‘You’re a truly warped human being,’ she said.
He flicked his lighter again. ‘Shit.’ She noticed, with surprise, that his hand was shaking. He said: ‘So blokes aren’t like that, eh? Know who I saw your blacksmith with last Saturday? In Tesco?’
‘Who?’
He paused. ‘Oh, never mind.’
‘Who, you little prick?’
He looked at her. She would never forget the expression in his eyes – a blank, hectic satisfaction. It chilled her to the bone. ‘Only his wife and kids, that’s who.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you know?’
Three
IT WAS A long way – ten miles. Imogen rode over Westcott Ridge; she skirted Blackthorn Wood and rode down through the hamlet of Little Wallace. She emerged onto the main road. Skylark, with her horse sense, knew something was wrong. She flinched at the traffic; when a lorry passed, she skittered sideways, banging Imogen’s leg against a bus stop. A car, thumping music, hooted; Skylark jerked forwards, throwing Imogen back in the saddle. They galloped along the verge, past a litter basket which had vomited its rubbish – Skylark shied at that – past the chicken farm with its prison huts and chimney. The sky boiled with clouds; the wind whipped her face, stinging her eyes.
TETBURY MAGNA 2 MILES. She turned left, up a lane. Skylark’s shoulders were lathered with sweat. Imogen’s thighs shook as she rose to the trot; thud, thud, her bottom hit the saddle. She looked at her jolting watch; it was 5.30. She had been riding fast for two hours. Her legs ached; her arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets.
She had never seen Karl’s house. She had never phoned him there; only on his mobile. She thought of his tongue in her mouth; his penis moving inside her. We’re just animals. Animals with clothes on.
The sky darkened; dusk seemed to have descended, though there were still hours of daylight left. As Imogen rode into the village she felt profoundly weary. Ahead of her stretched the rest of her life. How did anyone manage; what was the point? She realised, with surprise, that it was only a few hours since her father had left; it seemed to have happened in another century. During these past two weeks a hand had pushed her across hostile borders, one after another, sending her reeling into foreign lands.
14, Riverview Close. She rode over a bridge; it was hardly a river, more a scummy stream knocking with cans. Riverview Close was a small estate of council houses. Her father would have described them as slovenly, but she wouldn’t be listening to her father any more. They were set around a green of trampled grass. A dismembered car sat in the middle. Suddenly, Imogen longed to be home, back on her own village green, its church clock rewound back to when she was twelve and her mother hummed in the kitchen. When everything was safe, and Monty lumbered to his feet when he heard the sound of her father’s car.
Toys littered the grass outside number 14. She heard the faint sound of a TV. There was no van parked outside.
Between her thighs, Skylark took a long, shuddering breath. She coughed – a bronchial, human cough. Imogen dismounted. Her legs had turned to jelly.
So he wasn’t home yet. She led her horse behind a scouts’ hut, out of sight. The place had been vandalised; its windows were broken and its door hung open. Imogen tied up her horse. She wiped her nose on the back of her glove; she was past crying now.
‘I didn’t know him at all,’ Louise said. ‘My own husband. That’s what’s so terrifying. Margot, who ran the shop, we talked the other night and I felt more intimate with her than anyone. That’s gone now. She’s gone. But twenty years – it’s all nothing. Isn’t that terrifying?’
Prudence, down the line, offered words of comfort. Louise thought: oh, but I miss him! Where will I find anyone else who will make me laugh?
‘Know something?’ asked Louise. ‘Sometimes I wish Mum hadn’t told me, that I’d never known. We could just go on like before. Anything would be better than this.’ She gazed at Robert’s slippers, lying on the carpet. Imogen had given them to him for Christmas but he hadn’t taken them with him. ‘If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Mum’s made such a mess, hasn’t she? Blundering into our lives and messing them up – you and Stephen, Maddy and Erin.’
‘Why don’t you blame Dad?’ Prudence said. ‘It’s Dad who started it.’
Louise gazed out of the bedroom window. The church spire reared up, its clock stopped at 3.15. It had been broken for years. ‘If only we could turn the clock back. If Dad hadn’t had that heart attack.’ She paused. ‘You’re not free tonight, are you? To come down and have some supper?’ How swiftly the balance had shifted between them; she was now the person seeking company. ‘Jamie’s going out but Immy will be here.’
‘Oh dear, I wish I could,’ replied Prudence. ‘Thing is, we’ve got to go out to dinner.’
We. The world was full of ‘we’s. Louise was no longer anyone’s first priority. Weak with self-pity, she put down the phone.
Stephen had brought home a pile of paperwork. He sat at the dining table, staring at it. ‘My respect for your mother grows every day,’ he said. ‘I’ve never worked so hard in my life.’
Prudence nodded. ‘You always had somebody else to do it for you.’
He opened a bulging folder. ‘What’s the worst torture, filling out a VAT return or having to read a manuscript by Jeffrey Archer?’
She laughed. ‘Want a drink?’
He looked up. ‘You look very nice. What’ve you done to your hair?’
‘Just – you know – washed it.’
‘We going out tonight?’
Prudence fetched the gin bottle. ‘We’ve been asked out to dinner.’
‘Where?’
‘At your wife’s.’
Stephen stared at her. ‘What?’
‘I thought it was time we – well – got together. Seems silly, never meeting. So I phoned her up –’
‘You phoned up Kaatya?’
‘And she invited us round for supper.’
It was six-thirty. Karl still hadn’t returned. Imogen was sitting in the hut; through the broken window she could see his house. A child had emerged, briefly, and pushed a stick around. Then a woman’s voice had called it in.
Outside, the sun was sinking. It shone against a blind bedroom window, patched with cardboard, in Karl’s house. Imogen shivered. She thought of the cottage where she and Karl lived in their future, the farmhouse in the fold of the hills. She felt as if a hand had thrust into her throat and pulled out her insides. She didn’t know why she was waiting – to see him arrive, to make sure he really lived there? To torture herself even further? She remembered the badgers appearing, the hiss of his indrawn breath. I love him I love him I love him . . .
The inside of the hut had been wrecked. The sign for Scouts and Cubs Fixtures, Tetbury Magna was sprayed with graffiti – ALLY WINGATE LIKES IT UP HIS BUM. Styrofoam shapes, the sort that cradle electrical equipment, lay around like ice floes. In Antarctica the ice floes were breaking up; the ozone layer was splitting open like a wound and the whole world was melting.
Imogen heard the sound of an engine. She looked out of the window. Karl’s van drove up and parked on the kerb.
It happened so fast, the next thing, that she had no time to think. She stumbled out of the hut and shouldered aside Skylark, who stood in the way. She ran around the building and hissed: ‘Karl!’
It was too late. He was walking into the house. She retreated behind the hut. Her legs gave way; she leaned against the wall.
She leaned there for a moment, until the hammering in her heart eased. There was nothing she could do now; she had to ride home. It was getting dark, too. Maybe she would be killed. She would be thrown from her horse and die a lingering death. He would weep at her graveside.
At some point during this she became aware of raised voices. A woman was shouting – a high, hysterical yelling. A baby was crying. Imogen peered around the edge of the hut.
‘You’ve been screwing her, haven’t you?’ screeched the woman. She bundled Karl ou
t of the front door. ‘You fucking bastard!’
Karl tried to remonstrate with her; Imogen couldn’t hear the words. He put his hands on the woman’s shoulders. She pushed him away; he staggered back.
‘Fuck off! Fuck off to her, the little bitch, she can fucking have you! Fuck off and don’t come fucking back!’
Imogen stood there, paralysed. She felt the heat rise up to her face. Her mouth dried.
For a moment she couldn’t move; she felt dizzy with joy. Then she darted forward. The van was parked a few yards away, its rear doors facing her. She ran across the grass, pulled open the door handle and jumped into the back.
There were four of them in the car – a brand new Carrera. According to the window sticker, its owner had visited The Okehampton Shire Horse Centre. Jamie, veteran of one car-theft, had joined the big boys. These consisted of three neighbours of Trevor’s, residents of the same estate, who had lifted the Carrera from the car-park behind the Rickmansworth Super-saver. Jamie sat sandwiched between two of them. The bloke on his left seemed to be called Edge. Or was it Egg? The other one was overweight and had a heavy cold. Jamie kept his mouth shut, in case they mocked his accent. He offered round cigarettes.
‘My Dad fucked off this morning,’ he said and instantly regretted it. Nobody was interested.
Trevor sat, hunched, at the wheel. He was driving towards London; they were going to a gig in Brixton. Trevor had shaved his head; though it was growing dark outside, he wore shades. There was a pimple on the nape of his neck. Headlights! Jamie wanted to say, but he didn’t dare.
Karl, grating the gears, drove out of the village. For a moment Imogen didn’t dare speak. If she surprised him he might crash the van. Besides, she wanted to relish this moment, to savour it to the full and store it for ever.
Wedged against his portable anvil, she sat hugging her knees. In the darkness she gazed at the back of his head. If she leaned over she could touch it. She thought: he’s left his wife for me. For ME. He loves me and we can live together for ever. If it weren’t for Skylark, tied up back in the village, we could carry on driving for ever.
He swerved around a corner. She steadied herself. The horseshoes shifted in their box. Where was he driving – to her home, to pick her up? Ah, but she wouldn’t be there! Imogen grinned; she gazed at the tools, murky in the gloom. She would leave school, good riddance, she was never going to get good grades in her A levels anyway, not as good as Jamie’s. She would run away with Karl and live with him in his van, toiling at his side. They would visit horses together and at night wrap themselves in his blanket.
Karl slowed down. She couldn’t see where they were; maybe he was going to stop at a pub on the way. The poor darling must be upset. But she would let him visit his family; she would be magnanimous.
She leaned forward to tap him on the shoulder. She stopped. She heard the blip-blip-blip of his phone. He was punching in a number.
She smiled. He was phoning her house! Her mother would answer: I’m afraid she’s not here; who’s that speaking please?
‘Shirley? It’s me.’ Karl spoke into the phone. ‘She’s found out . . . yeah . . . the shit’s well and truly – what? Yeah . . . Be with you in five minutes . . . Me too, sweetheart.’
Trevor drove down the slip road and slewed onto the motorway. Jamie craned his neck . . . 85 mph . . . 90 . . . The arclights were lit, flaring against the setting sun. They replaced the dying day with their own eerie daylight. For the natural order is oe’r thrown, the elements in a rage . . . Funny to think he’d done his A levels, got an A, too. His Dad had toasted him with Bolly.
‘Seen me skins?’ The big bloke on his right was rummaging in his pocket. Trevor passed him a packet of Rizlas over his shoulder. Jamie thought: we’re going to smoke dope. In a stolen car. Years ago, his dad had taken him on the Big Dipper; poised at the top, Jamie had squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the drop. Ah, the plunge! Down he had plummeted, leaving his body behind.
‘Did the shop in your village last week,’ said Trevor.
It took Jamie a moment to realise that Trevor was speaking to him. ‘You what?’
‘So it’s spend spend spend.’
‘You mean – you broke in?’ asked Jamie.
‘No, we did not break in,’ replied Trevor, as if addressing the retarded. ‘He was in his little store room out the back.’ He put on a baby’s voice. ‘Easy-peasy.’
The van stopped. Karl switched off the engine. The door slammed.
Imogen was hunched in the back, her hands pressed into her eyes. She heard a murmur of voices – Karl’s and a woman’s. Her ears roared.
The voices faded. She pressed her fingers into her eye-sockets. She waited, frozen. The van made small ticking sounds as the engine cooled.
Finally, she unlocked herself. Her limbs were numb. She leaned over and opened the door, just a slit. Outside was blackness. For a moment she thought it was the middle of the night, but the blackness was pine trees, a dense forest of them. She climbed out of the van. A path led through the wood to a cottage. It was the cottage you would find if you left a trail of bread. It stood alone in a clearing. Karl and a woman opened the front door. Light flooded them. They went in and closed the door behind them.
Imogen was running blindly. Branches whipped her face; how silent was the floor of the forest! She felt as weightless as if she were dreaming, but it wasn’t a dream, not any more. Night had fallen early; the roof of the forest shut out the light. She ran over the springy bed of pine needles, willing herself to wake up: none of this had happened, she was lying in bed at home and she could begin all over again.
She stumbled into a ditch; she picked herself up and ran on. Her breath rasped; her lungs felt as if they were scoured out with a red-hot poker. Somewhere, nearby, a large creature lumbered away; she heard the crash of the undergrowth.
She never knew how long it took her to force her way through the wood. After a while she emerged onto a path. It was truly night now; the sky had caught up with the forest. The path was simply a lessening of the dark. It forked and she turned left, for no reason, and stumbled along; the ground was deeply rutted. On either side stood a black wall of trees. Men stood behind them, watching her. If she hesitated they would step out. If she turned, she would see them following her.
Imogen started to cry. She shouted silently: I want my mummy!
Jamie was adrift in a forest of bodies. He had lost sight of Trevor and the others. A wave of people pushed him; he was rammed against a pillar. The music hammered into his brain; in the strobe lights faces mouthed at him, black holes splitting open and closed. He stood there, not stoned enough, not nearly, and knew that Egg and the others, even if they saw him, wouldn’t be bothered to recognise him. He shut his eyes but all he saw was Imogen’s face – only that morning, wasn’t that strange? Only his wife and kids, that’s who. Her face collapsed; it melted with tears, like wax. You could do that to somebody – easy-peasy. Put your hand into the till and steal it all away.
Jamie leaned against the pillar. He felt his life sliding away beneath him, pulling him down as if somebody was tugging the carpet.
How far had she walked – one mile, six miles? Imogen was walking along a lane now, the tarmac thankfully hard under her feet. A car approached behind her; she pressed herself into the hedge. Thank God the car didn’t slow down; perhaps they didn’t see her. As it drove past its headlights flashed on a sign: TETBURY MAGNA I MILE.
She walked around the corner. Ahead of her was the pub she had ridden past earlier; it was lit up now with fairy lights. She walked past and was plunged into darkness again.
She hadn’t expected Skylark to be there. She had presumed that her horse, like everything else, would have been stolen. But there she stood, her head drooping, dozing in the darkness. Imogen pressed her nose against Skylark’s neck; the fur was clotted with dried sweat. She stood there for a moment, breathing in her horse’s scent.
‘My darling,’ she said.
Then she tightened t
he girths and mounted her. She glanced at Karl’s house; the rooms blazed with light. She pulled Skylark’s head around and rode off.
Jamie pushed down on the bar of the Fire Exit doors. He found himself in an alleyway. It was cold; it had started to rain. He walked into Electric Avenue. They had parked the car outside a butcher’s shop.
The space was empty.
Jamie looked at his watch. It was 10.30. They had left him, just like that. They probably hadn’t noticed his absence.
Jamie stood there. Humiliatingly, his eyes filled with tears. He was alone in a city that cared fuck-all for him. What could he do?
He walked past a roaring pub, past the shuttered shops. He emerged onto the high street and made his way towards Betterspecs. Its interior was lit like an operating theatre – rows of glasses inspecting him in his pathetic state.
He went up to the side door and rang the bell. There was no reply. He rang again.
He heard a window slide open above him. He stood back and looked up. A face loomed down from the top floor.
‘I’m looking for Mr Hammond!’ shouted Jamie. ‘He lives here!’
‘They’ve gone,’ said the face.
‘Where?’
‘Dunno. They moved out this morning.’
And the window slid closed.
Louise had phoned round Imogen’s friends. None of them had seen her. She had even phoned the riding stables in case her daughter had left Skylark there, as she had the week before. It was 10.45.
She sat in the kitchen, cradling a mug of coffee. Outside, it had started to rain. Her hands shook. Where was her husband now that she needed him?
Finally, she picked up the phone. On the pegboard was pinned up the list of emergency numbers which until now she had never needed to call.
She dialled the number of Beaconsfield Police Station. ‘My daughter hasn’t come home. She rode off on her horse – oh, hours ago. This afternoon.’ Louise burst into tears. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to her.’
Jamie had five pounds in his wallet. He stood in the rain in Brixton High Street, waiting for a taxi. Cars sped past, splashing his legs. It was chucking-out time. Gangs of youths sauntered past. They turned to stare at him. Maybe they thought his face was wet from the rain.