Written in Blood (7 page)

‘Which word?’

‘Pardon?’

‘“Building”, “writing”, or “play”?’

‘Oh. “Writing”.’

‘I see.’

‘We work in a very loose, inspirational way. Rapping, improvising, free association. We are talking totally knife edge here. You hit the ground running at my rehearsals, believe me, or you are out. O.U.T., out.’

‘Tough stuff.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Mike Leigh?’

‘Of course.’

‘What did you think of
Naked
?’

‘Deeply patronising and sloppy.’

Brian fell back. One swift movement as if someone had punched him hard in the chest. He seemed bereft of speech and just sat there, aghast.

‘Not to mention far too long.’

‘Come and help yourself everyone,’ called Rex from across the room. They all did. Amy took some back for Honoria, who was by then asking their guest a final question.

‘Who do you think’ - she leaned forward, heavy legs in peat-brown shooting stockings set sturdily apart - ‘would be the best company, once my history is complete, to approach? I don’t want it published by just any old firm.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not a good person to ask, Miss Lyddiard. My contacts are all in the field of fiction.’

‘Really?’ Honoria sounded cross and nonplussed. ‘But we thought you’d have a much broader range of knowledge than that. Right across the board as it were.’ Her eyes bored into the remaining morsel of cheesy wheel on Max’s plate as if he had devoured the rest under false pretences.

‘I thought that too,’ said Brian quickly. Bloody celebrities. He’d had enough. Smug inflated self-important windbags. Who the hell did they think they were? Emptying his second plate by pushing two Florentines into his mouth at once Brian sprang vigorously to his feet. ‘Sue?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come.’

‘But I’ve only just—’

‘Very well. Stay here if you wish. Far be it from me—’

‘No.’ The aftermath would simply not be worth it: ‘It’s all right.’ She put down her barely tasted coffee.

Gerald brought Sue’s shawl and Brian’s tartan windcheater out of the downstairs cloakroom. Then he went back for everyone else’s things, whereupon they all felt it was time to go and the meeting was suddenly over.

Laura, aware that Gerald had been completely routed throughout the evening by forces of which she was completely ignorant, now saw that their guest, who had also risen with an air of imminent departure, would leave without as much as a thank you were it left to the group secretary. So she made a brief speech saying how very helpful and entertaining the visit had been and Rex, Sue and Amy echoed the sentiments and clapped loudly.

As Gerald opened the front door an icy blast whistled into the house. Amy and Honoria muffled their faces and hurried away, followed by Brian and Sue. Laura turned on the doorstep, looking up at Gerald, who had his hand on the door’s edge as if anxious to push it to. Laura stared hard into his face. Always aware that she had never known him, she now knew, with a terrible daunting certainty, that she never would. It was unbearable. She reached out and seized his arm. It felt like a piece of wood.

‘Gerald, what is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Angrily he snatched his arm away. His eyes were screwed up against the glare of the lamp and his mouth was as narrow as a piece of string.

‘There’s something wrong.’

‘Don’t talk such nonsense.’

‘You’re afraid.’

‘Really, Laura. What on earth has got into you tonight?’

‘It’s true.’ He was about to close the door, she could see it. Without a breath of hesitation (it always seemed to Laura afterwards that she had no choice in the matter) she leaned forward and kissed him.

With a look of absolute amazement Gerald stepped quickly backwards and forcefully closed the door. He was still trembling when he returned to the living room.

Max had draped his beautiful camel-hair and cashmere overcoat over the back of a chair and was sitting on the sofa. Rex was stacking the coffee cups. Gerald walked straight through to the kitchen without speaking to either of them.

A few moments later Rex entered with his loaded tray. The two men stared at each other, then Rex, eyes shining, mouthed silently and with gross over-emphasis,
Don’t Worry
. Then, aloud and at an equally inappropriate level, ‘Shall I help you wash up, Gerald?’

‘Mrs Bundy will be here at ten.’

He spoke normally but Rex, reluctant to abandon his new plot line, pointed urgently at the other room, mimed the chore, then indicated the kitchen clock.

Gerald presumed all this to mean that if they took their time over the washing up Max would get tired of waiting and leave. He wished to God they’d both leave. He wished Rex wasn’t enjoying himself quite so much. He wished the pain would go away.

‘Could I be a terrible nuisance and ask for some more coffee?’ Gerald and Rex jumped. They hadn’t even heard him get up. ‘Just to keep me going for the drive home.’

‘Of course.’ Gerald painted a smile on his face. Hanging on to the words ‘drive home’, he emptied the grounds from the smaller of the cafetières. It slipped from his fingers to lie in the sink.

‘Instant will do.’

‘I don’t have instant. One for you, Rex?’

‘Definitely.’

They all stood around like figures in an exhibition until the coffee was made, then took their beakers back to the sitting room. Here, in spite of Max’s previous hint of a fairly prompt departure, he began what proved to be a very lengthy conversation about money. The pound against the dollar and why its fluctuations affected his income. How the spread of democracy meant he was now published in the Eastern bloc, although it wasn’t always easy or even possible to get the royalties out. The frolicsome lira and the advantage of being paid in Deutschmarks. The nervous yen.

Rex listened, wondering how much longer he would be able to stay conscious. He was usually fast asleep by ten, for he would be awoken by Montcalm, seeking his morning constitutional, on the crack of five thirty. He thought, for the first time, that all this wasn’t quite fair of Gerald. Then he became aware that Max had asked Gerald a question and was waiting, with an expression of polite interest, for an answer.

‘Short stories mainly.’ Gerald studied the drawn curtains behind his interrogator’s head. ‘Unpublished, before you ask.’ His nostrils were pinched, rimmed white with tension.

Feeling he was not pulling his weight, Rex described his own attempts at a series of short stories featuring the adventures of an early Gatling gun. His jaw began to ache and his skin itched with tiredness. Then, just as another lengthy pause seemed to be yawning, Max suddenly got up and said he really must be going.

‘It’s been a most enjoyable evening.’

‘It was good of you to come.’ Gerald seemed not to notice the outstretched hand.

In the hall Rex tried to catch Gerald’s eye, hoping for a conspiratorial exchange. A significant glance perhaps? Raised eyebrows. A nod of satisfaction at a job well done. But he was unlucky. Gerald did not even accompany them, but remained at the far end of the hall tapping, then reading, the barometer with close attention as if he was already alone. He did not even say ‘goodnight’, never mind ‘thank you’.

Rex opened the door and stepped over the threshold. Max followed, said, ‘My gloves,’ turned back into the house and closed the door. A bolt slid into place. In less than a second the very thing that Rex had promised faithfully to prevent had taken place.

 

Half an hour later and Rex was in his bedroom. Not preparing to sleep, for shock had woken him up entirely, but because the view from his window included the frontage of Plover’s Rest. The silver Mercedes was still there. The wind had got up a treat and it was raining.

After the slippy manoeuvre that had left him shut out, Rex had hung around for several minutes not knowing what to do. He had put his ear to the door jamb at one point, listening for he knew not what. Sounds of violence perhaps? Gerald trying to push Max forcibly out? But there was nothing. Not even the murmur of voices.

After a while Rex started to feel foolish. He felt he should have walked off straight away. Perhaps they were waiting for him to do this before starting their conversation. Then he thought, what if someone passed by, saw him hanging round in the porch and reported him. Wasn’t loitering an actionable offence? This disquieting recollection, plus the fact that he was desperate to go to the loo, set him striding down the path, shutting the gate loudly to announce his exit.

Now he was wondering guiltily if he had done the wrong thing. He recalled how vehemently Gerald had spoken when urging his co-operation in the matter of Max’s departure. Anyone would think it was a matter of life and death. Rex was quickly coming round to the idea that he had given up too easily.

Hadn’t the bolting of the front door been rather . . . well . . . sinister? There was no doubt in Rex’s mind that Max had been responsible. It had been so quickly accomplished that Gerald could not have reached the door in time. The conviction that he had made an error grew, soon gripping Rex to a degree where he could no longer stand there and do nothing.

He rushed downstairs, suddenly in a bigger hurry to return to Gerald’s cottage than he had ever been to get away. No need to put on a coat, for he had not taken off his British warm. Rex hesitated by the collection of beautifully polished walking sticks in the hall before, feeling absurdly melodramatic, selecting one with a silver buffalo-head handle. Then he put on his cord cap, secured it with a woollen scarf tied under his chin, and strode off.

The gate of Plover’s Rest now stood half open. He walked boldly up the path. He had decided to knock on the back door and ask to borrow some milk. Transparent certainly and, like most people unaccustomed to lying, Rex had already reinforced this simple request by an elaborate sub-structure of quite unnecessary detail. When he couldn’t sleep only cocoa helped. Made with water it gave him tummy ache. Milk bottle slipped through his fingers when taking it from the fridge and smashed on the floor. Saw Max’s car so knew you would still be up.

There was no light in the kitchen but the inner door was open and Rex could see through to the section of room in which Max was sitting. He was talking and gesturing in an open-handed rather appealing way, as if he were offering a present. Then he became silent and his stance changed. He shook his head vigorously and leaned forward, listening. His profile showed a deeply involved attention. He looked - Rex sought for the exact word - concerned. Yes, that was it. Deeply concerned. Like a Samaritan.

Now, if only he could see Gerald. Rex screwed his head sideways, laid his cheek against the glass and squinnied with effort, but all to no avail. He stood upright again, aware of a sharp crick in his neck. Everything seemed all right. It looked, in fact, as if old Gerald had been worrying over nothing. Anticipating a disaster that just wasn’t going to happen. On the other hand, he (Rex) had definitely promised . . .

It was precisely then, as he stood hesitating, that Rex became aware of an unpleasant, crawly feeling somewhere between his shoulder blades. After a moment the feeling intensified and changed direction, worming its way coldly down his spine. He swung around.

Behind him barely defined trees gathered, crowding the bare borders, together with dense, black clumps of shrubs. Gripping his stick, telling himself that the kitchen door was a mere few feet away, Rex moved towards the willow fence. Then, staring hard into the massed trunks and tangle of branches, he called out.

‘Hullo?’ Silence. No leaf rustled. Not a night creature moved. ‘Is there anybody there?’

Rex heard only his own breathing. But he knew, as surely as he felt the freezing ground beneath his feet, that someone, or something, was out there. And staring straight back at him.

Tom Barnaby was missing his daughter. Cully was in Eastern Europe with an Arts Council tour of
Much Ado About Nothing
. She was playing Beatrice while Nicholas, her husband of eighteen months, had been cast in the colourful but vastly subordinate role of Don John. This after a year with the Royal Shakespeare Company had failed to offer the kind of parts he spent all his offstage moments dreaming about.

They had visited the Barnabys the night before their departure and Tom, who knew Nicholas well and his daughter very well indeed, could see trouble on the horizon. Nicholas was plainly torn between pride in his wife’s success and resentment at the widening gap between their professional fortunes. To rub in the salt, Cully had recently been filming in
The Crucible
, a prestigious production for BBC2 to be shown while they were away.

Of course Nicholas could have turned
Much Ado
down and hung around London waiting for something better, but there was no way, he told his father-in-law on the eve of their departure, that he was letting Cully racket around half Europe in the company of a dozen male actors. He and Barnaby were sitting in the conservatory at the time, drinking Clare Valley Shiraz. Watching his beautiful girl, arm in arm with his wife and on the point of joining them, Barnaby sympathised keenly.

It was not, he was sure, that the lad did not trust his wife. The root of the problem lay in Nicholas’s own insecurities. He still could not credit that he had won such a prize. Even on the wedding day, passed in a golden haze of bliss, Barnaby had noticed quite clearly this obverse shadow of disbelief.

They had been away now nearly two weeks and had left behind a memento - an enchanting Russian Blue kitten, Kilmowski, acquired just before the tour was offered. At least, Joyce described it as enchanting. Barnaby regarded the animal as a damn nuisance. He could no longer sit down without remembering to check both chair and cushions or open a door without a warning squeal from his wife. Yesterday the
Independent
had been torn to shreds on the doormat, unreadable even before wee’d on.