A Place of Safety (24 page)

In fact, Peter had saved his life more than once. If it hadn’t been for him, Toby would never have survived Cambridge long enough to go to Nepal.

He wished he could bring back a mental picture of Peter in those days. But he couldn’t really remember anything properly now. His mind kept throwing up images of things that hadn’t happened and people who had never existed. Sometimes he had only to shut his eyes now to see Peter on the bridge and himself with a gun in his hand, pointing it at Peter’s head.

How could he have seen that if he hadn’t been there?

And yet he knew he hadn’t been. He hadn’t even known that Peter was in England until Jo had described the man who’d rung the bell that appalling afternoon. And he’d never had a gun.

Or had he?

Toby hit his forehead hard with a closed fist, trying to make his mind work. Logic, reason and sequential thought shattered whenever he tried to take a grip of any of them. And every idea split into a million dangerous glittering shards before he could look at it properly.

There seemed to be lots of versions of himself, too, and he didn’t know which was real and which was just a distorted reflection in one of the glass splinters. Was he the victim or the villain? Had he been the loathsome, lying, pathetic child of all
those old accusations, ruining his mother’s life and causing his father’s death? Or he had tried as hard as he could to do what she wanted, be what she wanted, and put up with her rages as well as he could without crying too much?

Was he Ben Smithlock’s dupe now, or had he somehow called up Ben, like a devil from the hell that was undoubtedly waiting for him when going on living became more frightening than killing himself.

‘“To die”,’ he said aloud, remembering the endless performances of
Hamlet
he’d sat through for one radio arts programme or another. ‘“To die, perchance to dream.” Oh, God forbid!’

He thought that if he could just get the Clouet story straight, and then sleep a night through, he might manage the rest. All he’d retrieved so far was a memory of one winter’s afternoon in Cambridge, when he and Peter had been eating toasted Mother’s Pride and Golden Syrup, of all peculiar things.

Peter had asked him why François Clouet seemed such a good artist to fake. And Toby had started sketching the kind of elegant but empty coloured chalk portrait Clouet had produced, explaining that people had been commenting on the lack of psychological insight in his work since it had first been produced. One papal nuncio had written in the 1570s about his reluctance to send the Pope any portrait with so little individuality.

Clouet had had a huge studio of craftsmen working for him. Anyone with any real talent for drawing could produce a convincing version, Toby had explained, if only he could acquire the right sort of paper and black and red chalk. The black wasn’t charcoal, but a real chalk called carbonaceous shale and it had been found in France.

It was weird how even with his mind splintering on every idea it found, he could remember that: carbonaceous shale found in France. He said it again, like a mantra. Maybe it would straighten the splinters and bring them back together into a
whole. Wasn’t that what a mantra was supposed to do? Peter would know. He’d have learned that much in the ashram.

Peter had watched him draw that afternoon and admired him and told him there was no one like Toby Fullwell in the whole world, and that together they could beat the whole world, let alone Goode & Floore’s.

So why had Peter given all that disastrous information to Ben?

That despairing question suddenly brought all the splinters together, and Toby’s mind began to work again, digging an even bigger, more appalling pit. Had Ben been blackmailing Peter, too, and then had him killed because he’d decided to come clean? Or because he’d come to the end of his usefulness? Did they eventually kill everyone they’d forced into working for them?

Toby could see his own naked corpse toppling over the bridge into the Thames. The new fear made him feel as dirty and despicable as when he’d been shitting and sicking up his life at Peter’s feet in Nepal.

The phone rang, releasing him for a moment. He looked at the mobile and saw Margaret’s number on the small green screen.

Thank God! If he got her back, he might be able to fight the terror and Ben and his memories. Clicking the phone on, he told her he loved her before she could say anything. He heard her gasp, then sniffle a bit. They started to talk properly then, as they had in the old days before Ben had come crashing into their lives. Much later Margaret told him she’d called to remind him about Mer’s school play.

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said. It was a lie, but how could anyone remember something like that in all this?

Two days later, Toby stood once more in the doorway of Goode & Floore’s great saleroom, looking round at the people who were already there and pitying them for their ignorance. Some of his panic was under control now. He had come to understand that if Peter had tried to talk to him about what was happening, then he had probably been talking to other people as well, and that must be why Ben had had him killed. It didn’t necessarily mean he’d kill Toby, too.

Silence might not save him, but telling anyone what was going on would definitely be fatal. If he did exactly what Ben had demanded and then kept his mouth shut, he might have a chance.

He couldn’t see either Henry Buxford or Ben’s dark woman this time, and he couldn’t feel any malign presence whatsoever. Glad of that much, he checked out his usual seat. It was still empty. That had to be a good omen, too.

Today there were fewer people in the room altogether, and a less dramatic atmosphere. It was even more of a help to see that the auctioneer wasn’t Marcus Orgrave. There was a woman on the rostrum, whom Toby had never seen before. He settled back in his chair and waited for lot 65.

Ben appeared just as lot 62 was being knocked down for a respectable enough three hundred thousand pounds. Toby tried to ignore him, but it was all he could do to control his
urge to vomit. Ben positioned himself on the other side of the aisle, three rows ahead. Toby jammed the nails of one hand into the palm of the other and fought to swallow the acrid saliva that kept pumping into his mouth.

‘Here we have a particularly fine portrait by Gerrit van Honthorst. Unrestored and yet in surprisingly good condition, it would represent a major acquisition for any institution or private collector. Who will start the bidding at five hundred thousand pounds?’

Terrified he was going to throw up, Toby made his bids. When the painting was knocked down at last, he got up, not surprised to hear his knees crack. It always happened when he’d been tense.

It was so long since he’d bid successfully for anything that he’d almost forgotten the drill. But he’d have to go down to the office now to settle up and arrange for one of the specialist art moving firms to bring the painting to the gallery. Then he would have to put it in the darkest corner of the storeroom and pray that no one, particularly Henry Buxford, would ever ask why he hadn’t exhibited it.

‘Well done.’ Ben was right behind him, so close that Toby could feel Ben’s breath on his neck. ‘You’re nearly there now.’

He didn’t turn or acknowledge the remark in any way. As soon as he felt Ben leave him, he signed the cheque for the cashier and smiled at her as he handed it over. Turning at last, he saw no sign of Ben and headed in relief for the open air.

He thought he might walk back to Southwark this time. He could do with the exercise, and it might help remind him he was a free man.

There ought to be plenty of time to get home, grab a cheese sandwich and perhaps even a glass of wine, before changing to go to the boys’ school. That would make a fitting celebration. And after the play, he’d bring his family home. Maybe, after all, life could begin again.

 

 

Trish realized she would be in danger of being late for the play if she didn’t get a move on soon and exhorted herself to hurry up in a loud voice. Naturally Robert happened to be passing at exactly that moment.

‘I know, Robert,’ she said. ‘I know. It’s the first sign of madness. Still, at least I’m not looking for hairy palms.’

He was so surprised that she thought of explaining the very mild joke, then decided against it. There wasn’t time. She nipped into the loo before she left chambers and took a few extra minutes to ensure that the edges of her dark hair were sharp and there were no smudges on her face. She’d once been in court with a large dark-grey stripe down one cheek, where she’d rested her face on a hand that was grimed with newsprint. No one had bothered to tell her, but she’d noticed amusement on the faces of everyone around her, including the judge, and wondered why. Today all seemed fine. She added some mascara and a slick of lipgloss and left it at that.

Some of the Blackfriars Prep mothers would be wearing the latest Prada creations, with one or two shining in Escada glamour, but most would have rushed from work and be dressed in dark-grey, black or navy suits like hers.

All the effort on her hair was wasted because it started raining two minutes after she left the building, and she had no umbrella. Halfway to the school already, she thought there was no point going back to beg a brolly off one of the clerks, and so she ran, splashing the puddles up her legs, and arrived with dripping hair and face.

The first person she saw was Paddy, looking uncharacteristically nervous as he hovered outside the school hall, pretending to examine the notice board.

‘Hi,’ Trish said, casually laying a hand on his back. He flinched. Turning to see who had touched him, he glared at her.

‘And I thought you were concerned about my heart, Trish. What are you doing, giving me a shock like that? And why are you looking like something the cat brought in?’

‘Sorry, Paddy. It’s only the rain. How are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ She understood exactly what he meant and was encouraged by the lack of the jokes and Irish accent. ‘He’s a nice child.’

‘So you said. Shall we go in or are we waiting for your fat solicitor?’ Trish didn’t think she had registered her instinctive protest, but her expression must have changed because Paddy went on: ‘Ah, come on now, Trish. ’Tis only like calling him the Fat Controller. Do you not remember how we used to read those train books together when you were little?’

‘I remember,’ she said, tucking her hand into his arm. She wanted to tell him he’d been a good father to her then, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could manage was: ‘It was fun.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘I haven’t thought of
Thomas the Tank Engine
for years. It’s a pity David’s too old for stories like that.’

‘D’you mean you still have the books, Trish?’ It was so unlike Paddy to ask directly for reassurance that she gave it to him at once.

‘Of course. I couldn’t have got rid of them. Or
Sam Trolley.
Do you remember that one? It was about a fireman with his horse-drawn fire engine?’

‘I do. Look, there’s your George.’

Trish squeezed Paddy’s arm before letting go to wave.

‘Jess is here,’ George said. ‘I met her outside, parking the car. She said Caro is tied up but still hoping she might make it before the end of the play. Even if she doesn’t, David should have a pretty good showing. I know Nicky’s planning to come. How are you, Paddy?’

‘Fine. Why don’t you and I go in and see if Nicky’s inside while Trish waits for Jess?’

 

Toby couldn’t believe it. The dark woman was here, still dogging him, and now actually in his sons’ school. Ben had promised he would be free after he’d bought the Honthorst this morning. Like every sucker in the world, Toby had believed what he wanted to believe. Now he knew better. His hands curled into claws as he thought about what he’d like to do to the woman. And her brat.

She was thin and quite fragile looking. It would be easy to lure her on to one of the bridges after dark and just tip her over. But then she’d probably be undrownable, like any medieval witch. She’d need concrete boots or a bullet in the brain like Peter’s to keep her underwater long enough to kill her. And he wasn’t equipped to give her either. Still, he could probably break her neck. Fantasizing about it, seeing her white face bloated and discoloured with the gasses that would distend her drowned body and eventually force it up to the surface, helped to contain his loathing. For now, anyway.

 

Trish could feel Paddy’s nervousness as she sat down next to him. He was almost quivering with it. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. After all, this would be his first sight of his son.

‘He’s not in the first scene,’ she whispered as the curtain went up, hoping to help Paddy relax. He didn’t answer.

She waited for the appearance of Mer Fullwell as the tramp and was surprised by his confident acting. He still had one arm in a sling, and he looked very pale, in spite of the greasy stage make-up someone had applied to his thin face.

Nothing she had heard about him had made her think he’d be capable of doing his stuff in front of a hundred-strong audience like this. But he could have been alone in the big room for all the embarrassment he showed. He knocked at the door of
the banker’s mansion, which was economically suggested by a porticoed doorway painted on wavering canvas.

The boy who answered it and sent him on his way spoke his lines fluently enough, but like the child he was. Mer, on the other hand, had got fully into the skin of his part. Trish wondered whether that came only from skill or whether he had experienced the aching need he was portraying. As the curtain came down, and the audience clapped with encouraging vigour, Trish looked round for Margaret.

There was no sign of her, but Toby was there, only three rows behind Trish’s party. He caught her eye and sent her a look of such hatred that she jerked round in her seat.

‘What’s the matter, Trish?’ Paddy asked, sounding worried.

‘Nothing,’ she muttered. ‘Here we go.’

Mer was back, looking even more abject than before, knocking at a plain blue door. It opened inwards. A light came on and David appeared, with a real dog at his side. He’d told Trish that Mr Mills, the art teacher, was going to bring in his golden retriever and they’d try to use it, but that if it barked too much or widdled on the stage it would have to be taken out.

The dog seemed happy. David kept one hand gripped round the lead, waving the other in the familiar over-stiff gesture. But once he started to speak his lines, he settled into the part. Trish relaxed as the well-known words rang out.

‘You don’t have to mouth them, do you?’ Paddy muttered, making her realize what she was doing. ‘The boy can’t see you from here. And it makes you look ridiculous.’

Trish grinned at him, understanding the anxieties behind his irritated embarrassment. After a moment he nodded and smiled back. At the end of the scene, he said:

‘You’re right. I would have known him anywhere. He looks like the both of us.’

‘Isn’t he brilliant?’ said Nicky, leaning forwards at the far end of the row.

‘Thanks to you and all those rehearsals at home,’ Trish answered, still not sure how to deal with her father’s unusual vulnerability. ‘Paddy, did I tell you there’s to be tea and buns backstage for the cast and parents?’

‘You know you didn’t.’

‘I meant to. Will you stay for it?’

‘So long as you don’t introduce me in any embarrassing way.’

‘Just Paddy Maguire?’

‘Just that.’

Later she was concentrating so hard on the best way of effecting the meeting between David and his father that she didn’t focus on any of the other parents jostling their way towards the queue for the tea table.

‘Ben promised today would be the end of it, so what the fuck are you doing here, you bitch?’ Toby whispered from behind her, spitting out the words so viciously that she could feel flecks of his saliva on the back of her neck.

She looked round and saw that he was standing less than a foot away. His face was contorted and he was shaking. Everyone else shuffled backwards, giving them room.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Trish said in tones that meant what the hell do you think you’re doing?

His eyes were bulging and his face grew even more red. ‘I’ve seen you following me, day after day, but I never dreamed you’d have the cheek to force your way in here, too.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Trish said, facing forwards again and moving nearer the tea table.

He grabbed her wrist and forced her arm up behind her back in a half-nelson. Trying to look back again, she found the constraint meant she couldn’t turn her head far enough to see his face. Was this how he’d broken Mer’s arm?

‘Let me go!’ she said, horrified to realize what she’d risked by getting involved with Buxford and his sodding godson.
Somehow she had to get Toby off her before David saw what was happening and panicked.

‘Only when you promise to keep out of my way,’ Toby hissed. She could feel more of his spittle. He pushed her arm higher up her back and made her gasp. ‘Promise.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ An agonizing pain shot from her upper arm, right across her back and through her neck, as he wrenched it higher still.

‘Promise, bitch!’

‘Stop it!’ shrieked a child.

Trish had a confused view of David rushing past her. She forced her head as far as she could and caught sight of him dragging at Toby’s arm. His head was pressed against Toby’s hand for a second before Trish felt his grip on her wrist let go.

‘The little shit’s bitten me,’ Toby yelled and slapped the boy so hard across the face that he sprawled on the floor. Trish grabbed David, hauled him up and put him behind her, wincing as her wrenched arm jagged again. Standing face to face with Toby, she said very clearly:

‘Keep back. If you don’t back off now, I’ll—’

‘What’s going on?’ George said, shouldering his way through the crowd. ‘Are you all right, Trish?’

‘No,’ she said loudly, before explaining what had happened. ‘Will you sort this man out while I see to David?’

‘Of course. Paddy’s here, too. We’ll deal with this.’

Toby took two steps back as the two tall men closed in on him. Trish could hear David whimpering behind her and turned to take him in her arms. As she hugged him with her good arm, she felt his heart battering and his hands clutching at her back.

‘You can take him into my study,’ said a cool voice behind Trish. A second later, Hester More stood in front of her. ‘He’ll be happier out of this crowd.’