Borrowed Time (23 page)

Clifton was still and quiet as the grave so early on a Sunday morning. But the sun was already warm on my back as I walked up Sion Hill and risked a glance along Caledonia Place. A milk float was humming towards me from the far end. I watched as it chinked to a stop near Sarah’s door and wondered, if I waited, whether I’d see her come out to collect a bottle. She’d be awake, I had no doubt. She wouldn’t have slept any better than me. But at the thought of what might happen if she spotted me, I pressed on.

Now I was probably retracing Rowena’s footsteps of three days before. Following the curve of Sion Hill, with the suspension bridge dominating the view to my left. The hangers looked no thicker than twine from this distance. And the depth of the gorge wasn’t apparent. It could have been a footbridge across a shallow stream. Except I knew it wasn’t.

A path led up across a broad grass bank to the bridge road. As I turned onto the pavement, all possible routes converged. For there, ahead of me, was the call-box Rowena had used. I paused beside it and pulled the door open. I don’t know why, really. There was nothing to distinguish it from a thousand others. The phone. The printed instructions. The rank smell. The sundry graffiti. And an empty shelf.

I moved on. Past the control-box and the toll barriers. Round the giant left foot of the pylon. And out onto the bridge. The railings were about five feet high, fenced in with flimsy mesh and topped with blunt wooden spikes. No real obstacle for the desperate or the determined. And Rowena must have been both that day. They said she’d jumped from the centre. I glanced ahead and behind as I went to make sure I knew when I’d reached the point where she must have stopped. When I had, I stopped too. And looked down for the first time.

So far. So awesomely far. Sunlight twinkled benignly on the winding river and gilded the fat wrinkled mud-banks. The Bristol to Avonmouth main road hugged the eastern side of the river and the height I was above it sowed a fleeting illusion in my mind. That it and the few cars moving along it were toys I’d laid out on my bedroom floor as a child. Toys I could pick up or dismantle at will. Then the huge gap of empty air rushed into my consciousness and I stepped back, appalled. Good God almighty. What a thing to do. What an act to have not just the wish but the courage to carry out. To find a foothold and climb onto the railings. And then what? Leap from there? Or lower yourself down until your toes were resting on the narrow sill at the foot of the railings, then turn round and let yourself fall? The deliberation. The decision. And the deed. All reversible. All nullifiable. Until the fraction of a second after letting go, when wind and gravity plucked your freedom away. And your life had only that long plummeting moment to last.

Why had she done it? Standing there in the centre of the bridge, I felt a wave of nausea sweep over me. I stared up into the sky until it had passed. Then I looked down again. And knew. It wasn’t the lies we’d told you, was it, Rowena? It wasn’t the thought that we’d implicated you in a possible miscarriage of justice. Nor the fear that you’d never known your mother for what she truly was. It was none of those things. Not in the end. Not when you came to the point of no return.
“She was on the brink,”
you’d said of her.
“She was about to step off.”
I remembered now.
“Into the void.”
Your words.
“She knew it.”
Your every word.
“And still she stepped.”
You had to know, didn’t you? You had to find out.
“Why?”
I couldn’t tell you. Nobody could. You knew that. And, watching the video, you must have realized it would never be any different. Unless you followed her. Unless you surrendered to the impulse you’d tried to bury.
“The thought of it can be so exhilarating.”
Yes. Of course.
“So tempting.”
And so very very final.

It was mid-morning before I left Bristol. I drove slowly, hardly knowing whether it was better to stay or to go. Somewhere near Warminster, I turned on the radio and found myself listening to the cricket commentary from Lord’s. The Test Match was still going on. When it had started, I’d actually been quite interested in the outcome. But Rowena had been alive then. Now it seemed like a transmission from another planet. There were tears filling my eyes as I stabbed the “off” switch. And there was comfort in the silence that followed.

Tuesday came. And with it my appointment in London. After putting in a desultory morning at work, I walked to the station and caught a lunchtime train to Waterloo. Then I took the long way round the Circle line to Bayswater and tracked down Godolphin Terrace.

It turned out to look less grand than it sounded. The houses had all the traditional touches: four stuccoed storeys plus attic and basement, complete with pillared porch and dolphin door-knocker. But some were beginning to look dilapidated. One or two would be ripe for squatters if the residents didn’t watch out. Though Sophie Marsden, I felt sure, could be relied on to do that.

Number 6 was in good order, brasswork polished, paint gleaming. When I rang Sophie’s bell, she answered promptly.

“Robin?”

“Yes.”

“Push when you hear the buzzer. I’m on the second floor.”

I was in. And when I reached the second landing, she was waiting at her door. Newly coiffured, I reckoned, though presumably not for my benefit. But her close-fitting dress made me think, as I followed her into a tastefully furnished lounge, that I might be wrong. Perhaps flirtation was to be her counter to whatever line she expected me to take. If so, I didn’t propose to let it work.

“There’s tea, of course. But I fancy a gin and tonic myself. You?”

“All right.”

I moved to the window while she poured them and gazed down into the street. Sooner than I’d anticipated, she was at my elbow, glass in hand, smiling enigmatically. “Afraid someone might be following you, Robin?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Here’s your drink. Let’s sit down.”

A sofa and two armchairs were arranged around a low table in front of a huge marbled fireplace, an aspidistra in a copper pot filling the grate. A mass of gold-edged invitations crowded out the bric-à-brac on the mantelpiece, above which hung a gloomy oil painting of what looked like the Tower of Babel. Sophie took one end of the sofa and patted the cushion of the adjacent armchair. I sat down and sipped at my drink, resisting a powerful urge to take several large gulps. Then I noticed the Bantock hanging on the wall facing me. As I’d been intended to, of course. A Madonna and child. Or an old woman with a doll. It was hard to tell.

“What’s your opinion of Expressionism, Robin?”

“I’m really not qualified to—”

“We’re all qualified, surely. To judge whether something’s good or bad. Right or wrong. I’ve never been entirely sold on Oscar’s work myself.”

“Then why—”

“As an investment. Louise was the enthusiast. I trusted her taste. And it’s paid off. Though ironically only because Oscar’s dead. And Louise with him.”

“Sophie, I didn’t come here to—”

“Discuss art? No. I suppose not.” She jiggled the ice in her glass and took rather more than a sip. “Ah, I needed that.” She smiled. “The first taste is always the best, isn’t it? Of everything.”

“Why did you say what you did to Seymour?”

“You believe in coming to the point, don’t you? Is that what—Well, we’ll come back to that later, I expect.”

“Come back to what?” She was playing the same game with me she’d started in Sapperton. The same cat-and-mouse progression towards a meaning we never quite reached. And the resemblance to Louise was growing again. Or I was noticing it more. But perhaps resemblance wasn’t the right word. It was more an imitation. An expert re-creation of parts of her she knew I’d recognize. The soft voice. The toss of the head. The balancing on the brink.

“I was shocked to hear about Rowena. A young life snuffed out. So tragic. I always envied Louise her children, never having had any myself. But I suppose they bring as much grief as joy. How is Keith bearing up?”

“I haven’t seen him. Or Sarah. Or Paul.”

“Ah. Giving them a wide berth, are you? I quite understand. I thought I ought to do the same. In the circumstances.”

“I’ve spoken to Bella.”

“Of course. Your sister-in-law. Lady Paxton, I should say. Though the name doesn’t quite fit, does it?”

“She tells me they’re all extremely upset. As you’d expect. And they hold you and me to blame for what’s happened. As you’d also expect.”

“So we’re in the same boat, then.”

“In a sense.”

“Mmm.” She leant back and stared up thoughtfully at the ceiling. “In that case, why don’t
you
tell
me
why you cooperated with the charming Mr. Seymour.”

“To stop him harassing Rowena.”

“You think he meant to?”

“I don’t know. It was an effective lever of persuasion, though. And once he’d got me talking, he knew a little creative editing would do the rest.”

“That’s your cover story, is it?”

“It happens to be—”

“Come on, Robin. Nobody’s going to swallow it, least of all me. Neither of us thought Rowena would be so . . . drastic. So . . . extreme. It wasn’t our fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No. So let’s stop pretending we were set up by Seymour. Even the papers seem to have given up portraying him as the villain of the piece. We both knew exactly what we were doing. And why.”

“Maybe. But I doubt our reasons were the same.”

“Really? I’d have said they were identical. You’ve never believed the official account of Louise’s death. And you were hoping Seymour might be able to cast enough doubt on it to make others share your disbelief. So you decided to give him a little help. That’s all.”

“Are you saying . . . that’s why you . . .”

“Of course. If I’d known you thought the same way—”

“But I don’t. I don’t think the same way at all.”

“Yes you do. You must do. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given Seymour an interview.”

“No. You’re wrong. That’s not why I did it.”

She leant close to me across the arm of the sofa, lowering her voice as if to whisper a secret. “I’m glad we’re on the same side, Robin. I reckon we both need an ally. A friend we can turn to. I was very much afraid you were in on it. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know you weren’t.”

“In on what?”

“I can see now I made too much of your . . . economy with the facts. But there was always a simpler explanation for that, wasn’t there? Some girlfriend you wanted to protect. Some fiancée, perhaps. Has she fallen by the wayside since? Is that why you’ve risked putting your head above the parapet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. But have it your own way. I don’t want to force you to admit anything.” She reached slowly out and traced a circle with her index finger on the back of my hand where it rested on the arm of the chair. “Or to do anything. Unless you want to. Unless we both want to.”

I looked into her eyes and realized with a shock of sudden desire that we both wanted what was still—but only just—avertible. The reasons were sick and wrong. There’d be a third party to anything that happened. A rival. A substitute. A silent observer. And yet—

“Louise is gone, Robin. But you don’t need to let go of her completely. People always said how alike we were.” I believed her. Even more than I wanted to believe her. The ghost I was chasing made flesh. Warm and close. The hem of the dress sliding up her thigh as she leant forward. The white lace bra glimpsed through its buttons. As once before. Pursuit, denial and temptation. Joined. “In so many ways.”

She kissed me slowly and deliberately, giving me ample time to recoil, but sensing I wouldn’t. Her eyes were closed at first. When they opened, I looked into them and knew we both meant to play this game to the end. From cool formality to burning intimacy. From lust to consummation.

And so we did. With eager abandon as she stretched like a cat beneath me across the hearthrug. And later, in the bed she led me to, again and again, with measured delight, as the sunlight mellowed and lengthened and passion curdled towards excess. As the afternoon faded towards evening and
her
urgings became
my
desires. I found her out in all her ways and wiles; her pains and her pleasures. What she wanted and how she wanted it, explored and refined with the heightened sense only long denial can breed. Mine
and
hers. From brutality to tenderness. And back again. Some of the way. But not quite all.

“What are you thinking, Robin?” she asked when the frenzy was finally spent and we lay motionless together, drained by what we’d done. “Are you shocked? That a middle-aged married woman should be capable of such depravity?”

“No,” I murmured in reply. And it was true. Sophie hadn’t shocked me. Nor had the things she’d let me do to her. Our shared and savoured spasms meant nothing. Compared with the dangerous fantasies that had coiled themselves around every moment of release—and all the moments after.

“My husband is my husband in name only, you know,” she went on, heedless of the ambiguity of my denial. “We haven’t made love in years. And even when we did . . .”

“Is there somebody else?”

“No. Nobody else. Not any more, anyway. Just as there isn’t for you, is there? Nobody. Not a single person who can replace her.”

“I don’t understand you.” It wasn’t quite true, of course. I seemed to understand her only too well. As she did me. And there was the rub. She shouldn’t have been able to. She shouldn’t have been capable of prying so deeply and accurately into my thoughts. And yet she was. “What do you mean, Sophie? What do you think you know about me and Louise?”

“We were each other’s oldest friend, Robin. We were bound to share our secrets, even if we didn’t intend to. Call it intuition if you like, though it was far more than that. She as good as told me who you were.”

“Told you? About me? You’re crazy. How could she? She was dead within hours of our only meeting.”

Sophie chuckled. “You can drop the pretence with me. After what we’ve done, I think you should, don’t you? Louise meant to leave Keith. I know she did. I heard it from her own lips a few weeks before she died. She was going to leave him that summer. Quite possibly that very day. She was going to meet you in Kington, wasn’t she? And you were going to carry her off.” She must have seen the stupefaction in my face. But what she read it as I can’t imagine. “What went wrong? Did you argue? Did you have second thoughts? You may as well tell me. Why didn’t she leave with you?”