Incarnate (46 page)

“Leon, I haven’t seen her for more than a week. I only got back here a couple of hours ago. If she really thinks I hurt her, I mean if she thinks she actually saw me, things must have got too much for her, these dreams and all that stuff. She seemed pretty close to the edge when I went away. I wouldn’t have gone, except I had to.”

Leon looked as if he could spit in his face. “Christ, you’d say anything, wouldn’t you?”

Martin almost tore his pocket as he dragged out his passport. “Leon, will you look. There’s the date I came back, on the visa. Today’s date.”

“Right, today’s date. The day you beat her up. It doesn’t prove a fucking thing, mate. Pity they let you back in.”

“Leon, I came in less than three hours ago. For God’s sake, if you don’t believe me, call Heathrow.”

For the first time Leon seemed doubtful. “Maybe I will. Just go away now, Martin, all right? Maybe I’ll be in touch.” He shook his head as he realized what Martin was thinking. “Don’t go looking for Molly. You won’t find her.”

“Take me to her, Leon. You must. I give you my word she’ll be safe.” Martin hardly knew what he was saying. “She needs help.”

Leon stared blankly at him. “I’ve no idea where she is, Martin, and if I had I wouldn’t tell you.”

Martin turned away, because he felt ready to grab Leon and choke him. He headed for the lifts and out of the building. Though he was hardly aware of his surroundings, he knew where he was going. It wasn’t only the thought of the drawn curtains that was driving him back to Molly’s, it was the belated impression that he’d heard someone moving stealthily beyond them.

The key still wasn’t under the steps. She must have taken it from its niche to prevent him from going in to her. He tapped gently on the window. “Molly,” he said, trying to keep his voice low, “it’s Martin. Please let me see you. If you won’t open the door then come to the window.” He was still knocking on the glass when the van screeched to halt by the railings and two burly policemen came clattering down the steps. “Don’t try anything, mister,” one said. “Just get in the van.”

Martin controlled himself as he never had before. “I can explain. Just let me explain,” he said as they took hold of him. “My girl friend’s in there. She needs help.”

“We know all about her. It isn’t help she needs.”

“My God, you’ve been watching the place because of what she did.” Martin forced himself not to struggle. “Look, I’m sure she’s in there. If she isn’t, you know where she is, right? I need to see her, she’s in trouble. You’ve nothing to arrest me for.”

“She’s in trouble and so are you.” Their grasp was bruising his arms. “As for the rest of it, neither of you are that important, if you want to know. The neighbors called us because someone was breaking in down here, and that’s why we are formally arresting you.”

It might be true, for Martin heard a window slam on the second floor. The realization came too late. Everything that had been happening to him exploded all at once. “Goddamn it, you know where she is,” he yelled. “I have to go to her.”

They mustn’t have expected him to struggle, for suddenly he was free and lurching toward the steps, so fast that one of the policemen tripped on them and fell. Martin didn’t get far. A blow on the back of his head with a truncheon knocked him down; the weapon was heavier than it looked. Though the women on the second floor were watching, the policemen clubbed him twice as they dragged him up the steps to the van.

47

G
EOFFREY
was cutting himself a piece of bread when he heard the knock at the front door. It threw him. He stared around the kitchen and couldn’t recall where he’d put the butter, couldn’t even remember which meal he was trying to make himself. Outside the window the light of the flat sky was neutral, which seemed to suggest noon. Presumably he was making lunch, though he couldn’t recall when he had last eaten: sometime yesterday, he must assume, after he’d come home from visiting Joyce’s new day center. Hadn’t that been the dinner at which the meat in the stew had tasted like plastic? He must have been tired, that was all; he still was. It took a repetition of the knocking to remind him that someone was at the front door.

He dusted crumbs from his dressing gown as he made his way along the hall, and had to switch the knife from hand to hand. He mustn’t rush, he wasn’t getting any younger, and it annoyed him when his visitor knocked a third time. “Yes, yes,” Geoffrey muttered angrily. Perhaps it was his peevishness, or the sight of the knife in his hand, that made Mr. Rowley step back.

“Oh, Mr. Rowley.” Geoffrey just managed not to admit he’d forgotten that Mr. Rowley had made an appointment; it was enough of a shock to himself, “Do come in.”

The stamp dealer looked troubled as he ventured into the hall. “I was just preparing lunch if you’d like some,” Geoffrey said, hoping there would be enough bread and cheese for them both. Mr. Rowley shook his head, and still seemed troubled. Perhaps the old lady’s breathing was bothering him.

Geoffrey let him go first up the stairs. “You know the way, Mr. Rowley. I have to take my time.” He expected Mr. Rowley to go into the office, but the dealer waited for him at the top of the stairs. “Forgive my prying,” he murmured, “but what’s wrong with Mrs. Churchill?”

“Nothing at all. Why do you ask?” Of course, he meant the breathing. “That isn’t Joyce, it’s an invalid lady we’re taking care of.”

He found the key of the safe in the pocket of his dressing gown and stooped to the lock. He carried Mr. Rowley’s stamps to the desk. He turned back to close the safe, and then he clung to the edge of the open door. There was something in the safe it was crucial to remember.

He was still peering into the safe when Mr. Rowley finished examining the stamps. “These are highly satisfactory, Mr. Churchill,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but we’ve known each other for a number of years. May I ask if you’ve been to see a doctor? You don’t look at all well.”

Geoffrey was touched, knowing what an effort Mr. Rowley must have made to break through his reserve. “Just tiredness, Mr. Rowley. Nothing to worry about.” He hoped he didn’t sound abrupt, but he’d realized what was in the safe: Stuart Hay’s letter. He needed to remember what that meant, what it should remind him of. “May we talk business now?” he said.

Mr. Rowley named a price. “Fine,” Geoffrey said, but Mr. Rowley looked more dismayed than he had at the front door. “Perhaps you could hold on to the stamps for me, Mr. Churchill. I have to come to London for a sale next week.”

“I assure you, Mr. Rowley, your price is quite acceptable. It always is.” Geoffrey didn’t want to be distracted from the letter in the safe, not even by haggling. “By all means write me a check.”

Mr. Rowley did so reluctantly. He locked the album in his briefcase and gazed at Geoffrey while Geoffrey willed him to leave, twisting the cord of the dressing gown in his fists. At the front door he said, “I do hope you will consider my advice, Mr. Churchill. Surely it will do no harm to consult a doctor.”

“You have my word I’ll think about it. I do appreciate your concern.” Geoffrey closed the front door and trudged upstairs, wondering what possible use a doctor could be.

In his office he found he’d left the safe open. That showed how tired he was. Nobody could have got into it while he was downstairs but all the same, his carelessness dismayed him. He stepped forward to close the safe.

He was too eager and too exhausted. As he pushed the heavy door he lost his balance. Without thinking, he grabbed the upper edge of the safe, and the door closed on his thumbnail. He snatched out his thumb before it could take the full weight of the door, but even so the pain made him dizzy, so that he fell into his chair by the desk. The pain jarred him out of his stupor: he had meant to leave the safe open to remind him what it contained.

He made himself get up immediately and grope in the safe with his left hand. He couldn’t use his other hand; the nail was black, his thumb felt like a rotten tooth. When he found the envelope, he didn’t need to look inside. It was reminder enough by itself of all that had happened eleven years ago, and of why he was staying at home: to make certain that Stuart Hay didn’t trouble Joyce. He mustn’t leave it on his desk in case she saw it. He felt calm as the breathing that seemed to fill the house. He levered himself to his feet with his good hand, to replace the letter in the safe.

But the pain in his nail was nagging at his calm. It felt worse now that he’d stood up. He sat down again hurriedly. Now the letter was nagging at him. All at once he dragged back the flap with his good hand and fumbled out the letter.

He read it slowly and shook his head. He read it again and wondered why he should have thought it could tell him anything. Either his concentration or the slow calm breathing was making him forget the pain in his thumb. He had been right before: the letter was eleven years out of date. He pushed it back into the envelope. Thank heaven Joyce hadn’t seen it, it would only make her worse—and then he remembered why the letter was crucial: it reminded him that something was wrong with Joyce.

He clutched the sides of the desk as memory came flooding back. The pain was helping him now. There was no day center: Joyce went out every day to wander the streets. He couldn’t have seen the day center, he must have dreamed he had. He wondered dizzily what else he might have dreamed, but he had no time to wonder. He must think what to do about Joyce.

The breathing stifled his attempts to think. He closed his eyes exhausted and thought of what Mr. Rowley had said. He wished he could thank the dealer for telling him what to do. He reached for the phone to call the doctor.

The holes in the dial felt too small, seemed not to be where his eyes told him they were. He could use his right hand, his fingers weren’t injured, but now the holes felt even smaller, and he could hardly make out the numbers. The plastic of the receiver had begun to feel soft as the breathing that surrounded him. He managed at last to dig his forefinger into one of the holes, he squinted to see which number it was, and then he cried out. He’d forgotten the doctor’s number—there was nothing in his head except the sound of breathing.

He threw the receiver on the desk, hoping the thump would waken the old lady, but the breathing never faltered. He found the address book in his desk drawer and thumbed through the pages with his left hand—the pain in his injured hand was growing worse—until he turned up the number at last. It was no use. The phone felt soft as old flesh into which his fingers were sinking. He flung it away, onto the floor, and stumbled out to his bedroom.

Even the jangling crash of the phone hadn’t disturbed the breathing. As he struggled to dress, the inescapable slow sound kept making him forget what he was doing. He was dressing, he couldn’t sit round all day in his dressing gown. Hadn’t he forgotten to wash? He hadn’t time now, he must go down the hill to the doctor’s, except that now he had forgotten why.

He lurched out of the room, his shirt half-buttoned inside his jacket, his belt so loose he felt starved, and was almost at the old lady’s door before he realized what he meant to do. He couldn’t stand her breathing any longer, he had to stop it somehow. Gasping, appalled, he reeled away to his office.

The letter was still on his desk. That was why he must go to the doctor’s, to ask him to come and see Joyce. Not only Joyce—Geoffrey needed treatment himself—he must, to have such feelings about the old lady. He had to get out of the house before he could harm her. He crumpled the letter in his hand so as not to forget what he was doing—he must tell the doctor about his lapses of memory too—and made for the stairs. He had just reached them when the old lady called, “Geoffrey.”

She sounded weak and plaintive and afraid. How could she know he meant to leave her? How could he be so callous as even to consider doing so? Then he remembered w
hat
he might have done to her, remembered the doctor, and he fled downstairs, almost falling headlong. He shrugged on his overcoat so hastily that the sleeve caught his injured nail and made him scream. He opened the front door with his good hand, and stumbled along the path. He was at the gate when he saw Joyce.

She came running to him from the end of the street. “Are you going out?” she demanded. “I had a feeling you were.”

She couldn’t mean that the feeling had brought her home. “Just to get the doctor,” he mumbled.

“Why, what’s wrong?” When he hesitated, not knowing what to say, she cried, “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. I’m the one who needs the doctor.”

“I can’t see anything wrong with you, Geoffrey. You look fine, tip-top.” She was rubbing her hands, against the cold or nervousness. “If you need him, call him. I have to go straight back to the center.”

Which center? The question might have destroyed her pretense, and her with it. He would have died rather than ask. He found he was shaking. “You’ll have to stay in the house for a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

When he tried to sidle round her, she stepped in his way. “I can’t wait, Geoffrey. They need me right now. I shouldn’t have come away at all.” Perhaps she could see that he didn’t believe her, but did she believe herself? All he could see was that she was desperate. “At least come in the house and tell me what’s supposed to be wrong with you that you need the doctor. We don’t need to argue out here.”

“I haven’t time to argue at all.” The thought of going back in the house made him panic. “The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back. Look, this needs seeing to.”

He held out his injured thumb and realized that he was still clutching Hay’s letter. He hid it behind his back, swallowing the terror that the possibility of her seeing it had brought to his throat. She was holding his right hand gently, turning it over to examine the thumb. “Good heavens, Geoffrey, that’s nothing. I can bandage that for you.”

“It’s worse than it looks.”

“I didn’t mean the pain. I know it’s painful, I know you’re a soldier, you always were. I can treat it for you, that’s all I’m saying. I did use to be a nurse, you know. Or don’t you think I’m any use anymore?”