Fatlands

  If I told you I wasn’t scared, you would think me a liar. But the truth is I wasn’t. My stomach was, and my heartbeat was, but I wasn’t. In my brain I was sharp and alert, ready for whatever was to come. Call it the Scotch, call it my impatience, call it the cute little can of mace that I keep tucked away in the bottom of my bag for emergencies. Call it what you will, the fact was I was running on high. Whatever happened here tonight was happening to me. I was still in this plot: it was mine and no one else’s.

  ‘Do you always talk to yourself?’said the voice from deep in the trees. It was a harsh, forced sound, like a person pretending to be someone they weren’t. It was only scary if you let yourself think about it.

  ‘You’re late,’ I said loudly, singing it out into the night. ‘I’ve been—’

  ‘Shut up. You came to listen, not to talk. I’m going to say it just once, OK? What is done is done. Nobody can undo it. She’s dead because of something her dad did. Our mistake. We’re sorry. But we’ll live with it. And so will you. As long as you leave it alone.’

  The words were designed to make your blood run cold. Except maybe that was the problem—the amount of design about them. I found myself caught between chill and cliché . Heroes and villains. Since we all watch the same movies, it shouldn’t be any surprise that we all play from the same script.

  I got hold of the chill and chewed on it till all its juice was gone, then I swallowed it down as far as it would go, along with childhood fears of dark woods, country lanes and madness on the edges of the night. ‘You’re scaring the hell out of me,’ I shouted into silence. This time it didn’t answer back. I stood for a moment waiting. In the quiet I thought I heard the rustle of undergrowth. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you like it when the girls answer back? Or am I a bit too old for you?’ I yelled in the direction of the sound. The lines were all right, but I didn’t seem to have the correct stage directions. I thought about crossing the stream and trying to follow him into the wood, but at the last moment, like a horse refusing a fence, I just couldn’t do it.

  I stood there for a while longer, just me and the night, until in the end there wasn’t anything to do but get up and go home. I climbed my way back up the embankment and through the gate, turning every now and then to check I wasn’t being followed. I crossed the garden and through into the pub car park. The lights in the bar were still on, but the road was deserted. I looked at my watch. It was 11.45. I had been communing with the devil for longer than I realized. I thought of going back and throwing myself on the landlord’s mercy: one more cup of coffee for the road. But what would I say? Half a mile away the hotel bar beckoned, anonymity and another glistening Glenfiddich.

  Of course there are those who say that the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy, Terry Waite, went back into Beirut that last time knowing full well he was going to be kidnapped, because that was the only way he could atone for having let himself become the pawn of the CIA. I wouldn’t have the chutzpah to put myself in the same league but, looking back on it, I did have a little atoning to do.

  On the other hand, the way I saw it I had logic on my side. Whatever the terrors of darkness, it wouldn’t make any sense for him to jump me now. Better to let me stew in my own fear and the echo of his threats. He could always clobber me later if I still seemed curious.

  I started to walk. The torch picked out a wavering path in the darkness. I followed it, amusing myself with thoughts of childhood. About how when I was seven I would creep to the loo in the middle of the night and then run hell for leather back to bed with the sound of the flush ringing in my ears. Sweet terrors.

  The night was colder now. I must have been halfway there when I heard the footsteps in front of me. I stopped and turned off the torch, instinctively sliding my hand into my bag, fingers moving over the smooth metal of the canister. You find it corny, no doubt, that I should resort to such girlie aids, that I shouldn’t be able to fell a grown man at ten paces with my flying feet? Myself, I prefer to see it as the triumph of technology over muscle. I did try martial arts once but do you realize how long you have to study to get your foot as effective as a squirt of tear gas? It would leave a girl no time to earn a living.

  From the darkness ahead I could now hear voices. They were moving closer. There was a small humpback bridge in front of me. I moved softly to one side of it. A moment later I saw the flash of a torch and heard laughter. They came roving into view, two dark shapes not all that steady on their feet. Saturday night, country and town alike. One of them spotted me and gave me a cheery wave. ‘Evening.’

  ‘Good evening,’ I said.

  ‘Nice night, eh, love?’said the other loudly, then giggled. His companion gave him a shove and he staggered forward a few steps. They both laughed. I watched them go. Interesting how easily men own the space around them, while women just feel like visitors without a permit.

  I waited till they disappeared down the road, then headed for home. Somewhere to the left I passed the churchyard and its new soft grave with the worms working overtime at safe-breaking. Which meant the turn-off to the hotel could be only a couple of hundred yards away.

  If he had come out of the bushes, I would have been ready for him. Well, I like to think I would. But that wasn’t how it happened. The wire was strung across the road. He must have had to take it down, then reset it after the lads had gone by. But he’d done a good job, got the tension just right. One minute I was upright and invincible, the next sprawling head first into the dark.

  I knew instantly what was happening. In fact, though I have tried to forget them, those next ninety seconds were clearer than almost any other time in my life. I was back on my feet fast, the fear temporarily numbing the pain of the smashed elbow and bruised ribs. My hand was out of my bag, can in place. I whirled round holding it like a pistol in front of me. But he was quicker, coming out of the dark from the side rather than head on. He used the first blow, hand chop against forearm, to knock it out of my grasp. That left me with the torch. But even in karate left hands aren’t as strong as right. He flung himself against me. As the torch spun into the air its crazy beam of light spiralled into the blackness and I caught a flash of a face in front of me: fair hair and skin, soft, almost silky. Then it was gone. I felt rather than saw the next blow coming and put up my hands to protect myself. Instinct. Whoever told you it could save your life had read too many books. The force of his fist connected with my stomach somewhere where the womb meets the centre of the soul. It was a kind of disembowelment. I heard my voice shriek like a banshee as the breath was driven back up my windpipe. At the same time I doubled up and fell sideways on to the ground. Nothing in my whole life had ever hurt so much. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see, and all I could feel was a great wedge of matter forcing its way up my throat. I lay in the ditch, retching. It seemed to last for a long time. I felt him standing above me, watching. But he made no move towards me. When I got some semblance of my wits back, I used the vomiting as a cover to pull myself nearer to the edge of the road, where the bushes would offer me some protection. But he spotted me and leant down to haul me up. I used my free hand to grab my bag. I’ve joked enough times about the weight of the crap I keep in it being enough to lay out any mugger. Now as I twisted the strap I understood the limitations of humour. I swung with all my might. And the blow connected. But the strap was too long. It missed his head and smashed against his neck and shoulder. Nevertheless, the force made him reel backwards. I turned and started to run, but my stomach was still in the ditch and I couldn’t stand upright. He grabbed me and as he pulled me back towards him, I heard the words, ‘Oh no you don’t,’ before his fist hit my face. I heard the crack and felt the tooth shatter. I swear to you, I actually felt it happen. Strange how you can sort out one particular instance of pain from all the rest. My mouth filled up with liquid. I understood it was blood. I also understood that this wasn’t a regular beating-up. That to be infl icting this much damage the guy had to have something on his knuckles. Oh God, please don’t t
ake my eye out, I remember thinking over and over, like a terrible litany as I waited for him to hit me again. And if there had been time, I would have thought of Mattie, and the shaft of fury and flame that had blown her away and brought me to this. But there was no time for her. Only for myself. And for him. Now he came closer, emboldened by my helplessness. In the darkness all I could make out was the sour smell of him and the sound of his breath. He put out a hand towards me, as if to touch my cheek in some appalling inversion of tenderness. Or maybe he was going for my throat. As his fingers reached near, I lunged forward, opening my mouth and snapping my jaws closed on them. I still had enough teeth left to do some damage of my own. I felt the blood pour out from my lips, mingling with his. I heard him yell. And I felt this small, fierce whoop of triumph inside. Don’t mess with me, it said, in neon letters lighting up the night sky. I’m not your victim. He used his left hand to beat my mouth open. But, I tell you, it didn’t knock the adrenalin out of me. And it still didn’t make me a victim. Neither did the next blow, although as my eye closed underneath the metal on the fist I realized a more appalling truth: that in the end no one up there was going to protect me, any more than they had protected Mattie.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Just the Way You Look Tonight

  If my life hadn’t flashed before me, it stood to reason I was still alive. The philosophical conjecture was backed up by physical proof: I hurt too much to be dead. Amazingly, I came up smelling of roses. Their scent was everywhere, wild and sweet, almost overwhelming. Smell before sight. At least my nose couldn’t be broken. I sent a message to my eyes. But only one of them obeyed. Severe tunnel vision brought back the panic of the night. I wanted to bring up a hand to check but I was too scared about what I would find. I worked on what I had. I was staring at a Dutch still life: roses, maybe two or three dozen, in an elegant vase, a jug of water and glass next to it. Behind, sunshine (early morning or late afternoon) filtered through classy cream blinds. And everywhere more flowers. BUPA, I thought. Either that or a funeral parlour. I moved my head. Near the end of the bed there was a chair, with someone sitting in it: Nick, hunched forward, staring at the floor, in his fingers a scrunched-up handkerchief. Compassion filled the air, rolling in on the sunlight, soft and sticky. The pain returned—in my stomach, in my chest, up through my face. It felt unbearable. I closed the only eye that was working and went back to sleep.

  The next time I opened it the roses were less colourful, the still life dimmer, ringed by charcoal air. And the water jug had been filled up. I took this as a good sign, that I had noticed the water level and remembered it. The room seemed smaller, but that could have been the effect of the night. The chair had moved nearer to the bed, and the figure in it was stockier, more rumpled. It was also watching me carefully.

  ‘Hello, Hannah,’ it said.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ I replied, and he gave a wincing smile as the words came out mangled and a little slobbery. I tried to smile back, but someone had sewn up the edges of my mouth. ‘I hurt,’ I said, clearer this time.

  ‘I know, babe. I know.’

  Good old Frank. Let him be my mirror. If he lied, I would see it in his eyes. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Well, you’re not pretty, but then you always were more of a character girl.’ He watched me. And he must have seen the lip tremble. ‘You’re lucky. It looks worse than it is. You’ve got a badly bruised face, a split lip, and you lost a tooth.’

  ‘My eye?’

  ‘There’s a long cut under the eyebrow. That’s why you can’t open it. It’s going to leave a scar but nothing to stop you pulling the boys. They were more worried about your ribs and stomach. But the consensus is it’s just internal bruising. Did they kick you?’

  Did they kick me? ‘Not that I remember. But he had metal on his knuckles.’ And I heard my voice go funny again.

  ‘Yeah, well, that figures.’ He swallowed hard. His anger sat like static around him. Not like the usual laid-back Frank at all. I was touched. I was also afraid. He put his hand on the bed near to mine. I couldn’t remember him ever touching me before, short of the occasional slap on the back. I could see he didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t the only one. I tried to make it easier. ‘You’d have been ashamed of me, Frank. I wasn’t even outnumbered. I forgot everything you ever taught me. Though I did bite him.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Let’s hope it’s somewhere we can recognize him.’ There was a pause. ‘You don’t have to tell me, you know.’

  Oh, but I did. At least some of it. It was OK while we were on the firm ground of facts: the row in the pub, the voice in the loo, even the hissed warning from the woods and the start of the country lane. But when it came to the ditch and the bile in my mouth, the taste was no longer yesterday’s supper but my own humiliation. Even without the sex, violence is a sexual violation, too intimate and painful to be shared.

  He looked away and busied himself with the water jug. I took the offered drink and sipped it slowly. My tongue found the gap between my back teeth and probed it carefully. Ah well, it had been a tooth with too many fillings anyway. I tried to climb back on to dry land. ‘How much does a bridge cost on the National Health these days?’

  ‘I’ll make it your Christmas bonus.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m OK really,’ I said. ‘Just a bit shaky.’

  He looked at me and frowned. ‘Take my advice, Hannah. Don’t bury it until it’s ready to be buried. It won’t help.’

  He was right. I already knew that. I took another sip of water. Then probed further than my gum. ‘I think I still feel frightened, Frank.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’ll take longer to heal than your face. You know the worst thing? He’s going to forget you a lot quicker than you forget him.’

  ‘Is that how it works?’ I said quietly.

  He looked away and there was almost an embarrassment about him, as if our intimacy had upset him. Our intimacy but his confession.

  He shrugged. ‘Different strokes.’

  Well, well. All the pints of beer and banter and I had never known. There was a small silence. I felt drowsy, but safe. Safer. ‘Who was he?’ I said in the sure knowledge that I wouldn’t be misunderstood.

  Frank made a face. ‘Just some little punk I once nicked. A man with a vicious memory and a couple of friends.’ He stopped. I wanted to ask, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. He looked up at me. ‘They were waiting for me in my car in an all-night multistorey. They hit me with a baseball bat. Bust both my arms, nearly bust my head. Then kicked a few ribs in. I don’t remember a lot. ’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  The air between us was charged, like the beginning of a love scene. How extraordinary, I thought. Frank and I are having an affair. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I was scared. I thought they were going to kill me.’

  Secrets in the night. Such a big admission. ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards I got angry. But it took a while. For a long time I was just glad to be alive.’

  I wanted to ask how long. Add it to the list of questions. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Spent some time in hospital. Took some leave. Went back to work.’

  ‘Did you get them?’

  ‘Oh yes, I got them. He pulled another job. Him and one of his friends. We got a tip-off.’

  ‘And you bust them?’

  He nodded. I waited. ‘It was just him and me in the interrogation room. I hit him. Once in the stomach, once in the face. I hurt him.’

  The earth moved beneath me. I couldn’t even hear my heart beat. ‘Did it make you feel better?’ I said it at last.

  And he started to laugh. ‘I was shaking so much I had to leave the room so he wouldn’t see it. I had to hand the interrogation over to someone else. I … well, they finished it for me. I supposed they thought it was a favour. Can’t say I feel good about that.’ He stopped. ‘But that’s the point. There is no good to be got out of it.’

  I should have the luxury of such a doubt. What would I do? Even the idea of it mad
e me shake.

  He looked up at me. ‘The best thing you can say about it is, it passes. And you do get over it,’ he said, already a man climbing back into his clothes, combing his hair, straightening up his tie. ‘I don’t wake up at night any more. I can park in a multistorey car park without feeling sick. And his is not the face I expect to see in hell.’ All dressed up and ready to go. A little bit of me was sad. This Frank and I might never meet again. But one-night stands can set a lot of the world to rights, as long as you understand that is what they are.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ I nodded. To look at us no one would know. ‘So, if you’re up to it, you’ve got a couple of visitors.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to see him. Not yet.’

  He shrugged. ‘He’s in worse shape than you are.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I need to wait.’

  He nodded. ‘OK. Him I can stall. The others are going to be more difficult.’

  ‘I know you think I should tell them. And you’re probably right. But not yet. Give me a little time.’

  ‘We don’t have any more time, Hannah.’

  I thought about it. ‘The local police won’t know what to make of it, anyway.’

  ‘It’s not local we’re talking about. The London boys are up. Don Peters and Co. They want to talk to you about Tom Shepherd.’

  ‘Shepherd. Why?’

  Frank looked at me. I suppose he thought it would come better from him than from them. ‘Because it seems you were the last person to see him before he injected himself full of poison.’

  After they had left, I asked the nurse to give me something to make me sleep. And so Sunday became Monday, and brought time for reflection. The question was just how guilty was I going to let myself feel? I mean nobody forces anybody to take their own life. So I had told Tom Shepherd some unpalatable facts about his daughter. It couldn’t have made him feel any worse than her death had done. Could it? It seemed to me he must have been planning it, anyway. Peters said the housekeeper had found him early next morning, and that according to the pathologist’s initial report he’d been dead for at least eight hours. That left an afternoon and a bit of an evening. The local chemist’s had no record of anyone buying any obvious kind of poison that day. Which meant whatever he used, he must have already had it hidden away in his bathroom closet. It was the method that chilled me most of all. So very scientific. But his choice. His life. Not my fault. No, not my fault. In the end not a question of guilt. Only a question of who exactly he had been phoning just after I left the house, and about what? Maybe when I hurt less, my brain would work better.