Borrowed Time (27 page)

“We had some tea back at The Old Parsonage. Then I left, not sure what to do next. But, driving back to Cambridge, I suddenly saw the answer. Louise hadn’t told anyone about me. Why? Because she felt sorry for me? Or because she was afraid her husband mightn’t think she was a wholly innocent party? Maybe he already had grounds for suspicion. About Oscar Bantock, perhaps. Or somebody else. Maybe they weren’t the devoted couple she’d claimed.

“It’s strange, but I think I could have eventually accepted her rejection of me if I’d gone on believing she was a faithful wife. It was the idea she might not be that got to me. If she was going to betray her husband, the warped logic of my mind said it ought to be with me. Not with some derelict old painter or God knows who else. She wasn’t being fair. She wasn’t giving me a chance.

“I didn’t go back to Sapperton. With Sarah there, it was just too risky. Besides, I didn’t need to. She’d told me where I could find her mother. All summer long. I met up with Peter in London on Wednesday. We set off for Europe the following day. We spent a long weekend in Paris, then headed for Italy. I said I wanted to stop off in the French Alps, knowing Peter was champing at the bit to see Florence and Rome. After an argument in Lyon, we agreed to split up. He went on to Italy. I made for Chamonix. Well, that’s where I told him I was going. Actually, I returned to Paris and caught a train to Biarritz.

“I arrived there late on Thursday the twelfth of July. Booked into a cheap
pension
near the station. Next day, I tracked down L’Hivernance and hung around, hoping to see Louise leaving on foot. Or Sir Keith leaving, so I’d know she was alone. Nothing. Except they drove out together in the early evening. Heading for some posh restaurant, I assumed. I gave up. But I was back the next day, determined to be more resourceful. After I was sure everything seemed quiet, I scaled a wall round the side and crept through the garden towards the house. There was nobody about. But, as I got closer, I heard voices coming from one of the open ground-floor windows. Closer still, I recognized one of them as Louise’s. The other was Sir Keith’s. They were arguing. I can’t tell you what pleasure—what hope—that gave me. If they were going to split up, I might catch her on the rebound.

“I never did get close enough to hear exactly what was said. But it was obvious Sir Keith was angry. He mentioned Bantock. ‘That bloody dauber,’ he called him. And he said he was leaving next day. ‘So what you do is your affair, isn’t it?’ I couldn’t catch Louise’s answer. She spoke more softly than him. Kept her anger in check. Anyway, some gardener showed up then, so I had to run for it. By the time he spotted me, I was disappearing over the wall.

“But I’d found out what I wanted to know. They were at each other’s throats. And Sir Keith was going away. Clearing the path for me. I was back early on Sunday, waiting to see him go. He was in no hurry. It was midday before he left. By taxi. With a couple of cases on board. I couldn’t believe my luck. Louise would be vulnerable and upset, I reasoned. In need of sympathy. In need of love.

“I decided to wait until evening. Turning up straight after Sir Keith’s departure might look suspicious. It was a sunny afternoon. The beaches were crowded. I shuffled around, kicking my heels and eating ice-creams. At one point, a girl tried to pick me up. All pout and swaying hips. I should have fancied her, I suppose. But she just seemed so pathetically immature compared with Louise. They all did then.

“By dusk, the beaches were empty. I started back for L’Hivernance. But, before I got there, I saw Louise. She was out by the waterline on the Plage Miramar, walking slowly, lost in thought it seemed. I went down to the sea wall and watched her from the covered alleyway beneath the terrace of the Hôtel du Palais. She just walked up and down the same length of sand as the breakers rolled in and night fell. I intended to intercept her on her way back to the villa. But when it was nearly dark and she still showed no sign of coming in, I decided to go out to her.

“She didn’t notice me as I approached. She was looking out to sea, gazing at the last few streaks of sunset beyond the horizon. When I was only a few yards from her, she slipped her wedding ring from her finger, drew back her arm and threw it as far as she could out into the waves. I pulled up in amazement, unable to believe she’d done such a thing. Then she turned round. And saw me.

“‘Paul!’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ It’s funny. She didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me. I made my prepared speech about being unable to stay away. About being deeply in love with her. And about being sure she needed a friend—perhaps more than a friend—now her marriage was failing. She must have realized then I’d been spying on her. But she wasn’t angry. ‘I can’t talk to you now, Paul,’ she said. ‘I have too much on my mind. But come to L’Hivernance tomorrow morning about eleven o’clock and we
will
talk. Properly.’ Then she kissed me. Just a formal fleeting kiss on the cheek. But it was enough to make me think I was at long last breaking down her defences. I watched her walk away, my mind racing to imagine what would happen when we met again. This time at
her
instigation.

“I called at L’Hivernance on the dot of eleven the following morning, wearing a jacket and tie I’d bought less than an hour before and clutching a bunch of flowers. I was nervous and uncertain. But I was also excited and expectant. Not for long, though. The housekeeper who answered the door told me Louise had left for England early that morning, saying nothing about an appointment with me. I was dumbstruck. Too horrified to speak. I stumbled off in the direction of the lighthouse and took one of those narrow winding paths down towards the shore. At first, I didn’t know what to think. Then it came to me. She’d tricked me. Fobbed me off for the short time it took to pack up and go. I hurled her flowers into the sea and wept. Then rage replaced despair. She’d trampled on my pride. She’d deceived me along with her husband. Well, I’d make her pay for that.

“I knew where she’d gone. Kington. To be with Bantock. By car and plane, she’d get there long before I could. But that didn’t seem to matter. Just so long as I caught up with her in the end. I rushed back to my
pension
, packed, booked out and made for the station. Where I found I had more than two hours to wait for the next train to Paris.

“All the time I waited, my determination to confront Louise with the evidence of her treachery grew. Of course, the only thing she’d really betrayed was the fantasy I’d woven around her. Nothing else. She didn’t owe me anything, least of all an explanation. Making an appointment with me she had no intention of keeping was just a sensible way of getting me off her back. And the state of her marriage was absolutely none of my business. I see that now very clearly. But back then I saw nothing clearly. Least of all what I’d do when I finally found her.

“It took me twenty-two hours to travel from Biarritz to Kington by train, ferry and bus. Paris. Dieppe. Newhaven. London. Newport. Hereford. I killed time in them all on the way. Eventually, at one o’clock the following afternoon—Tuesday the seventeenth of July—I clambered off a bus in the middle of Kington.

“I got Bantock’s address from the telephone directory and a handy little free map showing where Butterbur Lane was from the tourist office. Half an hour later, I was at Whistler’s Cot hammering on the door. I felt sure Louise was there, even though her car wasn’t. But I was wrong. Bantock came round from the back, demanding to know what all the racket was for. He recognized me from the exhibition. I had the wit to claim I was on holiday in the area and was keen to see his work. He asked me in and showed me his studio. Work in progress. That sort of thing. Well, it was obvious Louise wasn’t there. But I was still convinced she would be before long. Maybe she’d stopped in London. Whatever the reason, I’d somehow overtaken her en route.

“Bantock said he had to go out and I was glad of the excuse to cut my visit short. My imitation of an art buff was wearing pathetically thin by then. He offered me a lift, but I said I preferred to walk. I set off at a slow pace and he passed me halfway down the lane in his car. As soon as he was out of sight, I doubled back and followed the lane past Whistler’s Cot out onto the common. Then I prowled around the fields above the lane until I found myself on the other side of the hedge opposite the cottage. I could see over the hedge well enough and the height of the bank below meant I was on a level with the bedroom windows. I settled down in the shade of a beech tree that overhung the hedge and waited for them to return. I was certain it would be
them
. Bantock had gone to meet her and would come back with her sooner or later. I had no doubt of it. When he did, I’d be ready.

“At about five o’clock, Louise arrived in her car. I was positively elated to be proved correct. But I’d got one thing wrong. Bantock wasn’t with her. She knocked at the door, then went round the back. I thought she was going to wait for Bantock inside, but she came out a few minutes later and drove off again. I couldn’t understand it. But I was still determined to stick it out. It could only be a matter of time.

“I had a couple of lagers in my rucksack. Drinking them was a mistake, because what with the heat and the stress and strain of the journey, I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was nearly dark and I was cold. There was no sign of life at Whistler’s Cot. I began to feel a bit of a fool. My confidence began to drain away. Much longer and I’d have given up and gone. But just then, at about nine o’clock, Louise’s Merc came back up the lane, followed closely by a yellow van. Both vehicles pulled in by the cottage. She had somebody with her this time. But it wasn’t Bantock. Oh no. It was somebody I’d never seen before. I’ve seen photographs of him since, of course. It was Shaun Naylor. He looked what he is. A handsome young thug. The sort you’d expect to see selling bootleg perfume on a street-corner or prowling round a car park trying the locks. Rough and ready. Ready, in fact, for anything. With a narcissistic streak thrown in for good measure. What he was doing with Louise I just couldn’t work out. He wasn’t her type at all. So I’d have thought, anyway.

“But I didn’t know what her type was, did I? All I knew was that she’d picked this piece of garbage up from somewhere. And not long ago, to judge by the few words they exchanged before going indoors. ‘You nearly lost me back there,’ he said to her in a cockney accent. ‘I wouldn’t have let that happen,’ she replied. ‘Not when I’ve only just found you.’ Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her roughly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—or hearing. She leant up and whispered something in his ear. ‘You’re a real tease, aren’t you?’ he said in response. ‘Who’s teasing?’ she answered. ‘Shall we go in?’

“She led him round to the back. A few seconds later, some lights came on. Just downstairs at first, where I couldn’t see much. Then, after about ten minutes, on the landing and in one of the bedrooms. I had a clear view straight in through the window. I saw Louise and Naylor walk into the room. Neither of them made a move for the curtains. Perhaps they didn’t think there’d be anybody outside, watching them. Perhaps they just didn’t care. At the time, I had the crazy idea Louise knew I was there and wanted me to see what she was capable of—with the right sort of man.

“I’m not going to describe what she let him do to her. Well, there wasn’t much she didn’t let him do. She was a willing partner all right. Like Naylor said at his trial, it wasn’t rape. If only it had been. I could have rushed in and tried to rescue her then. I could have been her white knight in shining armour. Instead, I just sat there and watched what would have been a Peeping Tom’s dream come true. It was horrible. Not because of the sex itself. That was just two bodies moving together in a rectangle of light. Like a pornographic movie on a TV screen. No, it was the pleasure on her face, the leisurely expertise of her actions that so appalled me. It couldn’t have been the first time she’d done such things. It was a practised performance. She did it well. As well as the most accomplished of whores. I could almost have believed that’s what she was. A high-class tart for this . . . creature she’d found . . . to use and abuse. Anyone’s. If the money was right. Or she took a fancy to you. Anyone’s at all. But not mine. Never mine.

“He didn’t stay long afterwards. Got dressed and walked out, leaving her in bed. Well, on the bed. She didn’t even bother to cover herself. He came out and drove away. She didn’t get up. She must have fallen asleep. I went on watching her for a few minutes. Disbelief turned to jealousy. And jealousy became rage. I wanted to punish her for denying me everything she’d so casually given to a stranger. For shattering the image of her I’d built up in my mind. For not being the woman I’d dreamt she was.

“I scrambled through a gap in the hedge, dropped down the bank into the lane and crept round to the back of the cottage. The door wasn’t locked, of course. I went in, moving as quietly as I could. I still didn’t really know what I was going to do. The lights were on in the kitchen and the lounge. The studio door was open. I glanced in and noticed a coil of picture-hanging wire on a bench. I stood staring at the wire, until I’d convinced myself she deserved it. Until I’d committed myself to the act so completely it seemed inevitable. I picked up some pliers that were lying next to the wire and cut off a length. Then I put on an old pair of leather gloves I’d seen on a shelf near the back door. I wasn’t thinking about fingerprints. It was just I didn’t want the wire to cut into my hands. As I knew it would, when I drew it tight around her neck.

“I can’t remember exactly what happened next. The surge of conflicting emotions blots out part of the memory, I suppose. I went up to the bedroom. But whether I tiptoed or ran I can’t say. I was suddenly in the room, looking down at her, naked on the bed. She was lying on her side, her face averted. She heard something and stirred. ‘Shaun?’ she said. ‘Is that—’ Then I was on her, forcing her down against the mattress with the weight of my own body as I looped the wire over her head and pulled it taut around her throat. She gagged and tried to throw me off. But I was too strong for her. ‘It’s me, you bitch,’ I shouted in her ear as I strained at the wire. ‘It’s Paul.’ She choked and writhed and struggled. But there was no way out now. For either of us. It went on longer than I’d expected. So much longer. But, in the end, all the life was squeezed out. And she lay limp and still beneath me. No breath. No movement. No flicker of the eyes. She was dead.