Why Aren't They Screaming? (7 page)

Loretta shivered.

‘You mean you've heard it often? But surely–'

‘Oh yes, I quite agree. There must be some rational explanation. But if you can tell me what it is I'll be very grateful.'

‘How long has this been going on?' Loretta was at a loss and, unwilling to countenance explanations of a supernatural nature, took refuge in seeking facts.

‘Two weeks,' Clara said without hesitation. ‘I wrote it in my diary. Not straight away. The first time it happened I was inclined to doubt my sanity. After all, I'm fifty-one, and I haven't shown any previous signs of behaving like Joan of Arc. You know what people say about the menopause. But then, when the first letter arrived a couple of days later – well, I thought the two things might be connected. I don't know how. It's one thing to write disgusting letters, anyone can do that. But this –' She stopped and gestured in the air.

‘What sort of letters?'

‘Anonymous. I'm sure you can guess. “Why don't you get those whores off your land, you dirty lesbian bitch?” That sort of thing. That's not all, I've had phone calls as well. Though I suspect I have someone else to thank for those, they display an altogether more inventive turn of mind. No obscenities. Mostly it's just silence. But someone read part of the burial service to me once. I suppose I'd have got the whole thing if I hadn't put the phone down. And there was another one where I could hear a woman being tortured.' Clara saw Loretta's face and patted her hand. ‘Don't worry, Loretta, I'm sure it wasn't real. Anyone could rent a horror film and tape the nastiest bit of the soundtrack. I don't think for a moment she was really being murdered. But the voices – how are they being done?'

Loretta suddenly remembered Clara's eagerness for her to move into the cottage; had it been connected with this? She had gathered the previous evening that Imo was in her second year at Sussex – it would hardly be surprising if Clara had felt the need of a neighbour she could trust in her present predicament. Even so, it would have been nice to be consulted: Loretta wasn't very happy about the way in which she had been allowed to walk all unknowing into this deeply disturbing situation.

‘What do the police say?' she asked, a trifle coldly.

‘I haven't told them.'

‘You haven't–'

‘Wait a minute, there is a reason. Think about it. The police don't like the peace camp – oh, it's not political, I'm sure. They have enough to cope with, and the camp is one more problem they could do without. I've had Collins, he's the
local superintendent, round here for a quiet word – we sympathize, it's a free country, but can't you turn them off? If I told them about the voices and the phone calls, there's no proof that I'm telling the truth. Even the letters, I could have written those myself. And you know how gossip gets round. The police are human like the rest of us. I've got enough enemies around here as it is without people saying I'm batty as well as a communist.' Clara smiled slightly. ‘I'm biding my time, building up a – well, a dossier is too strong a word. I've been keeping notes in my diary – all the phone calls, the dates of the letters, when I've heard the voices. Now there's been these attacks, and you've heard the voices ... All I need is for someone else to hear some of the phone calls – you or Peggy, say. Then I'll go public on it.'

‘Who else knows?' Loretta asked. ‘What about Imo?'

‘She knows about the letters. Not the voices. You're the only one who knows about those. And you must keep quiet, Loretta. For the time being. Please.'

A new thought struck Loretta. ‘Is that why you put me in here last night? To see if I'd hear the voices?'

Clara looked slightly shame-faced. ‘Well, it did cross my mind ... But really, when you think about it, I had no choice. I could hardly put Peggy in here, could I? Not when she'd had that bang on the head. It wouldn't have been fair.'

‘Are they always at night?'

‘So far. I've been sleeping in here a lot lately.' Clara's cheeks reddened, and Loretta wondered why. ‘It's always been at midnight or later. Heavens, look at the time! I must fly or I'll be late for church. Help yourself to breakfast – there's bread in the crock, eggs, bacon, the usual things. Lunch at one. See you later.'

The door closed and Loretta was alone. She lowered herself back on to the pillow and lay with her hands clasped behind her head. Common sense told her this was no place for someone recuperating from even a mild illness; she should pack her things and be ready to leave when Clara returned from church. Loretta swung her legs to the floor, went to stand up, then hesitated. How would she feel if she washed her hands of the whole business and left Clara to get on with it? Was Clara really asking so much? Loretta had often been
to Greenham; she had been moved by the dedication of the women who braved appalling weather conditions and constant evictions in pursuit of a cause she, too, believed in. All Clara was asking for was a bit of sisterly support, and for Loretta to act as a witness. How deep was Loretta's commitment if she wasn't even prepared to do that? She sighed, the impossibility of running out on Clara impressing her forcibly. She had made her bed, she thought, running her hand over the worn surface of the patchwork quilt, and she would have to lie on it.

Half an hour later, dressed and ready for breakfast, Loretta made her way downstairs. Clara's work table was still in the hall, empty and waiting to be transported upstairs. She skirted round it and paused by the front door, looking for traces of the previous night's attack. Apart from a darkening of the cement in the cracks between the floor tiles, there was remarkably little damage. She opened the kitchen door, wondering if Peggy or Imo were up, but the room was empty apart from the grey cat who strolled over to meet her. Loretta bent to scratch his head, was rewarded with a loud purr, and set about making tea and toast. Having consumed both she looked at the clock; it was quarter past eleven, and she wondered how to pass the time until Clara returned. Judging by the potatoes sitting in a pan of water on the kitchen table, preparations for lunch were well under way – she could indulge herself with a clear conscience. Picking up that morning's
Observer,
which was lying unopened on a chair, she crossed the hall, went through the untidy conservatory, and found herself on a small paved area adjoining the house. It was a sunny spot, and several chairs and a low wooden table had been placed there to take advantage of this fact. Loretta sat down and began to leaf through the paper; finding nothing much of interest, she took it back to the kitchen and ran lightly up the stairs to Clara's study. A couple of minutes later she returned to her seat outside, this time armed with an early novel by Margaret Atwood that she hadn't had time to look at before. It was easy reading, and it didn't take long for Loretta to become temporarily oblivious of her surroundings. She was not aware that she was no longer alone until her
light was suddenly blocked and she looked up to find a man standing in front of her.

‘Hello.' His tone was suspicious and far from friendly. ‘Is Clara in?'

Another neighbour? Loretta wondered. ‘Not at the moment,' she said briskly, ignoring his hostility. ‘She went to church, oh' – she looked at her watch – ‘about an hour and a half ago. She should be back soon. Or would you like me to give her a message?'

The man looked blank.

‘No thanks, I live here. And who are you?'

For a moment, Loretta was lost for words. She stared at the new arrival, trying to work out who he might be. Some sort of relative, she guessed, taking in his dark hair – like Imo's – and pale skin. Clara's son? Much too old; he looked to be in his early forties, although his receding hair could be deceptive. A younger brother? That seemed more likely. But in that case, why was he living at Baldwin's? Loretta realized the man was still waiting for her reply, and hastily introduced herself. He shook her outstretched hand perfunctorily.

‘Jeremy Frere,' he announced. ‘I'm Clara's husband. You say you're a friend of hers? I don't think I've heard her mention you.'

‘More a friend of a friend,' Loretta admitted, still engaged in the process of revising her picture of Clara's domestic arrangements. Why hadn't Clara mentioned the fact that she had a husband? It was hardly the sort of thing that could have slipped her mind. Loretta realized she had simply assumed that Clara was divorced or widowed. But surely this chap Jeremy – what had he said his surname was? Loretta had been so taken aback by his revelation of his relationship to Clara that she hadn't taken it in – wasn't Imo's father? She examined him covertly, taking in his bright blue eyes and unlined skin. If it wasn't for the hair, he might easily pass for thirty-five. Of one thing she was certain: Jeremy was definitely his wife's junior, and by some years. She realized he was speaking to her, and his tone was less unfriendly now they'd been introduced.

‘I'd completely forgotten about this church business. Only started a couple of weeks ago.' He laughed, looking back
across the valley with absent-minded admiration for the view. ‘Clara never went near a church till she found the vicar was on her side about this Libyan business.' He moved towards the conservatory. ‘Drink? I'm going to have a lager. I've just driven down from London and my throat's like sandpaper.'

Loretta said she'd like an orange juice. Jeremy returned a couple of minutes later and handed her a half-full glass. ‘We seem to be running out. I expect Clara forgot to do the shopping again. You here for the weekend?' He settled into a chair next to hers.

‘Actually, I'm moving into the cottage for a few days,' Loretta said, gesturing towards it with her left hand. ‘I've been ill and Clara very kindly –'

‘You're
moving into the cottage? But you can't be! I
told
Clara before I went to New York – I'm sorry, there's been some mistake.' He stopped, glowering at her.

‘I – I don't
think
so,' Loretta began hesitantly. ‘That is, Clara did ring and ask if I wanted the cottage. She didn't say anything about–'

‘Shit!' Jeremy sat with pursed lips, his thin fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of his chair. Then, as if he'd suddenly remembered her presence, he leaned across and touched Loretta lightly on the arm. ‘Sorry, love, it's not your fault. I'll sort it out with Clara when she gets back from her devotions, or whatever it is she does in church. So tell me, when did Wayne leave? I'm sorry he went without saying goodbye, he was rather a friend of mine. That's how he came to be living in the cottage, as a matter of fact. When did he go?'

Loretta folded her arms, a gesture that succeeded in removing her from contact with Jeremy's hand without actual rudeness. She didn't like being addressed as ‘love' at the best of times, and certainly not by this petulant little creep. She was saved from replying to his question by the sudden appearance of Clara at the bottom of the lawn. She waved vigorously in their direction as she toiled up the hill.

‘Jeremy, dear, you've met my new tenant,' she said, dropping a light kiss on his forehead. She straightened up, beaming at Loretta and giving the distinct impression of
someone who was rather pleased with herself. ‘Good trip?'

‘Eh? Oh, fine, fine.' Jeremy got to his feet. ‘Clara, what's all this about – urn' – he looked at Loretta, obviously unable to recall her name – ‘about you letting the cottage? I'm sure I told you I wanted it for a friend of mine. Don't you remember? We were talking about it last weekend, before I went to New York.'

‘Really?' Clara's forehead wrinkled, as though with the effort of dredging something from the deepest recesses of memory. ‘I don't
think
so, darling. Are you sure you mentioned it? Because it's a bit late now. Loretta's here, and I've promised the cottage to her for as long as she likes. So I don't see there's much to be done. Sorry.'

‘Clara! I remember the conversation perfectly! You happened to say Wayne was moving out early and I –'

‘Darling, I really don't want to discuss it, especially not in front of Loretta. She must be feeling frightfully embarrassed.' This much at least was true, especially as Loretta was pretty sure Clara was faking her memory lapse. Who could blame her, if Jeremy was responsible for installing the unlovable Wayne as her previous tenant? ‘Let's leave it,' Clara finished briskly. ‘I must see to lunch or we'll have nothing to eat.'

‘I'd like another beer,' Jeremy called after his wife's receding back, subsiding into the chair he'd just vacated. Clara showed no sign of having heard him.

Loretta reached for her book and sat with it open on her lap, pretending to read. It had hardly been an affectionate reunion between husband and wife, and her own position was anything but comfortable. She didn't relish the thought of living next door to someone who had made it clear that he resented her presence, and Clara had made no attempt at all to ease the atmosphere. Did she really want to move into the cottage in these circumstances? Her chief reason for staying – her anxiety that Clara shouldn't be left alone to face the consequences of her role as protector of the peace camp – was no longer valid. Unprepossessing as Jeremy might be, he was still Clara's husband, and on hand if anything untoward did happen. At this point in Loretta's deliberations Clara reappeared and plonked a can of lager on the table in front of Jeremy.

‘Clara,' Loretta said, seizing her chance, ‘I'm feeling very bad about the cottage. If Jeremy wants it for a friend, wouldn't it be better if I went back to London? I'm sure I can find something else if I hunt around for a bit. I don't want to–'

‘Heavens, Loretta, don't even
think
of it! Jeremy doesn't mind
really,
do you, darling?'