Devices and Desires (51 page)

“Don’t be daft. What sort of life would he have with a terrorist gang? They’ll write him off like they write off everyone else.”

Caroline said: “What about your parents? Won’t they take him? Can’t they look after him?”

“Are you crazy? I ran away from home because my stepfather knocked Ma about. When he started on me I walked out. Do you think I’d let him have Timmy, him or her?”

Her mother had seemed to like the violence, or at least had liked what came after it. Those two years before she ran away had taught Amy one lesson: have sex only with men who want you more than you want them.

Caroline asked: “What about Pascoe? Are you sure he knows nothing?”

“Of course he doesn’t. We weren’t even lovers. He didn’t want me and I didn’t want him.”

But there was someone she had wanted, and she had a sudden vivid memory of lying with Alex in the dunes, the smell of sea and sand and sweat, his grave, ironic face. Well, she wasn’t going to tell Caroline about Alex. She had one secret of her own. She would keep it.

She thought of the curious paths by which she had come to this moment in time, to this place. Perhaps if she drowned, her whole life would flash before her, as it was said to do, everything experienced, understood, made sense of in that final annihilating moment. But now she saw the past as a series of coloured slides, clicking in quick succession, an image briefly received, an emotion barely experienced before it disappeared. Suddenly she was shivering violently. She said: “I’m cold.”

“I said to come with warm clothes and nothing else. That jumper isn’t enough.”

“These are the only warm clothes I’ve got.”

“On the headland? What do you wear in winter?”

“Sometimes Neil lends me his greatcoat. We share. Whichever one of us goes out gets the coat. We were thinking we might get one for me from the Old Rectory jumble.”

Caroline took off her jacket. She said: “Here, put this round you.”

“No, that’s yours. I don’t want it.”

“Put it on.”

“I said I don’t want it.”

But, like a child, she let Caroline push her arms into the sleeves, stood obediently while the jacket was fastened. Then she crouched down, almost wedging herself under the narrow seat which ran round the boat, shutting out the horror of those silently advancing waves. It seemed to Amy that she felt for
the first time and with every nerve the inexorable power of the sea. She saw in imagination her pale and lifeless body plummeting through the miles of wet darkness to the seabed, to the skeletons of long-drowned sailors, where the uncaring creatures swam between the ribs of ancient ships. And the mist, less thick now but mysteriously more frightening, had become a living thing, gently swirling and soundlessly breathing, stealing her own breath, so that she found herself panting, insinuating its damp horror into every pore. It seemed impossible to believe that somewhere there was land, lighted windows behind the drawn curtains, light spilling from the doors of pubs, laughing voices, people sitting in warmth and safety. She saw the caravan as she had seen it so often, returning from Norwich after dark, a sturdy rectangle of wood which seemed rooted to the headland, defying the gales and the sea, the warm glow from its windows, the twist of smoke rising from the stack. She thought of Timmy and Neil. How long would Neil wait until he called the police? He wasn’t one to act in a hurry. After all, she wasn’t a child, she had a right to leave. He might do nothing until morning, and perhaps even then he would wait. But it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing the police could do. No one except that desolate figure on the quay knew where they were, and if he raised the alarm it would be too late. It was useless to believe even in the reality of the terrorists. They were marooned here in black dampness. They would circle and circle until the fuel ran out and then drift out to sea until a coaster ran them down.

She no longer had any sense of passing time. The rhythmic throbbing of the engine had lulled her not into peace, but into a dulled acquiescence in which she was aware only of the wood hard against her back, of Caroline standing intent and motionless in the cockpit. And then the engine died.

For a few seconds the silence was absolute. Then, as the boat gently lurched, Amy heard the creak of wood, the slap of water. She breathed a suffocating wetness, felt its cold seeping through the jacket, into her bones. It seemed impossible that anyone could find them in this bleak expanse of water and emptiness, and she had ceased to care whether they did.

Caroline said: “This is the place. This is where they’re going to meet us. We’ll just have to wait here until they come.”

Amy heard the engine again, but this time it was an almost imperceptible throb. And suddenly she knew. There was no conscious process of reasoning, only a blinding and terrifying certainty that burst upon her with the clarity of a vision. There was a second in which her heart froze, then leapt, and its strong drumming powered her body into life. She almost sprang to her feet. “They’re not going to put me ashore, are they? They’re going to kill me. You know it. You’ve known it all along. You’ve brought me here to be killed.”

Caroline’s eyes were fixed on the two lights, the intermittent flash from the lighthouse, the glitter from the offshore structures. She said coldly: “Don’t be hysterical.”

“They can’t risk letting me go, I know too much. And you said yourself that I wouldn’t be much use to them. Look, you’ve got to help me. Tell them how useful I was, make believe I’m worth keeping. If I can only get ashore, somehow I’ll make a break for it. But I have to have a chance. Caroline. You’ve got me into this. You must help me. I have to get ashore. Listen to me! Listen to me, Caroline! We’ve got to talk.”

“You are talking. And what you’re saying is ludicrous.”

“Is it? Is it, Caroline?”

She knew now that she mustn’t plead. She wanted to throw herself at Caroline’s feet and scream: “Look at me. I’m human. I’m a woman. I want to live. My child needs me. I’m not much
of a mother, but I’m the only one he has. Help me.” But she knew with an instinctive wisdom born of desperation that abject pleading, clutching hands, sobs, whining entreaties would only repel. She was speaking for her life. She had to stay calm, to rely on reason. She had somehow to find the right words. She said: “It isn’t only me, it’s you too. This could be a choice of life or death for both of us. They won’t want you either. You were only useful to them while you worked at Larksoken, while you could pass on to them details of how the place was run, who was on duty and when. Now you’re a liability, the same as me. There’s no difference. What kind of work can you do for them that will make it worthwhile supporting you, setting you up with a new identity? They can’t find you a job in another power station. And if MI5 are really on to you they’ll still be looking. They might not believe so easily in the accident, not if our bodies aren’t washed up. And our bodies won’t be washed up, will they? Not unless they kill us, and that’s what they’re planning to do. What are two more bodies to them? Why meet us here? Why so far? They could have picked us up much closer to land. They could have got us out by air if they’d really needed us. Caroline, go back. It isn’t too late. You could tell the people you work for that it wasn’t safe to come, the mist was too thick. They’ll find another way to get you out if you want to go. I won’t talk, I wouldn’t dare. I promise you with my life. We can go back now, and it will just have been two friends who took a boat trip and came back safely. It’s my life, Caroline, and it could be yours. You gave me your jacket. I’m asking for my life.”

She didn’t touch Caroline. She knew that the wrong gesture, perhaps any gesture, could be fatal. But she knew, too, that the silent figure staring rigidly ahead was at the moment of decision. And, gazing at that carved intent face, Amy
realized for the first time in her life that she was utterly alone. Even her lovers, seen now as a passing procession of strained, beseeching faces and grasping, exploring hands, had been only casual strangers giving her the fleeting illusion that a life could be shared. And she had never known Caroline, could never know her, never begin to understand what in her past, perhaps in her childhood, had led to this dangerous conspiracy, this moment of decision. They were physically so close that each could hear, could almost smell, the other’s breath. But each was alone, as much alone as if this wide sea held no other craft, no other living soul. They might be fated to die together, but each could suffer only her own death, as each had lived only her own life. And there was nothing left to say. She had pleaded her cause and the words were all spent. Now she waited in the darkness and the silence to know whether she would live or die.

It seemed to her that even time had stopped. Caroline put out her hand and switched off the engine. In the eerie silence Amy could hear, like a low insistent pounding, the beating of her heart. And then Caroline spoke. Her voice was calm, reflective, as if Amy had posed her a difficult problem which needed thought to solve.

“We have to get away from the meeting place. We haven’t enough power to outrun them if they find us and give chase. Our hope is to put out all the lights, get away from this place and lie silent, hoping they won’t find us in the mist.”

“Can’t we get back to the harbour?”

“There isn’t time. It’s over ten miles, and they’ll have a powerful engine. If they find us they’ll be on to us in seconds. The mist is our only chance.”

And then they heard, blunted by the fog but clearly, the sound of an approaching boat. Instinctively they moved closer
together in the cockpit and waited, not daring even to whisper. Each knew that their only chance now lay in silence, the mist, the hope that their small craft would be undetected. But the engine noise increased and became a regular, directionless, vibrating throb. And then, when they had thought that the boat would loom out of the darkness and be on them, the noise grew no louder and Amy guessed that they were being slowly circled. Then suddenly she screamed. The searchlight cut through the mist and shone full on their faces. The light dazzled so that she could see nothing but its own giant cone, in which the particles of mist swam like motes of silver light. A rough foreign voice called: “Is that the
Lark
out of Wells Harbour?”

There was a moment’s silence and then Amy heard Caroline’s voice. It was clear and loud but to Amy’s ears it signalled a high note of fear. “No. We’re a party of four friends from Yarmouth, but we’ll probably put in at Wells. We’re all right. No help needed, thank you.”

But the searchlight didn’t move. The boat was held as if suspended between sea and sky in a blaze of light. The seconds passed. Nothing more was said. Then the light was switched off and they heard again the sound of the engines, this time retreating. For a minute, still waiting, still frightened to speak, they shared a common desperate hope that the ruse had worked. And then they knew. The light held them again. And now the engines were roaring and the boat came straight at them out of the mist, with only time for Caroline to place an icy cheek against Amy’s. She said: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

And then the great hull towered above them. Amy heard the crack as the wood splintered and the boat leapt out of the water. She felt herself hurled through an eternity of wet darkness and then falling, endlessly falling, spread-eagled in time and space. And then there was the smack of the sea and a coldness so icy
that for a few seconds she felt nothing. She came back to consciousness as she surfaced, gasping and fighting for breath, no more aware of the cold, feeling only the agony of a metal band crushing her chest, terror and the desperate fight to keep her head above water, to survive. Something hard scraped against her face, then floated free. She thrashed out with flailing arms and fastened on a plank of wood from the boat. It offered at least a chance. She rested her arms on it and felt the blessed release of strain. And now she was capable of rational thought. The plank might support her until morning light and the fog lifted. But she would be dead of cold and exhaustion long before then. Somehow to swim ashore was her only hope, but which way lay the shore? If the mist lifted she would be able to see the lights, perhaps even the light of the caravan. Neil would be there waving to her. But that was silly. The caravan was miles away. Neil would be desperately worried by now. And she had never finished those envelopes. Timmy might be crying for her. She had to get back to Timmy.

But in the end the sea was merciful. The cold that numbed her arms so that she could no longer hold on to the plank numbed also her mind. She was slipping into unconsciousness when the searchlight again found her. She was beyond thought, beyond fear when the boat turned and came driving at full power into her body. And then there was silence and darkness and a single plank of wood gently bobbing where the sea was stained red.

It was after 8.00 before Rickards got home on Saturday night, but this was still earlier than usual and, for the first time in weeks, he was able to feel that an evening stretched ahead with its choices: a leisurely meal, television, radio, a gentle, undemanding catching-up with household chores, telephoning Susie, an early bed. But he was restless. Faced with a few hours of leisure, he was uncertain what to do with them. For a moment he wondered whether to go out for a solitary restaurant meal, but the effort of choosing, the expense, even the bother of booking seemed disproportionate to any possible pleasure. He showered and changed as if the steaming water were a ritual cleansing-away of his job, of murder and failure, which might give the evening before him some meaning, some pleasure. Then he opened a tin of baked beans, grilled four sausages and a couple of tomatoes and carried his tray into the sitting room to eat while watching the television.

At 9.20 he switched off the set and, for a few minutes, sat immobile with the tray still on his lap. He thought that he must look like one of those modern paintings,
Man with a
Tray
, a stiff figure immobilized in an ordinary setting made unordinary, even sinister. As he sat, trying to summon the energy even to wash up, the familiar depression settled on him, the sense that he was a stranger in his own house. He had felt more at home in that fire-lit, stone-walled room at Larksoken Mill, drinking Dalgliesh’s whisky, than he did here in his own sitting room, in his familiar, tightly upholstered chair, eating his own food. And it wasn’t only the absence of Susie, the heavily pregnant ghost in the opposite chair. He found himself comparing the two rooms, seeking in his different responses a clue to the deepening depression of which the sitting room seemed partly a symbol, partly a cause. It wasn’t only that the mill had a real wood fire, hissing and spitting real sparks and smelling of autumn, while his was synthetic, or that Dalgliesh’s furniture was old, polished by centuries of use, arranged purely for convenience, not for show, not even that the paintings were real oils, genuine water-colours, or that the whole room had been put together with no apparent sense that anything in it was particularly highly regarded for its own sake. Above all, he decided, the difference surely lay in the books, the two walls covered with shelves holding books of every age and description, books for use, for pleasure in the reading and the handling. His own small collection, and Susie’s, was in the bedroom. Susie had decreed that the books were too diverse, too tattered to be worthy of a place in what she called the “lounge,” and there weren’t many of them. In recent years he had had so little time for reading: a collection of modern adventure novels in paperback, four volumes from a book club to which, for a couple of years, he had belonged, a few hardback travel books, police manuals, Susie’s school prizes for neatness and needlework. But a child should be brought up with books. He had read somewhere that it was
the best possible beginning to life, to be surrounded with books, to have parents who encouraged reading. Perhaps they could fit shelves each side of the fireplace and make a start. Dickens: he had enjoyed Dickens at school; Shakespeare, of course, and the major English poets. His daughter—neither he nor Susie doubted that the baby would be a girl—would learn to love poetry.