Читать книгу The Long Kill - Reginald Hill - Страница 11

That night he dreamt, and the dream brought him awake. It was the first broken night he had had in more years than he could remember.

He dreamt of Jacob, or rather of Jacob’s voice. Jacob’s face he could hardly recall, except for something faintly simian about it, like one of the great apes looking with weary wisdom out of its cage at the shrill fools beyond the bars who imagined they were free. It was many years since he had seen the face, but the voice was still fresh in his ears: dry, nasal, with its irritating habit of tagging interrogative phrases onto the end of statements, like little hooks to draw the hearer in.

In his dream he picked up the phone expecting to hear Enid. Over the years one young Enid had replaced another as his route through to Jacob. What became of the old Enids? he sometimes wondered, but was never tempted to ask. In his relationship with his employer as with his targets, distance suited him best. With women too. Until now.

Instead of Enid’s voice, Jacob had come instantly on the line. He spoke without emotion, without emphasis.

‘You’re Jaysmith,’ he said. ‘I invented you, didn’t I? You’re Jaysmith now and for ever, aren’t you? There’s nothing else for you. You’re Jaysmith, Jaysmith, Jaysmith …’

Suddenly with the voice still in his ear he had been back in the gill on Wanthwaite Crags. Across the valley he could see the red roof of Naddle Foot. He brought his rifle up to his eye and the terraced garden leapt into close focus. The white metal chair was there and in it a sleeping figure. He traversed the weapon and adjusted the sight till the silvery head filled the circle, quartered by the hairline cross. Now the sleeper woke and slowly raised his head. But when the face was fully turned to the sun, Jaysmith saw to his horror that it was not the old man after all, but the woman he had just met, Anya Wilson. She smiled straight at the gun, though she could not possibly see it, and his finger continued to tighten on the trigger …

With a huge effort of will he forced himself awake. If anything the waking was worse than the dreaming. It was four o’clock. He rose and poured himself a drink and sat by the window looking out into the night. It had all been a dream: that was the childhood formula which put such things right; but now fully awake he knew that this dream was true.

He was Jaysmith. He should have been back in London days ago, packing his belongings, easing himself into one of the alternative lives he had prepared over the years. Where could it end, this lunacy of pretending to buy a house and running around after this child, Annie or Anya or whatever she liked to call herself? She was at least fifteen years his junior, recently widowed and not yet emerged from that unthinkable pain. Suppose he did worm his way into her affections? It would be as bad almost as making her a target with his rifle.

His room faced east. After a while the false dawn began to push forward the great range of fells which runs from Fairfield to Helvellyn. He felt their advance, hard and menacing; it seemed that if he sat there long enough they would rumble inexorably onward to crush the hotel and the village and all its unwitting inmates. There was strength as well as terror in the thought. It confirmed his own certainties, silenced his own debates. In the morning he would rise early and pay his bill and leave, and that would be an end to Mr William Hutton and probably the beginning of a good half-century of speculation for the trivial gossips of this unimportant crease in the coat-tail of the universe.

He went back to bed, the future resolved, and slept deep.

When he awoke it was a quarter to ten.

‘Oh Christ!’ he swore, touched by a new terror in which the great threat was that she would not wait for him at their rendezvous point. So potent was this that he forewent both breakfast and shaving in his rush to get there.

She looked at him with considerable disapproval.

‘The good burghers of Grasmere will expect a much better turnout from the new inmate of Rigg Cottage,’ she said.

‘I came out in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I had a bad night.’

‘And how did the night feel, I wonder?’

He glowered at her and the mockery faded from her eyes and she murmured almost to herself, ‘Are we always so bad-tempered in the morning, I wonder?’

He got a grip of himself and smiled ruefully and said, ‘I’m sorry. As for what I’m usually like in the morning, I don’t know. It’s been a long time since there was anyone to tell me.’

‘Anyone who dared, you mean?’

‘Or cared. And really, I did have a bad night.’

He got in the car beside her. She had arranged to pick him up at the edge of the village on the road leading up to Rigg Cottage. He hadn’t queried the arrangement but just assumed that she didn’t care for a more public rendezvous under the eye of Mr Parker or her aunt’s many acquaintances.

‘What was bothering you? Not Doris Parker’s cooking, I hope?’

‘No. That’s fine. So’s she; I like her. She doesn’t come at you like dear Phil.’

She nodded. Another shared judgement to bring them closer. He’d guessed that was how she’d feel and though his opinion of the Parkers was precisely as stated, he felt a twinge of guilt at the element of calculation in what he’d said.

So when she asked, ‘What then?’ he compensated with a dash of unsolicited confession.

‘To tell the truth I woke in a cold sweat wondering what the devil I was doing buying your aunt’s house.’

He’d expected a very positive reaction to this: fear for her aunt’s sake – anger at this hint of masculine dithering – at the very least a demand for reassurance that he hadn’t changed his mind.

Instead she nodded once more and said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Oh yes. The old four AM’S. They’re dreadful, aren’t they? You seem to see everything so clearly, and it’s all black, if that’s not contradictory.’

‘You’re speaking from experience?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘The four AM’S and the four PM’S too. Doesn’t everyone get them, the AM’S anyway?’

He shook his head.

‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Last night was the first broken night I’ve had in years.’

Broken from within, that was. There had been plenty of early risings and sudden alarums. But he could hardly explain this to the woman who was looking at him curiously, and he found he didn’t particularly want to press her to reveal the grounds of her own despair at this moment.

‘So, where are we going?’ he asked brightly.

She responded to his change of mood, saying, ‘Well, I knew a Himalayan man wouldn’t want to waste his time on pimples, so I thought we’d do Bow Fell via the Crinkles, but to fit it into our limited time allowance I’ve decided to cheat by starting at the top of Wrynose.’

He nodded as if this made sense to him while he worked it out on his mental imprint of the relevant OS sheets. They had climbed out of Grasmere, passing Rigg Cottage en route, and now they were dropping down again. He glimpsed the blue sheet of Elterwater before they entered its tiny village and left it on the Little Langdale road. Soon they were climbing again and now they were on a steep, serpentine single-track road, with intermittent passing places, and viciously demanding on bottom gear both for ascent and descent. This was Wrynose Pass.

He said, ‘This would take us all the way across into Eskdale, right?’

‘Right. It’s the old drove road, of course. Hard Knott dropping into Eskdale’s even worse, I think.’

‘Then I’m glad we’re not going that far,’ he said firmly.

‘Oh I think you should. Halfway up the side of Hard Knott there’s a Roman Fort; perhaps you’ve been there?’

He shook his head.

‘It’s a place to go on a wild winter’s day,’ she said. ‘Almost a thousand feet up in country that’s still wild, so God knows what it was like all those centuries ago; looking out to the west towards a sea which offers only Ireland between you and the limits of habitable creation; thinking of Rome, and Tuscan wine, and the long summer sun, while the sleet blows in your face and you can hear the stones of your castle cracking in the frost during the night watches. You ought to go.’

He looked at her curiously.

‘That was … poetic,’ he said. ‘I’m not being sarcastic either. But why do you insist I ought to go?’

‘No, I don’t really,’ she answered, faintly embarrassed. ‘All I meant was, it must have taken a certain kind of man to survive all that.’

‘And you think I could be such a man?’ he said lightly. ‘Should I be flattered?’

‘I meant I would be interested in hearing you decide whether you could have been such a man,’ she said slowly. ‘As for whether you should be flattered, that depends on what you feel such a man ought to be.’

‘Or had to be,’ he said. ‘Another test?’

She laughed and said with a hint of bitterness, ‘That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

She parked the car by the Three Shires Stone which marked the head of the pass. Their path was clear, the ground firm, the gradients easy, and they walked side by side at a good pace, in a silence which was companionable rather than introspective. The Crinkle Crags, their first destination, at first merely an undulating ridge a couple of miles in the distance, assumed a different aspect as they got near. Instead of a gentle ridge, Jaysmith saw that they did in fact consist of a series of crags, jagged broken buttresses of rock, five in all, each a distinct and separate entity. Their ascent was no more than a pleasant scramble, and moving from one to another was easy enough also. But as Jaysmith enjoyed the exhilaration of the magnificent views, he was aware that this was not a place where he would care to be if the weather closed in and visibility was measured in inches instead of miles. There were precipitous rock faces and narrow steep gullies filled with shattered boulders waiting to crack bones and rip flesh.

They sat on the third Crinkle and drank coffee and looked eastwards. The sun was high in its southern swing and the contours of the fells were picked out in light and shade.

‘My God, it’s beautiful,’ said Jaysmith, almost to his own surprise.

‘You sound as if you’d just noticed,’ laughed the woman.

‘Perhaps I have. I’m still not sure why it’s beautiful, though.’

‘Oh, all kinds of reasons. Space, airiness, sublimity. The sense it gives of something more important than mere human guilts and sorrows.’

She spoke very seriously and her features had slipped back into that ageing watchful look.

‘Oh is that all?’ he mocked. ‘Like marijuana? It’s a long way to walk for a fix.’

It worked. She laughed and lay back, hands clasped behind her head, eyes closed against the light.

‘All right. If you want a purely sensuous explanation, I think it’s something to do with the way the light shows us all the curves and hollows of the slopes. It’s like drapery. Have you never noticed how important that is in painting? As if artists knew that there was some special magic in all that cloth; gowns, dresses, cloaks, curtains, all hanging and trailing in mysterious, fascinating pleats and folds and creases.’

‘Not forgetting sheets,’ he said. ‘And blankets.’

‘That is the kind of art you like, is it?’ she said. ‘That too. And the naked human figures lying on them. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Curves and angles and hollows all washed with light.’

She spoke softly, almost dreamily. It sounded almost like an invitation and he leaned over and kissed her.

He knew at once he had been wrong. Her eyes opened wide with shock and her body stiffened as though holding back from some more violent act of repudiation.

‘Sorry,’ he said, sitting up.

‘No need,’ she replied, quickly regaining her composure. ‘It didn’t bother me. Though a respectable gent like you should be careful.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You may think you can come up here and toy with the milkmaids with impunity. But you’re very exposed. There’s a hundred places where someone could be lying this very moment, drawing a bead on us.’

His eyes flickered round in such alarm that she laughed and said, ‘Hey, I’m joking. You’re not going to turn out to be so important that you can’t afford to be photographed making a pass on a mountain, are you? A mountain pass!’

It wasn’t a very good joke but they both laughed and Jaysmith said, ‘No, I’m not that important.’

She regarded him shrewdly, as if doubting him, then said, ‘No matter. Aunt Muriel will know all about you when you exchange contracts, won’t she? Have you contacted your solicitor yet?’

‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘Actually, he suggests it would be simpler if I got hold of a local man. I don’t think he really believes there’s much law beyond Hampstead. I think he’s probably right, about using a local, I mean. There’ll be searches and things, won’t there? It’d certainly be more convenient. I wondered if you had any suggestions?’

‘Perhaps. But should you be asking me? In a sense, I’m an interested party.’

‘I hope so. But as your interest is to ensure that Miss Wilson’s sale goes smoothly, you’ll be careful to recommend only the best, won’t you?’

‘Are you always so logical?’ she asked.

‘Very occasionally I act on impulse. And, as you’ve just proved, it usually gets me into trouble.’

She was not to be tempted back to that topic. In a swift easy movement she rose and said, ‘Time to go. The hard bit lies ahead.’

The hard bit wasn’t all that hard, a fairly steep pull up the last five hundred feet of Bow Fell after they had descended from the Crinkles. There they ate their lunch and chatted familiarly enough, but still, despite or perhaps because of the kiss, at a level far removed from the centre of either of them. But it was interesting enough for them to linger overlong and Anya, glancing at her watch, said accusingly, ‘You’ve kept us here too long.’

‘I have?’

‘You’re the official timekeeper, aren’t you? Come on. We’ll need our running shoes.’

In fact by dint of skirting the western face of the Crinkles as much as possible, they were able to retrace their steps to Three Shires Stone nearly an hour more quickly than they had come. Jaysmith walked a little behind for much of the way, admiring the easy movement of her athletic body as she set a spanking pace. He had no difficulty in keeping up with it, but he shouldn’t have cared to try to overtake.

She dropped him in Grasmere after a descent of Wrynose he did not care to remember. When he tried to speak as he got out of the car she said crisply, ‘Sorry. I hate being late. I’ll be in touch,’ and drove off without more ado.

A brush-off? he wondered.

He didn’t think so. On the other hand, her reaction to his kiss had not been promising. Perhaps some panic button had been pressed and she was now in full retreat.

He ate his dinner with little appetite and wondered where it was all going to lead. The euphoria of his decision to retire now seemed light years away. Then it had seemed to usher in an Indian summer of careless peace; now new cares seemed to be pressing in on him from all sides.

‘Telephone call for you,’ said Doris Parker as she brought his coffee.

The words filled him with alarm. He was convinced it must be Jacob, so much so that he almost said, ‘Jaysmith here,’ when he picked up the phone. Fortunately twenty years of caution made him growl, ‘Hutton.’

‘You don’t sound happy,’ said Anya. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.’

‘No,’ he said, curt with relief. ‘I’d finished.’

‘Good. I enjoyed our walk today.’

‘Me too. Many thanks.’

‘Were you serious about wanting me to recommend a solicitor?’ she asked.

‘Certainly.’

‘All right. Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Mr Steven Bryant of Bryant & Grose will see you in his office in Keswick. Have you got a pen? I’ll give you his address.’

He noted it down with directions.

He began to thank her but she went on, ‘Afterwards, would you care to have lunch with me? I should warn you that I will be cooking it.’

‘I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,’ he said.

‘No need to be fulsome,’ she said. ‘Goodbye.’

He realized she hadn’t given him directions to her home after he put the receiver down. No matter. Presumably this Mr Steven Bryant would be able to do that, and if not, he was still sure that nothing could stop him finding her.

He took this certainty to bed with him and lay awake for a while, feeling his happiness lapping round his body like the warm waters of an eastern sea. When at last he slipped into sleep, he took his euphoria with him. Soon it developed form and flesh and suddenly it was Anya’s body, lean, brown and naked beneath his, and above them the sharp bright stars of the Lakeland sky.

They wrestled and rolled, locked together in an ecstasy of contact which threatened to climax in death. As they rolled, each gaining the ascendancy in turn, Jaysmith saw that the stars were wheeling too, shifting their positions and relationships, till the familiar pattern of the northern sky was quite destroyed and another pattern, richer in background, softer in glow, but just as familiar, took its place.

And he knew without needing to look that the flesh against his was no longer the lean, brown body of Anya Wilson, but had become softer, rounder, a deep honey gold. And now he wanted to look and he rose on his elbows so that he could see the delicately boned face, the huge dark eyes, the uncertain smile, at once shy and inviting. Her arms were still round his neck, but he wanted to see more and, despite her protest, he pushed himself upright, breaking her grip, and looked down on the slight but exquisitely rounded body, laughing in his turn as her hands flew to cover her peach-like breasts and the velvety darkness between her thighs.

‘I love you, Nguyet,’ he said, letting his tongue relish the strange cadence of the name which was also the Vietnamese word for moon.

Then, smiling, he added, ‘You are my moon,’ but gave the English word the tonal value which turned it into mun, which in her language meant carbuncle. It was an old joke between them and she giggled and gave the ritual reply, ‘And you are my sun,’ turning sun into the verb used to describe the decaying of teeth.

He laughed with her, then laughter left her eyes, driven thence by the cloudy onslaught of desire.

‘Come close, Harry,’ she whispered.

Gladly he stooped to her again, but found he could no longer get close. There were strong hands gripping his arms, voices shouting. He could no longer see her, there was a door between them, the door of her apartment. Despite the strength of those trying to hold him back, he burst through that door. And now he saw her again, still naked, still prostrate, but her eyes now wide with terror, blood caking her flared nostrils and more blood smudging the honey gold of her wide splayed thighs.

The room was full of soldiers who glared at him angrily. One of them, a dog-faced man in a colonel’s uniform, chattered commands. A rifle butt was driven into his kidneys while a hand dug viciously into his mop of hair and dragged him backwards screaming, ‘Nguyet! Nguyet! Nguyet!’ as he woke up.

He flung back the blankets and fell out of the bed like a drunken man. He sat on the floor feeling the cool night air trace the runnels of sweat down his naked body. Last night, Jacob. Tonight, Nguyet. Why was he once again so vulnerable after all these years? He rose and went to the window and pulled back the curtain. Above the shadowy bulk of fells was the high northern heaven, pricked with countless stars. He watched it for a long time, defying it to do its planetarium act again and rearrange its crystal spheres into the lower, richer, warmer maze of the stars above Saigon.

Nothing happened. Why should it? Once again, it was only a dream. He closed the curtain and went back to bed.

He was early for his appointment next day. Keswick was a very small town and Anya’s directions were precise. The offices of Bryant & Grose, Solicitors were on the second floor of an old house now given over entirely to business and commerce. He thought of killing time with another turn round the block but instead he went in and announced himself.

‘Mr Hutton? You’re expected,’ said the young girl in the outer office. ‘Just go right in.’

As he approached the door indicated, it opened and Anya appeared. She stopped on the threshold and smiled at his surprise.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘So you’ve decided to be early this morning? And shaven too! That’s a good sign. I was just on my way to start your lunch, but I might as well introduce you now you’re here. Step inside. I’d like you to meet your new solicitor, Mr Steven Bryant. Oh, by the way, he happens to be my father too!’

She stepped aside as she spoke and started to laugh at the expression on Jaysmith’s face.

‘Don’t look so dismayed,’ she said. ‘It may be nepotism, but he really is the best solicitor I know. Pappy, I’d like you to meet William J. Hutton. I shall expect my usual commission for the introduction. And I’ll see you both in not more than an hour. ‘Bye.’

She left and Jaysmith slowly advanced to take the hand proffered by the man behind the desk.

‘You’ll excuse my daughter, I hope, Mr Hutton,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s so good to see her enjoying a joke, that I can excuse her almost anything.’

‘Of course,’ said Jaysmith. ‘It’s of no consequence.’

But it was of more consequence than he had yet had time to apprehend. And he was very glad that Anya had given him some excuse for this expression of amazement, but it had nothing to do with her revelation that the solicitor was her father.

No, that was wrong. It had everything to do with it.

For the last time he had seen the creased leathery features of the man whose hand he now held had been a week earlier, framed in the usually fatal circle of his telescopic sight.