CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“He’s dead. Max
is dead and it’s my fault. I killed him. I killed him…” Nina sobbed and fell
into Carol Brady’s arms.
“For
heaven’s sake, Nina, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. This is no time
for melodramatics!” Carol exclaimed but drew the younger woman to her in a
comforting embrace, helped her inside and closed the front door. She led a near
hysterical Nina into the sitting room and managed somehow to sit down on the
sofa in spite of two arms flung around her neck. “Nina, calm down and tell me
what has happened,” she demanded, prising the younger woman’s grip free.
“Max is
dead and it’s my fault. I killed him. I killed him…” Nina repeated and
continued to sob, but less hysterically now.
Nor did she make any attempt to embrace Carol again but sat erect,
rocking to and fro, a glazed expression in her eyes that reminded Carol of her
beloved grandmother in later years when senility had already set in. “He’s
dead, dead, dead…” Nina continued to repeat in a dull monotone.
Carol got
up, went to the wine cabinet and poured two large brandies. “Here, drink this,
it will make you feel better,” placing the glass in the other woman’s hands.
She tried to sound sympathetic but couldn’t help suspecting Nina was playing a
part and probably relishing every minute of it. On the other hand, if Nina was,
indeed, putting on an act, it was a damn convincing one. “I’ll call Freddy,” she
declared, not so much to the distraught figure on the sofa as to herself. “I’ll
be right back, Nina, I promise.” At the same time, she found herself dying for
a pee. In the event, therefore, she called Freddy Winter from the bathroom. “Come on, come on…” she told the handset
impatiently.
Just as
Freddy came on the line, she thought she heard a car starting up in the street
outside but dismissed it from her mind as a blast in her ear almost toppled her
from the toilet seat.
Freddy
having calmed down and assured her he was on his way, Carol took several deep
breaths and returned to the sitting room. “Oh, no!” she groaned. There was no
sign of Nina. Then she remembered hearing a car revving up, ran to the front
door and flung it open. She ran to the front gate and looked desperately right
and left before realizing she was still in her nightdress and fled back inside.
Should she call Freddy? What good would that do? Besides, he might not come at
all and, loath as she was to admit it, she was suddenly desperate for his
solid, dependable presence. Later, however, while sipping another brandy, she
couldn’t resist a chuckle. Solid and dependable were not epithets she would
normally apply to the likes of Freddy Winter. Tactless, thoughtless, unreliable
and downright irritating were expressions that immediately sprung to mind as
she took another sip and wondered, yet again, whether fate intended the pair of
them to make a future together. We go
back a long way, of course. But do I
love him? Does he love me? Did we ever
really love each other all those years ago or was it just wishful thinking
because we were both so unhappy...?
The
doorbell rang. “Thank God for small mercies!” she exclaimed and ran to answer
it. Even before she opened the door to Freddy Winter, the answers to both
questions brushed Carol’s lips, but she sent them flying with an impatient
flick of the tongue. It was past one o’clock in the morning for heaven’s sake. “First
things first, woman!” she told Winter’s shadow on the frosted glass pane. Seconds
later, she was ushering him into the sitting room, wondering how he would react
to her latest news and bracing herself for the worst.
Meanwhile,
in Whitstable, Max Cutler was getting dazedly to his feet. He put a hand,
tentatively, to the back of his head. “Ouch!” he winced then contemplated the
blood on his palm with dismay. Grabbing a tea towel draped over a chair, he
made a makeshift bandage, caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror over
the sink and began to laugh but that proved too painful. Only then did he start
to remember and stared at the floor, expecting to see a body. “Kate?” Senses
reeling, he staggered towards the front door, almost tripping over Kate’s body
in the process. He knelt down and felt,
frantically, for a pulse. At the same time, he spotted a bunch of keys lying
beside her right hand. Another key lying next to them caught his eye and he
recognized the key to the caravan. Without any conscious intent, he pocketed
the lot.
Max had
already convinced himself Kate was dead when she stirred and groaned, but did
not open her eyes.
Max began to feel sick. I
have to get out of here. Forcing himself not to give way to the panic he could feel surging like a
tidal wave from his bowels, he would have opened the front door and run out into
the street. He’d taken the precaution of parking his car several streets away.
He only had to reach it and be…safe?
Only as he put a hand to his throbbing head did it dawn on him that his
appearance would be sure to draw attention to himself. It was already getting
dark. It would be safer to wait, surely?
Kate
groaned again…and again.
I have
to get out of her…now.
Max returned to the kitchen, unlocked the back door and braced himself to bolt
in spite of his injury. A sixth sense made him pause. Intuitively, he cocked an
ear. Certain he could hear approaching footsteps on a path than ran along the
south side of the cottage, he ran instead towards a shed at the bottom of the
garden, tugged open the door and dashed inside, knocking over a can of disinfectant
in the process. Ignoring the mess, he pulled the door shut and staggered to a
single window in time to see a tall, balding man with a moustache enter the
back door of the cottage.
Max sank to
a wet wooden floor reeking of disinfectant. Now what? His head continued
to throb and he wanted to curl up and die. But he needed to get out of there
and…then? A solution dawned. He would
use the caravan. The idea was sheer inspiration. No one knew he had a key and
it wasn’t as if Kate would be in a fit state to go far for a while yet. There
was a good chance he’d come across some spare cash too. Better still, maybe some cocaine or even
speed…anything. There was a chance, just a chance, that he might know exactly
where to look. He’d once spotted Kate acting suspiciously in one corner of the
field where the caravan was parked. A sixth sense had warned him to stay out of
sight and say nothing. “Dear God, what I wouldn’t give for some coke right now,
“he groaned. I can’t stay here. I have to move. Move, damn it man, move… “I
can’t,” he sobbed aloud. You don’t have a choice, idiot, you certainly can’t
stay here…
It was a
full five minutes however before Max dragged himself to his feet, sneaked out
of the shed and clambered over a low fence, glad of what protective cover a
hazy after-twilight gloom had to offer as he struggled to get his bearings and
headed, hopefully, for the car.
He was only
vaguely aware of the occasional passer-by, some kids calling out names and
pointing and someone, a woman he thought but couldn’t be sure, making
sympathetic noises and helping him to his feet when he stumbled and fell just
yards from his objective. Keeping the vehicle in his sights, he ignored
everything and everyone but concentrated wholly on reaching it, aware with
remarkable clarity that he was in no fit state to drive but dismissing this
obvious fact as the least of his worries. Fumbling for the keys, he was aware
of a presence beside him but had neither the inclination nor the fullness of
his faculties to identify it as male or female.
“You can’t
drive in that state,” an accusing voice tore through his head like an express
train, “You need a hospital. Attempt to drive that car and I’ll call the
police…” the voice rattled on.
No hospital. No police. No need… His lips formed the words but he
couldn’t be sure any sound was forthcoming.
The voice
did not let up but continued to pound body and soul into a pulp. Max caught a
glimpse of tweed and sensible shoes but the voice, awfully reminiscent of his
mother’s, swallowed them up. It won’t get me too, I’ll be damned if it will.
Somehow he rose above this new crisis and drove away, scarcely aware of his
hands on the wheel or even what direction he should take.
……………………………….
Carol Brady
had only just left the room when Nina Fox realized she had made a big mistake
coming there. Carol was friendly with that detective, Fred Winter, wasn’t she?
He’d be sure to call in the police. That would mean questions, questions and
more questions. I can’t bear it, I can’t. I won’t, I won’t. She put a hand to her
forehead; it was damp with sweat. It had to be a bad dream. Yes, that’s it, a bad dream. She only
had to call Max and he’d answer, reassure her that he was fine. She reached for
her mobile phone, hesitated, took several deep breaths, found his name and hit
the call key. She let it ring and ring and ring. Slowly, it began to dawn on
her that she wasn’t dreaming. It was all for real. Max was dead. Suddenly, she
heard his voice. “Max?” Heart thumping,
she panicked and switched off the phone.
Again,
fumbling, she keyed in a name and soon heard herself saying, “Daddy, I have to
see you. Yes, I know it’s late and I’m sorry but I have to see you, it’s
important, a matter of life and death. No I’m not exaggerating. No, it can’t
wait. I have to see you now. Daddy, please. It’s not as if I’ve ever asked you
for much or you’ve done fuck all for me…” she sobbed, anger at his blunt
refusal rapidly getting the better of her distress. “Oh, do what you damn well
like, I’m coming over anyway!” she snapped and switched off the phone.
Guiltily, she fled the house. Carol would worry of course but that couldn’t be
helped. She would just have to trust that she, Nina, knew what she was doing.
“If only…” Nina muttered despairingly as she drove through a curiously
comfortless darkness interspersed with street lamps, the occasional lighted
window in anonymous houses and blocks of flats, the headlights of other
traffic of which there was a surprising
amount even at such an ungodly hour…
Nina’s
father greeted his daughter more warmly than either he or she could have
imagined. Dressed only in baggy boxer shorts and a tee shirt, Alistair Fox
succumbed to impulse and embraced his daughter in a bear hug before ushering
her into the East London bed-sit on which he already owed several months rent.
“Sit yourself down and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,” he grunted, limped to a
small hob in one corner of the room and was as good as his word.
“What’s
wrong with your leg?” Nina enquired for the sake of something to say. The room
was small, dowdy and oppressive. What on earth am I doing here?
“Nothing
much, just a spot of rheumatism,” her father replied, “I’m not getting any
younger, you know, sixty next birthday. Aches and pains, they go with the territory.
You young’uns, you haven’t a clue.” He handed her a mug of weak tea.
“I’m
twenty-three,” said Nina stiffly. He made no reply to that and she watched him
slurp his tea and spill some down the already stained shirt. You’re disgusting, she thought, but said
nothing. The tea tasted revolting, but she drank it anyway, slowly, while
taking some pleasure in a martyred air such as she might have imagined Joan of
Arc innocently adopting as she was led to the pyre.
The thought
of flames devouring her sent Nina into a coughing fit, relieved only by her
father’s providing some lukewarm water in a chipped tumbler. “This is
ridiculous, I should never have come,” she spluttered and jumped to her feet.
“Look at you,” she confronted her father, “You’re a mess. This place is a mess.
How could I have thought for one minute that you could possibly help me?”
“It is help
you need then?” Alistair Fox said quietly.
“No. Yes.
Oh, I don’t know!” Nina wailed and almost jumped out of her skin when her
mobile phone let out its current pop jingle. Glad of the distraction, she
reached for it only to almost drop it when she read Max’s name on the screen.
Instantly, she switched it off. Seconds later, she regretted her hasty action
and tried to call him back. But Max, if indeed, it had been Max calling, was
not picking up.
Alistair
Fox went to a cupboard and produced a half empty bottle of rum. He removed the
cap, took a swig then offered the bottle to Nina. She accepted and followed
suit without even bothering to wipe it clean. She felt drained, past caring, and
took another swig. The burning liquid gave her heart. “I thought I’d killed
someone…was responsible for someone’s death anyway…but now, maybe not…” she
began hesitantly at first before unleashing a torrent of anger, pain and general
confusion that neither she nor her father remotely understood.
The mobile
rang again. Nina glanced at the screen, read Pip’s name, and chose to ignore
it. It was her father who seized it and barked out, “Yes?” and then, “This is
Nina’s dad and no, she’s not available.”
“Why did
you do that?” Nina demanded, grabbed the
phone back and switched it off.
Alistair
Fox merely shrugged. “Why do we do anything?” he mumbled, “Seems like a good
idea at the time, I suppose.”
Nina had no
answer to that but sank back in the chair, closed her eyes and only vaguely
wondered why Pip should be calling her at this hour before drifting into the
unconsciousness of sheer exhaustion.
For a
while, Fox sat and watched his daughter as she slept. He found a blanket,
draped it over her and returned to his bed still clutching the near empty
bottle. He sat on the edge of the bed, drained the last few drops then sprawled
on his back and gazed at the low ceiling with its flaking plaster and a moth
hovering around a single naked light bulb.
His
daughter was in some sort of trouble, deep trouble. That much was obvious. Like
it or not, she needed him. Yes, she needed her old dad. And he wouldn’t fail
her. No way. He would…what? He waved the
bottle wildly at the moth, which ignored him and continued to flap around the
light bulb. Whatever, he told himself with a reassuring grin, there had to be
more than three months unpaid rent in it for him. He reached up and pulled a
cord. The light went out. The moth flew off, unseen by either father or
daughter, the former in a drunken stupor before his head even hit the pillow, the
latter relieved to hide behind the musty shutters of sleep.
…………………………………………….
In a field
near the village of Selling, near Canterbury, Max Cutler slammed on the brakes
and a screeching of tyres was music to his ears. He had reached where he
intended to be in spite of feeling unfit for anything, not least driving a car
along country roads. Shadows had beset him at every turn. Nasty, ugly brutes
determined to distract him. But he had seen them off with sheer willpower. Cars
and lorries had hooted at him. He had seen them off too, hooting all the louder
and letting the car dip and dive, swoop and swerve among a veritable posse of
nightmarish shapes and sounds seemingly dead set on harassing him for whatever
reason.
The car
jerked to a halt. He clambered out, caught his foot in a furrow and fell flat
on his face in a patch of grassy mud. “F**k, f**k, f**ck…!” he swore and burst
into tears but managed to scramble up and head off at a tangent to the caravan
towards a clump of trees where one, a spreading chestnut, stood apart from the
others. This time, he lay flat on his belly for a purpose. It did not take long
to recover an object about the size of a shoebox wrapped in canvas. He
staggered to his feet. Hugging the box close to his chest, Max ran towards the
caravan and stumbled up the steps. It took him a while to find Kate’s keys and
longer still to open the door.
Once
inside, he lit an oil lamp, sank into a chair and closed his eyes - but not for
long. It took him but a few minutes to find an unopened bottle of whiskey and
only a few minutes more to discover which of Kate’s keys would open the box. It
was made of tin and contained some letters, wads of bank notes in various
currencies as well as several false passports and more importantly packets he
did not need to open to know what they contained.
Things were
looking up.
Pulling
aside a curtain that partitioned off the rear end of the caravan, he promptly
tumbled on a bed and passed out, box and bottle lying just beyond the
fingertips of his right hand.
Max dreamed
about Nina. It was a feel-good dream in glorious colour. At one point he even
tried to call her on his mobile phone. Only, that was not part of the dream,
although he would have no recollection of it when he finally woke. The only
thing on his mind then, besides a blinding headache, was the box beside him
and, much later, the bottle.
“A fine
mess you’ve got yourself into young man,” a bullish voice washed over him but
Max was beyond seeing, hearing or caring about a tweed-suited woman wearing
sensible shoes who, heart in mouth, had felt obliged to stay on his tail all
the way from Whitstable. She thought she’d lost him after he jumped a red
light. But persistence and a native sense of duty had persevered and here she
was, wondering just what it was the Good Lord meant for her to do now? “Alcohol and drugs, why am I not surprised?”
the woman sighed. She leaned forward and gently removed the grubby tea towel
wrapped around Max Cutler’s head. “This wound needs cleaning up for a start,”
she muttered, adding as she contemplated the muddy, dishevelled figure on the
bed, “and so do you, young man, I’ll say you do.” She retreated behind the curtain, filled a
pitcher with water and lit a small stove.
It wasn’t
long before the woman, carrying a bowl of hot water with a bath towel draped
over one arm and a roll of bandage tucked under the other, returned to Max. He
hadn’t stirred. Deftly, without a trace of self-consciousness, she set about
undressing him.
