The Talisman (62 page)

Skye leaned casually across Edward and opened the glove compartment as they sped along. He was still a showman, and made no attempt to remove the .38. He knew Edward could see it. He snapped the compartment closed.

‘No, Skye, it’s got to be more subtle, and we mustn’t be involved. Can’t you set him up? Right now I don’t want anything to interfere in our business stakes, things are just coming together. Perhaps . . . if it were known he had some cash on him, known to a few of your friends, they might do the job for us – you with me?’

‘Loud and clear, brother – loud and clear.’

Alex led Barbara up the steps of the manor house and rang the bell, shading his eyes to look through the glass panels of the door. Barbara was dressed in a white Courrèges outfit with matching white boots. She was still tanned, and her blonde hair fell in a straight, silky sheet to her shoulders. Alex stepped back and looked up at the windows.

‘There’s lights on – can you see anyone?’

Dewint inched the door open.

‘Is Mrs Barkley at home? Would you tell her it’s Mr and Mrs . . . Harry? Harry, that you?’

Harriet yelped, ran straight into Alex’s arms and hugged him close. He introduced Barbara, but Harriet gave her only a cursory glance and led them into the sitting room, sending Dewint scuttling down the dark passage towards the kitchen. Papers littered the room, piles of books were strewn on the floor.

Harriet took hold of Alex’s hand excitedly. ‘I’ve started drama classes, and I’m trying to get an audition prepared. Dewint is absolutely marvellous, he goes over all my lines.’ She bit her lip and pulled Alex close, whispering, ‘Can I talk to you, it’s important . . . Would you mind, Barbara, I just want to show Alex something?’

Alex gave Barbara a small smile and followed Harriet out into the hall. Left alone, Barbara surveyed the mess – this was not what she’d expected. She picked her way across the room to look at the photographs on the mantelpiece among the many invitations. One small photo caught her eye, of Alex, Harriet and Edward together. She recognized the château, but she was more interested in Edward, thinking what a handsome man he was. She wondered why he had married such a strange-looking creature. There was a slight cough behind her, and she turned as Dewint carried in champagne and chilled glasses on a tray.

Harriet was huddled with Alex in a corner of the hall. She asked him over and over where Edward was and how long he would be away. Alex couldn’t give her any information on where his brother was. Eventually he insisted they return to Barbara. As he turned to walk away, Harriet caught his hand again.

‘Have you been told about me? Has anyone said anything about me?’

‘No, I’ve only recently got back to England. To be quite honest, I did think perhaps you might have called to invite us over, to meet Barbara and her daughters . . . Has he not been in touch?’

‘No, he just upped and left as usual . . . Is there someone else? You would know, is there someone else, Alex?’

‘Harry, I don’t know anything, really I don’t. Come in and sit with us, come along, we’re being very rude.’

Harriet moved past Alex and threw open the sitting-room door. She smiled, charm itself, and offered champagne, suggested they stay to dinner. Barbara had never met anyone quite like her, and was not sure how she should deal with the situation. Harriet’s main topic of conversation was the plays she had been to see, and the performances of actors Barbara had never heard of. At one point she flushed with embarrassment, and Harriet guffawed. ‘What? John Gielgud? You’ve never heard of him? But he’s a knight, he’s one of the most famous actors in England! Laurence Olivier, now you must know him, don’t they have theatres in Texas? Where did you find her, Alex? What about Paul Scofield?’

Harriet launched into a detailed, scene-by-scene account of a production of
Romeo and Juliet
she had seen at the Old Vic. Alex received a frigid look from Barbara to get her out fast. He made excuses while Harriet continued to describe the costumes and the direction all the way to the front door. As they walked down the steps they heard her shouting to Dewint, ‘She’s never heard of Sir John Gielgud, can you imagine it?’

Barbara was furious. She sat, tight-lipped, in the back of the car, refusing to sit in the front with Alex.

‘She was just so damned rude, whatever excuses you want to make for her. I won’t be going back there, that’s for sure. No wonder your brother’s done a disappearing act, with that at home, who wouldn’t?’

Harriet licked her lips and began the balcony scene for the third time, Dewint reading Romeo’s lines. When the phone rang halfway through, she snatched it up, hoping it would be Edward. ‘Hello . . . oh it’s you.’ She pulled a face to Dewint, ‘It’s Allard.’ She sat on the edge of the sofa swinging her legs. ‘Well, what do you want, you old shirt-lifter? What . . .? Oh, but that’s terrible.’

As she continued the call Dewint gestured to see if she wished him to leave the room. She shook her head and placed her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s about Dickie, my cousin, he’s dead.’ Yet she didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the news, in fact quite the reverse. She replaced the receiver. ‘Well that’s the end of the line for the Van der Burges, killed in a hit and run accident. Surprised he was standing up long enough to be knocked over by anything, dreadful boozer . . . but it gives me a jolly good excuse, so start packing, Romeo, and I’ll call the dreaded Miss Henderson to arrange my flight . . . I’ll give Edward the shock of his life. Oh, pack something black for the funeral.’

Dewint gathered up the pages of their script as she danced into the hall, singing at the top of her voice. Dewint called up to her, ‘Will your black woollen coat and matching dress suffice, Mrs Barkley?’

She grinned back to him. ‘Good heavens, no. Something cotton, I’m going to South Africa.’

Dewint almost dropped the papers. ‘South Africa? But don’t you think you should contact someone first? What if you arrive and the funeral’s over?’

She winked, ‘I’m not really going for that, it’s just a marvellous excuse to surprise Edward. Let’s get cracking, it’s going to be a hard job finding my passport.’

Dewint tapped on the bedroom door, a suitcase already wiped down and ready to pack. She was standing with her back to him, staring out of the window. She had been crying, but waved for him to come in and wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘Just thinking about poor Dickie, I really should have tried to see him, but I never got around to it. We used to have such fun when we were kids, up at the old Hall. I loved that place, keep meaning to go there, but I never do . . . I don’t even call Ma and Pa, I suppose I should let them know about Dickie, not that they cared a hoot for him, but he was family after all.’

Dewint began selecting clothes, holding them up for her approval, as she searched the desk drawer for the telephone code for Yorkshire. ‘Ahhh, we need look no further, my passport’s here.’ She tossed it to Dewint and as it fell open he could see her photograph. ‘It’s a real shocker, isn’t it, I couldn’t keep my face straight, that’s why I look so fierce.’ Dewint carefully placed the passport to one side and continued packing.

Harriet dialled, swore under her breath and dialled again. She cupped the mouthpiece under her chin carrying the base to the wardrobe to inspect her clothes. She peered in, pointing to a black hat as her call was put through. ‘Ma? It’s me, Harry . . . Harry.’ She rolled her eyes, and slumped on to the bed, as her mother obviously gave her a lecture about how she never contacted them. She held the mouthpiece up for Dewint to hear, and then interrupted Mrs Simpson. ‘Ma, I don’t have much time, I’m going to South Africa . . . South Africa, it’s Dickie, he’s dead . . . All right, I’ll start again, Richard van der Burge, your nephew, BB’s son, has been killed, in a hit and run accident . . . I don’t know any facts, just what I’ve told you, and what Allard . . . Allard, have you gone deaf?’

The call continued for another ten minutes, and then she lay back and let the phone drop from her hand on to the bed. ‘I feel terrible, she’s as deaf as a post, and Pa’s still got something wrong with his prostate. He’s sold all the horses . . . poor Pa, how he loved hunting . . . we all did.’ She carried the phone back to the bedside table and walked out of the room.

Dewint saw her standing in the garden. She had her arms wrapped around an oak tree, her face pressed against it. He made a pot of tea, constantly looking into the garden from the back door and still she remained holding the tree. It was getting dark. She had made no arrangements for her ticket. He knew Miss Henderson would have left the office and he was relieved. Dewint didn’t think it a good idea to surprise Edward. If he behaved away from home as he had done when his wife was in the clinic it would be Harriet, not Edward, who would be in for the surprise.

Harriet eventually came to the kitchen door. Her face was pale, and she shivered with the cold. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how episodes of your life suddenly come back to you?’ She poured herself a mug of tea and heaped in three teaspoonfuls of sugar. ‘We’d all been hunting, Pa was furious with me, I took a fence badly, spent all night in the stable, but I knew it was hopeless, just as I knew it had been entirely my fault. Just as I know, deep down, I know it was my fault he died.’

Dewint presumed she was referring to her horse, he had no idea she was talking about her baby. She gulped at the hot tea, and her hands shook. ‘I kept riding, you see, I loved to ride so much. Early morning, when the grass is wet, everything’s clean and fresh, and they come out of the stables, snorting, pawing the ground and they want to run free. Up you get, and you have to hold them in, hold them tight, then you let go, and you feel that surge of power as they are released, the sound . . . ba-ba-ba-boom-ba-ba-boom.’ The tea spilt as she punched the air with the mug. Dewint could not take his eyes from her. She was so alive, her cheeks flooded with colour and her eyes sparkled. She slapped the draining board, making the sound of running hooves . . . ‘All that energy, Norman, all that life and . . .’ She spun round holding her arm out straight, her fingers shaped to form a gun. ‘I killed him . . . BANG.’

Dewint’s hands flew to his cheeks, gasping like an old woman. ‘Oh Mrs Barkley you didn’t . . . you didn’t, God help me if I ever break my leg.’

Just as that energy had flooded through her, he saw it drain away. Her whole body sagged, and she said she would lie down for a while. He followed her into the hall, watched her move slowly, heavily up the stairs. ‘What shall I do about South Africa, Mrs Barkley?’

She paused, seemed confused. ‘South Africa . . .? Oh yes, well I suppose you’d better arrange my ticket, you sort everything out that’s necessary, don’t want to talk now, can’t talk now.’ Dewint hovered at the foot of the stairs.

‘Are you sure you still want to go?’

He saw her hands clench and she snapped, ‘I need to see my husband, I want to see Edward. Now leave me alone.’

Edward lay beside the swimming pool, his body oiled and relaxed. He was tanned to a deep, dark brown, and his hair had grown even longer. He was smiling because the joint Skye Duval had presented to him was taking effect. Skye had harvested his own illegal crop from seeds brought in by one of his men. The grass was very strong, and Edward felt as if his head were opening up, his body drifting on a cloud.

Swimming length after length of the pool was Skye Duval. Eventually he swam to the side and hauled himself out. He was naked, and a young houseboy threw him a towel. Skye flopped down on to the sunbed next to Edward and took the joint. He drew heavily on it, letting the smoke drift from his nostrils, moaning softly. He rolled on to his stomach. ‘This is the life, eh? Sometimes this place isn’t so bad.’

Edward picked up the newspaper, the English
Times
, and tossed it to Skye. He stretched, yawning. ‘I put an obituary in for Dickie, felt I owed it to BB.’

‘That was very decent of you. I’m sure the old boy wouldn’t have given a bugger.’

Edward laughed, took the joint back for a last drag before stubbing it out. ‘He couldn’t have timed it better. What beats me is what he was doing in that section of town, he must have been out of his mind.’

‘Aren’t we all! Shall I roll another?’

Edward closed his eyes without replying. Skye gave him a hooded, hesitant look before rolling the joint. He used straight grass, no tobacco, and his joints were strong. He leaned over and switched on the transistor radio – and The Doors blared out across the pool, ‘I’m Your Back Door Man’. Jim Morrison’s heavy voice was joined by Skye Duval’s gusty laugh, he found the link between the lyrics and his own preferences hysterically funny. Stoned, he jumped up, danced around, puffing on the cigar-sized joint.

Edward turned over, began to rub more oil on his shoulders. He put on a pair of Skye’s mirrored shades, and continued to watch him dancing. He held up his hand as Skye proffered the joint. Edward gripped Skye’s wrist tightly. ‘What was Richard doing in the wogs’ area, Skye? Do you know?’

Skye released his wrist, backing off. ‘Sure! He liked black ass, always made his way there after a drinking session. He must have played around with someone’s wife, or daughter, his sister or mother – who gives a fuck. Whoever zapped him did us all a favour.’

‘Who was he having this booze-up with, Skye, do you know?’

Skye’s doorbell rang, and the houseboy moved as if to answer it. Skye waved him back to mixing drinks at the poolside bar and wrapped a towel round his waist. He ambled off, still dancing, to answer the door. Edward dragged on the joint, inhaling the grass deeply into his lungs. He had a bloody good idea exactly who Richard Van der Burge had been with that night. Skye Duval.

Edward had his eyes closed. Skye bent close, whispered in his ear, ‘You’ve got a visitor, and a very attractive one. I don’t know where you get the energy from, man, and this one’s far out.’

Edward half rose, then blinked in the strong sunlight. He reached for the shades again, and his hand froze. He tried to stand, but was so stoned he flopped back. Harriet stood on the verandah. She was wearing a black dress, a wide-brimmed, black straw hat. ‘Jesus Christ.’