The Vows of Silence (21 page)

“Do you think I’ll ever find the right person to marry?”

She stared at the food piled onto her fork, trying to take the question in. He had never asked anything like it before, had always veered away from the subject when she had raised it. Cat thought she had given up trying to fathom her brother but now she realised that she had not.

“I know you want me to talk about Jane but I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure about anything.”

“I suppose,” she said carefully, “the first thing to know is, do you actually want to be married? Do you see yourself as a husband and perhaps a father, living in a house with a wife, having a totally different domestic set-up from the one you have now?”

“Why? Why would all that have to change?”

“Because now you are a bachelor, you have a pad for a bachelor, you live a solitary life, mostly at work, sometimes away with your sketchbook, occasionally with us. But that would change.”

“Not necessarily.”

“You expect a wife to fit in round the corners? You carry on as you are?”

“No. But you make it sound as if my life would change completely.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“No. Of course I don’t. I love my life.” He knew as he said it that it was profoundly true.

“Then you would have to have either a very remarkable wife or a very unusual marriage or probably both. It wouldn’t change all at once, but in the end it would have to. Marriage is a new life and it’s always a compromise … you just have to make sure that you both want the same compromise.”

“Yes. So perhaps I need to forget it.”

“I’m not saying that. You do have to be sure—perhaps more than most people. They marry for the person but maybe also because they are ready to change and develop and have a new sort of life. They want that actively. You don’t. But you’re not quite forty, Si, you’re not old enough to be so set in your ways.”

He finished the last of his lamb without replying.

Cat thought about the women he had known—the ones she had been aware of at least. Diana, the older, spasmodic mistress—that had worked as far as Simon was concerned because Diana had not changed his life, though Cat knew she had wanted to. Freya Graffham. Yes, he had thought he might be in love with her, even more so when she became unobtainable. Before Diana, there had been one rather fleeting affair with a young woman barrister whom Cat had not liked. Eleanor someone.

And then Jane Fitzroy.

But Jane had been vulnerable, confused in most areas of her life and suffering under the blows which had fallen on her one after another during her short time in Lafferton.

“What is it that you want, Si?”

He was about to say that he wanted what she had—her happy married life, her farmhouse, her family—but he stopped himself. Cat without Chris, Cat facing her husband’s death, Cat on her own bringing up the children, Cat who needed him far more than he needed her, the reverse of the way it had always been—he tried to imagine it and could not.

The waiter took their plates and brought the chalk board of desserts, propping it against the next-door table. They were both glad of it.

“Sticky toffee pudding,” Cat said, “and ice cream. And mint tea.”

“Twice,” Simon said.

Later, driving back to the farmhouse, he said, “Perhaps it’s safer.”

“What is?”

“Like this. Women who aren’t available. Is it that?”

“Cod psychology. It could be, if you don’t want to change.”

“So what do I do?”

“For God’s sake, Simon, I don’t know! You’re putting too much on me here.”

“Sorry.”

“We’re lucky. Work helps. Think if you were stuck
in a widget factory watching a conveyor belt all day.”

He sighed. “Instead of failing to catch a particularly vicious gunman.”

“You’ll catch him.”

“Nothing says we will.”

“You won’t let this one go. I know you.”

“I tell you something, Cat. It’s getting to me and when it gets to me it’s personal. Like the child abductions got personal. Like the arsonist got personal. I begin to think he’s doing it to defy me. How paranoid is that? But it’s how I feel. I feel taunted. Come on, Serrailler, stop me, I challenge you.”

“Why? He’s killed women.”

“Oh, I don’t mean he wants me dead. But once they get lucky two or three times, once they start getting away with it, then it does become a thing between the two of us, however many others are involved—dozens in this case. Something connects between me and this unknown out there. I have to get to him, I have to stop him.” He banged his hand on the steering wheel.

“Are you sure there’s only one?”

“No. It’s possible the sniper who shot the girls is not the same as the man with the handgun who killed Melanie Drew and that young mother.”

“What do you really think?”

“Oh, I really think it’s the same guy. I’m sure of it. Gut feeling.”

“And gut feeling says he’ll do it again?”

“Yes,” Simon said quietly, “I’m afraid it does. I want to get there first but get where? Where is he going to next? Why? I’ve no idea about the why, nothing links,
nothing fits, Cat, and until some thing does, I’m blundering about in the dark wearing a blindfold.”

They saw the lights of the farmhouse shining out to them from the far end of the country lane.

“So be careful, always,” he went on. “This is important. Don’t answer the door if you don’t know who it is and never let the children answer it, keep the door on the chain.”

“You’re serious?”

“You leave doors unlocked, you leave windows open …”

“OK, OK, and I’ve got enough, don’t start telling me about men with guns waiting to blow out my brains or those of my children when I open the front door.”

“It’s happened. I’m reminding you.”

“Thanks. Aren’t you coming in?”

“No, I’ll head for home, get some sleep in before someone disturbs it.”

“You just don’t want to see Dad and Judith.”

“That too.”

“God, you make me furious.” Cat slammed the car door hard and walked away.

“Don’t say thanks for the lovely dinner or anything,” Simon shouted after her. But she had gone inside.

It occurred to him, driving his new Audi fast through the dark lanes, that an argument with Cat could end like this, with both of them cooling off under their respective roofs. An argument with a wife was one you would find it hard to escape. He did not blame his sister. She had enough to cope with and if she had to let fly at someone it might as well be at him. One of them would ring the
other during the next couple of days and the whole thing would be over before it had begun.

If he were married he would not be able to return to a quiet, peaceful flat and life as he liked it.

He was better off on his own.

Forty-four

“You’re pathetic. I don’t get you. Why are you doing this? Why do you want to ruin it for her?”

“I don’t.”

“You do. Obviously you do. Have you listened to yourself?”

Tom had barged into Lizzie’s room and flopped down on her bed, then got up and roamed around, opening cupboards and shutting them, kicking his foot against the wall, taking a book off the shelf and putting it back. That had gone on for several minutes before he had finally said, “I don’t like him. He’s all wrong. I just don’t like him and he’s got to go, she’s got to see.”

His sister had been furious. As far as Lizzie was concerned, her mother looked wonderful, shining with happiness, enjoying life, having fun, sharing things. All of which was because of Philip Russell. Besides, Lizzie
liked Phil. He was exactly right and she couldn’t get over the luck. The chances of Helen Creedy meeting a series of disastrous men, wrong men, weird men, had been high, instead of which she had met Phil, bang, first time.

“What do you mean? Put that down, will you?”

“Jesse Cole told me. Phil Russell teaches his brother so I asked him.”

“Asked him what? What could Jesse Cole’s brother know?”

“I said, he teaches him, he’s been teaching him for two years.”

“And?”

“He said he’s an atheist. He preaches it. He preaches there isn’t a God when he’s supposed to be teaching history, he makes cracks about it all the time, sarcastic remarks, he sneers, he talks to them about that Dawkins book.”

Lizzie sighed and turned back to
Henry IV, Part One
. Once Tom started on religion she didn’t want to hear.

“He’s bound to talk like that to her.”

“Mum’s got a mind of her own.”

“I don’t want her having anything to do with him.”

“Perhaps I should get him to talk to you like that. Time someone got you into a reasonable argument, showed up your sect for what it is.”

“It’s not a sect.”

“OK, cult.”

“It’s not a cult.”

“Go away, Tom, I’ve got to finish this. Go and pray with your friends.”

“If you came with me you’d see it wasn’t anything like you think. You think it’s the Moonies or the Scientologists or some thing. I dunno. Mormons, Plymouth Brethren.”

“Whatever.”

“It matters, it’s about being on the right side, it’s about having Jesus come into your life and change everything, it’s—”

Lizzie stuffed her fingers in her ears.

Tom sat back down on the bed. He looked unhappy. She saw him as he used to be, moody but free, laughing, taking the mick, mucking about. A good mate. Not any more. Now he was either spouting the Bible or he looked unhappy.

“Leave her alone, let her enjoy herself. You’ve got to get over it, Tom. Once I’ve gone to uni, you can’t rant and rave at Mum the entire time, it’ll do no good and it’ll make her miserable. And if you break them up I’ll kill you.”

“I wish you’d see it like I do.”

“I can’t. I never will. I don’t know you any more, I haven’t a clue what goes on in your head.”

“Yes, you do, I keep telling you, I try to make you see. It’s really, really important, it’s the only important thing.”

Lizzie got up and opened her door. Tom looked at her. Again she saw his face when he was six or seven. Not this face, now. His old face.

“I’ve got to finish this.”

“Lizzie …”

“Please.”

She held his look. Then they heard the key turn in the front door.

“Hi!”

“OK, she’s back from her book group, go and make a cup of tea and don’t you dare say anything, Tom Creedy, don’t you bloody dare.”

After a moment of sitting, staring at the floor unhappily, Tom unwound his long frame and got up.

In his own room he sat on the window ledge looking out, as he had done when he was small and needed to think. The street below was quiet. People went to bed early.

He wondered if he should talk to Pastor Evans. Phil was a problem and Tom knew he had to solve it before his mother did something stupid like marry the guy. It wasn’t that he minded her marrying. He’d sorted that out early on. Lizzie banged on about how lonely she was since Dad died, how it would be good for her, how she needed someone, and she was right, he’d never really had a problem with that. He hadn’t now. She ought not to be by herself once he and Lizzie had gone. It was Phil. Tom used to get vibes around people when he was younger, that there was something not right about them, but more recently he’d tried to ignore them when the pastors had said that sort of thing could be the Devil whispering in your ear or even lodged in your brain. New Agey stuff. Still, secretly, he knew he’d often been right and he didn’t like to ignore the vibes altogether. He’d had them when he’d met Phil, strong ones. He didn’t like disagreeing with any of the pastors, they’d guided him the right way, he ought to
listen. But about Phil Russell he knew best, and in any case, it wasn’t only the vibes, it was what he’d been told, real stuff.

He went downstairs.

His mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, writing in her book group notebook.

“Hello—it’s freshly brewed.”

“No thanks.” Tom got a can of Coke from the fridge and stood with his back against the worktop drinking it. He wanted to say something now but where to start, how to start?

“Good meeting?”

Helen smiled. “Fine thanks.”

“Interesting book?”

“Yes thanks.
The Kite Runner
.”

“Right.”

“Do you want something, Tom?”

“No. Why would I?”

“A sub for instance?”

“No, I’m good thanks.”

“Oh. Fine.” She looked down at her notebook again, waiting for her son to say whatever it was he was finding difficult to talk about.

“You going out this week?”

Ah. She wrote a couple of words while saying, “Yes. Thursday. And then we’re going to the Jug Fair. Daft but fun.”

“Right.”

“Thursday Phil has tickets for the ballet. I’m not that keen on ballet but there you go.”

“Why?”

“Never seen the point. I always think they’d find it so much easier if they just started talking.”

“No, I meant if you don’t really like it, why go? You don’t have to.”

“No I don’t. But I probably owe it to ballet to give it one more try.”

“I don’t see that.”

“No, you probably wouldn’t.”

Silence. He drank two or three times. The washing machine started its spin cycle.

“It is OK about the States, isn’t it?”

“About you going? You live your own life, Tom, you know what I think.”

“It’s really important. I’ve got to do it.”

“It may be important now. I just don’t want you to gear your whole future to this church thing.”

“I’m not.”

“Seems like it from here.”

“It isn’t the church thing, as you call it, it’s giving my life to Jesus, that’s what it’s about. If I go to the Bible college I come out ready to serve and bear witness.”

“You sound like a pamphlet.”

“Sorry.”

“Just don’t be swayed by other people, Tom. Especially not by oratory. I know, they get up there and preach and it’s mesmerising, but when you come down to earth—”

“Phil’s an atheist.”

Tom had gone scarlet. He swigged the last of his Coke hastily and dropped the can into the bin.

“I know. Does that worry you a lot?”

Tom mumbled. His mother had put her pen down and was looking him full in the face, which always made him uncomfortable.