Over the year, Ric had bided his time waiting for the moment to teach Art a lesson. Even in light of this long laid plan, the beginning of the evening had seen a brief reprieve for Art, because the man seemed so obviously broken. From what Ric saw later, however, it appeared a lesson may be necessary after all. Art had not learned anything. How could he be so raucous, this person allegedly consumed with guilt? So sad on arrival yet slipping easily into peels of real laughter? How did that work? It didn’t seem right.
Of course, Ric had always known about Art. He had been at his trial everyday, watching from the near empty public gallery along with his parents. But even before that, he had known. Sewing facts together was one of his talents. It had to be, for successfully pursuing Angels required nothing less. And from the inside – from Ric’s perspective – the connection had been obvious. The look of recognition on Art’s face at dinner had been a treat, because Ric read it as a flickering glance to the future. Not panic as such, nor guilt, but discomfort at what might lie ahead.
The present situation of himself and Art under the same roof did not make Ric uncomfortable. It was inevitable, somehow, that this moment would come. Rather, it was the past that continued to puzzle him, lying there, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling. How could the family not have seen what was under their noses? Surely two deaths so close together should have roused some kind of interest, if nothing else? As far as he knew, it hadn’t even warranted more than a small nod of recognition. But then, at the time they’d been having their own problems. Poor Grace had been so hurt when they’d met, trapped in a fading marriage. It was her sympathetic nature allowing it to continue. But kind as she was, it couldn’t go on much longer, Ric was sure.
He turned to watch Primrose sleeping, her face peaceful and in the half-light not unlike her mother’s.
The house was not silent, since the snuffling snores of a drunken Art occasionally grew so loud they seemed to blast the rafters, but it was peaceful in a way. Everyone except Ric seemed to be sleeping, comfortably pickled from so much fine hospitality. A few more minutes rest and he planned to get up.
Primrose rolled away from him, the fair hair on the back of her head knotted and fuzzy from sex that had been quiet and secretive because of where they were, and long because an inebriated Primrose had taken an age to approach her peak and never actually reached it. With pleasurable thoughts of Grace filling Ric’s head and a real life body beneath him, the marathon wasn’t a hardship.
He put a hand on her bare shoulder to see how deeply asleep she was. She did not respond. Would he mind Ted touching her this way, he wondered? The man obviously wanted her and would be the perfect person to take over this lovely, kind, attractive but needy girl. From what little Ric had seen and heard that evening, Ted had a tendency to pick women so independent and sure of themselves that the relationship had room only for one person, and that person was not him. Someone insecure, a woman without the unendurable vanity of Jude, a woman offering herself entirely, could possibly make him happy for life. It would require clever manipulation, but it could be done. It had to be done, for he and Grace could hardly abandon her once everything was in the open. From lover, Primrose would move to stepsister and stepdaughter. Ric’s heart swelled with happiness.
Slowly he sat up, pausing briefly to make sure his movement did not disturb the quiet body beside him. Then he swivelled his legs out of the bed, carefully shifted his weight from backside to feet, scooped up his clothes from the floor and crept naked to the bathroom.
*
Night was not a good time, for in the darkness Ric’s mind would, on occasion, unexpectedly become a thing of its own. In the hushed and lonely moments when all around appeared vanished and empty, it wandered unrestrained, thinking thoughts that by day would not dare to seek a voice, even in a man like him. It felt as if tangible insanity sat unseen in the gloom, occupying the space around him as he stared resolutely away, arms folded in defiance with chin determinedly set, withstanding lunacy and its silver tongue. He had taught himself to resist it, but it was not easy.
This madness was standing next to him on the landing, outside an open bedroom door, so close that the skin on the side of Ric’s neck prickled as it breathed in his ear. It was urging a degree of loathing that frightened him. Through the dimness, they watched the shape of Art filling a bed settee, a sleeping round mound, maggot-like beneath the covers. His sparsely haired head poked out from the top of the pale duvet, mouth slack and noisy. With rising turmoil, Ric remained standing there for sometime, enduring the devil on his shoulder as best he could, as he always did, hating its voice yet somehow finding comfort in its familiarity; grinding acceptance of an irksome acquaintance whose company he never sought but who seemed to consider themselves a friend.
The house had five bedrooms, one filled with belongings too heavy to lift into the attic, a room each for Primrose and her sister, the one Grace shared with her husband, plus this one containing Art. Art’s room opened onto a half landing at the top of the stairs, meaning that wherever anyone was, upstairs or down, the loud sound of his snoring was unavoidable. Ric watched silently, his blank canvas face expressionless as a manikin. Art’s breathing moved from laboured to shallow and back again as if the man were dying from some terrible infection, rather than wrestling with the effects of alcohol. Did he always drink to excess, Ric wondered, so much that his body could barely rest for the poison of it all? Drink so much that he could not manage to press the brake?
With careful steps, Ric entered. It seemed the right thing to do, as if the hand of madness were in his back, gently pushing him forward, a demon not sniggering with crazed stupidity but reassuringly confident and calm. Art had not closed the curtains and so lay exactly as Ric had in the light of a moonlit sky. Ric could see that his face was fatter now, chubbier than at the time of the trial. The man had looked gaunt then, ill and forlorn. Now he was too well fed for someone agonising over what he had done. Ric leaned over Art’s plump face, suddenly trapped in the moment by a sense of being outside of his own body, a feeling so strong that he wanted to cry from fear of it. The madness, no longer so cool and collected, laughed a little at this unexpected morsel of dread.
The spare pillow had been tossed to the floor. Ric empathised. This had been the fate of his extra pillow, too, and exactly what he had done with the numerous cushions downstairs filling the chair. Women liked pillows and cushions, he decided, as he continued to stand above Art. Men preferred space to sit and lie without feeling swamped. What did Moira prefer?
Picking up the pillow Ric held it to himself. It smelled of washing powder, of Grace, of everything that would be his when the correct order of things was in place. She could have her pillows and cushions. She could have anything she wanted, as long as they were together.
Chapter 10
GRACE’S QUIET HOURS
A successful dinner party was something to make Grace feel at peace with the world. Any social event made her feel this way providing she enjoyed it, and she had, enormously. It had been a long time since the cheerful side of her nature had flowed quite so easily and not been an artificial creation, a front for those who did not know her, shielding her from pity. For so long, their problems had tainted all she did, with every conversation chained to the subtext of a lifetime of expectation undermined. Before her world seemed to be turning upside down, she had not realised how much general discussion focused on the future. Without thought, even those who knew how fragile her husband was, would speak of house renovations, of skiing holidays, the next summer holiday, films and plays watched, of normal life shared by any couple. No thought, then, for them. For the uncertainty they shared. Because while they wanted to believe they could see it through together, there was no guarantee of crossing the line hand-in-hand; of crossing the finish line at all.
Sympathy abounded, but not the understanding that almost every sentence uttered served to remind Grace of how unpredictable life had become. Her husband was not up and down, navigating despe
rate low to slightly less desperate low, as Art had been. More, he was steadily following a miserable trajectory whose destination was not calculable. There could be no holiday plans, no idle talk of retiring to the sun, because neither husband nor wife could be sure they would make it past the next day, let alone stagger together into that uncertain future. Time, of course, is irrefutably a healer, so even though his recovery had left her feeling as though he had used her head as a stepping stone, things very soon became better. Even before the dinner party and his thoughtful gifts, Grace was aware that she had freed herself from pessimism’s joyless grip and moved on. Tonight had proved it beyond doubt. She was back. He was back. They were better in every sense of the word.
Grace turned to look at her husband as he lay beside her deeply asleep. His arm rested across her midriff, a little too heavy but it was nice to feel him there. And it was a relief to be able to look at him without pity, or resentment, without the urge to drag over what he’d been feeling. Together they had found a way through, him declaring repeatedly that he was utterly blessed not to have lost her, a wife he loved more than anything in the world; she, grateful to keep a life she wanted with a man she loved. In many ways it was a better, fresher, relationship.
Lying there, she thought about the party. The beginning of the evening had been a little less ordered than Grace would have liked, the late arrivals running so far behind, they caused dinner to be delayed to the point that too much wine had been drunk by the time the main course was served. Not that Grace particularly minded, for she had managed to monitor her own intake reasonably well, considering her husband kept everyone’s glasses full all evening, to the point of being overbearing. Primrose, on the other hand, positively staggered her way to bed, and despite attempts at quiet intimacy managed to be embarrassingly noisy. Grace smiled a little; the words stage whisper did not do it justice. Her father was himself too tired and drunk to take notice of the whispers, hushed sighs and muffled groans interspersed with fits of giggles, emanating from his daughter’s bedroom.
Grace breathed deeply, pushing unwelcome images of Primrose from her mind and returning to the dinner, satisfied with a job well done. Her eyes wandered to the curtains, a small gap at the top allowing a ray of white light to streak in from the exceptionally bright moon. She wished they’d been left open, for sleeping in a comfortable bed whilst bathed in moonlight was such a luxurious feeling. But her husband had pulled them shut out of habit, in deference to Grace’s usual preference. She could get out of bed and open them, she knew, but her body did not respond to the idea. Not finding the energy for such a simple task was a silly thing, she thought, considering sleep would not come. And so there Grace lay for a long while, overtired, peaceably watching the small triangle of light.
She sniggered wickedly thinking of Jude. Privately, Grace was prepared to admit the woman had been a dreadful guest, although her single redeeming feature had been a significant one. She had wooed Primrose and saved her daughter from days of gnawing self-doubt, although that doubt would not have arisen in the first place had it not been for the presence of Jude herself. Such tales. Lies? Or were they true? No doubt Ted would enlighten everyone at some point.
Ted. Grace had watched him with interest. He was such a nice man it made his choice of women unfathomable. Clearly he was a male too persuaded by good looks to notice anything else, but there were plenty of attractive women in the world who were also nice people to be around. Grace pushed away thoughts of Primrose. Ted still liked her, she could see. He may not be as old as Grace and her husband, but Grace did not doubt for one moment that he was still too old for Primrose.
The faint sound of someone quietly entering the bathroom drew her thoughts. It was nice to have guests, to share her home again with friends, although whoever was awake wasn’t Art. His snores were still spluttering away in the background as they had been since his head hit the pillow.
The disturbance prompted something in Grace, a mild revival. Drawing on what little energy remained, she lifted her husband’s arm carefully away, got out of bed and opened the curtains. The moon was full and so bright in the cloudless sky that Grace felt compelled to stand and stare for a moment. Everything was suffused with silver, as if the garden and driveway were an elaborate etching. Through the gaps between the ash trees, Grace could see the valley illuminated in the same way, swathes of light brushing the fields below; street lamps studding distant shadows. Suddenly she was aware of cool air beginning to chill her bare arms. Letting go of the glorious scene, Grace returned to bed, sliding in close to her husband’s warm body, fixing her eyes on the high moon so intently that she was almost able to observe it tracking across the starry sky.
The quiet noise came again. Whoever it was had finished. Perhaps it was Primrose, since there was no sound from the flush. As disgusting as many of her friend’s found it, Grace preferred it not to be pulled at night. It was not the sound it made but the waste of water that bothered her. The same argument could and sometimes was made for daytime flushing, and when the girls were small she did on occasion enact this rule by day. But, for whatever reason, it was even harder not to do it by day, more difficult to remember. Grace rolled her eyes. Bathed in beautiful moonlight and what was she thinking about? The toilet.
Eventually, the soothing tide of sleep began to trickle over her body, bringing with it a comforting and welcome sensation that closed her eyes. But through the drifting slumber, Grace became aware of a new noise. Not the bathroom but something else. At first she did not focus on it because the urge to sleep was almost too strong, but the noise was persistent. Drawn back towards consciousness, she slowly realised the sound was coming from outside. Eyes open once more, Grace listened. Something was moving around on the drive. The lights came on. Her husband must have remembered to sort them. Last time it was ivy causing the problem.
She sighed wistfully. It would be the resident badger, or perhaps a fox. She would love to look, but she couldn’t be bothered to get up again now she had touched the enticing contentment of sleep.
Chapter 11
RIC’S WARM BODIES
There was power in that pillow, Ric felt, as he placed it on the bed in the space above Art’s head and moved away. Leaving the room, he was forced to look back, chin turned by the grip of the same invisible force that had pushed him there in the first place. That a man like Art could sleep was an obscenity, a crime against something that had been so good in the world.
Carefully, Ric headed downstairs, every creaking stair tread mapped in his mind from the many times he had crept about this house before. One time, he recalled with pleasure, a sleepy Grace had needed the bathroom. Her thin nightdress had been hitched upon itself so her naked thigh passed close to his face as he crouched unseen beside the washing basket he’d been planning to raid. He had not taken any clothing that night, only the memory, savouring it as he enjoyed Primrose.
The mess from a good-night-had-by-all was gone and not a dirty glass or soaking pan remained. Everything had been stacked in the dishwasher, or washed up by hand before being dried and put back in its place. Grace and her husband had cleared and cleaned and set the table for breakfast, heading off to bed an hour or more after the last of their guests had retired. Ric heard them come up, feeling jealousy stir at the sound of husband and wife entering the same bedroom. He was left hoping that what he and Primrose had just enjoyed would not be so for them. Grace would not want to, he was sure, because she only wanted Ric, though she might go along with it for the sake of peace. Women did that sometimes. He wondered if this was what his mother had done. The easy way others took advantage of Grace would soon be a thing of the past, however, once he had taken her under his wing and made this fragile True Angel his own.
In the kitchen – bright from moonlight pouring in through the many windows – Ric could see cereal boxes arranged on the table for early risers. He suspected a full English breakfast would be offered too, for those who wanted it, which would be everyone including him. Already he
felt hungry, despite a full meal.
Ric saw Grace’s presents on a work surface near the range, tucked from outside view. He picked up the long black box containing the pen, knowing the other boxes were empty since Grace had put on the pretty locket and watch after showing them to everyone. Did this pen, this identical instrument, mean that he and Grace shared a new connection, his and hers for scripting charming prose about love and beauty? No. It did not. Gifts from an unworthy husband were all either pen could ever be, practical tokens meant to make Grace feel thought about. Ric replaced it. And what of the old pen? Learning of its origins along with everyone else at the dinner table left Ric relieved not to have taken it out and used it. He would not keep it now.
Ric could not yet see the item he had come for. What he wanted was his own gift, the present Primrose had announced was from them both, a gift that until she’d said this, Ric had not really thought of as a joint offering. But of course it was, he’d soon realised. It had to be. Grace gave an admiring inspection of the piece, therefore not giving his gift more attention than the others she’d received. But erupting below her polite exterior was pleasure ready to burst. Of this, he was certain.
He glanced at the other items as he searched, beginning to think his True Angel had taken his to bed, to keep under her pillow. There was a theatre voucher from Ted and his vacuous girlfriend, and a pair of silver earrings from Art’s wife, and, Ric supposed, Art himself. Then he saw it, curled on a shelf in a different spot, a fine silver chain carrying the Georgian copper penny he had bought the day they’d met. He’d had it mounted on black gold, the silvery-grey hues offering a perfect backdrop. It was beautiful. Picking up the love token, he fingered the word Grace, before folding it into the palm of his hand. The moment of giving was wrong. He wanted to give it again.
Stealthily, Ric made his way back up the stairs, passing Art’s room without looking, keeping at bay the lurking, watching, madness that brought beads of cold sweat to his brow. He was undecided regarding Art’s fate. An answer would present itself, he knew. Right now, Grace took priority.