The Liverpool Trilogy (21 page)

‘Yes. I’m Elizabeth – usually Liz, or Lizzie.’

The nurse smiled. ‘He’s been upgraded already, you know. He had a nurse to himself, now he shares one with the next fellow. Your dad might just be about to surprise us all. He’s doing brilliantly.’

Lizzie continued to stare at ‘brilliantly’. He was as white as the sheet on which he lay, as motionless as a statue in some museum. The only signs of life were in the machines that surrounded him, television screens with green lines whose shapes altered with every beat of his repaired heart. ‘He looks terrible,’ she managed finally.

‘So would you if you’d been a couple of hours on an operating table. I mean, we’re not pretending he’s not ill, and we’re not saying he’ll definitely make it. What we can tell you is that he’s as well as possible at this moment.’

Lizzie placed her heated forehead against the glass. ‘I bet you think I’m daft, but I’m scared to go in.’

‘Not daft, love. Just human. Don’t expect a lot from him, because he’s still full of rubbish from the anaesthetics. Come on, I’ll hold your hand.’

They entered and stood beside his bed.

One eye opened. ‘Oh yes?’ was the greeting. ‘Am I some kind of exhibit at the bloody fair? The thinnest man alive, the chap with more tubes than the London Underground? I could murder a chip butty.’

Lizzie found herself grinning.

‘See?’ said the nurse. ‘Now, that’s unusual. He should be drifting around like a balsa boat in a bath, but no. He’s asking for toast, tea, eggs and anything else he can think of.’

‘Not whisky?’

The nurse squeezed Lizzie’s hand. ‘Not yet, love. One day at a time, eh? He needs to go to what my old mother used to call Alcoholics Magnanimous. But that has to be his decision. He has to do it for himself, not for you or anyone else. There’s a chance, just a small one, that he won’t die of liver disease if he steers clear of booze. He’s drifted off again. Come on, let’s leave him to it.’

On a landing, Lizzie stopped and placed a hand on her companion’s arm. ‘See that car there? It’s full of UST.’

The nurse grinned. ‘What’s that? Some kind of pasteurized milk?’

‘Unresolved sexual tension,’ Lizzie replied. ‘That’s my mother.’

‘Nice-looking,’ the nurse said.

‘Yes. And with her’s the man she should have married. She’d have been happy with somebody like David, but she rebelled when her parents put their foot down about him in there.’ She jerked a thumb in the direction of the ward they had just left. ‘That teaches us two things. We should listen to our mums and dads, and when we are mums ourselves we should learn to keep our traps shut.’

Lizzie’s companion chuckled before excusing herself in order to continue with her duties. Alone, the daughter of Alan and Lucy Henshaw stood for some time staring at the couple in the car. They shared history from a time when life had been fairly safe and predictable, and now they had come together in the wake of tragedies and disappointments. Lizzie’s father was the greatest of his wife’s regrets. Greedy for power and hungry for money, he had stolen from her, had greatly underestimated her, yet had made her stronger in the long run.

David had lost a wife who, according to Mums, had been the great love of his life. Weaker than his current companion, he had run away to a guru on top of some hill in India, had sought solace in meditation and new-fangled prayer to gods who didn’t exist. Were they gods, or were they elements in nature? ‘I’ll ask some time,’ she said quietly. His son, a virtual orphan, had died of a nasty disease, and that poor kid’s father had been absent at the beginning of the illness. David had not grown stronger. He remained fidgety, unsure and almost childlike in some respects. Lizzie and her mother had discussed him at length, and it was clear that Mums was interested, yet hesitant, as he often seemed to be frozen and set in stone, rather like a fossil at the North Pole.

As an outsider, Lizzie could see what was required. Mums wanted someone to care for, because her children were beyond the age where they needed close vigilance. She needed to take him into her bed and into her heart, because she was a generous woman who was also capable of showering tremendous love on all who travelled within her sphere.

David was different, more complicated. Emotionally, he lived in the past, body and soul still welded to the ghosts of his wife and child. An overwhelming guilt forbade him to move on, so he was afraid of commitment. But Lizzie had watched, had taken in the expression on his face every time he looked at Lucy. His elemental self clearly desired this wonderful woman, but he was afraid. Mums had spoken about his deep uncertainties, but Lizzie had been too worried about Dad and everything else to take everything on board. Now, she watched David and tried to work him out for herself.

His fear stemmed, Lizzie suspected, from two sources. One was that the size of his love might suffocate Lucy, since he could give himself only completely. He was rather close to the hero in some age-old romance, the perfect man – created by a female writer, of course – who fixed on one woman only. Dad was like a splinter group in a single body, because he could give bits of himself to any woman who would have him. Dad and David were poles apart.

The other fear in Lucy’s potential suitor was the terrifying concept of loving and losing yet again. If they came together, he would, perhaps, depend on her too much, might have insufficient self-confidence to expect her to stay with him. If the unthinkable happened, if she died, he would probably never recover.

‘I should have studied psychology,’ Lizzie said.

Something had to be done. Life was becoming rather full, what with Dad ill and still naughty, Mums head-over-heels yet determined to appear unaffected, David Vincent not knowing whether he was coming or going, Theatre in the Park taking up time. And Simon. Lizzie was a rare animal, since she was a twenty-year-old virgin. She hadn’t expected to fall in love, because that wasn’t to be allowed on the agenda until she was working, famous, and able to identify a suitable man who might tolerate her potentially nomadic existence.

It had happened quickly, and was not to be trusted. Yet she did trust him. Whereas Mother – Mums – was with a man she had known before, a decent, trustworthy if rather absent-minded doctor, and Lizzie needed to find a way of getting them together. She wondered briefly whether Carol Makin might be experienced with a soldering iron, and giggled when she imagined her mother and Dr Vincent glued together for life. One thing she could do. There was a coffee machine downstairs, and she would take her time over a cup of Kenya blend. That might leave them in a car full of UST for another ten minutes.

Lizzie was wasting her time, because the couple in the car were ignoring any unresolved sexual tension to discuss what might become of Alan. Lucy thought he would return to drink at the earliest opportunity, while David believed that the man currently recovering from open heart surgery might have learned his lesson at last. ‘He’s through the worst. He was through that before they wheeled him into theatre. Withdrawal from any drug is a nightmare, and he’ll know he can’t endure that again.’

Lucy didn’t agree. ‘Drink is all he has. Even Lizzie’s seen through him, and he’ll have nowhere to turn. No job, no home, no family – unless I can find some very clever way of handling him, he’ll be dependent on alcohol within a week.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Half a lifetime of living with him. I think he sweats booze. When he comes into a room, it immediately adopts all the elegance of a distillery-cum-brewery, especially when he belches. His clothes reek of it. Until I moved into my own room, I smelt of it – from the bed covers. He’s too far gone, David. You think a few weeks in here is a cure?’

‘No. I think the surgery is the final cure. He’ll be terrified. After weeks of enforced alcohol-free living and painful withdrawal, he had the line drawn by a surgeon. It wasn’t just drawn, Lucy – it was cut into his flesh. The operation is the full stop at the end of this paragraph.’

He pointed to the building. ‘This place is Nemesis for him. I know Rhys Evans-Jones. He’s operated on kids whose hearts have needed attention after chemo. That man is one tough bastard who instructs parents like a disappointed sergeant major dressing down the ranks. I shouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of his scalpel. And I don’t mean a hand-held instrument – it’s his pep talks, his threats, his dogged determination to scare the living shit out of sinners. Mark my words, Lucy. He will have made a lasting impression on your husband.’

Lizzie opened a rear door and climbed into the car. ‘He’s fine,’ she told them. ‘Except he wants a chip butty.’

‘Good. Shall we go home, David?’

He turned on the engine.

‘How are we for UST?’ Lizzie asked.

‘Is that some kind of treated milk?’ Lucy enquired.

Lizzie groaned. ‘Home, James. And don’t spare the Audi.’

Lexi must have been waiting just inside the door like a crouching cat, because she opened it and pounced as soon as he began to push the envelope through the flap. He stepped back automatically until he saw the triumph in her face as she leapt from the hall and on to the front step. For the first time in his life, he felt near to murder. He had experienced strong dislikes before, but never hatred. So this was how easy it could be, then. A quick loss of temper, a step too far, a corpse on the floor, and years in prison. During those years, though, Moira would die, and since he could never leave her he would never succumb to the impulse to kill.

‘Here comes the man in black once more,’ Lexi proclaimed. ‘With his car parked at least three streets away, because I’m not good enough.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘Good enough for a quick shag, like, but not for anything more perma—’ She gasped. His hand was at her throat, and it was a very strong grip that interfered with voice and breathing. He moved quickly, pushed her into the house, and kicked home the door when they were both inside the stuffy, ill-decorated hall. Another ounce of pressure, and she would drop like a stone, but he was not a taker of lives.

Richard saw and enjoyed the fear in her eyes. ‘Listen, you stupid bitch,’ he whispered. ‘If you are going to ruin my life and, far more important, the little piece of agonizing time that’s left to my irreplaceable wife, you can do that just as easily from beyond the grave. Alive or dead, it makes no difference, because you’re a burden on society, and you wouldn’t be missed. Don’t play games with me, because you’re not in my league. You’re just a dirty, stinking whore.’

He threw her on to a sofa. ‘Where’s the film? Come on – where is the blasted thing? I thought I might send it to Hollywood, see what Spielberg thinks of it. I shall insist on Richard Gere and Julia Roberts to play our parts, of course. Lost your tongue? Oh, dear – did I hurt you? So sorry. It was completely intentional, I assure you.’

Lexi was clutching her neck, while her eyes darted from side to side. She was terrified, and she didn’t frighten easily. Situations like this one had been part and parcel of her adult life, but this was an educated man, and she feared him.

‘There’ll be no bruising to spoil your delightful appearance – I know what I’m doing. Trust me – I’m a doctor. Where’s this DVD?’ He folded his arms and towered over her. ‘Where?’ She was bluffing, wasn’t she?

‘Not here,’ she managed. ‘You don’t think I’d be daft enough to keep it where you could find it, eh?’

‘Get me a copy. Moira knows I have other women, because she sanctioned the idea, since she is way beyond the point where sex is even possible for her. I’d like to show her what I’ve been up to – she takes a great interest in everything I do, even insists that I find release somewhere. She may be disappointed to know that I’ve sunk to your level, but she’ll get a good laugh out of it. God knows she has little enough to laugh at. Well?’

Lexi shook her head.

‘Then where’s the camera?’

‘I lent it off somebody.’ Her tone was weak and husky. ‘What have you done to my neck? Will my voice get back to normal?’

‘Just be grateful that I didn’t break your bloody neck. But I promise you now – the day that little film of yours makes its international, red-carpet debut, you die.’ He watched while she swallowed painfully. ‘Right. Are we being filmed now? Where did you hide the camera? I can be very persistent, Alexandra. My wife knows I have adventures, but she’ll be upset when she finds I’ve been lying down with a prostitute, so I’d rather she didn’t know this particular truth. However, I’ll show her the evidence if you insist. Well? Camera?’

‘It was upstairs. But it’s not here now. I’ve give it back to my friend, and she’s gone on her holidays. I only lent it off her.’

‘Borrowed,’ he said automatically. ‘Now, hear this. No matter what, when Moira dies, I won’t marry you. She’s one in a million, and there’s every chance I’ll stay single. But, from a practical point of view, the way you speak, the way you dress, you could never play the part of doctor’s wife. So let’s talk business, shall we? For a one-off payment, will you sell me all copies of that film?’ This was the test he’d decided to set. Her reply might tell him all he needed to know. A film? She couldn’t even use the camera on her mobile phone, so she was hardly likely to attempt a hidden camcorder job.

‘No. I won’t.’

He sat in an armchair next to a 1950s fireplace, all beige mottled tiles and lacquered brass ornaments. An ironing board, its cover stained and peeling, stood to one side of the chimney breast. This was not an organized woman.

There was no DVD. Anyone in a strong position would have asked how much he intended to offer. After all, she could have taken a few grand, given him a couple of copies and kept the master. ‘There’ll be no more payments of a hundred pounds a week,’ he advised her. ‘The filming is a lie – I’d stake my life on that. You’re a tramp, Lexi. Remember, I’ve got your notes. Now that I’ve read them I shall need to check my own health, because you’re a tart. You’ve been to prison, haven’t you?’

She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The trouble was, she hadn’t thought it all through properly. Having laughed at him for not noticing that she was on his list, she’d forgotten that he would have access to her full medical history, which was colourful. It was difficult to keep up with him, because he had a brain that travelled faster than the speed of sound, and she simply wasn’t clever enough. But she would get to him. Oh yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Why should he get away with abusing her? He lived the grand life, posh house, nice car, good clothes. And she spent several hours a day pushing bar codes over a check-out light. It wasn’t fair. But she was still afraid.