No Enemy but Time (18 page)

She looked round, ‘Where's Macbride?' She didn't want to be in the house alone with him.

‘Gone,' was the reply. ‘He's left a number where you can reach him.' He paused for a moment. ‘Do you have enough pain-killers?'

‘Plenty,' she said.

‘Don't take too many; they can make you sleepy.'

Her mouth twisted into a painful smile. ‘Don't worry. I won't miss the telephone.'

She went into the kitchen and made herself tea. Thank God that brute Macbride was gone. Thank God she could sit by herself for a while. Her face was very painful and she had a savage complementary headache.

Frank Arbuthnot had hit her so hard she'd been knocked out. She couldn't get the scene out of her mind. The shuttered upstairs room where he was being kept handcuffed to the bed. The sight of him, watching her every time she brought food and pushed it to him, with hatred and contempt in his eyes. How easy for that cold-hearted devil Seal Filey to dissect her feelings as if she were a specimen pinned to a board, her very heart exposed. What could he possibly know of the agony of loving Frank Arbuthnot? How it could finally turn to such hatred that she had planned to trap him to his death? He spoke of jealousy, with clinical detachment. It's killing you, he said. When they're both dead you'll be at peace. He could analyse, but he could never imagine the suffering and rejection. Or the humiliation of her desire that drove her to Arbuthnot's bed, when she knew he didn't care whether she came or not. Years of living with him in the big house in Meath, with the photographs of his sister Claire mocking her even in the bedroom they shared. Filey would never understand, and he was lucky.

‘Marie, help me.' His voice echoed in her throbbing head. ‘Help me, Marie, please.' There was no hatred in his eyes that morning, only agony and pleading. And that was why she'd gone too close, the gun in her hand lowered instead of pointing at him. When he grabbed at her she fired. That was the last thing she remembered before the blow from his free hand sent her reeling and crashing unconscious to the ground. And luckily for her, Sean Filey came by with the gunman, Willie, and found her in the upstairs room. Arbuthnot had escaped and stolen her car from outside. But there was blood on the floor. He had taken the gun with him.

For a time Marie had been in mortal danger. She was questioned, and not just by Sean, but by men from Dublin and from Cork that she had never seen before. She was slightly concussed and vague about the sequence of events. But Sean Filey was her salvation. She had been tried and acquitted without realizing it. Only the Northerner, Macbride, coming hot-heeled from Belfast, asked the questions all over again, and said the same as her inquisitors from the Council in the Republic. Why had a woman been left in charge of Arbuthnot, armed or not? It was a man's job, as the outcome proved.

Filey's answer was truthful; he never lied, she knew that. He wouldn't have lied to save her either. She'd been left alone for two hours that morning because the man who'd guarded the night before had gone home, expecting Willie to arrive. But Willie's car broke down and in the end Filey himself had to drive over to collect him and bring him to the house. Nobody could be blamed, as one with a sense of humour said, unless it was Willie's car. Nobody else smiled.

At every moment they expected a news flash that Arbuthnot had been found or had sought refuge with the police. But the radio was silent and the TV had no news. Hopes began to rise that the bastard was wounded and lying in some lane in Marie's car, with the life seeping out of him, unable to seek help. So the search was set up. Men scoured the roads, the lookout phones were rung, the description of man and car circulated. But nothing was found. Nothing was reported seen. Arbuthnot had vanished and his sister, Claire Fraser, had left her home in England and was on her way over.

‘We'll never get her,' Marie breathed to herself. ‘If she's got this far without us finding her, it'll be too late … And I'll never have peace in my soul again, because in my heart I'm not sure that it wasn't love for him that made me go too close that morning …'

The phone began to shrill and she jumped up, seizing the receiver. She just said hello, and gave the number. The caller spoke a few sentences and then rang off. The car had been seen parked under some trees on the Cloncarrig estate. The time was less than half an hour ago and it was still there. Marie stood up. She was trembling with excitement. She dialled Filey's number; she was put through on a private line. He interrupted his patient very courteously while he took the message.

‘He must be hiding in the old Reynard place.' Marie's words tumbled out. ‘We'll get them both, Sean. Both of them!'

‘I'll make the arrangements,' his voice said in its gentle professional way. ‘Don't worry, I'll let the hospital know.'

He turned to his patient and with firmness closed the session.

‘A very sick patient of mine,' he explained. ‘I hope you'll forgive me. I must go round at once. My secretary will make another appointment for you. She'll give you extra time.' He shook hands with the man, a business executive suffering from depression and alcohol addiction. ‘Take care now. And try not to worry. You're going along just fine.'

As soon as the door closed he swept aside the open dossier with his notes and grabbed the telephone. He was on his way back to the housing estate as messages went out to Willie and the two experts who'd been brought specially for the purpose.

The hunt was on.

The sun was high in a sky as clear as a looking glass. It beat down on the green fields of Cloncarrig. From where Claire stopped she could see that old Reynard's house was roofless; the windows had fallen out and a green grave-cloth of weeds was creeping up the outside walls. Suddenly tears came into her eyes.

‘If I was Flanagan,' Frank had said all those years ago, ‘I'd dynamite the bloody place and everything it stands for.' She didn't know what it meant to Flanagan, who owned his chain of butcher's shops in Dublin and had bought up other houses and more land. She knew what it had meant to the Arbuthnots. Friendship and hospitality, the pleasure of good sport and the jolly eccentric with his foxy name and bright red hair, building for his afterlife.

Neil hadn't seen the point at all, when he heard the story. To him, Reynard was an old madman and the friends who swapped hunting stories about the fox that always vanished on the run at Cloncarrig were drunk or stupid. It was all so Irish, he complained irritably. Everyone lived in a fantasy world. No wonder the country was in such a mess. Although she was madly in love with him, Claire hated him when he talked like that and yet he couldn't see how much she minded. Later, when they were always quarrelling, it seemed as if he taunted her deliberately. It was strange that he should come into her mind so vividly as she looked down on the ruined relic of her youth. Two fields away was the first folly built by old Reynard. Neil walked the three miles with her, nudging her with memories she didn't want, a ghost who wouldn't go away. As if he's still fighting Frank for me, she thought, pushing his way into my mind. It was superstitious and silly, but as she climbed through the overgrown hedges, ripping herself free of thorn and bramble, she remembered the dance at Butlers Castle.

Butlers Castle was a hotel now, the family scattered. Tourists slept in the bedrooms where she and Frank had stayed that weekend and the ballroom where they'd danced was now a restaurant. She'd seen travel brochures advertising it and made a vow never to go near the place. Sir Richard Butler was long dead, his daughters married; the only son lived with his mother in a small place in Galway, where he was involved in fishing. Butlers Castle had been sold after his father died. The Butlers were delightful people, but the most inefficient managers of money. A fine estate had gradually slipped into debt and out of their hands.

The castle had been in its last flush of splendour when she went down with Frank for the dance celebrating the famous Olivia's twenty-first birthday. It was cold, of course, and damp in places and there was tepid water for the baths, but nobody minded. The castle was a Victorian monstrosity, built by a Butler who had married money, but it was always full of people. There were four daughters and one son, Charles. If the roof leaked they put buckets to catch the drops and gave a big party for Olivia instead of mending it. Claire had been placed next to one of the English guests at dinner. She knew she looked very pretty; Frank had said the dress suited her, and a number of men came up to talk to her when they were gathered in the hall before dinner. She felt in a happy mood, confident of enjoying herself. As she predicted, Frank was assigned to Olivia. He was a rich young bachelor and the beady eyes of more than Lady Butler followed him that evening.

Claire thought it very funny. She planned to tease him for days afterwards. Her companion was very nice-looking, charming manners, rather stiff, but attractive. She was naturally talkative and vivacious; the Englishman laughed a lot at what she said and never took his eyes off her or spoke a word to the girl on his other side.

‘You're staying, aren't you?' she asked.

‘Yes, Charles asked me over for a week. We're going fishing.'

‘Well, you won't catch anything,' Claire said. ‘He never stops talking. The fish swim a mile at the sight of him. How do you know each other?'

Charles Butler was in his thirties, dabbling in estate management at home and making trips to London on what was said to be a business he'd invested money in. It never seemed to make any, but he had a lot of friends and Neil Fraser was one of them.

‘We met with mutual friends. He's great fun; treats everything as a joke.'

‘And you don't?' she countered.

‘You can't afford to if you're a politician,' he answered.

Claire stared at him. ‘Are you an MP?'

‘Yes, I've been in the House for five years.'

‘Aren't you a bit young?'

He smiled. He had beautiful white teeth, she noticed.

‘Yes, I suppose I am. But I always wanted to make a career in politics and I started as soon as I came down from Oxford. I didn't get in overnight, either. I fought two hopeless seats before I was given a by-election with a chance.'

‘And you won,' she said admiringly.

‘I won,' he agreed. He thought she was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever seen. And completely unselfconscious. Big, bright blue eyes and a mouth that made him itch to kiss it open.

‘Do you always win?' Claire asked.

‘If I want something badly enough,' he said.

As soon as the music started, he came up and took her off to dance. The music was old-fashioned, but quite well played by the local dance band. Neil Fraser was a good dancer; he began to hold her closer and closer until she was pressed tightly against him and his cheek was hot against her hair. Claire liked being kissed and enjoyed the limited sexual adventures experienced with young men in Switzerland and in London. None had been serious and she had never been tempted to go to bed with anyone. It was nice to be admired, but she had never been really aroused.

When the music stopped he held her arm and guided her to the bar. She noticed that he fended off any other man who came up to them. He stood over her, rather than beside her, and he touched her continually, as if she belonged to him. Claire found it odd and exciting. She was becoming excited by him and when they danced again, she fitted in with him very quickly of her own accord.

She saw Frank over his shoulder; he had a fair girl in his arms, and they were talking as they danced. Neil Fraser didn't say a word. He moved with her and held her and she felt a throb of satisfaction that was a new experience.

When they stopped he said, ‘I want to kiss you. Where can we go?'

‘I don't know,' she said.

‘We'll find somewhere,' he declared. Holding her by the hand, he eased through the groups of people and out into the empty hall. ‘Where's your room?' he asked.

‘I'm not going upstairs with you,' Claire said. ‘Let's go back.'

‘I'm going to kiss you first,' Neil Fraser said, and she didn't resist. It seemed to last for a long time, and the pleasure of it made her dizzy. She felt a fool for a moment, with her eyes shut and her mouth searching for his, when he paused. When he kissed her again he slipped his hand down the neck of her dress and stroked her breast. If he'd suggested going upstairs then, Claire would have gone. But he didn't.

He stopped making love to her and said, ‘We'd better go back, I need to cool off. And I think' – he touched her once more – ‘you do too.'

‘Do I look all right?' she asked.

‘You look marvellous,' was the answer. ‘It suits you. I'm going to see you again, aren't I?'

‘If you want to,' Claire said.

‘I want to very much. Do you ever come to London?'

‘I'm going over in September. I'm taking a cooking course.'

He smiled at her. ‘And flower arranging?'

‘Yes, how did you know?'

‘I guessed,' he said gently.

They went back into the ballroom. The band was on its second round of the same repertoire, and fewer couples were on the floor.

‘Tell me,' Neil asked her, ‘who was that very dark chap who kept staring at us when we were dancing? An old boyfriend? He's over there.'

Claire glanced across and laughed. ‘Don't be silly. That's my brother, Frank.'

‘Oh,' was all Neil Fraser said.

It was odd that Frank never mentioned him the next day. The Butlers were Catholics and went to Mass; their guests came down to a big breakfast and amused themselves until lunchtime. There was no sign of Neil Fraser; Claire was disappointed when she learned he'd gone off to the West early with Charles Butler. She was in a happy mood, as if something especially nice was going to happen, and she wanted to talk to Frank about it. She wanted to ask him what he thought of Neil, but there wasn't an opportunity till they were driving back to Riverstown after lunch.