Uphill All the Way (12 page)

Swaying, Caleb turned his gaze and frowned as if trying to place her.

A new sound broke through the music from the sitting room, sharp, staccato, metallic. Judith hurried in to find a bare-chested youth hitting the cast iron fire surround with a poker, and giggling as the inset tiles starred and shattered. A girl was retching into the seat of an armchair. Two men were having a beer-spitting competition, roaring with laughter as they spattered her back, and the computer. A further dozen or so people were comatose.

Judith felt a bellow of anger swelling in her chest, but self-preservation stopped her attempting to disarm the poker-wielder. She contented herself with tearing the plug of the booming stereo out of its wall socket instead.

Her ears rang in blessed relief at the silence.

She stamped her way back to Caleb, who was still wearing an expression of comical dismay. 'This is my
home
,'
she snapped. 'I'm calling the police!'

'They've trashed Dad's house,' he told her sadly.

'No, they've trashed
my
house. Wait till I see your father!'

Caleb rocked on his heels. 'Grandma's ill. Dad's gone to Bedford to see her.' Shakily, he drew on the fat roach between his fingers, which had gone out anyway. 'Back on Sunday.'

'Today.'

'Sunday.'

'Sunday's today!' She wanted to shake him, preferably by the throat.

Caleb's eyes grew rounder. 'Holy crap. He'll go mental.'

'That'll be two of us!'

Should she call the police? It was the sensible option for several reasons. An aggressive party reveller fuelled by God-knows-what might turn on her as she tried to clear the house. Officialese, in the form of a crime report with statements could very well prove to be necessary.

And on the off chance that some stupid young idiot had died during the revels, the police could deal with it instead of her.

But then... She studied Caleb, wide-eyed and pasty white. Caleb might get arrested. Charged. She'd be responsible for getting him a police record. The house stunk of dope, he and most of his unattractive mates were off their faces. The government might've seen fit to downgrade grass, but she wasn't sure she wanted to put their reaction to the test when damage to property was involved.

And how would she feel if it were Kieran?

She was saved from further heart-searching by the banging of the front door as it slammed back against the hall wall. And, slowly, in stalked Adam. 'Shitty
death
,' he spat. Judith watched his progress up the hall as he carefully skirted the girl at the bottom of the stairs and the evidence of her excesses, peering into the sitting room, wincing, and heading inexorably for Caleb.

Father and son stared at each other. The square-cut man who'd been thumping the units advanced, fists clenched, but Adam shoved him irritably in the chest, and, with a stagger, he ricocheted harmlessly through the back door.

Adam had eyes only for his son. 'Are you all right?'

Caleb nodded, and swayed. 'Sorry, Dad. They, like, got completely out of hand.' For an instant, he looked as if he might burst into tears.

Then Adam spotted Judith. Eyes crackled like a winter sea in a moment of infuriated pride. 'Oh,
hell
!' Each stared at the other. 'I take responsibility. I'll get it cleared up,' he ground out.

She folded her arms. 'You bet.'

It took till mid-afternoon just to empty the house of unwanted bodies.

Showing some inventiveness, Judith thought, Adam filled a plant-sprayer with icy water and travelled around squirting the slack faces of the unconscious. 'Come on! Up you get, son, on your way.' Squirt. 'Wake up, wake up! You must leave. You!
Hey, you!
Wakey, wakey!' Squirt, squi-irt. 'Time to go.'

Grunts, snarls or squeals greeted his efforts and he was equally impervious to each. 'Out, now!
Now
, I said! On your feet and get out.'

The bathroom door remained obstinately locked, he had to kick his way in to where a waxen girl was out cold on the floor, the room a filthy mess around her where her stomach had rejected its contents.

Judith swore in outrage at the sight of her snow-white suite so defiled. If there was one thing she hated it was a dirty bathroom.

Caleb lurched about, gathering cans and bottles into plastic sacks, imbibing plain water at his father's behest. Periodically, Adam grasped his son's face and stared into his eyes, satisfying himself that Caleb was in no immediate danger from any of the poisons he'd put into his body.

Judith patrolled the clean-up operation with hands on hips at this insult to her home, (even if it wasn't, strictly speaking,
her
home at the moment). Adam swept up the glass then borrowed a wet/dry cleaner from a friend and scoured the carpets, improving the situation but failing to return the carpets to their state before cigarette burns and unsavoury stains.

Gradually, the smell of carpet cleaner and bleach began to overpower tobacco, beer and vomit. A glazier made the appropriate emergency repairs to the windows and doors. Caleb was finally permitted to haul himself upstairs to collapse atop his duvet.

Slowly, Adam returned to the kitchen, where Judith waited.

'Is Caleb going to be OK?'

'I think so,' he said, flatly. 'I need him to live, so that I can kill him. And when I've done that I'm going to resurrect him and kill him again.'

Despite her anger, she almost smiled. It hadn't escaped her that his first words to Caleb had been, 'Are you all right?' rather than a screamed, 'What the hell have you done?' which she was sure would have been Tom's reaction had Kieran put him in a similar position.

With curt movements, Adam made coffee and set out a biscuit tin.

They sat down facing one another at the pine kitchen table.

Adam passed his good hand over his eyes. As so often his damaged right hand was out of the way, in his pocket or beneath the table. He looked exhausted. 'So now you have perfectly good grounds for eviction,' he offered, bitterly.

'In anyone's book,' she agreed.

He nodded. 'Can I have seven days, Judith?'

'Yes, you can use the time to do the repairs. I should think the key money might just about cover it.'

Chapter Eleven

So she found herself in the odd position of working for Adam at the same time as chucking him out of the house, each of them adopting the policy of speaking only as necessary, getting through the week without friendly chats or exchanges of jokes.

Adam moved out of 18 Lavender Row at the end of it, all his possessions in a hire van.

On the Monday, Judith moved back in.

The insurance company had yet to stump up for the tiles and the fire surround to be refinished, some of the carpets to be replaced and for the bathroom door to be repaired, but the house was habitable.

Her furniture arrived from the storage unit, the cottage suite in shades of blue and lilac, the bed with the carved wooden headboard, the maple wardrobes and the dressing table with the mirror. The phone line had been returned to her name.

The proud possessor of a landline again, she was suddenly overtaken by a desire to ring Cass and pass the number on.

First she got down to the jobs of arranging the furniture and making tea for the deliverymen, trying to squash it to the back of her mind. But, at the first opportunity, she nipped into town and bought a phone with built-in answering machine.

Safely installed, the shiny grey plastic set seemed to taunt her, waiting to see how long she'd hold out before looking up Cass's number. That wasn't all there was to it, though. Judith must be careful. If Saviour knew Judith was calling his wife, Cass's life would be made difficult.

She dialled.

The first time, Saviour answered, but Judith had prepared the voice of a confused tourist. 'Oh, dear. Is this the Park Hotel?'

She heard Saviour's deep chuckle. 'You call the wrong number.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry!'

'Is OK.'

But, in the evening, when she tried again, she heard Cass's high voice. 'Cass, it's Judith,' she whispered. 'Can you talk?'

Cass sounded tense. 'Saviour's not here, if that's what you mean. But I have nothing to tell you.'

Judith felt ridiculous disappointment slinking through her. What had she expected? A miracle? 'No change at all?' Her voice was hoarse.

'He won't suddenly begin asking for you. You know that, Judith.'

'Can I...' Judith had to clear her throat. 'Can I give you my new phone number?'

'Of course.' Cass's voice was sad, weighed down by the words she didn't speak.
If you think there's any point.

Judith felt her breath desert her and could scarcely get the numbers out.

After the call she heeled her hands fiercely into her eyes, holding back the scalding tears.

The tears wouldn't be held. They burst from her eyes and flooded down her cheeks, ran into her mouth, burned the inside of her nose and filled her throat.

Two hours later, her entire head aching, she came to a decision.

She would cry no more for Giorgio.

It was pointless now, wasting energy that she was going to need to build a new life that didn't include him.

She had to accept that she would never again see laughter in his dark, dark eyes, or desire as he reached for her. There would be no phone calls to interrupt meetings with long-wooed clients, no waves from the windows of buses returning after a day trip.

No waking in the morning to find he'd kicked off the sheet and was spooned around her, sharing her pillow.

No whispers, no laughter, no hanging entangled beneath the waves.

'That was then, and this is now,' she told herself aloud, treading up the stairs. 'This is Brinham, this is England, this is my life. I'm going to finish unpacking my cases. Because I live here, now.' She blinked away a fresh burning.

Three cases left to unpack, and she could ring Richard tomorrow and ask him to ship the things that had been too bulky to bring, a few small items of furniture, several pictures. She was fond of watercolours of the island by local artists. Giorgio had bought her two, the ferry crossing Marsamxett Harbour to the bastions of Valletta, and the promenade along Tower Road, The Chalet projecting starkly into the sea. Where they'd met.

She emptied the first two cases, enough stuff to fill a wardrobe and spill over into the spare, and then began on the third, a grey giant filled with what she'd judged she wouldn't need much. She stood for a painful minute clutching the neoprene of her wetsuit, the rubber mask and fins, breathing in the familiar smell, remembering long sunny days when she and Giorgio dropped together into the quiet and cool green-blue depths.

Then she bundled it quickly into the built-in cupboard in the box room. She wouldn't need it. She wouldn't go under the waves again.

There were no shoots in the next week. It was blessedly peaceful now that she'd winkled Adam out of the house and given Molly and Frankie their spare room back. She had time to...

Almost anything.

Time was not a shortage.

Time to think, time to grieve, time to be freshly aware of what she'd lost. Time to wish she'd never left Malta, time to realise that it was probably for the best.

Brooding made the time go slowly and left her unable to sleep, to eat, so she threw herself into activity.

The garden looked a good project; she watched garden makeover programmes and thought the physical work might be just what she needed. She got only as far as cutting the long, narrow lawn, which was growing strongly. It took ages with the lawn mower, and even longer to neaten the edges with the clippers. And the raw smell of cut grass made her sneeze and her eyes run. Enough to remind her how much she hated gardening

So she abandoned the garden and rang The Cottage retirement home to say that she was coming to take her mother out. Even so, Wilma was flustered at her appearance and Judith couldn't decide whether it was with pleasure to have an unexpected outing, or irritation that she'd miss
Neighbours
and
The Natural World.

Judith whizzed her in the car into the neighbouring county of Buckinghamshire to shop in Milton Keynes.

On the ice-smooth floors of the shopping mall the wheelchair bowled along. Wilma folding her arms over the handbag in her lap. 'It would be lovely to go outside to the market, wouldn't it, duck?' So Judith manhandled the heavy chair through the glass doors and into the market place, where the chair moved like a bent supermarket trolley through mud.

But Wilma was content as they wheeled past stalls of fruit or cleaning fluids or jeans. At the end of its last row Judith was thankful to manhandle the chair back into the mall.

Wilma's eye fell immediately on a nearby kiosk. 'That frozen yoghurt looks lovely! And they've got peach!'