A Sight for Sore Eyes (34 page)

Chapter 37

Splitting the paving stone in two was easier than he had expected. He placed the pieces on the wire base and immediately realised it wasn't going to work. The cement would slide through the wire, the wire would bear only the lightest of weights. The proper way to fill in a hole is to fill it from the bottom or provide an adequate lid. He was learning that now. The lid was there, but the whole point of the exercise was to dispense with it. The idea of filling in from the bottom upwards appealed to him - but fill it with what? Stones, ideally, rubble. There were too many difficulties in the way of that. No doubt he could get a delivery of hardcore but it would cost him and he had no money. He fetched his wire cutters and clipped away the wire netting. It would have stopped the manhole cover fitting properly and now it looked as if he might have to settle for simply puffing the cover back. But not yet. He'd give it some thought, try and work out an alternative. The flower-bed in the fibreglass container? It had always been the most attractive idea. The rain had stopped, though water lay in pools. Out in the mews the plane trees had shed their leaves, their fall hastened by the gale, but space in here was reserved for the Virginia creeper whose foliage, rose-pink, crimson, purple, almost black as well as yellow and gold, lay thick on the paving of the yard, floating in puddles or pasted to the stones. Strange that the now multicoloured leafy wall seemed as dense as ever, though tens of thousands of leaves had been shed. In the morning he would have a sweep-up. He opened the gate and looked into the mews just in time to see a woman, not Mildred but also out with a dog, slip on the wet leaves, slide forward and fall flat on her back. The time was approaching six. Exactly at six was what she had said. He returned to the house. Food never interested him much, but there was meat in the freezer, eggs in the fridge and plenty of cans. The untouched wine was still in there too. After being out with her friends all day she would be in a happy, compliant mood and, once she had eaten, would agree to wear his dress, pose for him. The house was full of cushions. He gathered them up, silk and velvet, plain and quilted, patchwork and brocade, and piled them on the living-room floor. The black plume he had promised himself should be part of the picture he hadn't been able to find in the house. There must be something that would serve as a substitute. He went upstairs and searched through Harriet's things, shawls, scarves, gloves, stoles, and there at the back of a drawer found a blood-red feather boa. The sight of it made him shiver. It was like a dead bird or a plumed snake. It smelt of a heavy cloying perfume, gone stale with time. He imagined it held in Francine's white hand, its fronds brushing her pale cheek. Bracelets on her arms, her legs bare, the skirt of the green figured velvet pulled up about her thighs, dark-green shoes on her feet with heels sharp as knives. His body rose, yearning to the fantasy, he was erect and hard, just thinking of it. He closed his eyes, sighed, held himself for a moment. Then he started searching the room again, this time for green shoes, any shoes that were suitable. These clothes, this pose, especially that red snaky boa, would do the trick, he knew it. Julia had passed from his mind. He had scarcely thought of her at all since he had killed her, nor of that act of killing which had been so easy, had met with such little resistance. He had almost forgotten her, as he had forgotten Francine's tale of her mother's murder. It returned to him now, but he dismissed it as unbelievable. For reasons of her own, she had been trying to make an impression on him and it had worked, or almost worked. The phone was unplugged in the bedroom, but he heard it ringing downstairs. He never answered it and he hoped he had stopped Francine answering it. After half a dozen rings the machine cut in. It might have been Francine to explain why she was so late. He smiled to himself. She so often was late, punctuality meant nothing to her, that he wasn't much concerned. She would come, she had promised. It seemed like a near-miracle actually finding a pair of high-heeled dark-green suede shoes. They would be too small for Francine, but that hardly mattered since she wasn't going to walk about in them. Tonight was going to be the night, he knew it, he was convinced. Perhaps he would ask her to tell that story of her mother's murder again while she lay on the cushions and held the red boa close to her face. True or false, it didn't matter, he just had to hear it in the right place and at the right time. For a long time, when she didn't come and it got to seven, to eight, to eight-thirty, he lay on the floor, on the cushions, thinking of how he would cure her of unpunctuality, change her and make her more like himself. But this was a refuge that could last only so long and when it got to nine he was desperate and enraged by turns. He couldn't phone Holly, he didn't know her number. Once she was back with him, he would cure her of Holly too, root the woman out, rid Francine and himself of her, as he had rid them of Julia. But he was angry now. If she had come then he would have hit her, struck her in such a way as to leave no mark, or no mark ordinary acquaintances might see. He would see and she would and be taught. He ran his tongue across his lips, then sat, sullen, thinking how easy it was, really, how simple. He could be gratified and successful and even proficient, if only a silly unthinking girl would do as he asked. And it wasn't much to ask. Any other woman would have done it, he was sure of that. That might have been Francine on the phone. He did what he had never done before and played back Harriet's messages. There were a great many, two from a man who didn't leave his name, who was evidently too familiar to her for that, several from different women, one from Simon Alpheton, to which Teddy listened in wonder and near-disbelief. He found a way to switch the machine off and did so. Now if Francine phoned... He tried to make himself think of other things, the Edsel abandoned in the street in Notting Hill, Harriet's clothes which must be collected from the cleaners, suitable jeweller's shops where they would buy those necklaces and bracelets and rings without asking awkward questions. When it got to nine-thirty he ate some bread and cheese, and drank a glass of milk. It made him feel sick, for he knew by then that she wasn't coming. Because he couldn't give her what she wanted. It wasn't important, what she wanted, not like being with someone was and giving them your support and having respect for them and backing them up in what they did. Those were the things that counted. But women wanted sex, they always did, he knew that from the way those girls had looked at him and talked to him at college. It was easy for them, they only had to lie there and wait for it. They didn't understand what a strain it was for a man, the pressures on him, how fragile it was, all this preparing oneself and concentrating and keeping going. No wonder he couldn't succeed with all he had on his mind, but she didn't understand that, she only knew she wasn't getting what she wanted and so she hadn't come back. Her promises meant nothing. Maybe they had meant something when she made them, but she had talked to her friends since then and they had laughed and told her not to bother with him. She would be there with them now. If he had still had the Edsel he would have driven up to Kilburn and fetched her away by force. But she wouldn't be in the house, she'd be out with them, out with James, most likely. She had his front-door key. Keeping that and not coming back would be stealing. He went to the front of the house and looked out of the window, as if looking for her would bring her. Nothing could be seen beyond the confines of the enclosed front garden. The paving lay buried under a sea of leaves, calm now the wind had dropped, dark and shining in the yellow light. The tubs and troughs emerged like islands out of this still and waveless sea, and they too were draped and hung with leaves. Even if she came now he wouldn't see her until a hand appeared, lifting the latch on the gate. He felt a need of air and, returning to the back of the house, went out into the courtyard. It was darker there, lit only by what light was shed from the kitchen and from a table lamp inside the french windows. Instead of a sea, here was a thick, slimy mat of leaves, due no doubt to the water having lain about in pools before the bulk of them were blown down. If he lived here permanently, if this were really his house, he'd chop down that creeper. Never mind Alpheton putting it in his most famous painting, it was a nuisance. No one ought to have to cope with all this mess each autumn. He unbolted the gate and went out into the mews. Mildred and a man were getting out of a car. If he had been able to see over the wall he wouldn't have gone out there, if he had checked by looking through a knothole in the gate, but he hadn't and it was too late now. The man said good-evening and Mildred said hi. 'Where's your amazing car?' Mildred asked. For a moment he thought she must know what had happened that day, must have followed him, spied on him, or with witchlike insight read his mind. But of course it wasn't any of that. They had simply got used to seeing the Edsel outside, to seeing it wherever he was, just as their dog, which now jumped out of the back of the car, was wherever they were. 'In for a service,' he said, using Keith's phrase. 'Harriet OK?' He nodded, not much liking her knowing look. 'These leaves are just as much litter as old paper and cans, in my opinion. Paula slipped on them and broke her leg. Tell Harriet if she doesn't know, Paula at number eleven. My father poisoned a tree in the next-door garden when his neighbours refused to cut it down. He couldn't stand the leaves any longer.' 'Poisoned it?' said Teddy. 'It was right up against his fence. In the dark, in the middle of the night actually, he drilled a hole in the trunk with a Black & Decker and poured in rat poison. Really, I kid you not.' 'Now, come on, Mildred,' the man said. 'Harriet's friend will think you're a criminal, won't you, Mr er 'Hill,' said Teddy. 'Keith Hill.' The man said soothingly, 'The council will come in the morning and sweep up. They're pretty good about that.' Teddy didn't believe the story about the poisoned tree, he never believed any of these crazy tales women told. It was Francine's mother getting herself murdered all over again. But still he had to ask. 'Did it die? The tree, I mean.' 'It died all right. It fell over into Daddy's garden and it cost him a packet getting it taken away. Good-night. Give my love to Harriet.' The night was clear and cold, the sky overspread by a purplish mist. He looked up and down the mews, for no special reason. She wouldn't come that way. The hours ahead loomed as a horrible prospect, a night of misery and rage. He couldn't just go to bed, he needed to do something, take some powerful and perhaps violent action. In that moment he decided to go to Kilburn and fetch her away. He had done it before, rescued her and brought her here. For all he knew, Holly and Christopher and James were also keeping her by force. This time he might have to storm the place, break in, smash down doors. He felt ready for it. Of course he no longer had a car, but it didn't seem important. There were taxis, buses, trains, and it wasn't even very far away. Once he had got her he wouldn't let her go again. He should never have allowed her out on her own. Others imprisoned her and so would he, only he had the most right. She was his to do as he liked with. The chill of the night penetrated his thin jacket. He felt the weight of Harriet's jewels in the pockets and they comforted him. They were like heavy money, coinage, to keep him safe, shored up, protected. He would need a sweater, maybe a thicker coat from that wardrobe of men's clothes. He closed the gate and bolted it, had taken a step across the courtyard when the phone began ringing inside the house, loud and shrill and insistent. At this hour it must be Francine, it had to be. No one else would phone at ten-thirty, no one ever did. He ran for the door, but never reached it. The thick, slimy paste of leaves acted as a slide, more slippery than ice. His legs buckled as he slid. He lost all orientation, and reaching out for something to catch hold of, felt his hands slither too, as he sledged forward across the greasy sludge and dropped down the hole. It wasn't a free uninterrupted fall. He clutched at the rim as he went down and hung there, his fingertips sliding on the leafy slime. But the pain of the newly cut wire piercing his palms forced him to let go and drop the eight feet or so into the coal-hole, on to a paste of wet coal-dust. He closed his eyes and made himself take slow, deep breaths. The disadvantage of that was that on the inhalations came the stench of decay. It came through the boards of the door and the hatch. But he had to bear that, he had to discount that, take no notice of it. However you looked at it, that was the last thing he had to worry about. Nor was there much point in putting the clock back five minutes and not running, not sliding, remembering that the leaves were there, that they were slippery. He couldn't go back, he had to accept what had happened. He was in no real danger, that was the thing to hold on to. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since he had been talking to Mildred and the man with her. If he shouted they would probably hear, or someone would. They would come and get him out. Probably a couple of hands extended down into the hole would be sufficient for him to pull himself up. A rope tied to the gatepost or a pair of steps lowered. But whoever came near would smell the smell. Perhaps not, if they just stood in the courtyard, but they would if they bent over to help him out of the hole. And they wouldn't just make some comment about drains, they would fetch someone to do something about it. The manhole opening appeared to him from below as a rectangular aperture like a window. It was filled with reddish-purple sky. He stretched upwards as far as he could, but found that even so, his fingertips were a good six inches from the opening. Although he knew it was stupid and pointless to have regrets, he couldn't help cursing himself for not having left that chair in the coal-hole. With that to stand on he would have had no difficulties. It would have elevated him enough to climb out of the hole with ease. More stupid regrets, for no one in his circumstances would have left that chair in here. Strange that he could hear the phone again. Through the house, perhaps, or across the courtyard. If she got no reply would she come? A wished-for scenario presented itself