An Empty Death (27 page)

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Authors: Laura Wilson

BOOK: An Empty Death
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‘You gave me your word.’
‘I know. I forgot myself.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Fay, lightly. Surprised by her tone, Dacre turned to look at her and saw, by the dim light in the street, that not only was she smiling, but that she had a look of secretive contentment. She’s pleased, he thought, and his heart leapt. She’s pleased to have such an effect on me. Perhaps she’ll let me make it up to her after all.
 
Fay did not speak again until they reached the hospital, and Dacre, for once not knowing what to say, decided that silent contrition was best. To his surprise, when they arrived, she turned to him and said, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
‘Except the last part. I know I’ve said it before, but I am sorry, Fay.’
‘I didn’t like it, what you did in there. I have to trust you, James, and I can’t if you’re going to behave like that.’
‘It will never happen again, Fay, I promise you. Not unless you want it to.’
‘I shouldn’t think I’d ever want it to . . .’ she said, adding, just as he thought all was lost, ‘not in public, anyway.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then let’s not talk about it any more.’
There was a pause, and he heard her take a breath. Although she was very close to him, he could barely make out her features, but she seemed to him to be frowning slightly.
‘Can I see you again?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I’d like that.’ She giggled. ‘If you really, truly promise to behave yourself.’
‘I promise. Honestly.’ He put up a hand to touch her cheek. He felt her draw back slightly, so, instead of trying to kiss her, he gave her a little pat.
‘I’d better say goodnight before anyone sees us.’
‘Will you be all right to go in?’
‘Oh, yes. There’s a bathroom window we use. Well, it’s a sort of bathroom - we don’t have a proper one in the basement. It’s quite safe as long as you don’t land in one of the buckets.’
‘Heavens. Better watch your step, then.’
‘Yes . . . Goodnight, James.’
‘Goodnight, Fay.’
She left him to walk round the corner, and he stood listening until he could no longer hear her footsteps. Time to go home. Negotiating his way back to Euston, he was aware of an odd, confused sensation, one that he couldn’t identify. Relief, yes, that Fay had not rejected him, but something else, too. There was a warmth inside him. Not physical, and not like happiness, which was a fiercer and more sudden feeling that he associated with moments of triumph. Remembering how he’d followed the big policeman and seen him through the window, with his wife - the sense of connection between them - he wondered if he were not, perhaps, experiencing the kind of happiness that others felt. Odd, considering he hadn’t had Fay, but that, he knew, was just a matter of time. She was nervous, and worried about her reputation, as any nice girl would be. But she’d forgiven him, hadn’t she? And she knew he wanted her, and, for a moment - just a moment - she had responded to him, he was sure of it.
He had an image of the two of them, married, himself a doctor, the father of children, with a home, a life where he was respected and loved . . . For a moment, it seemed possible. But then the thought returned that it couldn’t be, not if it were based, as it would have to be, on a falsehood. Unless there was a way round it . . .
There must be. He didn’t like feeling helpless, it made him angry. Why shouldn’t he have what he wanted? Other people did. The big policeman did. But then, with other things he’d wanted, he’d got them, hadn’t he? People and circumstances had been the obstacles in his way, but he’d managed to get round them. He’d do it somehow. He didn’t know how, but he bloody well would. He’d have the life he wanted - deserved - and that would include Fay.
 
He thought of her as he lay on his meagre bed and pleasured himself, remembering the feeling of her body pressed against his, her warmth and softness, the smell of her. Afterwards, he tried to concentrate on a chapter of Aids to Psychiatry, but he was restless, quickly amorous again despite his climax. Eventually he slept, but woke again at quarter to three. Deciding he might as well use the time, he propped himself up as best he could on his two thin pillows and reached for the textbook. It had to be said that, so far, all this psychiatry stuff hadn’t told him much that he didn’t already know, even if he hadn’t yet seen more than a handful of people who were obviously mentally afflicted. But there must be more to learn . . . and, as a discipline, it was still in its infancy, and fairly underpopulated. Besides which, there’d be no more physical examinations or worrying about whether one had missed a bursting appendix. Really, the more he thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. And he’d have Fay by his side, wouldn’t he? She wouldn’t get away - he’d make sure of that.
 
The following morning in the Gents’, washing his hands with enormous concentration after having left a nurse applying Whit-field’s Ointment to a man with an appalling case of ringworm, the idea had never seemed so good.
Dacre heard the cubicle door creak behind him, but didn’t raise his eyes. He’d read that ringworm was highly contagious, and, having examined the man, was intent on scrubbing himself as thoroughly as possible. He was vaguely aware of a white-coated someone washing his hands at the next basin. He thought nothing of it until the water stopped running and the man’s hands stopped moving, but whoever it was remained standing beside him. Turning his head to look, he saw that it was Dr Byrne.
Thirty
D
oris always managed to keep her nets lovely, Jenny thought. Even now, with all the dust and muck. She’d got the sitting room furniture really shining, barley-sugar legs and all, and they’d managed a few sandwiches for the tea party, with a tiny scrap of butter and a cucumber Ted had fetched from the allotment. There was even a very small fruit cake. So far, things seemed to be going all right, or at least not actually badly, in that Mr Ingram had telephoned Doris and been summoned to tea, and Mrs Ingram, although initially reluctant to stay in the same room as ‘that man’, was now perched on the sofa beside Doris.
Mr Ingram, who had been coached in his part by Jenny, was ensconced in Donald’s armchair on the other side of the small tea table. He had managed to shave, and kit himself out in civilian clothes - trousers and a saggy jersey that looked as if it had been knitted with walking sticks. She had no idea where he was staying, and he hadn’t volunteered anything. He was fidgeting, worrying at the cuticles of his thumbs with the nails of his forefingers, and juddering one leg up and down, apparently unconsciously. ‘It won’t matter once I know she’s all right,’ he’d told Jenny. ‘Then I’ll hand myself over.’
Now, Jenny thought, he looked like a nervous actor in a not-very-good play. Mrs Ingram looked presentable, if dull-eyed, and there was a shakiness about her movements that made Jenny anxious for the china, but she seemed to be following the conversation. Doris, at Jenny’s suggestion, had introduced the subject of holidays by mentioning a day trip they’d all taken to Southend on the paddle-steamer before the war, and was now regaling them with a description of the concert party on the pier.
‘We did that, didn’t we, Elsie?’ said Mr Ingram. ‘We saw Arthur Askey, remember?’
Mrs Ingram shifted slightly in her seat, but kept her eyes on her cup and saucer.
‘Don’t you remember, Elsie? They had a train going down the pier.’
Mrs Ingram raised her head. She didn’t look into her husband’s face, but in the direction of his knees, one of which was still twitching violently. ‘I remember it,’ she said, ‘but how do you know about it?’
‘I was with you. We went to Shoeburyness, to the caravan, remember? We’d go into Southend and see the lights all down the front. We even managed Eastbourne one year. Nineteen thirty-nine, in July. They had a bandstand and bowling greens. We took a boat trip to the lighthouse, and we went to Hastings.’
Mrs Ingram’s teeth gave an audible click.
‘Remember that, Elsie? We saw the fishermen drying their nets on the beach, and you said—’
‘How do you know what I said?’ asked Mrs Ingram in an agitated voice. ‘Who told you?’
‘No-one, dear. I was there. We had ice-cream afterwards. Rossi’s ice-cream.’ And the flowers, Elsie.’ A note of desperation had crept into Mr Ingram’s voice. ‘Remember how much you liked the flowers? It was all beautifully kept. Of course, we loved Southend, too, but they didn’t have anything like those displays, did they, dear?’
Mrs Ingram shook her head and glared at him. ‘Why don’t you show her the photograph?’ prompted Jenny.
Mr Ingram held out the picture. ‘Look, Elsie, remember this? It was taken on our honeymoon.’
Mrs Ingram snatched it from him. ‘What are you doing with that?’
‘It’s mine, Elsie. I took it to remind me of you, dear.’
She showed the photograph to Doris. ‘This is him. This is my Eric.’
‘I know,’ said Doris. ‘He’s here, now.’
‘No, this is him.’
‘But they’re the same!’ said Doris. ‘The same person.’
‘No!’ Mrs Ingram snatched the photograph back and stood up. Gesturing behind her at Mr Ingram, she said, ‘Why have you got his clothes? Who gave them to you?’
‘They’re my clothes, Elsie.’ Mr Ingram stood up. ‘Please, dear . . .’
‘Don’t call me that! I mended those trousers with my own hands. You can see.’
‘That’s right!’ said Mr Ingram, pointing at a place on the side of his jumping knee.
‘He tore them,’ said Mrs Ingram, ‘when he—’
‘I fell off a ladder,’ said Mr Ingram excitedly. ‘I was putting up some Christmas decorations, and I came a cropper. Elsie made ever such a good job of mending them, you’d hardly know they’d—’
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ said Mrs Ingram, firmly. ‘I did it for him. Why have you got them?’ Her voice was shrill, quivering with fear. ‘Did you take them from him when you stole the picture? What have you done to him?’
Seeing that the conversation was about to get out of control, Jenny stood up too and said briskly, ‘Another sandwich, anyone? Or perhaps we should have some cake now?’
‘Ooh, I think cake, don’t you?’ said Doris in a gleeful, schoolgirlish voice.
‘How silly!’ said Jenny, looking down at the plate. ‘I forgot to bring a knife. Shan’t be a moment.’
She dashed out of the room, leaving Mrs Ingram wailing behind her. Washing her hands in the kitchen (not that she needed to, but she wanted an excuse to collect her thoughts), she heard Mr Ingram say plaintively, ‘I’ve done nothing, Elsie, I swear to you.’ She would have liked to confer with Doris about what to do, but there was no question of leaving the pair of them alone.
Not finding the cake slice in its usual place, she was about to search the other drawers when a clear recollection of putting the thing down on the tray beside the plate, coupled with a sudden cessation of voices from the sitting room, stopped her in her tracks. She shot back across the hall just in time to see Mrs Ingram standing on the rug, photograph in one shaking hand, cake slice in the other, pointing it at Mr Ingram. For a moment, the scene appeared to Jenny like a waxwork tableau: Mr Ingram had his hands up in a placatory ‘surrender’ gesture, and Doris’s mouth hung open in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.
‘He’s not coming near me,’ said Mrs Ingram in a loud voice. ‘I won’t let him.’
Mr Ingram looked so ridiculous standing in front of the fireplace, staring down at the quivering cake slice as if it were a bayonet, that Jenny almost laughed.
‘Elsie, calm down,’ said Mr Ingram. ‘This isn’t necessary.’
‘Don’t you tell me what’s necessary!’ Mrs Ingram sounded dangerously near hysterics.
Doris put a restraining hand on Mrs Ingram’s arm. ‘It’s all right, dear, he’s not going to—’
‘Let go!’ Mrs Ingram rounded on Doris, throwing her arm off. Doris gave a little scream, and the next moment Jenny saw that a trickle of blood had run down Doris’s wrist.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Doris, looking pointedly at Jenny. ‘An accident - just a little nick.’
Jenny didn’t know about ‘accident’ but there seemed to be a fair amount of blood now - some of it had dripped onto Doris’s skirt - and it wasn’t showing any sign of stopping. Ignoring Mrs Ingram, who appeared to be rooted to the spot, Jenny bound her sister’s hand with a napkin. The sight of the bright red blood blooming across the perfectly laundered white linen seemed to concentrate Mr Ingram’s mind, because he started forward, just missing the tea table, and grabbed Mrs Ingram’s wrist.
Mrs Ingram tried, ineffectually, to push him away and the pair of them swayed backwards and forwards for a moment, sending several cups and saucers smashing to the floor.
‘Get - away - from - me!’ panted Mrs Ingram, fiercely. There was a cry from Doris - Mr Ingram had inadvertently kicked her - and then, as Mr Ingram took hold of Mrs Ingram’s shoulders and pushed her back onto the sofa, the cake slice flew out of her hand and clattered onto the hearth.
‘I said, that’s enough! I’ve had enough! We all have!’ Mr Ingram stood shaking, his face puce with fury. Although small, he towered over his seated wife, who cowered away from him. ‘Stop it!’ He leant forward and shouted into her face. ‘Just stop it! Have you any idea what you’re putting me through?’ He grabbed hold of one corner of the photograph and jerked it, trying to pull it out of her hand. ‘That’s me there! Eric! It’s me!’

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