Dying to Write (32 page)

Right. Upstairs.

There were two bedrooms. One was just a junk room. Did he never throw anything away? Old clothes. Several pictures turned to the wall. An ironing board. Nothing obvious.

His bedroom. It smelled of male sweat. His laundry lay in an unwashed heap.

Come on, Sophie. Think. Hugh's sitting out there in a Winson Green crawling with violent youths – more at risk than you. Get a move on.

Back into the junk room. Piles of magazines. A lot of sickening porn. Two photo albums. Some old records. A music stand. A scrapbook. I opened it at random. Postcards of fluffy kittens. I was about to throw it down when I noticed newspaper cuttings in the back. Some hunt sabbing. The liberation of mink from a fur farm. A whole wad about Patti Hearst. I didn't throw it down.

Back to the bedroom, which was at the front. Men's voices were getting closer.

The stairs were too steep to run down. I slipped and slid without hurting myself. But I dropped the scrapbook. It skidded under a heavy sideboard. I burrowed, coming up filthy but successful. And there was something else, another pile of magazines. I flicked quickly through:
True War Stories, True Crime, Real-Life Crime, A Weekly Encyclopaedia of Crime
.

Halfway down, there it was. Lesley Whittle. The Black Panther.

And I was on my feet and at the front door.

I was so busy slipping the catch back and closing it silently behind me, picking up the torch and trying to get my night vision, I didn't notice the youths. Not at first.

It wasn't me they were after. It was Hugh. Whitey in his big flash car.

Hell and hell and hell!

Once upon a time, Andy had taught me to whistle through my fingers, very loudly. I could try that. But Hugh'd have the windows shut and mightn't hear. I could scream. Everyone would hear that. But burglars didn't
want
everyone to hear.

I inched closer – through the front garden and a few yards along the road to Hugh.

He could have got rid of them – by driving through them – but that meant losing me. He was staying where he was as they rocked the car from side to side. I prayed it was too heavy to turn over.

And then I got angry. How dare they! I strode closer: they were no older than my students. If I could deal with students, I could deal with them. Possibly. At least the moment's shock of being harangued by a schoolmarmish voice might give us the chance we needed – me to get into the car, Hugh to get moving. I wondered why the engine wasn't running already. Because someone had stuffed a potato up the exhaust, that was why. I bent and pulled it free, pressing my souvenirs to my chest with the other arm.

And then I got really furious.

‘Elvin Morris,' I said very clearly. ‘What the hell d'you think you're doing?'

The tallest youth turned. So did the others.

Did Elvin have sufficient clout in the group to risk losing face? I no longer taught him, so I didn't have much leverage myself. But Hugh saw what I was up to, started the car and shoved it into reverse. I could only reach the back door. I wrenched at it. Nothing. Suddenly it opened under my hand. I nearly fell back, and overcompensated – I ended face down on his back seat. He threw the car forward now, heaving it out of the too-short space. You could hear the grind as he removed a layer from his and the other car's bumper. The force was sufficient to swing the door inwards. But it was at the end of the street before I could scrabble up and slam it. And the youths had almost caught us.

He swung wide into the main road, going much too fast to stop at the slow sign. A family saloon swerved so hard to miss us I braced myself for the sound of his crash. But both cars steadied. At last Hugh dropped to a more sober speed. I didn't want to know what it was, though, not in these streets where the corner shops were still doing brisk business and children with plastic carriers popped up without warning from between parked cars. I fastened a seat belt round me.

Perhaps two blocks away, something burned out of control. We could hear the sirens, but couldn't get any sense of movement. And when we drove to the end of the street we found out why. A hundred or maybe two hundred black and Asian kids were celebrating the biggest bonfire this year by overturning cars and smashing windows.

He swung left. It was a cul-de-sac. Halfway down, a gang of white skinheads was rolling a car.

Reverse, as fast as he could. But it was too late. They had spotted us.

It was the rain that saved us, not the 999 call. The storm which had threatened all evening broke with staggering intensity, hailstones the size of hazelnuts lashing into the kids' soft flesh. One by one they broke away. The police would have come eventually – we could just hear the sirens over the drumming on the roof. There was one more crash when someone stopped just long enough to kick in Hugh's tail-lights.

Silently he reversed, the tyres crunching over glass, and started to pick his way back to Eyre House. The roads were littered with videos and hi-fis bursting out of their cardboard boxes, and glass from the storefronts from which they'd been stolen. There were blue-flashing lights wherever you looked. I put through a call to tell them we were safe.

I felt that Hugh was a long way from me, and sensed that he did not want me to take his hand. But when he'd parked, back at a now dark and silent Eyre House, it was to his room we took my booty.

‘Safer than yours,' he said. ‘And you'll be safer with me.'

At last we kissed and undressed, and then talked about dancing naked on the lawn in the rain. But neither of us moved. We simply stood side by side at the window, watching the rain course down. It was two thirty. The air was suddenly so cold I started to dither.

I wondered how long Hugh had been shivering too. Gently I turned him and pushed him towards the bed. He sat down on the edge.

‘What's the matter, Hugh?'

He reached for the champagne and topped up my glass, passing it to me. Then he filled his own glass. But he didn't drink.

‘Hmm?' I prompted.

‘How did you do it? Break into that house?'

He didn't mean it literally.

I touched his hand. Funny that he should be more upset than I was.

‘I don't know,' I said honestly. ‘I had to do something to find Kate, and that was the only thing I could think of. And once I'd started, when I thought I'd be peeing myself with fright, I was quite OK. Methodical. Sensible. Actually, it was probably easier for me than for you. I'd rather be up and doing than sitting waiting any day. And you didn't have very attractive company. Here.' I passed him his glass.

He swung his legs into bed, and I got in beside him – to get warm, as much as anything. Then I pulled the duvet up. All very televisual, of course – the attractive young couple, covered from waist down, sitting up in bed quaffing from elegant glasses.

‘I thought they'd kill me. And I kept thinking, There's a mistake here. I'm a respectable businessman. I don't belong here. And they're going to kill me.'

I held his hand.

‘And then you came and told them off and –'

‘Could have got us both killed. And I wasn't much good second time round. Sitting there stuffing my hands into my mouth so I wouldn't scream.'

‘Reaction,' he said, squeezing my hand. ‘And seeing that fire. I wonder how many more there were by the end of the evening.'

‘Not many. Not once the rain had come. Pity, really – I could have done with having Toad's house burned down. I don't fancy Chris and his colleagues finding traces of me all over it.'

‘You said you'd got gloves on!'

‘Hair. Skin flakes. Prints from my trainers. Fibres from my clothing.'

‘What'll you tell him? In the morning?'

‘The truth, I suppose. He won't like it.'

He gathered me to him and switched off the light. I don't think either of us had the energy for sex, but it was nice to have him close. But he lay tense and obviously sleepless. Suddenly he flung back the duvet and stumbled towards the sofa.

‘Hugh?'

‘I'm sorry, Sophie, I hate to say this, but I'm no good at sharing beds. Not if I want to sleep. There are plenty of blankets.'

By now I was out of bed. ‘Don't be silly. I'll fit that far more easily than you will. You get back in there. Go on: five foot one doesn't need a full-length bed.'

With no further protest, he obeyed. Soon I could hear his breathing, deep and regular. I didn't sleep until dawn, though – excitement or champagne or something. But I sat for a long time watching the shape on the bed, and found myself smiling. Yes, despite everything, I might be happy.

Eight thirty in the stables, and I was very far from happy. I'd dressed quickly and quietly, leaving Hugh asleep, his head vulnerable on the pillow. I'd wanted to kiss him but was afraid I might disturb him. Fortunately the door was quiet, but the corridor relished every noisy footstep. Once in the student area I'd showed and dressed in fresh clothes, and even my make-up suggested girlish innocence.

Chris wasn't fooled.

I'd meant to find some story about the magazines and scrapbook. As it was, I merely plonked them on his desk.

Perhaps deep down I wanted him to yell at me. It would be an assertion that there was a morality that forbade the law to break the law. It would remind me that I knew I'd done wrong. And then I wanted him to smile at me and say thank you, that I'd done what he wished he could have done.

‘Toad's,' I said baldly. ‘A history of liberating animals and an interest in imprisoning women.'

‘Did you never set animals free when you were young?'

‘I set fire to fur coats in posh shops – or at any rate my friends did,' I said. ‘And I interfered with my fair share of hunts when I could. But this is different.'

‘And is this crime magazine the only one in his collection?'

‘No, there were lots –'

‘And how did you get hold of them? Did he offer them to you?'

‘I – Chris, you'd rather not know how I got hold of them.'

‘I'm sure I would. Defence counsel would want it chapter and verse, and I don't think you'd be very good at perjury. And it would blow any case to buggery, Sophie, don't you see that? Jesus Christ, you can't keep your itchy little fingers out of anyone's pie, can you? You spoil Tina's lunch harassing her over checking people's medical files, you make Ian waste his afternoon off looking through statements, you try to make him tail members of the public, and then you try a bit of breaking and entering. What's the matter with you, woman? PMT or something?'

‘How dare you!'

‘You should know better than this!'

I thought for a moment he was going to hit me. So did he. Instead he picked up the evidence. But he didn't throw it down, as he planned. He turned a page.

I turned and left as unobtrusively as I could. There's more than one way of skinning a cat, after all.

Downstairs there was still no sign of Hugh or Matt. I made a pot of tea and carried two cups up to Hugh's room. He lay where I'd left him, but his eyes were open and he hitched himself on to his left elbow, reaching for the tea with his right hand.

‘This is not to be taken as a precedent,' I said. It was the wrong thing to say.

Last night he'd have laughed and reached for me. This morning he merely nodded and looked away.

I put my tea down and went over to the sofa. I folded the blankets and put them back in the cupboard where I'd found them. I glanced at him occasionally but he made no attempt to speak. Still reaction to last night, perhaps – the violence, the lawlessness. Maybe distaste for what I'd done. On the whole, perhaps, I preferred Chris's open anger. When I'd finished the blankets, I went and stood by the window. The rain was drenching down, no longer dramatic with thunder but steady and insistent. The whole world was a bleary grey.

Nothing from Hugh yet.

Perhaps he was a man not at his best in the morning. Perhaps I should simply let him go back to sleep, and tiptoe out. That seemed pretty supine to me, however. I'd let Chris get away with bad temper because I thought it might be more productive to do so. But what had seemed a promising relationship was now visibly dwindling.

‘What's the matter, Hugh?' I said, in a tone I tried to make neither brisk nor apologetic.

‘Guilt, I suppose.'

‘But you didn't do anything: you just aided and abetted me!'

‘Isn't that bad enough? In a court of law it would be.'

I wished I could work out how his voice had changed. I looked at him. Then he grinned apologetically. ‘Wet Sundays. I've always hated them, ever since I was a kid. Such a waste! You'd get all your homework done to have the day free and then you couldn't go out. Funny, this was one of the places I used to come for a treat then. Years back. Strange, isn't it, I wasn't quite sure I could find it the other day. Not by car, not the way they've messed around with the roads. And I was nervous about the reading. No, really nervous. It was the first time I'd done one, you know.'

I smiled and shook my head. But I didn't want him to talk about that.

‘D' you know what I did? What my dad used to do when he didn't know the way. I came the day before, just to case the joint, you might say. Found the lane. Later I found – d'you know what I found? The old farm. I can remember it – just – when it was still working. We stopped there one day to look at some chicks and the farmer threatened to set his dogs on us. Then my dad turned up, and things quietened down a bit. There's an old ice house up there too – you could get in then. Terribly dangerous, of course. They've sealed it up now. Have you seen it?'

I nodded, though I wanted to sing with joy: here was Hugh telling me what I'd been dreading asking him. I hoped my voice was normal when I said: ‘I went for a run that way the other day. Didn't like it. The noise.'