A Poisoned Mind (24 page)
Almost at once she felt George’s hands around her waist and leaned back against him, grateful for the sense of solid safety he could always give her.
‘What a good thing I made it out of the office sooner than I expected,’ he said into her ear, brushing the skin with his lips. ‘D’you want me to take over?’
‘I’m nearly there. But you could make the cheese sauce if you wanted.’ She waved her knife at the vegetables. ‘For our old standby pie.’
‘Sure,’ he said, not moving. ‘In a minute. This feels great.’ He kissed her hair.
‘I loved your text.’
‘Good. You did a fantastic job. My mother phoned and is nearly as besotted with you as I am.’ He tightened his arms and kissed her again. ‘I ought to be taking you out for the grandest possible dinner tonight, not making you cook.’
She finished chopping with the warmth of him pressed against her back. She wanted to say something about the pleasure of it, how this simplicity did more for her than any multi-rosetted restaurant. But putting her feelings into words might make them sound fake, and she trusted him enough now to be pretty sure he would know what she wasn’t saying.
At last he unplastered himself from her back and set about making the sauce with his usual economy of movement and effort. Although the kitchen was tiny compared with the rest of the flat, a galley only six feet wide, they managed to work around each other, only touching on purpose.
When the pie was safely in the oven, George filled a couple of wine glasses from a newly opened bottle of Californian Pinot Noir and suggested they take them upstairs so their chat wouldn’t disturb the boys’ work.
In Trish’s bedroom, propped up on piles of the softest pillows, they sipped the light fruity wine and swapped news.
‘Have you ever come across Carl Bianchini?’ Trish asked, putting down her glass. ‘A solicitor in his thirties.’
‘Can’t say I have. Why? Or can’t you say?’
‘Better not. For the moment anyway.’ She squeezed his hand. He used his free one to smooth the hair away from her forehead, letting one large finger rest on the space between her eyebrows.
‘Don’t frown. It can’t be that bad, whatever it is.’
She laughed. ‘It isn’t. I still forget sometimes and crunch up my forehead without meaning anything by it.’
He kissed her, then pulled back so sharply she was worried.
‘My mama thinks you’re too thin, although she approves of the way you do your hair now, and …’
Trish laughed.
‘ … and she’s afraid I can’t be treating you right. I think she was a bit embarrassed that I made you go all that way for something so trivial.’
‘She doesn’t ask for much, and it was easy today.’ Was this the moment to embark on a conversation about Henry? ‘George—’
A shout from downstairs interrupted them.
‘Trish? When’s supper? We’re starving.’
‘So what’s new?’ she murmured, before raising her voice to suggest that the boys should lay the table. Swinging her long legs off the bed, she added more quietly: ‘I suppose we’d better go down. Are you staying tonight, or is Fulham calling? You’ve hardly had any time there at all since Jay first came here.’
He grabbed her hand, holding her back. She looked down at his face and read the answer in his expression.
‘Good,’ she said, wondering as so often before when they’d rationalise their eccentric arrangement and actually live together in the way ordinary people did.
When Angie’s train eventually limped into the station 300 miles from London, it was twenty-five minutes late. Polly, like the good friend she’d always been, was waiting patiently under the wooden canopy that provided the only shelter on the small wind-blown platform. She was wearing her habitual uniform of brown corduroy trousers, washed into softness over many years, gum boots and ancient green Barbour.
Angie hauled her suitcase down on to the platform, balanced it then turned to kiss Polly. After all Fran’s habitual stroking and hugging, she’d forgotten that up here you didn’t fling yourself into an old friend’s arms just because you were pleased to see them.
‘It’s been bad, hasn’t it?’ Polly said, which came to much the same as a passionate embrace.
‘Fairly awful, yes. It’s good to be back. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long.’
‘Come on.’
Even the rattling, battered old Land Rover was a welcome change. Polly drove as she always did, as though both the machine and the road were hostile, to be tamed only by those prepared to ignore their challenges and fight
to the last drop of blood. Angie was amazed the engine and gears had lasted this long. She felt her teeth banging against each other and was glad they had only eight miles to go.
to the last drop of blood. Angie was amazed the engine and gears had lasted this long. She felt her teeth banging against each other and was glad they had only eight miles to go.
After the wild ride, the silence of the ancient stone farmhouse was a relief. Bill greeted her with a barely noticeable nod, then a gesture that offered to carry her case upstairs. Angie, twenty years younger if less fit these days, couldn’t have let him. In any case, she wanted a moment or two to herself. Polly told her which room had been made ready and said supper would be on the table in ten minutes.
‘Mutton stew,’ she said as Angie returned to the kitchen, carrying the two bottles of wine she’d brought from London. ‘That’s kind. Put them on the dresser, will you? They’ll be good at Christmas, won’t they, Bill?’
Her husband grunted amiably enough and rubbed both knarled hands through his sparse white hair.
Angie, who’d hoped for a decent drink tonight, reluctantly did as she was told. The stew was good and they ate in companionable silence. Bill’s eyelids were already looking heavy as he finished his plateful and they closed completely a moment after he’d put down his cutlery.
‘See,’ Polly said quietly.
Her own round red face showed all the marks of exhaustion in deep brown crescents under her eyes, dragged lips and deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth.
‘It’s all too much for him now. So if you really can look after the house and the food and the visitors, I can help a bit outside.’
‘Of course. Will I wake him if I clear now?’
‘Nothing will wake him now, but you don’t have to work on your first night.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Angie looked straight at her. ‘I’d like to tell
you how much this means, Polly, but if I do I’ll cry, so I’d better leave it to your imagination. Is that all right?’
you how much this means, Polly, but if I do I’ll cry, so I’d better leave it to your imagination. Is that all right?’
A softening in Polly’s weathered face told Angie she’d done the right thing, and without another word, she carried the dirty dishes to the sink and turned on the taps.
‘Did you see Adam while you were in the south?’ Polly asked from behind her nearly ten minutes later.
Angie stilled, with her hands in the sudsy water. ‘I did. But how did you know?’
‘He lives down there, doesn’t he? Near Brighton?’
‘Yes, but … How d’you know? When did you last see him?’
There was a pause, then Polly said in an unconvincingly casual tone: ‘It must have been eighteen months ago. Not long before the explosion, anyway. He came wanting to make peace.’
‘Peace with you?’
‘Don’t be daft. With you and John. I would have told you except he begged me not to say anything on the night he came back here and said he hadn’t been able to make himself knock on your door.’
‘Came
back
here?’ Angie repeated, feeling like a witless parrot. ‘D’you mean he stayed with you?’
back
here?’ Angie repeated, feeling like a witless parrot. ‘D’you mean he stayed with you?’
‘Yes. He booked himself in by phone and arrived like any other walker.’
Angie leaned against the hard cold edge of the ceramic sink, knowing she had to ask the next question and terrified of the answer.
‘When was it, Polly?’ she whispered eventually. ‘I mean exactly.’
‘I can’t remember the actual date, but it’ll be in the visitors’ book. As I said, it wasn’t long before John died.’
There was a silence, broken only by Bill’s snores. ‘I’ve been sad ever since that they didn’t talk. A man shouldn’t die thinking he’s lost his only son when he hasn’t.’
There was a silence, broken only by Bill’s snores. ‘I’ve been sad ever since that they didn’t talk. A man shouldn’t die thinking he’s lost his only son when he hasn’t.’
The tears Angie had been so keen to avoid were slipping down her cheeks, making her need to sniff. Fran would have been full of strokings and murmurs of comfort and clean handkerchieves and special herbal remedies for distress. Polly’s sympathy was expressed in silence and by keeping her back to Angie while she got herself under control.
Wind rattled the windowpanes and boomed in the chimney. Bill’s snores built up towards a shattering climax, then stopped.
‘Wha … What’s going on?’ His voice was thickened and hoarse.
‘You woke yourself up,’ Polly said. Angie could hear that she was smiling from the way her voice lilted just a little. It was full of affection. ‘Just in time for a cup of tea before bed.’
‘I’ll make it,’ Angie said, shaking the greasy water off her hands and wondering how she was ever going to walk back into court to fight for damages from Clean World Waste Management now.
‘There’s a hand-delivered letter for you.’ Steve’s voice caught Trish as she passed the clerks’ room on Friday morning.
Still feeling sleek and sorted from last night, she stopped and took four steps backwards to look through the open door.
‘In your pigeonhole.’
‘But no brief yet?’ she said. Seeing him smile, she braced herself for a sententious quotation from his latest hero.
‘“Our patience will achieve more than our force.”’
‘Oh, very good! Burke again, I take it?’
‘Naturally.’
‘I sometimes wonder how you ever sleep with all this learning by heart you make yourself do, Steve. See you later.’ She scooped her letters from the pigeonhole and took them to open in private.
The handwritten letter proved to be from Jeremy Black, once more sent tactfully to chambers so that the sight of it wouldn’t worry David.
Dear Trish,
I thought you should know the general feeling at the governors’ meeting last night was that we should accept your generous offer to fund half of Jay Smith’s school fees for the next four years. We have not yet said anything to him because we still haven’t seen enough evidence of sustained good behaviour, but we have all been impressed with the increasing quality of his homework. The latest essay, written the night before the unfortunate incident involving his mother, has real quality about it.
So much improved was it, in style, content and general thoughtfulness that his history teacher was worried that David might have had a hand in it, but comparison of the two pieces of work has shown no similarities at all. We are as grateful to you and David as Jay’s family must be.
I should, of course, be glad if you would keep this development to yourself until we can be sure that Jay can keep up the improvement.
With best wishes,
Jeremy Black
Trish refolded the single sheet and tucked it into her handbag. There had been many times since she’d made the offer when she’d regretted it, but the principle still stood. Offering Jay a chance of escaping his miserable background and then ripping it away would have been cruelly unfair.
Walking into the British Library’s courtyard twenty minutes later on her way to meet Carl Bianchini, Trish took a moment to look around. This was her first visit. After all the grim press reports she’d read as she grew up about the great building’s construction and ugliness, she hadn’t expected anything like this airy space with its monumental Paolozzi bronze and spindly trees, or the satisfying proportions of the unusual red-brick terraced building ahead of her.
There was a helpful map just inside the door and she had no trouble finding the café, but she couldn’t see anyone who looked like her quarry. She was reaching for a salad from the counter when she heard a tentative voice saying her name. Looking round, she recognised Bianchini at once from the Pathfinder photograph.
She could see exactly why his Law College friends had described him as ‘sad’. There was something old-fashioned about his spectacles and the way he’d brushed back his dry, receding hair. His eyes held a defeated look, too, as though he were readying himself to endure the next practical joke in a long and brutal series.
Trish ignored her tray in order to shake hands. Selecting their food and then arguing politely about who would pay for it helped build the first bridge between them. She won the argument easily.
‘So, how is it you think I can help you?’ he asked when they were sitting opposite each other.
She told him about Jay and what she hoped to make Blackfriars School do for him, seeing Bianchini nod at intervals, as though the story fitted with what he already knew of troubled, dangerous boys. Then out of nowhere came a confession that surprised her as much as him.
‘And I so hate the thought of what he goes through at home,’ she said, ‘that I’ve been wondering whether I ought to offer to foster him as well. What do you think?’
‘Why on earth should you?’ Bianchini’s impatience shocked her into letting out more of the ideas she’d been ignoring.
‘Because I’ve interfered,’ she said, facing some of them at last. ‘And made him trust us. How can I go on sending him back to his ghastly brother and useless mother?’
He took a moment to consider, forking bean salad into his mouth. When he’d swallowed, he said:
‘There aren’t many people who’d even help pay for a decent education. There’s no reason why you should worry …’ He paused. ‘No, that’s not what I mean: everyone should worry. But you’re not responsible for his home life. Quite frankly you’d be mad to take him in.’
Trish nodded. She knew that. But it didn’t help.
‘Have you any idea of the
risk
?’ he went on in spite of her agreement.
risk
?’ he went on in spite of her agreement.
‘Yes.’
‘With a background like his, he’s always going have issues, always be challenging. With a job as demanding as yours, you couldn’t begin to give him what he needs.’
Trish ignored the remains of her salad. She couldn’t eat with all this going on. The café was filling up as the time edged towards one o’clock. There’d soon be far too many eavesdroppers to make any of her other questions safe.
‘Isn’t the mind weird?’ she said, moving towards them fast. ‘I thought I was perfectly happy with what I’ve been doing for Jay. Now I find my subconscious telling me it’s not nearly enough. I suppose you must have been through the same sort of thing.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘According to the papers you gave up a lot of money to work in the charity sector. There must have been a pretty good reason.’
Bianchini’s smile died away to nothing, and his forehead corrugated in a frown even more intense than any of hers.
‘There was. I told you on the phone: my wife’s ill. We have two children. I had to have more time at home.’
‘I’m sorry. Is it serious?’
‘She has some form of ME. Completely debilitating. I couldn’t go on working in a job that demands 24/7 commitment. That’s all. There’s no mystery about it.’
Now she understood his air of waiting for another blow. She’d seen it before in carers who spent their lives fighting their own resentments as hard as the hatred they received in return for the care they gave.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, meaning it.
‘Thanks.’
‘But in the circumstances it must have been very hard to leave just before your company went public.’ Trish watched his changing expressions and almost gave in. This was no Ben Givens, ready to respond to a difficult question with a threat. This was a man who looked as if the next practical joke had now been played on him.
‘I mean, you must have been in line for a considerable profit,’ she said, driving on only because she had no choice. ‘Or do you have options you can still exercise?’
He drained his water glass and looked around for an excuse to leave. She began to eat again, as slowly as she dared, assuming he wouldn’t go while she was actually chewing.
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t move either. When she risked another glance, she saw him jiggling in his chair as though longing to leave but kept there by something even more important.
‘I suppose I’ve been more than usually interested in the GlobWasMan IPO,’ she said, ‘because I remember hearing about the libel case last year, when Ben Givens did so incredibly well for you.’
‘Nothing to do with me, any longer. I have
nothing
to do with anyone in that company,’ he said with enough passion to make himself sound a little tougher and her to feel less like a bully.
nothing
to do with anyone in that company,’ he said with enough passion to make himself sound a little tougher and her to feel less like a bully.
‘Then there was a diary item about you only yesterday,’ she added, ‘suggesting that someone – you or one of the directors – had ulterior motives for your departure.’
Suspicion made his dark eyes harden. She thought she’d better add a distraction.
‘What was Givens like to work with? I’ve always thought he sounded very tough.’
Consulting his watch, Bianchini muttered something about having to get going. Time to gamble, Trish thought.
‘You look to me like a man who wants to talk,’ she said in her cosiest voice.
‘I can’t think what gave you that impression. I want nothing less.’ He no longer looked at all defenceless. ‘I must get back to work. Thank you for lunch. I’ll talk to my colleagues about your protégé. If any of them come up with anything, I’ll be in touch. Assuming you really are looking for help for him.’
‘I really am. Here’s my mobile number,’ she said, scribbling it on a paper napkin. Rather to her surprise, he took it.
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