Ten Days (32 page)

3 a.m.

Peter lay on his back listening to the soft rise and fall of Frances's breaths and wishing he was likewise asleep. But every time he closed his eyes, an image of the death struggle of the pigeon combined with another that he would rather not imagine filled his mind's eye.

Enough. Counting the plaster flowers that spiralled through the ceiling architraves, lovingly restored under Frances's supervision when they had first moved in, might lull him to sleep. He'd give it a try, starting at the opposite corner of the room and working his way round.

He looked towards the right-hand corner. It was too far away for him to make out many details. Come to think of it, the only reason he could see even as much as he could was because there was a street light glinting through a gap in the heavy curtains. Not that this was stopping him from going to sleep, but now that he was aware of it, he'd not be able to let it pass.

He slipped from the bed and padded quietly over to the window.

As he reached up to pull the curtains to, he caught a glimpse of something red, and when he parted the curtains to try to work out what it was, he saw a full moon over whose surface floated a bloodshot mist. He snapped the curtains tight shut and made his way through the darkness into bed.

He waited for his breath to calm before he carefully pulled at the sheet that Frances had wound around herself, at which point she spoke.

‘What are you going to do if he calls your bluff?'

‘I'm sorry, darling. Did I wake you?'

‘I wasn't asleep. What will we do?'

‘He won't. He can't. Chahda's solid.'

(Hoping this was true, and on the wings of this hope, seeing that same distasteful image. Stop it. Enough. Answer Frances.)

‘The PM can disown Yares,' he said. ‘I'm pretty sure he already has.'

(Chahda must be solid: hadn't he told Patricia of Yares's abrupt departure for Chequers?)

‘But that won't let the PM off the hook,' he said.

‘Don't underestimate him. He's a doughty fighter.'

Not like her to have misgivings. ‘Don't worry, darling.' He reached out a hand, which she took.

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed his back. And yawned.

‘Tired?'

‘Mmm.' She yawned again.

‘I'm so sorry. I'm disturbing you.'

She muttered something that he couldn't quite make out. ‘I beg your pardon?'

She said, more clearly, ‘Sleeping pills in the cabinet. Or brandy might help.'

‘Thanks, darling.' And he did need sleep. ‘I'll try one or both. And so that I don't keep you up, I'll sleep elsewhere.'

Another inaudible comment as she wound the sheet more completely around herself.

He took the sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet and then downstairs, belt and braces, poured himself a large brandy.

There were other bedrooms in the house, but on the occasions when he couldn't sleep, he always liked to go to Charles's. Something comforting about the almost monastic feel of the room, combined with its dinosaur curtains (which Frances really should soon change).

He was tired. He needed sleep. He chased a sleeping pill down with a slug of brandy. Squeezed himself into the bottom bunk. Closed his eyes. And saw those two images again: the first of the pigeon struggling to free itself from the pelican beak and, superimposed on that, a great bear of a man crying out as he entered Patricia.

7 a.m.

The light filtering through the thin curtains told Peter that he must have overslept, although, without his watch, he had no idea of the time. His head was hurting. Looking forward to clearing it with a long cold shower, he climbed out of the narrow bunk and made his way back to the master bedroom. There the drawn curtains had kept the room dark. And quiet. Frances must still be sleeping to the sound of someone outside who was clipping a hedge.

Except, he realised, the sound was coming not from outside but from inside the room. Odd. He peered through the gloom. And saw Frances not only awake but also out of bed. She was sitting on the carpet surrounded by what seemed to be a heap of clothes. He clicked on the light.

They were clothes – his clothes – and the sound that he could still hear was Frances, who, head bent, was cutting them.

‘What are you up to?'

She held up a pair of his trousers. One of his black pairs.

‘They don't need repairing.'

‘They didn't,' she poked one hand through the hole she must have just made in the crotch, ‘but they do now.'

Had she gone mad? He crossed the room, intending to take the scissors from her, but before he could get close, she was on her feet and stabbing the scissors in his direction.

She knows, he thought. Said, ‘Frances. Darling.'

‘Fuck you.' Her blue eyes blazed from a face that normally pale was dark red as, still jabbing the scissors, she advanced on him. ‘I warned you.'

He was slowed down by sleep. At the very least, he was going to end up badly cut.

‘I told you what I would do.'

He was closer to the bathroom than to the landing. He backed
away and then, when she began to run at him, the dog now yapping at her heels, he turned and also ran, straight into the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of the scissors stabbing down as he banged the door shut. When he drew the bolt, they hit the door so hard they made it shake.

She wouldn't have enough strength to stab through the wood. Would she? He stepped away from the door.

Silence. He checked that the bolt was securely in place.

She must know, he thought, but who could have told her? And then he thought that the Frances he knew so well would never have threatened violence. This had to be a dream. He glanced at the bath and saw that it was blue.

Definitely a dream from which he would soon awake. In the meantime, he was sweating. He went over to the basin to wet his face, after which he held his wrists under the running water.

The sound of something being dragged.

Back at the door, he pressed his ear against the wood. He thought he could hear Frances's hard-won breaths, but they might have been his.

Footsteps – and her voice, ‘Come on girl,' and then he assumed that the soft click he heard was the door being closed.

He stood, quietly.

No further sound, or at least none that he could hear. He switched off the tap and went back to put an ear against the door. Still nothing. He started counting and only after he had got to fifty did he call out, ‘Frances?'

No answer.

He tried again: ‘Frances?'

It was possible that she was still there and if he came out she'd launch a fresh attack. But he was properly awake by now (this was no dream), and if she did he would close the door on her arm.

Holding his breath, he used his left hand to carefully draw back the bolt while with his right he held the door against the door jamb. Then slowly, slowly and inch by inch he opened the door.

She wasn't there, not that he could see. But something else was. He opened the door a fraction wider and saw that she had dragged her
dressing table across the room so as to stop him coming out. He called again: ‘Frances?'

When still she did not reply, he decided to risk the room.

He'd either have to push the dressing table out of the way, which would be noisy and might fetch her back, or else he needed to crouch down and climb under. Not very dignified, but in this situation to hell with dignity. Having said ‘Frances' one more time – although by now he was pretty sure she wasn't there – he widened the opening of the door before getting down onto his hands and knees and crawling through.

The room was empty.

Thank heavens for small mercies.

He looked at the devastation she had left behind, with what appeared to be his entire wardrobe scattered about. When he picked through the pieces, he saw that she had attacked every one of his trousers, in some cases severing the legs, while his shirts were splattered with blue ink that was now beginning to leak onto the carpet.

For the house-proud Frances to have done that, she had to know. Someone must have told her.

His dressing gown was hanging in its usual place on the back of the door. When he tried to put it on, however, he discovered that it had also been shredded. Turned into a tattered shawl. No other option but to go down in his pyjamas.

What if she were waiting for him on the landing? And what if she attacked again? He cast around for something with which to defend himself. He could only see her hairbrush, so he grabbed that.

No one on the landing. He tiptoed across and to the stairs. Nothing. And down. Still nothing.

But he could soon hear the burble of a radio coming from the kitchen. No other choice but to brave her there. Big breath in and then he strode across the hall and wrenched open the door.

What he saw almost convinced him that this must be a dream.

She was at the table drinking tea – a familiar sight of many years duration – with a neat pile of newspapers awaiting his perusal. She was dressed in her pale-blue frock, the one he particularly liked and which showed off her figure to best advantage. Her hair was coiffed and smooth.

She clicked the radio off. Looked up. Said, ‘What are you doing with my brush?'

And a weird dream as well. He put the brush down on the nearest counter. ‘What time is it?'

‘Time for you to see the PM,' she said. ‘His office has been ringing.'

He looked to the counter where the phone usually was.

‘They were so annoyingly persistent,' she said, ‘that I threw the house phone into the garden. Do apologise, when you have the chance, to the policeman I almost brained. Not that turfing it out gave me much peace,' she continued, ‘because they then kept trying your mobile. And so,' she shrugged, ‘I fear I was a little rough.' She glanced down to where his phone, back off, glass smashed, was lying at her feet. The dog, who was also there, raised her head and barked.

‘Shhh.' She pushed the dog's head down.

The dog convinced him: he was awake. ‘What's going on?'

‘And still he keeps on with the charade.' She said this not to him but past him, as if there was somebody behind him.

He whirled round. There was no one there.

‘Try the papers,' she said.

They were on the table, just by her right elbow. He didn't trust that she wouldn't pounce, so he stood away from the table as he snatched them up. In doing so, he knocked her cup over.

She sat and watched it fall. ‘That's not going to do your phone much good,' she said as the cup broke, spilling tea.

She got up.

He flinched.

She gave a derisive little sniff. ‘You're not worth it.' And went to put the kettle on.

He didn't trust his legs, so he sank down to the floor. Picked up a paper.

Not a dream. A nightmare. The front page, which for the last six days had been filled with images of rioting, now consisted of a banner headline – ‘Home Affairs' – and two photographs. The first featured him and Patricia walking side by side out of his office, while in the second their heads were close together, unmistakeably moving in for a kiss. No further text save for an instruction to turn to a centrefold,
which, when he pulled the pages apart, he saw was filled with more of the same, including a photo of his hand on Patricia's bottom.

‘They say they also have you in flagrante,' Frances said, ‘although they haven't printed those. Saving them for the net, I expect.'

‘Home Secretary Plays Away', he read on the next paper in the pile.

‘Congratulations,' she said. ‘Your dream of making it to every front page has finally come true.'

He felt heat rising. And nausea, which he swallowed down. He was ruined. And by his wife. ‘How could you?'

‘How could,' she paused so as better to stress her final, ‘
I
?'

‘You sent those pictures to the gutter press.'

‘And have my humiliation played out in public? Why would I do that?'

‘To get revenge.'

‘If you think that I, of all people, would do that publicly, then you understand me even less than I thought. So listen to me: I did not send those photographs to the tabloids. I hadn't even seen them before Ann phoned to warn me.'

‘You saw them the other day.'

‘I saw some. I showed those to you. These are different: proof that you lied even when you could have, when you should have, told me the truth.' She got a cup out of the cupboard above the kettle and put it down on the counter so roughly it was a wonder that it didn't break. She turned her head to pin him with a fearsome glare. ‘But why not go on worrying about who did this to you rather than what you've done to me? And to your son.'

His breath caught in his throat. ‘Does Charlie know?'

‘I have told the school to hide the papers and block the web. But some kind soul is bound to find a way to fill him in.'

He winced, thinking about the sniggers that poor Charlie would have to endure. But no time for that right now. ‘So you didn't send them?'

‘Is that all you can think about?'

He remembered then that gaze from Downing Street. ‘This must be the PM's doing.'

‘Forced you into bed with her, did he?' She poured out water from the kettle into a cup.

‘He did it to ruin me.'

'Whereas you, you whiner,' she pulled the tea bag out and dropped it on the counter, ‘you did it just to get your leg over.'

When she picked up the cup, he saw that she was trembling. So much so that when she lifted it, she didn't manage to get it anywhere near her mouth. In her juddered breaths he could hear her effort to keep her composure. She put the cup down.

Seeing her head lowered, he felt the first twinges of a terrible regret. ‘I'm so sorry.'

She stood, head bent.

‘If I could undo it.'

She was as still as a statue.