No Escape (37 page)

‘Night, Jack,’ Edward said.

Jack did not answer.

Gilly came home soon after, came upstairs, saw Lizzie’s door open, came in, saw Lizzie sitting on the carpet beside Jack’s wheelchair over by the wall, holding his
hand, Jack facing the wall, not moving or responding.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

Lizzie turned to look at her, her face a mask of barely-controlled despair.

‘We’ve had a bit of an upset,’ she said.

Jack stirred for the first time, opened his eyes, squeezed his mother’s hand.

‘I’m okay, Gilly,’ he said.

‘Glad to hear it,’ she said.

Lizzie still held onto his hand. ‘What do you want to do, my love? Get some rest? Maybe have a hot drink?’

He looked at her for the first time since he had stopped pounding into his father, and his soft eyes were still glazed over with shock. ‘Rest, I think, Mum.’ He paused. ‘If
you’re okay.’

‘I am,’ she said. ‘Want me to wheel you?’

‘Please.’

Lizzie let go of his hand, got up off the floor, looked over at Gilly.

Another one lingering in the doorway, as if the room were quarantined, or giving off frightening vibrations.

‘We’ll be all right, Gilly.’

Gilly nodded, getting the message. ‘I’ll see you in a bit.’

Lizzie waited till the younger woman had gone downstairs and into the kitchen, and then she began to push Jack out of the bedroom and along the corridor to his own.

‘Want me to stay with you, my darling?’ she asked him.

‘I’m all right,’ he said.

She helped him out of the chair and onto his bed, covered him up.

‘I think, maybe,’ Jack said, ‘I should have a diazepam.’

‘Good idea,’ Lizzie said.

‘Only if I get ill again,’ he went on, ‘I won’t be much use to you or the others.’

Hot tears stung his mother’s eyes then, threatened to choke her, but she held on –
if he can, you bloody well can
– and went to get one of his pills. He was ten years
old, and he knew the names of far too many damned medicines, and he was more mature than some people twice his age, and he put her to shame.

‘Are you going to tell Gilly?’ he asked when she came back.

‘I don’t know,’ Lizzie said. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s up to you,’ Jack said. ‘I think . . .’

‘What, my love?’

‘I think, maybe, I’d rather she didn’t know.’

‘Then I won’t tell her,’ Lizzie said.

She told Gilly only that there had been a big row, and that Jack had been very upset, and that Edward knew something about it, but Sophie nothing at all, and that that was the
way she wanted to keep it, if possible.

‘I’ll tell her that her father had to go to London again,’ Lizzie said.

‘She’s used to that,’ Gilly said.

She asked no more questions, had always possessed a gift for sensitivity and for not prying, just made Lizzie hot sweet tea and sat with her while she tried to drink it.

‘I’m very tired,’ Lizzie said after a while. ‘I think I’ll go up.’

‘Right,’ Gilly said. ‘If you need anything – however late . . .’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said. ‘Thank you.’

She went into Jack’s room first, found him sound asleep, and whether that was from pure exhaustion or from the tablet he’d taken, she was grateful for it.

Edward, too, was out of it, had, his mother supposed, escaped into sleep, and her daughter was still slumbering peacefully on, Sophie, the only one untouched so far, though that would change all
too soon, would
have
to change.

A feeling of something slightly related to relief flowed through Lizzie then, because at long, long last, the worst had happened, and she would no longer have to keep on lying to her own
children that all was well between her and their father.

The memory hit her, still horrifically fresh, of Jack, driving his chair at Christopher. Of his face as he’d done it, of the terrible, anguished
sounds
he had made. Of her husband,
cowering on the floor.

That
was what Jack would remember, what he would see over and over again whenever he shut his eyes, or even when he did not.

That, and Christopher pinning her down on the bed,
hurting
her.

The small relief was extinguished, and only shame, guilt and pain remained.

And terrible anger.

She had not intended to sleep late, had been sure she would not sleep at all, had still been lying awake in some pain and reliving it all at four o’clock, but soon after
that she had drifted off, and when she awoke, with a terrible start of grinding bleakness and, still, the pain she’d gone to bed with – more discomfort now, but still there – she
saw that it was after nine.

She put on her dressing gown, went into the bathroom, remembered
him
in there, washed her face with cold water, felt the ache again, wondered if, perhaps, that final shove of
Christopher’s had done something to the internal scarring left by his last assault and the operation.

Not now,
Lizzie.

She went back through the bedroom and out into the corridor.

The house was empty, the hush heavy.

Gilly had left a note on the kitchen table:
I’ve taken all the children to school. Jack said he was fine and wanted to go.

Lizzie’s eyes and throat filled with tears again.

First crop of the day.

She blessed Gilly and, more, much more than that, she blessed Jack and Edward for their remarkable, staggering courage.

She made coffee, took it, moving slowly, feeling like an old woman, to the kitchen table and sat down. The
Daily Mail
and the
Independent
were lying neatly folded, awaiting her,
but she didn’t look at them.

She had to talk to someone.

Not Gilly, because she’d promised Jack. Not Angela either, who’d never got over her belief in Christopher’s saintliness. She considered Guy, his brother, but she thought it
might be somehow cruel to expect him to take sides.

Hilda Kapur came to mind, but was quickly dismissed again, in case some NHS mechanism were to click in once she’d confided in her, something that might compel the GP to report Christopher
and magnify her children’s suffering.

Lizzie drank some coffee, found the normality of ritual lent her tiny comfort.

Robin Allbeury.

He was a solicitor – not that she wanted to speak to him
as
a solicitor – but it meant he was accustomed to listening, advising and, of course, to confidentiality. Still
virtually a stranger, which might make him detached – probably a good thing; yet also a friend now – and more to her than Christopher, even if he had brought them together in the first
place.

Lizzie put down her cup and went to find his number.

He was at his office, took her call immediately.

She told him that she badly needed to talk, and that what she had to say was desperately private.

‘Goes without saying,’ Allbeury told her. ‘Where are you, Lizzie?’

‘Still in Marlow, but I’ll come to town.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘I’ll come to your office,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ Allbeury said. ‘Drive carefully, Lizzie.’

Lizzie had not realized before she began her drive into London how completely drained she was, but by the time she parked the coupé in Bedford Row just before twelve,
she found that she was almost too tired to stand.

Sheer will-power got her into Allbeury, Lerman, Wren’s reception, helped her give her name to the young woman behind the desk, and she had barely made it to one of the leather chairs when
Allbeury appeared, took one look at her and turned to the receptionist.

‘I’m going out,’ he told her. ‘Would you please tell the others?’

‘Of course,’ the young woman said.

He turned back to Lizzie, bent and said, quietly: ‘Can you manage the walk to my car, do you think?’

Lizzie mustered a smile. ‘I’ve just driven from Marlow.’

‘Quite,’ Allbeury said.

He gripped her arm firmly, helped her out of the office, around the corner and into his Jaguar, did up her seatbelt for her, ignoring her protest, walked around to the driver’s door and
got in.

‘Do you need a doctor?’ he asked. ‘And would you like to come to my flat, or would you rather go to Holland Park?’

‘Your flat,’ Lizzie answered unhesitatingly. ‘I don’t think I need a doctor.’

‘If you change your mind,’ he said, ‘just say the word.’

She was perfectly aware that he had not asked if she wanted him to get in touch with Christopher.

Winston Cook, who had worked for less than a full day before disappearing for more than a week, and who Allbeury had believed gone for good, had returned early that morning
with a story about a sick sister that Allbeury had, for reasons he was not entirely certain about, chosen to believe.

He was still there now, in the blue study, intent on the PC’s flat screen monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard.

‘I’m really getting somewhere,’ he said as Allbeury looked in, having left Lizzie sitting in his den at the far end of the flat. ‘Won’t be long now.’

‘This is a bad time for me,’ Allbeury said. ‘I need you to go.’

‘Can’t leave now, man,’ Cook said. ‘I’ll lose it.’

‘I have someone with me who’s unwell,’ Allbeury said.

‘That’s fine,’ Cook said. ‘You won’t know I’m here, I won’t make any noise.’ His expression was imploring. ‘I’m nearly
there.’

Allbeury smiled despite himself. ‘Okay.’

He went back to Lizzie in the snug, but gorgeous, corner room, two walls filled with paintings, picture windows taking up the rest. She was sitting gazing out at the view, but he felt she was
seeing nothing.

‘You all right here while I make tea?’ he asked. ‘Very strong, lots of sugar. Good for shock, okay?’

‘Fine.’ She wondered how he knew she was shocked rather than ill. ‘Thank you, Robin.

‘Don’t go away,’ he said.

‘I won’t,’ Lizzie said.

She told him everything, right from the beginning.

‘I feel so ashamed,’ she said. ‘I feel many other things too, but I think shame is there, right at the top.’

‘For not leaving?’ Allbeury said.

‘Yes,’ Lizzie said.

‘You stayed for the children.’

‘Of course.’

‘For Jack, mostly.’

‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘But what has my staying achieved now?’

Allbeury thought for a moment. ‘The children don’t know all this, do they?’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘Jack only knows what he saw last night, and Edward can’t know more than what Jack’s chosen to tell him.’ She paused. ‘And Sophie, thank God,
knows nothing at all yet.’

‘They don’t have to know everything,’ Allbeury said. ‘Unless you want them to. Which I rather doubt, knowing you.’

‘Do you?’ She felt mildly curious. ‘Know me, I mean?’

‘I think I know enough to be sure of a very few things.’

‘What are they?’

‘You’re a wonderful mother,’ he said. ‘And a much more loyal wife than your husband deserves.’ He saw her eyes fill, watched her fight the urge to cry. ‘And
you’re one of the loveliest women I’ve ever met.’ He paused. ‘Though you may not have wanted to hear me say that.’

‘I don’t think I know, just now,’ she said, wearily, ‘what I want.’

‘Sleep,’ Allbeury said. ‘If I’m any judge, it’s what you need most.’

He showed her to an ivory-coloured guest bedroom in which all the paintings were of softly-coloured flowers and gardens.

‘There’s a bathroom through that door. And a phone here—’ he motioned to the bedside table ‘—if you want it. And if you happen to want me, I’ll be
around, so either call, or come looking, whichever you prefer.’

‘You’re so kind,’ Lizzie said.

‘Not kind at all,’ Allbeury said. ‘I just want you to feel safe.’

‘I do,’ she said.

‘Sleep well,’ he said, and went to the door.

The clock on the bedside table read 14.10. ‘All right if I set this for four?’ Lizzie asked. ‘I need to speak to the children when they get home.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

In the blue study, Winston Cook was pacing in a state of high excitement.

‘I’ve got it all now,’ he said. ‘I told you I was nearly there.’

‘That’s great.’ Allbeury’s mind was too filled with Lizzie to care. ‘Do me a favour and write me a report and leave your bill and I’ll settle with you
tomorrow, if that’s okay.’

‘I don’t mind sending you my bill,’ Cook said. ‘I trust you, man.’

‘Good,’ Allbeury said. ‘Thank you, Winston.’

‘But you still need to take a look at this now.’

‘I don’t have the time now to—’

‘You really need to.’ Cook was adamant. ‘There’s an IP address come up here that I think belongs to someone you know pretty well, and if I’m right – and
I’m
always
right, just ask Adam – then I reckon they’ve been cracking your files for a long time.’