When the Devil Drives (14 page)

calculation, not tenderness. Peril, not security.

'He's my enemy,' she said aloud, beating on the wheel with her

clenched fist. 'I hate him, and it's because of that, because of the

hating, that he's there in my head all the time, filling my thoughts.

There's no other reason. There can't be. I won't have it. I won't allow

it!'

Her words died into silence. And in that silence came the bleak and

despairing awareness that it was already too late. The conflict, for

her, was over. Her chains were forged, and her destiny sealed.

Totally. Inexorably.

Joanna swallowed convulsively, the sunlit day outside the car fading

to a shimmering blur, as she fought the tears that would no longer be

denied.

Somehow, against all logic and all reason, she had fallen in love with

Cal Blackstone.

God help me, she whispered. Oh, God help me.

JOANNA stayed in the lay-by for nearly half an hour, oblivious to the

other cars that came and went.

When she was calm again, she started the car and began to drive with

scrupulous care back towards Northwaite. The self-revelation which

had come to her had been as devastating as it was profound, and now

she felt drained of emotion, and oddly detached.

But the new awareness had brought something else in its train: a

determination to face up to a duty she'd been frankly shirking since

her return. To cope with the trauma of the present by exorcising the

other ghosts, other demons in her past. To acknowledge, at last, the

wrong she had done.

She drove through the town, pausing briefly at a florist's shop, and up

the hill towards the tall Victorian parish church that dominated the

skyline. She parked outside the church railings, and, carrying her

flowers, began to walk slowly up the churchyard's gravel path, her

heels crunching over the loose stones.

The Bentham family plot was in a secluded corner, shaded by trees,

and Joanna bit her lip as she looked down at the neat oblong of turf,

with its simple headstone.

It had been Martin's own wish to be cremated, as she'd repeated over

and over again in the numbing aftermath of his accident, but his aunt

Grace Bentham had been adamant that he should be buried here

beside his parents, and she'd allowed herself to be overruled.

The grave was immaculately kept, the flowers in the stone vase only

just beginning to wilt. Miss Bentham's work, Joanna thought as she

fetched fresh water and arranged the blooms she'd brought. She'd

been half afraid she would find Martin's aunt keeping one of her

solitary vigils in the churchyard, but to her relief there seemed no one

else around. She could not have borne, she thought, more accusation,

more confrontation. Not until she'd been able to come to terms herself

with her marriage and the circumstances which had brought it about.

Apart from the trilling of birds in the leafy branches above her head, it

was very quiet, and she was glad of it. She needed peace to think, and

remember, although few of the memories would be pleasant ones.

But then she hardly deserved that they should be.

'You killed him.' The words came back to her with as much startling

clarity as if Grace Bentham had suddenly materialised beside her like

a figure of Nemesis. 'You killed my dear boy!'

They were standing in the ugly drawing-room of Miss Bentham's

house, thick curtains shutting out the daylight as a mark of respect.

The room had been stifling, but Joanna shivered just the same. 'Miss

Bentham --' she had never been invited to call the older woman Aunt

Grace, or even wanted to '—you don't know what you're saying. You

heard the coroner. The verdict was accidental death. The pathologist

said that Martin had over double the legal limit of alcohol --'

'Martin did not drink. Martin never drawc.' Grace Bentham's voice

was inimical. 'You must have forced him to it. You married him. You

made him miserable, and you killed him!'

'Oh, please!' The words were like knives, stabbing Joanna's flesh,

stabbing her to the heart. 'You mustn't say these things...'

'It's time they were said. I should have spoken before.' Miss

Bentham's face was like granite—like marble. 'I watched—I saw the

life, the happiness drain out of him while he lived with you. You were

no good for him. Why did you marry him? Why couldn't you leave

him alone?'

That, Joanna thought, wincing, was the million- dollar—the

unanswerable question.

After a brief pause, the other woman continued, 'You will not, of

course, require the flat any longer. I should be glad if you would

vacate it as quickly as possible. I have a waiting-list of possible

tenants.'

Joanna felt as if she'd been slapped across the face. She had no real

desire to stay on in the flat for any length of time. It held too many

memories of wretchedness and failure for that, but she thought she

would be at least allowed a breathing-space, a chance to put her life

together again.

She lifted her chin. 'I can be out by the end of the week.'

'Good.' Grace Bentham sounded almost brisk. 'After the funeral, I see

no reason why we should have to meet again, do you?'

Even now, with the sun warm on her back, Joanna shuddered as she

recalled the sheer malevolence in Grace Bentham's eyes. She'd

wanted to shout a denial,to fling the accusations back in the older

woman's icy face, but it was impossible.

Sitting back on her heels, she thought about Martin Bentham.

Although she'd known him almost all her life, she'd always regarded

him as something of a loner, always on the fringe of her crowd rather

than one of its moving forces.

He'd had few girlfriends, and it was generally agreed it would take a

combination of Mother Theresa and Superwoman to find favour with

Grace Bentham, who'd brought him up since the death of his parents

in his early childhood, and doted on him to the point of obsession.

He'd been due to inherit some money from a trust fund when he was

thirty-five, but until then he'd seemed content to help his aunt with

her thriving antiques business.

Joanna had accepted his occasional invitations because he was

always such undemanding company. Martin had never expected an

evening at the theatre or a restaurant to end in bed. There had never

been any pressure in his brief goodnight kisses to move the

relationship to a more intimate level. She'd felt safe with Martin,

relaxed. He'd been a friend who was also a man, and there didn't seem

to be too many of those around.

But her encounter with Cal Blackstone on that rain&wept high road

above Northwaite had changed everything.

She'd felt threatened, pursued, and the kind of casual, uninvolved

relationships she'd enjoyed with other men up to that point were

suddenly no protection against Cal's intensity of purpose. She'd

needed, with cold desperation, to distance herself from Cal—to put

herself totally and finally beyond his reach.

She could not even remember now the exact moment when she'd

decided the answer was to marry Martin Bentham, but she could

recall with shame every trick she'd used to persuade him to propose to

her.

It had been, in theory, an eminently suitable match, joining two

established local families. She'd told herself defensively that she

liked Martin—she really did, and that friendship—companionship

was reckoned to be a far safer basis for marriage than some

ungovernable passion. And out of friendship, love would surely

grow—eventually.

Their relationship might not have many fireworks, but it would be

stable and secure, she'd argued in self- justification. Martin couldn't

want to go on living forever in that hideous Victorian villa being

fussed over by his aunt. And, as another man's wife, she would surely

be safe from Cal Blackstone's machinations forever.

There'd been nothing to warn her what lay ahead of her. Nothing to

tell her about the manifold complexities of human nature, or explain

that there could be more than one kind of desperation.

Six months after the ceremony which had tied them together, Martin

had driven his ageing sports car straight into the wall of a viaduct on a

notoriously dangerous bend. He'd been killed instantly.

The church had been crowded for the funeral, she remembered. As

well as the genuine mourners, there'd been the usual element of

sensation-seekers, intrigued by this swift and violent ending to a

newly fledged marriage.

In the churchyard, Joanna and Grace Bentham had been invited to

scatter earth on the coffin. All during the service, she'd been on edge,

aware of the older woman watching her, hating her. Now, as the

trowel passed between them, their hands had brushed, and Joanna had

found herself recoiling from the cold dank contact with Miss

Bentham's skin, as if she'd touched some stone, dredged from a deep

and stagnant pool.

As the vicar uttered the final words, Joanna had seen the other

woman's face twist into an approximation of a snarl, her mouth

parting, working as she tried to find speech. In that instant, she'd

known that Grace Bentham was going to scream 'Murderess!' at her

across Martin's grave. Her whole body had tensed in shock and

negation as she waited for the onslaught. But it had never come.

Instead, with a cry like an animal, Grace Bentham had fallen on her

knees. 'My boy!' she'd wailed. 'My darling boy!'

There had been a moment's horrified silence, then the vicar and the

undertaker had moved hurriedly to her side, lifting her to her feet as

she began to sob uncontrollably.

Joanna had felt nauseated, close to fainting. She'd dragged her

appalled gaze away from Miss Bentham's agonised face, and it was

then that she saw Cal. Impeccably attired in a dark suit, topped by a

grey overcoat, his black armband neatly in place, he'd stood, as ever,

a little apart from the other mourners, outwardly a picture of

convention.

But, as their eyes met, Joanna had known that all the ruin and misery

of the past six months had all been for nothing. That, for him,

everything had been just the same, as if Martin had never existed, and

that she was in as much danger as ever.

So I ran, she thought in self-derision. And I thought that would solve

everything. I thought I'd be able to stay away and be safe. But there

was never any safety, never any real sanctuary from him, and I knew

it. That was why I came back, although I invented any number of

other reasons to justify my decision.

But I couldn't stay away any more. I had to return— to see him again,

to find out. And now I know—I know everything.

That was why I couldn't defend myself against Grace Bentham when

she attacked me. Because I knew there was an element of truth in

what she said.

I did everything I could to try and make Martin happy. I wanted our

marriage to work, but it didn't, and it couldn't, because I didn't love

him, and whatever I did feel for him wasn't enough—not in an

intimate relationship like marriage.

I was just using Martin, and he knew it, and that was why it was all

such a disaster from the very start. I was trying to build a relationship

out of nothing, making bricks without straw, because I didn't dare to

admit, even to myself, that Cal was always there with me, in my heart

and in my mind, even then.

No matter what I did, how hard I fought, I couldn't be rid of him. I

told myself it was because I loathed him and everything he

represented, but I knew all the time, deep down, that it couldn't be that

simple.

My God, I used to lie beside Martin at night, and dream about Cal

over and over again.

Her whole body warmed in bitter shame as she remembered those

dreams. She had tried so hard to dismiss them, to tell herself that they

were engendered solely by the problems of her marriage rather than

her unspoken, guilty desire for another man. The one man above all

she had no right, no reason to desire.

But I should have been honest with myself, she thought. I should have

been honest with Martin too. Then we could have ended that dreadful

sham of a marriage and started again. And Martin would still be alive

now.

Instead, he's dead, and it's all my fault.

Her whole being seemed to convulse in guilt and grief, and she

wrapped her arms tightly across her body, staring unseeingly up

through the sun-dappled leaves to the blue arc of the sky. She began

to weep again, but very quietly and hopelessly, as she'd never been