Anyone Who Had a Heart (24 page)

Just for a moment she returned to her physical presence. ‘Roberto, please stop.’ She tried to reason with him. ‘We’re getting dirty.’

‘It’s where you should be. In the dirt.’

Come with me
.

Her mind went back to where it had been, floating above the trees, smelling the spring buds, watching the birds feeding their young. Below her she could see herself, lying as though she were dead; Roberto might just as well have been screwing a log. She wasn’t with him.

And then it was over.

She blinked and there he was standing there peeing into a puddle between her feet. Seeing her looking at him, he kicked at her foot.

‘Cover yourself up. You look disgusting.’

She looked down at her bare body, somewhat
surprised
to find herself back in it. She covered herself up and looked at him.

He was leaning against the car, looking to where the sun threw dappled shadows among the trees.

On seeing she was dressed, he flicked a lighted cigarette into the grass.

‘Get in!’

He jerked his chin at the car. He’d draped a tartan blanket over the passenger seat so she wouldn’t muddy his seat.

Marcie sat in it mutely. She was numb. She was angry and considered insisting they go to the nearest police station, but she was also wary. Roberto’s charm hid something darker and more dangerous and it was better to go floating above the trees than be buried beneath them.

What had changed to make him do this?

Her thoughts went back to that other time when she’d woken up at Alan Taylor’s place. This time she was fully aware of what happened.

She was on the edge of hysteria, but would not give in.

Get a grip
.

The command seemed to come from out of nowhere and yet it seemed so real, so relevant.

You won’t get pregnant
.

The voice was probably right. She wasn’t yet on the pill but she’d only just finished her period. Her
heart
raced, her blood pounding in her head. But she held on to her self-control. She would not break down.

Deep in thought, she failed at first to notice the signposts or the fact that the road was familiar to her. Only once in her life had she taken this road. It was a road and surroundings that still sometimes surfaced in her dreams.

Roberto spoke. ‘Recognise where you are?’

Her eyes alighted reluctantly on places she’d thought never to see again. The spread of fields as she remembered them was suddenly interrupted. A window frame factory graced one side of the road, an alien presence of mauve brick and angular lines, a latecomer but a sign of things to come. The entrance to a quarry swept dustily away through iron posts on the other.

Pilemarsh Abbey came into view, unchanged and solid.

She had a great urge to pinch herself in case she was still asleep and dreaming of things past.

Roberto brought the car to a halt in the gateway that she sometimes saw in her dreams. The gates had been changed. In the past they’d been wooden like those of a prison. The inmates had not been able to see out and nobody had been able to see in unless the gates were open. The gates were now of wrought ironwork. She had an unobstructed view. Nothing
else
had changed; the pristine crispness of rustling poplars and the blank windows of the house beyond, the drive, the paths and the grass blown into waves by a brisk breeze.

Built by a wealthy merchant in some past century and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the factories he’d owned, the house had three main floors besides the attic accommodation in the roof. There were eighteen windows on the top floor, the same on the first floor, some square, some embellished with a gothic point formed of red and yellow bricks. A wide front door graced on either side with Dorian columns of shining white alabaster broke the line of windows on the ground floor.

Eighteen windows! She took a deep breath, trying hard to keep a grip on reality, to remain in the here and now and not to let the past take over. It was so easy to drift back and feel that the time in between had never happened. Trivialities invaded her thoughts. Had she subconsciously arrived at that total of windows or had she counted them off on her fingers in the same way that a prisoner etches marks in stone?

The scene was little changed. A crocodile of coach-built Pedigree prams – probably the very same ones she and her friends had used – were ranged along the gravel path in front of the ground-floor windows. Just as in her time here they were caparisoned with cream-coloured canopies, their fringes fluttering with each
breath
of wind, and yet shabbier now. Some were lopsided, as though the metal spokes holding them up had broken or bent.

Her attention was drawn to a man sweeping fallen leaves from around the legs of the metal bench circling the trunk of an oak tree, raking them to him like a reaper gathering an abundant harvest. Yet it wasn’t leaves she was seeing him gather; neither was it a harvest of oats, wheat or rye, but something else, something much more precious. They’d harvested children in this place; taken them from their natural mothers and passed them to adoptive parents.

The sound of her heartbeat thudded in her ears, drowning out whatever it was Roberto was saying to her. The tone of his voice was all she needed to hear to know he was not using sweet words but using the bad words that men use when they want to make a woman feel bad – feel like nothing.

The house, Sally and Allegra, the religious texts on the walls, the echo of girls’ voices and babies’ cries – like a railway station halfway through a journey, the girls lives going one way, their babies in another. Except for her. She’d been lucky in that respect. She had something to thank Alan Taylor for.

She saw the house as it was now and as it had been. The frowning façade had changed little; frozen in time, just as she was, just as she had been the time
before
and that first day at Pilemarsh Abbey and the days that came after.

The old memories lay like slate epaulettes on each shoulder, and so did the lies born of fear. Roberto was shaking her, shouting at her that she’d lied to him, that she’d had a baby out of wedlock and therefore she was a whore, a slut, a low-down tart.

She stared into the face of the man she’d thought she loved. Where there had been charm there was now only ugliness, but compared to his looks what he was saying was a lot uglier.

‘OK, it seems I got the wrong end of the stick, thanks to your old man. But I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. Now here’s the deal: you get rid of the kid and we’re still in business. Right?’

She looked at him unblinking. He made no mention of the fact that he had just attacked her. He could not surely believe that she had consented to what he had done?

He shook her. ‘Did you hear me? Get rid of the kid!’

The anger welled up inside her. Anger at his unwanted attentions but also at his cavalier attitude that everything could be forgotten as long as she did the unthinkable.

‘She is not a puppy or an unwanted present. She’s
my
daughter! My little girl. Her father got killed before we were married. I’m not a tart or a whore. I really
didn’t
know about your parents’ plans – not at first – or I should have been more honest. But there it is. It’s too late now.’

His expression was as hard as stone, his eyes cold as lead. ‘It could still work if you don’t visit her again. Leave her with your grandmother. She sounds capable enough.’

Marcie stared at him. ‘No!’

‘Not even for me?’

He sounded hurt, but she didn’t care.

Dictated by her emotions, her words were delivered with a quiet but firm deliberation. ‘I will not give up my child for you or anyone. It doesn’t matter what you do to me. Rape me again and roll me in the mud all you like. Hit me or call me all the names you can think of, but it won’t make a scrap of difference. Joanna comes first. And that’s that!’

His dark eyes seemed to turn darker and she sensed rather than saw his jaw clench. Would he hit her again? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She only knew that the job that had seemed so promising was now less so. She had to leave Daisy Chain. She had to move out from beneath the Camilleri’s roof.

The journey back to London was more silent than the one to Pilemarsh.

Just as they entered the suburbs he said, ‘You wanted it as much as me. You love me. You’ll come
round
to the idea.’ He sounded as though he’d made the decision for her.

Her jaw was aching, reminding her how violent he could become if she didn’t behave as he wanted her to. She didn’t reply but pondered how well the day had started out and how badly it had ended. All the way back she sensed his anger simmering beneath the surface. She asked herself why she hadn’t seen it before.

He dropped her at the entrance to the apartment block where his parents lived.

‘Change your dirty clothes,’ he said to her with an air of contempt. ‘And fix your face. You look a mess.’

He drove off then. She knew without him telling her that he’d be in touch, picking up where they’d left off and presuming she’d fall in with his plans. Roberto was used to getting his own way.

She hurried past the commissionaire. ‘We went walking in the country. I slipped and fell in the mud,’ she added blithely.

He nodded and smiled but there lingered a look in his eye.
I’ll believe you, millions wouldn’t
.

She was only thankful that nobody would be at home. The Camilleris were away for the weekend visiting relatives. She wouldn’t want them seeing her like this and to have to explain – or lie.

ONCE INSIDE THE
apartment, she lay her head back against the front door and closed her eyes. The mud was drying and her body ached, especially where Roberto had hit her.

She closed the door to the flat softly behind her not wishing to be heard.

She listened but heard only the sound of her own breathing.

‘Bastard!’ she exclaimed through gritted teeth. A shadow moved in a doorway. She heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep.

Michael came out of Victor’s office with some paperwork in his hand. Michael had an intense way of looking at people. It was hard to hide behind a mask, harder still to look away.

‘Are you OK? What happened?’

She used the same excuse she’d made to the commissionaire. ‘I slipped and fell into some mud.’

‘And hit your cheek?’ His tone was as gentle as his expression.

She raised her hand to cover the redness, though the gesture in itself was useless; he’d already seen the
damage
, the red marks of palm and fingers imprinted on her cheek.

‘I need to take a bath.’

She headed off past him and down the hallway, aware of her bedraggled appearance blinking back at her from the ornate Italian mirrors Gabriella had installed at regular intervals.

First she went to her bedroom to collect her robe and some fresh clothes. The penthouse apartment had two bathrooms; hers was the smaller one close to her room. She needed a hot bath to ease her aching body. And she was scared – dead scared. She didn’t want to be pregnant. Was it true that a hot bath taken straight after sex would wash the sperm away?

Sinking into the hot water she closed her eyes. It had been a long time since she’d prayed, but she certainly did so now.

Michael had disappeared by the time she came out. The hallway was empty. Her moment of relief was short lived. Michael reappeared.

‘I take it my half-brother has shown his true colours,’ he said to her.

Marcie felt her face reddening. Lowering her eyes she tugged nervously at her hair.

‘Your brother was under the wrong impression about me. I suppose you are too.’ Her voice was soft.

Michael frowned. ‘I hope not.’

She placed the coolness of her fingers onto her temples. Her head was beginning to ache. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I am not like Roberto,’ he said on seeing the wary look in her eyes. ‘You know you were brought here as a bride?’

‘So I’m beginning to understand. How crazy.’

She stumbled a little. Michael caught her. Firmly but gently he took hold of her arm and guided her into the spacious drawing room. The chairs and settees were modern and unfussy. Pride of place went to a grand piano on which sat an array of silver-framed family photographs.

Michael sat her down and poured her a brandy. ‘Drink this.’

She looked into the dark liquid and was immediately reminded of another time when drink had been offered by Alan Taylor.

‘It’s not drugged,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

She detected the hint of a smile playing around his lips, though it was guarded. His grey eyes were serious though gentle. His whole manner was persuasive and not at all intimidating.

The fiery liquid burned at the back of her mouth but did nothing to lessen the clarity of her thinking.

‘Roberto found out about my baby. It must have been Rita, I guess. It seems that my father – thinking it in my interests – gave your father and brother the impression that I was an untouched virgin.
A
submissive wife for their beloved son. How ridiculous is that!’

She swallowed more of the fiery liquid.

Michael gave a strained laugh. ‘Ridiculous.’

‘You think so?’ He was saying she was
not
submissive. She liked that.

‘Come on. This is the girl who threatened to call the police when she thought a bloke she didn’t know refused to pay for a dress.’ He was grinning. She guessed he was trying to cheer her up. And she certainly needed that.

Marcie laughed as she too recalled their first encounter.

‘Roberto was so sure of himself.’

‘And I was surly.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘My brother – correction – my half-brother’s behaviour. He gets me like that. And you.’

‘My behaviour makes you surly?’

He looked down at his drink. ‘I thought you were gorgeous. I also thought I didn’t have a chance.’

‘And the flowers? You picked them yourself.’

His expression turned sheepish. ‘I stole them. From a garden just along from my flat. I put a pound note in the old dear’s door though. I knew I shouldn’t, especially with what my father had planned for you. But I couldn’t resist making the gesture.’