The Last Voice You Hear (24 page)

He shrugged. ‘Like I said, Sarah’s told me her story.

I don’t care who you’re hiding from.’

‘It’s not a debt I ever meant to call in.’

This made him laugh. ‘Sarah won’t help you because she owes you, Zoë. She’ll help you because she loves you. Do you want to eat yet?’

She thought she’d better. She couldn’t remember last time she’d eaten.

In her letters, in her phone calls these past few years (which had always been Sarah ringing Zoë), Sarah had talked about Russell. In the flesh he was much as she’d painted: five-eleven, dark, thinning a little on top, with brown eyes Sarah called
kind
. He didn’t swagger, didn’t roll. He wasn’t especially broad, but wasn’t weedy either. Thickening around the middle, possibly, but that was life: it plumped you up, ready for market. He wore jeans and a dark blue V-neck, and was softly spoken. For what it was worth – Zoë had been wrong about men before – Sarah probably had a point: this Russell was maybe a good one. But Sarah had been wrong about men before, too.

And he’d made a lot of money, though Sarah hadn’t said how. Advertising, Zoë expected. Architecture, at a pinch.

Outside, in the proper world, the sun struggled behind grey swaddling.

The ostrich pen was to the left, and on its far side stood another shed, much like the one she’d emerged from. The ostriches were nearby, looking deeply weird – a trio of giant feathered anomalies: not the first thing you’d expect in an English farm scene. It wasn’t a working farm; the land around belonged to the neighbours. Still, it made an Oxford flat look cramped.

The biggest, Mr O, stared at Zoë as they passed. Zoë had been scrutinized by bastards lately, but this chilled her nevertheless.

The farmhouse – if you could still call it that – looked like a bungalow from the rear, but getting nearer Zoë saw that its lower storey, from this approach, was below the level of the land. A kind of dry moat had been dug round it, so the lower windows at the back looked out on a stone wall holding the earth at bay. But the land dipped sharply, and from the front the house was a plain two-storey of old grey stone: broad and squat, with a mildewed patch below a leaking overflow pipe, and windows either a little too wide or a shade not deep enough. Squared-off chimneys at either end looked vaguely military, for no obvious reason.

It wasn’t an attractive building, and lacked ivy or window-beds to soften its façade. Zoë liked it. Houses built for people who looked after pigs and tilled earth deserved this no-nonsense style. No prizes for guessing Sarah felt the same way.

There were lights pegged just below the guttering at each corner. Russell saw her notice them. ‘Motion sensitive,’ he said. ‘We’re a bit vulnerable to burglars out here.’

He pushed open the hefty, weather-beaten front door. ‘Kitchen’s straight ahead,’ he said. She walked through a hallway littered with shoes and upturned wellies, into a kitchen stretching half the length of the house. Not enough daylight spilled through the windows – the moat blocked it – but the internal lighting was recessed, subtle, and the moat-wall had been whitewashed, which counteracted the gloom. Below the windows was a double sink with a huge draining board, and in the middle of the room a table so large and scarred it left no doubt that this used to be a farmhouse kitchen where serious business happened: the plucking of poultry and skinning of lambs. A double-fronted oven dominated one wall, with a large and heavy pan on its back ring. More pans hung on hooks and from an overhead metal rod spanning the room. The chairs around the table were wooden, but didn’t match. There was even space for a bookcase, heavy with cookery tomes all different sizes and shelved at problematic angles, interspersed with paperback novels, phone directories, and, unless Zoë was misreading the spine, a sex manual. There was no sign of dog- or cat-life.

‘I’ll assume you’re not a vegetarian.’

‘That’s very civil.’

He began assembling ingredients from the fridge.

‘You’re Jewish, right?’

‘Is this the bacon question?’

‘Uh-huh.’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

Which was the right answer, the smell assured her.

He made more coffee in between making everything else. Zoë could feel life coming back, and everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours started to assume the haunted fuzziness of a late-night movie watched while drunk. It was Tuesday morning. That seemed a strange time for it to be; an odd fact worth repeating. It was Tuesday morning. When he placed a plate in front of her, she cleared it without talking. The loudest noise in the room – crowding out her chewing, their breathing, the ticking of the clock – was the way the handcuffs jangled on her left wrist, like a musical illustration of a promise breached.

At last he said, ‘You’re wearing handcuffs.’

‘I know.’ She finished eating; reached for cigarettes, but evidently wasn’t wearing her smoking clothes, because all her pockets were empty. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

‘Does that indicate police involvement?’

She said, ‘So it would seem.’

‘They didn’t finish arresting you, though.’

‘I’m not sure they were real policemen.’ Then she said, ‘No. They were real policemen. But they weren’t doing their job.’

Something about the way he was looking at her – something, she amended, about his face, those
kind
eyes – invited her to continue.

This was not how it worked, though. This was not how Zoë worked. You broke down with the first man prepared to listen, you might as well jack in the game at the start: there were men who understood this trick. Which was why women like Caroline died. So instead of going on she said, ‘You don’t smoke, by any chance?’

‘I wish I did,’ he replied with feeling.

Oh. One of those.

She made to cover a yawn and almost took her eye out with the cuff.

He said, ‘Perhaps we should do something about that.’

While he went to find tools she took in her new surroundings. There was something unreal about visiting for the first time a place you’d been told about. Like seeing the film of a novel you’d enjoyed, it was usually either disappointing or not quite as bad as you’d expected. But this felt like Zoë had been reading a different book altogether. She wondered how much attention she’d been paying while Sarah talked or wrote to her, and decided not enough.

When Russell returned he was carrying a very man-at-work toolbox, which accordioned open to show compartments full of shiny implements and different-sized nails. From among them he chose a vicious pair of cutters, their seriousness only partly mitigated by their kiddy-orange handles. ‘I don’t think I can get through the cuff itself,’ he said. ‘Not without endangering your hand. Do you want me to endanger your hand?’

‘Guess.’

‘So what I’ll do is take the chain off. That way you won’t be clinking like the bride of Frankenstein.’ He had her lay her arm on the tabletop, and didn’t mess about once she’d done so: using both hands to force the cutters, he sheared the links as close to her wrist as he could, and the second cuff, its silver worm attached, shivered to the table. Zoë felt no freer; actually, it made her realize how much she hated having this thing hooked on her. But she was quieter, at least, and she thanked him.

‘I don’t mean to get personal. But could you use a bath?’

‘I was going to ask.’

He showed her the bathroom, laid out some clothes of Sarah’s, and left her to it. Then she ran the bath high as it would go and still leave room for her: it was a deep tub that sat on iron claws, and held a lot of water. While it filled she unclothed and stared into the mirror.
You hurt
some people
, she told herself.
You stole a coat and hat from a
man who has nothing
. The face looking back might have been somebody else’s, for all the grief and guilt it held. The mirror misted, and Zoë was glad. There was something about that face’s determination not to give anything away that made her tired.

But water was good. Water was hot. She slipped into it with a sense of release; it made her both more conscious of her body – soothing its outline; stroking its bruises – and detached from it at the same time. She looked at herself, basking like a porpoise. This is what was happening: her body either was, or was not, harbouring an unwelcome guest, which right now either was, or was not, eating her healthy cells. There were other possibilities, and while none were pleasant, all were preferable. None would kill her. None would maim. None would harm her
body
, not for ever, and it was with this thought that something confused until now became clear: that it was not her body doing this to her. It was something happening to her body, something separate and unwelcome. This was worth hanging on to, and it followed her into a cloudy warm nothing where she closed her eyes and forgot, for a while, men who’d forced her to hurt them, who would have hurt her too. And a man who’d allowed her to wrong him, instead of making her work a little harder for what she’d robbed him of.

It was the cuff prevented her falling asleep. Its unrelenting presence, the way it grated against the bath and scratched her flesh, dragged her back before she could slip away altogether.

When the water grew cold she washed herself, then let it drain away; then, wrapped in a towel, she sat on the edge of the bath and wondered what was going on. The men who’d come for her had nothing to do with Alan Talmadge, that was for certain. It could only be Wensley. Wensley was the only other thing she’d done lately, and judging by the outrage, one thing was clear: he hadn’t fallen off his tower block. Like Caroline, like Victoria, he had been pushed. Because it seemed Zoë lived in a world devoid of accidents; one where every rotten thing that happened could be traced to a rotten cause. No great leap was involved in reaching this conclusion. Though it kind of figured – would have made Joe’s ghost laugh if he’d had one – that it was the job she wasn’t being paid for that was causing the havoc.

It had to be Sturrock. She bent and dried between her toes, always an aid to concentration. There’d only been a mile between his and Wensley’s deaths, halfway along which sat Zoë. Why anybody thought she knew anything was a mystery, but she knew about kicking over stones: sooner or later, something crawled out. She opened the window and steam billowed for a few frantic seconds; just another of those moments where casual action provokes visible tumult. Then the air cleared, and all was fresh and cool and positive. She needed thinking time. Zoë was a strong believer that there was nothing she couldn’t get to grips with, given time and cigarettes. Which was another reason for alarm; she was perilously low on cigarettes.

She dressed in Sarah’s clothes; a small and not terribly important surrender of identity. She couldn’t help wondering what had become of her beloved leather jacket, and whether she’d see it again. Downstairs, she found Russell in the kitchen making coffee again, as if he were engaged in a not terribly subtle campaign to become her favourite human being. He said, ‘I’ll show you around, if you like. Around the fortifications. It’s not the usual guest situation, is it?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Are they likely to come after you?’

She looked at him a long while, then said, ‘They don’t know I’m here.’

‘Maybe not. But Sarah’s always said you’d come to her if you needed help. And, well . . . here you are.’

Yes. This had occurred to her. She said, ‘I don’t want to bring trouble on you. I won’t stay long.’

‘That’s not an issue. All I’m wondering is, do I make up the spare room, or will you be in the shed?’

‘I think the shed.’

He fussed with the coffee machine, as if it were a gadget unfamiliar to him. ‘Does this happen often?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Well, never. In case you’d not guessed.’

She said, ‘You’re doing fine, Russell. I’ll go tomorrow. I just need a breathing space.’

‘Zoë. You can stay as long as you need. That’s a given.’ He poured the coffee at last. ‘I just don’t want to let anybody down, that’s all.’

‘You’ve already been a saviour.’

When they’d finished, he led her outside. It was a bright chill day, and the surrounding hills were sculpted clean against the sky. Zoë breathed deep, and remembered cigarettes.

‘It’s always different,’ he said. ‘Not just the seasons. Every day.’

She nodded. None of the obvious comments seemed worth saying.

‘Plays buggery with a mobile, though. You can’t get a signal for miles.’

They walked past the ostrich pen, where the birds were strutting aimlessly. Mr O, the biggest by far, pinned them with a beady gaze and stayed put, but one of the females trotted over. Watching her, Zoë remembered that birds were the closest living relations to dinosaurs. ‘Which one’s this?’ she asked.

‘Ah,’ said Russell. He looked embarrassed. ‘This would be Gwyneth.’

‘Gwyneth,’ repeated Zoë.

When Gwyneth arrived, Zoë was glad of the high mesh between them. Not as tall as the male, she was still sizeable, and her feet were deadly weapons – couldn’t they open you up with those feet? She was about to ask the fount of ostrich lore, but was distracted by the bird, who was sinking to her knees, fluffing her wings. She was making a plaintive noise – part croon, part groan – and her attention was focused on Russell.

After a moment Zoë said, ‘Why is she doing that?’

‘Um,’ said Russell, ‘she’s being friendly.’

‘How friendly?’

‘Very friendly, actually.’

‘You mean –’

‘Yes. I do. It’s quite common, apparently.’

They watched the lovelorn ostrich a few moments more before walking on.

Behind the second shed sat a small blue tractor.

Zoë said, ‘I thought this was a no-farming zone.’

‘It belongs to next door.’ He nodded in the direction she’d been heading in before turning down the lane. ‘They keep it here, and its fuel and gear in the shed. We’ve space to spare.’

‘Code of the country?’

‘Just neighbourliness. They’re away at the moment.’

There was a drainage ditch bordering the road on which Zoë’s car had quit. She mentioned the car to Russell, who said he’d collect it, if she’d give him the keys.