Denied to all but Ghosts (28 page)

“Thanks, Em.” His voice was beginning to
sound a little more slurred, for which she was grateful and
horrified in equal measure; she knew now for certain that she
really was not cut out to be Lady Macbeth.

“Em, I don’t feel well,” there was a sudden
terror in Beckett's voice. Emily stood at the foot of the bed
staring at the prostrate Beckett. “Em, I don’t feel well,” he
repeated. He started to cry, pitiful moans of self-reproach, “I
didn’t drink that much, honestly, it’s not fair, I didn’t drink
nothing!” he managed to say, each word punctuated by sobs.

Emily reached a monumental conscious decision
of life altering consequences, perhaps the first selfless decision
she had ever made. She slowly took off her coat and walked to the
side of the bed where she carefully laid down beside the weeping
man. She placed her arm tenderly around him and cradled his head
against her warm breasts, whilst gently stroking his wet hair.

“I’m so sorry, Tom,” she whispered in his ear
before she too began to cry uncontrollably as the clock on the
Crooked Spire struck midnight.

The car windscreen wipers beat a steady
rhythm against the persistent rain. Emily sat quietly in the
passenger seat, her legs tucked under her body, her head pillowed
against the side of the car by her red coat. She felt exhausted,
physically and mentally. She said very little during the night
drive from Chesterfield in the early hours of Monday morning, she
did not even ask where they were going.

Her eyes were closed against the world and
the preceding twelve hours. They had succeeded in what they had set
out to do, but she took no pleasure from the outcome.

When Slingsby had first informed her about
the great relic that was being surreptitiously traded, she was
excited and saw the possibilities that revealing the sword could
offer. She had imagined TV interviews, a documentary, naturally
presented by herself, concerning the history of the blade and of
Anglo Saxon history in general. She savoured the garnered respect
bestowed on her by the stuffy aging clique who ran Oxford, who had
held her back all these years. Yet somehow, all this now seemed a
ridiculous pipedream despite them possessing the sword, or perhaps
because of the way the sword had been obtained.

There had been no feeling of triumph or
elation as she left the hotel and joined the waiting Slingsby. He
had been annoyed, berating her for her tardiness. She had not
forgotten the fear he had instilled in her only a few hours before.
Hence, their departure from Chesterfield had been conducted in
silence and trepidation and the journey had continued in a similar
manner as she wallowed in self-recrimination.

It was after four o’clock on Monday morning
that Slingsby drove into the still sleeping world of
Wells-next-the-Sea. Emily sensed that they were nearing the
journeys end.

“Where are we?” she asked sleepily.

“Wells-next-the-Sea,” said Slingsby in an
upbeat manner that may or may not have been genuine, it was
certainly not the Slingsby from Queens Park.

“When do we reach Oxford?” she asked.

“We don’t, we’ll be staying here for a few
days.”

“Why?”

“‘Cos we stay here for a few days to let the
fuss die down,” replied Slingsby, the laid-back manner of his voice
dissipating with every word he spoke.

Emily lowered her feet to the floor and
realised how stiff her legs had grown after having had them in the
same position for several hours. She looked about her, peering into
the sodium lit, orange world hoping to gain sight of a familiar
landmark. Slingsby navigated the silent streets with apparent
familiarity and parked the car in a small car park nestled between
the town houses. He climbed laboriously out of the car, reached for
a cigarette from his sport coat pocket, lit up, and took a long
slow draw.

“Come on, old girl. Out of the car,” he said
firmly.

Emily Spelman reluctantly left the warmth of
the womb-like interior and shivered as she watched her breath
condense in the cold damp morning air. The rain had stopped but the
dew hung heavily about them. Slingsby grabbed a suitcase from the
boot and carried the wooden sword case in his other hand.

“Come on, Emily,” he said more forcibly and
walked off into the dark morning gloom.

Emily followed him, noting what she took to
be a village green edged with large dormant trees surrounded by
Georgian houses. She watched Slingsby pause outside one of the
properties to allow her to catch up. By the time she had reached
the gate in the small brick garden wall Slingsby had already
unlocked the heavy door, bordered by two ornate white Greek columns
standing as sentinels on either side. She reluctantly followed him,
she felt too weary to argue or do anything other than what he
ordered. He hovered in the hallway, waiting for her to enter and
closed the heavy door behind her.

A high ceilinged hallway with a staircase off
to the right greeted her; the walls were painted in a deep red and
seemed to close in ominously around her. Still carrying the two
cases, Slingsby mounted the stairs two at a time. She obediently
followed as he led her into a large bedroom at the rear of the
property. It was a beautifully furnished room dominated by a king
size bed, adorned by a plump, inviting red duvet. Slingsby put the
two cases in one corner of the room.

“Make yourself at home; I’m desperate for a
slash,” he said as he made for the en suite bathroom.

She lowered herself onto the bed and
immediately the plush quilt caressed her weary body as she listened
to Slingsby whistling an irritating tune in the adjoining room.
Whilst in the car, it had not occurred to her how damp her jeans
were following the evening spent in the rain with Beckett, but
against the inviting warmth of the quilt, she felt cold and clammy.
She struggled to pull her boots off, forced herself to stand up,
and unfastened her cloying jeans. She quickly undressed and
snatched a long tee shirt from the case, which she hurriedly pulled
on before Slingsby returned.

Emily trudged apathetically towards the
bathroom with her washing kit and instinctively flinched as she
passed the journalist as he re-emerged into the bedroom, she fixed
her eyes on the cream carpet to avoid looking at him.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, she
scarcely recognised the face she saw, she did not look or feel like
the Emily of only a few days ago. She looked tired and was
frightened by the haunted look in her eyes.

Upon her return to the bedroom, she
discovered Slingsby already ensconced in the bed, his clothes in an
untidy pile by the side of the bed. He pulled back the duvet in an
open invitation to Emily. She really did not want to get into bed
with him but she felt too weary to protest. All she craved for was
sleep and oblivion.

“Come on, a few hours’ kip and we’ll both
feel a lot better.” He smiled at her, the old smile she remembered
from happier times. She padded slowly towards the bed; the thick
pile carpet nuzzling at her feet as if she was walking on shifting
sand. Climbing into bed, she curled into a comforting foetal
position as he slid across and wrapped a protective arm around her
but all she sensed was the memory of his fierce grip from their
encounter in the park. Slingsby pulled the quilt up over them
both.

“You sleep tight, you’ll be fine. Just think
of what we can now do,” said Slingsby softly.

“I won’t sleep.” It was her first words since
abandoning the car. “I won’t sleep, I feel disgusted,” she spat.
Despite her words, she fought the disjointed thoughts that were
racing through her head. She tried to rearrange them into a
semblance of order but fatigue ruined her efforts and her mind
became a morass of clouded images.

“Don’t then,” said Slingsby gently, “you just
lie there and relax.” He withdrew his arm from around her and drew
his body away from her so that he could gently caress her back. His
hand moved in a slow circular motion and he felt her body tense and
relax against his palm.

“I reckon I could fall in love with you,
Emily, if I wasn’t such a selfish bastard,” he said quietly. He
continued by telling her of all the things they would do in the
coming days, he told her of his dreams and ambitions, his hopes and
unusually, of his fears. Emily missed all of Paul Slingsby’s words
of hope as she had fallen soundly asleep.

Emily had no idea how long she slept, she
guessed the time to be after eight o’clock on Monday morning,
judging by the level of daylight that illuminated the bedroom. She
awoke in response to the attentions of Slingsby. She did not want
to make love; she was aghast to think that after Sunday night he
would ever think she would be prepared to have sex with him again.
She had gone along with the sex as an admittedly pleasurable
sideline from their business venture. Slingsby was a skilful lover
and teacher and to her own shame, she admitted she was more than a
willing student.

Emily was a naively passionate woman; she
knew she was considered to be attractive by men and to be a threat
by women. Yet she had badly miscalculated her influence over the
veteran journalist and whatever relationship they had was in
tatters following Slingsby’s intimidation and the subsequent
drugging of Beckett. She had foolishly revealed intimate things to
him, which he had now threatened to use against her. She was now a
criminal and did not like the feeling one bit; she was not cut out
to play Bonnie and Clyde.

Emily was about to protest when Slingsby’s
hips suddenly ceased their tentative thrusting. Although she
welcomed it, the abrupt cessation was disturbing and unexpected.
She manoeuvred her head to look over her shoulder at her partner in
crime but before she could complete the turn, she saw the reason
why he aborted his attempts at lovemaking. A short man in his
twenties stood in the doorway watching them with a naughty boy
smirk on his face. He styled his brown hair in a crew cut and wore
a baggy grey sweatshirt with stylishly faded jeans.

“Good morning! Please don’t stop on my
account, I was hoping to enjoy the show,” said the man.

“What the hell are you doing here?” shouted
Slingsby. Emily thought he sounded embarrassed and certainly more
than a little angry.

“Well, it is our house, Mr Slingsby, just
thought I’d drop by and survey the old property.” Emily noticed the
American accent, East Coast, New England.

“But...” Slingsby did not know what to
say.

“May I introduce myself, Dr Spelman,” said
the American as he raised and pointed a Browning Automatic pistol,
“please, both of you remain quite still.” He moved quickly and
agilely to the foot of the bed.

“I’m Brad; you’ve been dealing with my Pops
for the past few months. Unfortunately I’m not like Pops, he’s the
man of integrity, I’m just the wayward younger son.” The man talked
with confidence and perhaps a rehearsed precision. “When Pops
embarked on this odyssey to England he brought me along with him,
thinking that a little taste of European culture would do me good.
And it has, I know how to eat properly with a knife and fork, how
not to shovel my peas, I know that a faucet is a tap,” he tapped
his gun on an imaginary surface before him, “and I walk on a
pavement not a sidewalk. And I just love cul-de-sacs and duel
carriageways, it’s oh so fucking colonial. And the women, well just
take a look at what we have here.”

“Does your father know you’re here?” asked
Slingsby, finding his voice. He may have discovered his voice but
still considered it imprudent to move.

“No, Pops thinks we took a car to discover
the delights of Cornwall, wherever the fuck that is. No, my visit
here was our own inspiration. We listened to all this shit that was
going on, pieced together the story and thought, hey, we could
steal a little action here. This sword that people kept talking
about in reverential terms is our ticket away from the families
that think were so stupid!”

Brad’s voice rose to a crescendo at the end
of his speech. It sent a shiver down Emily Spelman’s spine. She
listened how he spoke as opposed to what he said. She was used to a
world of impassioned calmness, where displays of overt emotion were
considered a weakness. She could certainly detect emotional frailty
in the young man, and such a weakness and a firearm were not a
promising combination.

“I’ve been expecting your arrival. I’ve had
to live pretty frugally, I didn’t want the house to look lived in,
but hey, I needn’t have worried, all you two love birds wanted was
to hit the sack.” Brad walked over to where the cases lay in the
corner of the room. Slingsby sat upright, causing Emily to scurry
lower down the bed to hide herself from the intruder. Slingsby
noticed that the sword case was already missing.

A well of despair opened up before Paul
Slingsby. He had been in many bad situations as an investigative
journalist, he had made business dealings with some shady
characters to whom he was heavily in debt, and he knew this
situation was as about as bad as it gets. To him life, since the
year dot, was made up of players and victims. There was nothing in
life quite as wretched as a victim, someone who had no control over
their life; victims were the playthings of the players. The players
hunted, the victims starved. The players made money, the victims
went broke. The players had guns, the victims sat naked in bed.

Slingsby was a victim, he no longer
determined his destiny, but worse still, he exercised no control
over the fate of the woman at his side who he now belatedly decided
he loved. He remembered how he always considered love to be a human
failing, but at this moment the passion he felt for the woman next
to him was all he had left in the world.