Born of Woman (69 page)

‘Anne, you're
not
to talk to Jim. I've told you before, I …'

‘He talked to me. Anyway, how am I meant to find out what's going on if I don't talk to someone?'

‘Jim Allenby knows nothing about it.'

‘Well, who does, then? I know you're hiding something. I'm not a fool.'

No, not a fool—an ally—the only one he had, even organising Christmas to his own exacting standards. He dared not think of Christmas. How could he sit through all that sham festivity, thank people for their piddling gifts of wrong-brand after-shave or vulgar ties, when the tax-man hovered like Jack Frost outside the window, ready to strip him bare of everything? Christmas had always been a con. A double celebration—Jesus Christ's and his, yet both black-edged with tragedy. His mother had died in having him, and thus his birthday was also the anniversary of her death. Gloom had shrouded the childhood celebrations, his father's tears quenching the birthday candles, his own guilt turning the cake to sawdust in his mouth. Other children had two days in the year to make whoopee—Christmas itself and then a separate birthday. He had none at all.

Perhaps, this Christmas, he could break the spell, flee somewhere far enough to veto all the miseries, and before the courts re-opened. He could make it appear that he had merely gone on holiday, lure the boys away with the promise of some skiing trip or escapade, and then stay away, escape. Once he left the country, the tax-man couldn't follow him, and even lawyers would find it difficult to trace him, hardly worth the trouble and expense. He would simply go to ground, dodge his creditors. Europe wasn't far enough; it would have to be another continent. South Africa, perhaps, or how about Brazil? Or there was always Singapore or …

‘Matthew, I really think you ought to go to bed. D'you realise you're perspiring, yet it's freezing cold up here?'

He stared at Anne's pale and anxious face. He would have to confide in his wife. He couldn't sell the house around her, dismantle the business, while she sat amidst the ruins, wrapping
Larger British Mammals
. No, best not to sell at all. That would arouse suspicion, put people on his trail. Just slip away on a little Christmas holiday—the only difference being that it might last for twenty Christmases or more. When things had quietened down a bit, he could always arrange for someone else to sell his assets for him, do it at a distance while he himself laid low.

He reached out to Anne, motioned her to sit on the bed while he positioned himself opposite on the small cane-seat chair. He would have to tell her something to explain their sudden departure, secure her co-operation, make her realise his financial traumas were more than just a matter of losing a few royalties. He hardly knew where to begin. Should he swear her to secrecy, or would that frighten her? Perhaps he should tell her only in instalments, see how she reacted before he confided the whole tangle. He closed his eyes and his wife's white face capsized into Roland Harrap's ruddy one—the schoolfriend turned accountant who had introduced him to the financial underworld.

‘Do you remember Roland?' he asked, as if he were recounting just an anecdote. ‘Roland Harrap. Little chap with reddish hair.'

‘Yes—wait a minute—wasn't he the one who came to dinner once and tried to sell all our guests grand pianos which were really cocktail cabinets and had bottle racks instead of keyboards?'

‘That's him. Even at school he had his lucrative little businesses—buying and selling bikes, swapping stamps, insisting on his ten per cent commission. Once we'd sat our exams, I didn't see him for nearly twenty years. Then, nine or ten years ago, I ran into him again. We had a drink—chatted about old times. He was working as an accountant, a highly successful one. One of his specialities was a scheme for minimising tax, a sort of package-deal he offered to his clients—offered to me, in fact.'

‘How d'you mean?' Anne was sitting amongst the Christmas packages, still held a toy koala in her hand. Its sad brown eyes stared dumbly up at him. Matthew looked away. They remined him of Charles's eyes. Would his boys accuse him?

‘I won't bore you with the details. It was basically a trust—an overseas company set up in a tax haven which has its own bank account and works as a sort of … clearing-house where all my foreign monies were transferred, so they weren't liable for tax.'

Anne shifted on the bed. ‘Was that
allowed
?'' Instantly suspicious. He switched on a casual smile.

‘Oh yes. In fact, it was a very sound arrangement until a year or two ago. A lot of highly respectable businessmen were doing much the same. But recently, they've been tightening up the loopholes. There were one or two test-cases where the House of Lords ruled in favour of the Revenue, and started interpreting the law more strictly or looking beyond the mere letter of the law to people's motives and intentions. After that, the tax-men got more aggressive and now schemes like that have become—well—questionable.'

Matthew kicked angrily at the chair leg. He should have wound the thing up straight away. He had only hung on to see which way the wind was blowing; then Jennifer found the diaries, and instantly he had realised their potential. This was the one big book which could really justify his tax arrangement, make the risks worthwhile. Why should the Revenue gulp down all his profits, skim off the cream when he'd done all the work? It was partly Roland Harrap's fault. He had egged him on, shrugged off all the dangers, then coolly disappeared. Matthew dared not hire another tax accountant, who might not only refuse to work with him, but tear the scheme apart. Anyway, the thing was working smoothly. If he had avoided tax for a full eight years or more, it seemed timorous, almost ludicrous to stop.

Anne was picking nervously at the tufts on the candlewick bedspread. ‘Well, what then? You dismantled the company?'

‘No. I … er … There were certain … complications.'

‘Like what?'

Like raising a little matter of a hundred thousand pounds. No—he couldn't admit that. ‘It … er … could be that I owe the Revenue quite a considerable sum. Well, that would be
their
line. It's really a matter of how one looks at it.'

‘You've been evading your tax, you mean?' Always direct, always uncompromising—that was Anne. He had taught her himself to quarry for the facts, avoid all euphemisms.

‘Avoiding, not evading. There's a world of difference, Anne. One's criminal, the other's common sense, or at least good business sense.'

‘So why are you worried, then?'

Matthew hesitated. It wasn't as easy to talk as he'd imagined. They were still seven thousand miles away from Christmas in Singapore. ‘It's … er … just the strain of the Ainsley thing, exploding right on top of it. And it's not a pleasant matter opening one's private files to total strangers, or laying one's whole business on the line when …'

‘But I still don't understand why it's upsetting you so much. I mean, if you've done nothing
wrong
…'

Matthew tried to fill the pause. ‘You're … you're very undiscerning sometimes, Anne. Can't you see I haven't time to deal with any more problems or distractions? My workload's crushing as it is.'

‘You've never complained before, Matthew. You
love
your work. I mean, if I ever try to suggest you slacken off a bit, you always shout me down.'

‘Producing books is a completely different matter from producing evidence. How can I run a business when half my energies are being drained away splitting hairs with mealy-mouthed solicitors? My lawyer's phoned me every day this week.'

‘But can't you let the tax thing wait a bit, while you deal with all the rest? I mean surely it won't come up immediately? I always thought tax cases took months, or even years. I remember talking to Jim about it once and he said there's a tremendous shortage of tax commissioners and such a backlog in the …'

‘Anne, if you mention Jim again, I'll …' No—mustn't shout, must control himself. He needed his wife as ally and support. But how could he explain things to her when she was so straight and simple-minded? However slow the tax-men were, they had already been alerted. The only way to escape them was to vanish. No one could question a non-existent taxpayer, a missing number on a file. Matthew mopped the back of his neck. He was still perspiring, though his feet and hands were icy. Why did Anne keep harking back to Jim? Had Allenby been grilling her, trying to catch her out? Jim knew about the existence of the scheme—had to really, when they worked so closely together. But it was only a name to him, a paper-plan, a bank account on some shadowy offshore island. Surely he didn't suspect that …?

Matthew rubbed his eyes. His back ached, his head throbbed. Once he'd had a cool efficient brain, working as effortlessly as his home computer. Now it was a jumbled mass of wires. Anne had turned away from him, as if he were a dangerous animal which had already nipped her hand. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I didn't mean to snap. I'm a little tired, that's all.'

‘I can see you are. You look absolutely exhausted.'

He walked over to the window, stood with his back to her. He had hardly explained a thing, yet, let alone confided how he had to flee the country. Better, perhaps, to mention just a joy-trip.

‘Look, my dear …' He swallowed. ‘Wh … why don't we go abroad for Christmas—get a bit of sunshine?'

‘Leave the boys, you mean? We couldn't, darling—not at Christmas. They'd never …'

‘No—the boys as well. All six of us. As soon as they break up.'

‘But how can we afford it? I thought things were so much tighter now that …'

‘We'll manage. We could hire a flat or villa somewhere—something very basic. Rents are often much cheaper out of season. At least it would be a break.' Matthew tried to make his voice sound less despondent. There were a hundred thousand problems—not just where to go, but how to hide his whereabouts, whether to change his name, how to free his capital and set up another business, whom to trust or tell. He edged back towards the bed. The koala bear had fallen on its side, its stern eyes still accusing him.

Anne was looking brighter. ‘Well, it would certainly do you good. You need to get away. You haven't let up for months. Even the summer trip was non-stop grind. Whereabouts were you thinking of? Somewhere like the Med?'

Matthew didn't answer. The Mediterranean wasn't far enough, nor deep enough to drown him. He snatched up the bear, muzzled it in gift-wrap, sealed its eyes with Sellotape.

Anne was rattling on. ‘I could do with a break myself. I've been ill three times since that summer bug, and I still feel a bit washed out. We might even get some sunshine. Imagine lying in a swimsuit in the middle of December! Mind you, the boys won't be too keen They'll miss their skating and tobogganing. I suppose we'd take their presents with us, would we?'

Matthew nodded. A few toys and books were safe enough, but nothing else. It could look suspicious if they stripped the house.

‘And what about our turkey? I ordered one from Dewhurst's—a twenty-pounder. We'll be driving, I presume? We can take it then—
and
the Christmas puddings. I've made very special ones this year and I wouldn't want to waste them.'

Matthew didn't answer. You couldn't drive to South Africa or Singapore. And a turkey would go bad. Yet how in God's name could he find the cash for six long-distance air fares? He slumped down on the bed. Anne put silver charms in her Christmas puddings. Last year, he had found a tiny silver horseshoe in his portion, glistening among dark and rum-soaked raisins. For luck, the boys had said. He covered his eyes with his hand as if the silver were still dazzling them. It was all a lie. Christmas could only mock.

Anne's sudden surge of cheerfulness had as suddenly capsized, replaced by that anxious haunted look which had arrived with Edward Ainsley. He let her take his hand. It had been months since he had touched anything more intimate. Her hands had aged less harshly than the rest of her and were still smooth and almost girlish. ‘Don't worry,' she was murmuring. ‘Things will be all right.'

The words were meaningless and magical, the sort of empty soothing words which mothers recited over cut knees or lost football matches or failed exams. He had never failed before. He kissed her for not criticising, let the kiss unite them, bind them together in a world where everything else was fractured and unravelling. They were lying half across the bed now, and somehow his pyjamas were undone. Men looked foolish in pyjamas—even comic. He let her slide them off. He had always longed to lie on Susie's bed. That summer Sunday he had crept into her room, he had perched on the very edge of it, not daring to stretch out, closed his eyes, imagined Susie naked there below him. He had never had a girl as young as that before, as maddeningly attractive. He could feel her nipples stiffening between his fingers, the curve of her buttocks as she humped beneath him on the office floor. Even now, she was taunting him again, running lazy fingers down his chest, working him up too quickly so that he would only let her down a second time.

He swept all the unseasonably cheerful presents off the bed, heard them plunge into the silence. If the wrappings tore, then she could re-do them in the morning. She was a sluggard and a lazybones who didn't earn her wages. He'd summon her to his study, tell her exactly what …

No—Susie wasn't there. He'd sacked her, hadn't he? She'd got pregnant by some creep of a photographer, and he had given her her cards. He punched his fist against the pillow. He'd like to smash that lecher's face in, and all the other men she'd …'

Anne was hovering over him. He pulled her down towards him, rolled her over, roughly, on her back, dragged her nightie off. Susie never wore a nightdress, slept naked like a slut. He closed his eyes. Now he could see the slut—her full flaunting breasts replacing Anne's more meagre ones. He kissed her, slowly, on the mouth. The lips were thin and clamped. He turned them into Susie's lips, forced them open, grazed his teeth across them, bit her tongue. He knew he was hurting, but it was the only way he could silence her, stop the accusations. He ran his hands along her shoulders. Her long thick golden hair was entangling him, getting in his way. He dragged it up and back behind her head, then lowered himself on top of her, pressed against the shameless pregnant belly. He would ram and ram it until he had crushed the life out of that baby—that dud photographer's child—abort it, smother it, scour all traces of its father off her, make Susie virginal and his. He dug his fingers so tightly into her flesh, he heard a cry escape her. Let her cry. She had diminished him and taunted him, left him for a puny layabout, got pregnant by a stranger. He had trapped her now, though, won her back, and this time he would thrash her. He was stiff already—stiff and hard—a match for all the piddling photographers, the prissy Edward Ainsleys and Roland Harraps, the damn-fool meddling lawyers. He groped his hand down, forced her legs apart. She was trying to pull away.