. The kitten skittered away.

‘Why did I make the sign of the Cross?’ Julie asked, ashamed of the aggression in her voice.

‘Oh, Lord, for the same reason you wave
thank you
at someone on a zebra crossing for failing to run you over. An automatic reaction against a repetition of danger or embarrassment.
Really, it doesn’t matter.’

The St George of the statue had rosy cupid-bow lips, pursed in concentration. No primal scream forming through open jaws.
The dragon looked like a larger version of the kitten, rolling on its back; not much of a contest, for all of its feigned
agony, pathetic beast.

‘But what if God had got me?’

Pauline sat in a flurry of sudden consternation, settled herself. ‘What if? I’d be delighted if He answered my prayers, but
the occurrence of that isn’t frequent so I’d also be surprised.
What if?
would be entirely
for you to discover. It wouldn’t prevent you from loving your husband, if that’s what frightens you about it. Indeed, if you
saw him as an instrument of God as well as a mere man, it would make you love him more. Is that what you mean?’

Julie shook her head.

Pauline went on, ‘If this casual invocation of the Holy Trinity meant a realization that no human love is complete, totally
fulfilling and providing all the answers, you’ll merely have taken a step forward. Several steps. It may make you judge him
differently. Sceptically. Want something more reliable to love. Not
instead of
, as well as. You wouldn’t believe the flexibility of religious belief. If it does damn-all else, it puts things into perspective
…’

‘
Stoppit
!’ Julie yelled, holding her hands over her ears. And then, more quietly, ‘Stoppit. Stop
it. Stop doubt
. Stoppit.’ She hesitated; she hurt. Old bruises came to life. She wanted to shout, ‘I’m
pregnant
.’ ‘Why is it that I could live by myself for two whole years when Cannon was in prison and never waver in the way I felt
about him? Never waver in my complete conviction about whatever he said, never
doubt
? What are you doing to me?’

‘I? Nothing. God might be working on you. There might always have been the need for another kind of faith. You’ve never been
among religious people before, have you?’

‘
Contented
people,’ Julie murmured. ‘Contented with a fraction of what I hope for. No, I’ve never dwelt with people who are content.’

‘Well, don’t let the appearances fool you. Why do you think Imelda grinds her teeth? We can’t all be free of doubt.’

‘What? Not even you?’

‘Especially not me. But this has nothing at all to do with me. And it wasn’t the same, being utterly faithful to Cannon when
he was in prison and you weren’t. Now the position’s reversed and it surely gives rise to resentment, doesn’t it? After all,
it might be all his fault. Or his
fantasy
. But your injuries were real, child. Entirely real.’

Julie turned on her with quiet fury. ‘Yes, they were, weren’t they? Only I’m no longer sure who it was inflicted them. A man
who refused point-blank to look at me, couldn’t bear to see me. Put a pillowcase over my head so he didn’t have to. Got someone
else to hit me. It
must
be his brother – oh, God, I
hope
it was his brother. There was nothing I would not do to keep Cannon.
Nothing
.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Maybe it was all simply an act of God, bringing me here.’

Pauline laughed shortly, the sound of it loud in the chapel. Her reverence for the place was casual. ‘God moves in mysterious
ways, but they aren’t usually quite so convoluted.’ She touched Julie lightly on the shoulder, brushed her hair back behind
one ear. It was as if she knew how much Julie longed to be touched, even as innocently as this. ‘Would you like to
try
to pray?’ Pauline asked. ‘It’s easy, really. All you have to do is just imagine God the Father does exist and chat to him.
That’s all there is to it, really. You
don’t have to praise him, you can complain to him if you like. I would, if I were you.’ She bent down and picked the tip of
St George’s spear off the floor. ‘A bit of Elastoplast, I think,’ she said.

‘I’m hungry,’ Julie said. ‘Ravenous for food. Help me.’

Sarah sat and looked at the mess on top of the desk. She had put all the estate agents’ bumph into the bin, thought of the
new flat and quietly applauded. Yes! Thought of William and smiled. Thought of Cannon and frowned. Enough was enough. In between
everything else she had found a new place for him to squat:
her
new flat with the deaf neighbours. Throw money at the problem, Ernest had said, and she had. An immediate rental agreement,
pending exchange of contracts, expensive but worth it. Cannon and Julie were going to bankrupt her, but that did not come
into the equation.

There were more art catalogues and a letter.

She agreed with the last sentiment, albeit with reservations. She could quite understand why any member of the paying public
might consider a lawyer no more than a highly trained thief extracting money from grief and necessity, a servant with an exaggerated
sense of self-importance, not in the other guise, as protector, which was the way she saw it. Someone who led others through
the minefield of highly regulated contemporary life, stuck with them and brought them through to the other side. That was
what she did, when allowed.

So, Mr Smith, I may have you on a hook. I may get to have a proper look at you at last. What will you think of me? Shall I
be able to make human contact with you or will you spit? The writing was similar to what she had seen; similar, but not identical.
The spelling was different and the result inconclusive.

The mirror faced her on one turn of her restless pacing. Window open for forbidden cigarette smoke. No, there was no way she
could make herself look like a boy, but she could probably make herself look less like a woman. Scrape back the hair, omit
the makeup, try to look pale and uninteresting; add specs. She rather liked the idea of disguise. It was only an extension
of daily life to assume the colours of her surrounding company, not for camouflage but to
make them feel at ease. An actress, playing a number of parts.

Cannon. Who still had not phoned. If Cannon was telling the truth when he said there was no answer to the terrible threat
of Johnnyboy until Johnnyboy was tired of the game, then she would have to find the solution for him. Blackmail of the kind
Cannon had forbidden. After all, at one remove she knew quite a lot about John Smith’s business. The countdown to Christmas
was short, but it was still too long, even if John Smith
had
promised. She had the sense of time running out, even before Pauline phoned. The office this morning was hot and stuffy.

‘Where have you been?’ The mere sound of that authoritarian voice sparked the guilt that had lain pretending to be dormant.
Pauline reminded her how little of her own life she seemed to possess, but it seemed wrong to complain about that. She shut
her eyes and tried to recall the moment when she had seen the new flat; a moment of unalloyed, undistracted happiness. As
if it was ever going to be hers.

‘I’ve been nowhere, Auntie.’ Pauline hated being called Auntie. ‘I’ve been busy doing nothing. As always. You know how it
is.’

There was the sound of heavy breathing. Sarah doubted she was using the convent phone, sited in the hall next to the dining
room – not for confidential conversations and sparingly used as necessity demanded. Sarah had offered to buy them a fax and
met a barrage of puzzled faces. Why would we need it?

‘How soon can you come and see Julie? How
soon
?’
She was whispering urgently, sounding childish, as if enjoying the conspiracy, relishing the keeping of secrets. No wonder
it had been easy to persuade her into such discretion: she was a closet spy.

Sarah glanced at the letter from John Smith, ending with his illiterate signature.
Ridiculous
secrecy: the man could not even spell. He was a clown who swam like a piece of cork on legs, and she herself was delaying
because she was no longer able to believe that any of this had been necessary.

‘Why should I?’ A weary question, sounding grudging. Julie was her responsibility was why, just as Cannon was. She had made
them thus. Was it laziness and wanting her own life back that made her resentful? But she loved them both, Pauline and William,
too. It was just that none of them seemed to be aware of it. ‘Oh, I don’t mean
why
, I mean why now? It’s only a few days since …’ She was sounding apologetic, and cross for feeling it. Why could she never
do
enough
?

‘Well, if you came today, most of them are out. The sermon in the Cathedral …’

‘
Why
?’

‘Look, things move fast with the human soul,’ Pauline hissed. ‘It doesn’t stay consistent. I’m worried about her. Cannon’s
missing two nights. They argued. She’s getting frightened. She’s also getting addicted to this way of life. Thinks it’s easier
than coming out. She’s starting to
pray
.’

‘That’s your fault,’ Sarah said, icily calm in her anger. ‘
Your
fault. You can’t leave well alone.’

The breathing became heavier, indignant. ‘Do you think I want a
convert
at any price? Well, I don’t. I don’t want someone I can mould into belief simply because they’re weakened, impressionable
and fearful. Especially someone who feels they’re being abandoned. Not much of a gift to God, is it?’

‘I can’t make her happier. Cannon’s the only one who can do that.’

There was a snort of derision, an unspoken curse.
Men
. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you could, but you could alleviate this sense of abandonment. Come and talk to her. Make plans for
her. Cannon’s not communicating. Tell her there’s an end to this charade. Give her
some
version of what might happen. Tell her he’ll do anything for her. As she would for him.
Anything
.’

Sarah was silent. Pauline had always asked the impossible.

‘She’s afraid of the frailty of love.’ And Pauline added, saving the best until last, ‘I’ve a feeling she might be pregnant.’

Perhaps it was something he had done or said; perhaps it was the imminence of Christmas, and a time when his clients consulted
their budgets and decided their teeth could wait in the interests of other, less important and purely seasonal spending, but
business was not brisk, William decided. This did not worry him unduly: money had never worried him much, apart from a vague
discomfort about the fact that perhaps it should – in the way that a new suit or a different piece of wallpaper should excite
him and
didn’t quite. In fact, anything that had to be
shopped
for, money included, was always a trifle disappointing. He surprised himself by thinking that what he really appreciated
in life were the surprises: the events, the gifts, the people wished upon him unexpectedly before he had a chance to head
them off. Sarah; Cannon; a truly unusual set of teeth presenting themselves for his inspection; the challenge of John Smith.
The surprise to the eye or the emotions of something exquisite or hideous. He was not sure whether John Smith was a real person
or an event. Whatever he was, there was something stupendous about his arrival. He was a gift without wrapping.

Early in the morning William was home, Sarah and he embarking in their always separate directions. Wouldn’t have to be so
early if she moved into that flat she’d described. He liked the idea of her living nearer; definitely liked it, a lot, so
much so that he wished he could remember the address she’d told him before he’d been distracted, wished he had told her about
John Smith, but on the whole was pleased he had not. She was so damned helpful. He wanted to deal with John Smith by himself;
create an achievement all by himself, alone and unaided. I’m not such a klutz, am I? I can make a real difference to two lives.
And I’m a good lover;
me
. She had said so.