Carnforth's Creation (25 page)

A dream. She is on a grouse moor; wonderful shooting but Roy keeps asking endless questions: Why do the birds keep coming? Every year, bang, bang, bang. Why can’t they learn? ‘Oh do shut-up,’ she cried, seeing empty sky. He started to shake her; wouldn’t stop. ‘Elly, Elly, Elly,’ over and over. When she looked at him, she saw he wasn’t Roy any longer; but Paul.

*

Paul had risen late, breakfasted later, then read for an hour before asking anyone where Eleanor was. Since her return, he had never pressed himself on her unless she had first done something to encourage him. Though knowing that injured pride jostled with common sense in this dispensation he could not do otherwise. Only once before (at Gemma’s hands) had he suffered rejection painful enough to breed similar self-doubts. If Eleanor had loved Roy, and from what she said, this seemed undeniable, the qualities she would have found attractive were not such as
he
could duplicate. Nor was he able to forget that Roy had unlocked a box of bedroom treats, which he had never found the key to.

Shortly before noon, Paul learned that almost an hour ago, Eleanor had left word for him to join her at the pool. Irritated that this message had not been relayed earlier, Paul left the house.

He paused briefly on the terrace and looked across the hazy gardens – the kind of day when the whole countryside seemed drunk with sunshine. Past box hedges, and pergolas heavy with climbing roses, Paul sauntered, coming at last to the paved court by the swimming pool.

Then he saw her.

‘Elly,’ he screamed, ‘Elly, Elly.’ A flailing dash to the spot where she lay. He lifted her by the shoulders, calling her name again and again. His first thought, when able to think at all, was to fetch water to splash on her. Her breathing seemed regular, but she was inexplicably drowsy. The vomit on her dress scared him. His mind seething with nightmares of serious illness, he hurried towards the pool, intent on bringing water. A moment later he stood transfixed, trapped in a sun-soaked vacuum; his breath, heart, everything inside him seemed to pause. Only the pool moved; a faint stirring of the surface by the filter; a gentle circular motion, which imperceptibly turned the body’s head towards him. Paul’s muscles bunched, and flung him forward; he dived,
arrowing
towards the submerged shape, arms surrounding it, feet thrashing the water in frenzied motion.

Without knowing how, he was back on the side, turning
Roy on to his stomach, bearing down on his back with all his weight, pumping, pressing, on and on. And all the time his mind shied from a realization he could not grasp. His teeth began chattering, as the water ran from his clothes. Too exhausted to go on, he had to rest. Then he started sobbing as though he would never stop.

It was no good. But he rolled the body over, and tried to calm himself enough to administer the kiss of life. So
difficult
, the way the mouth sagged open; the flaccid lips giving his own no purchase. But worst of all, were Roy’s staring eyes; inches from his own; already seeming to cloud.

Before abandoning his efforts, Paul noticed a livid
contusion
on the side of Roy’s forehead. Until that moment he had been too shocked to wonder how Roy had come to be in the water. Now, eyes fixed on that cruel swelling, Paul could think of nothing else. An accident? How? Was there any way Roy could have dealt
himself
that
blow? A dive into the pool perhaps; too near the corner, his head hitting the side? But fully dressed? Paul’s knees shook as he straightened, saliva filled his mouth. Eleanor must have done it and left him there.

What else could he suppose? Why else had she been sick and faint? His thoughts were whirling. Random memories: Eleanor’s obsessive belief that his involvement with Roy was sinister. The little God he had ‘created’. If
that
was sinister, what was her so-called love for the poor bastard? Paul sank to his knees; beat his fists on the ground. Destroy the creature to bring down his creator? A spasm of pure terror tightened around his heart. What would anyone think who saw him now? The deceived husband beside the body of his wife’s lover. The blow to the head. His own wet clothes. All the evidence was against him. First the blow; then the struggle in the water; holding the stunned man under.

If he could be calm; if he could only remember why he had once believed so blindly in her ‘love’ for Roy. But now nothing – except the fury she had made him feel. But what did anything matter, set against the fact of Roy’s death, against what she had
done
?
Only
this
exists.
The body, he
thought wildly, looking for a place to hide it.

He was on his feet, dragging it towards the changing hut; much heavier than he had expected. The white and purple shoes were eased from the corpse’s feet, as its heels dragged against the grass,
It
,
it
… not Roy. Nausea again, but he conquered it. He covered him with towels, then blundered out to retrieve the shoes. At any moment someone might arrive from the house; a phone call for her ladyship; luncheon is served. Had anyone but Eleanor known Roy was coming?

Must stop her; gain time. Again he was running. She was leaning against the wall near the gate. He stopped;
wondering
for a moment whether he was seeing her at all. How long had she been there? Had she seen him dragging the body? As he approached, Eleanor murmured indistinctly, ‘Where is he?’

Paul wanted to spring at her and thump her head against the wall. Then, in spite of the horror, he smiled. She hadn’t meant: where is
Roy
? But: where is the
body
? Of course.

‘In the hut,’ Paul told her.

‘What did he say to you?’

‘Have some pity,’ Paul groaned. ‘You know he’s dead … just tell me what you plan telling the police.’

When she started to sob, Paul didn’t try to stop her. Whether it was still shock, or part of her charade, hardly seemed to matter. But when the noise went on, great choking gasps from the pit of her stomach, he seized and shook her. She became quieter; her face as empty as the pale blue sky. He brought his mouth close to her ear.

‘What did you hit him with?’

And then she poured out an incredible, incoherent tale about how he had tried to chloroform her; she’d broken away and ran; he’d hit his head, and fallen in; she’d kept going until fainting.

Even when Paul had found some folded gauze that stank of ether, he felt no happier. The stuff couldn’t be hard to get hold of. What could Roy possibly have hoped to gain by knocking her out? Why had he come straight to the pool
instead of to the house? Unless she had asked him to. Paul remembered the message summoning him. So nicely timed.

She had sunk down on the grass with her back to the wall. Paul sat next to her.

‘Where did you ask him to leave his car?’ he asked quietly.

‘I didn’t ask him to do anything.’

‘It’s not near the house, or I’d have seen it.’

‘He said it was close.’ She tore at the grass and wailed, ‘What does it matter?’

‘You wanted to be alone with him … no interference till I turned up.’ He paused. ‘Let me guess. You’ll have asked him to leave it out of sight … Well?’ She gazed back as if he were mad. Paul leaned closer. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell me why you never told me he was coming?’

‘Because I didn’t know,’ she screamed, scrambling to her feet, and covering her face with her hands. He dragged them away.

‘Suppose what you’ve told me
is
the truth, it isn’t; but let’s suppose it’s what you tell the police. What would they think?’ He could not hold in his rage. ‘That it was the most blatant case of a husband and wife in collusion they’d ever heard. The husband stumbles upon wife and lover; bashes lover on the head. Maybe didn’t intend to finish him off, but does. So he cooks up this rubbish about his wife being chased, and passing out. Reluctantly she agrees to go along with it to save his neck. They get hold of some chloroform; she sniffs enough to give the thing a fraction of conviction …’ He paused for breath; taking in the way she was gazing at him. As if what he had said was so fantastic, so utterly without substance, that he must indeed be out of his mind.

So once again he asked why Roy had come straight to the pool. Once again demanded what possible motive he could have had for wanting her unconscious. But Eleanor only shook her head like a clockwork doll. He couldn’t look at her. ‘You knew all along … knew they’d never swallow a story like that. Knew who they’d go for.’

‘No,’ she screamed, ‘no, no, no,’ blocking her ears like a child in the wrong. And still no answers. Yet, even though so
much was against her story, Paul found himself wavering. The very unlikeliness of it unnerved him. Could she have
invented
anything so improbable? She would tell her story in a coroner’s court, and everyone would think her a heroine – the beautiful wife perjuring herself to save her husband’s skin; though he had killed her lover in front of her. She
couldn’t
have contrived it. Only life itself could make such ironic lunacy credible.

Something on the ground caught his eye – a book. He picked it up and began to laugh, feebly at first, then louder; a life of saintly William Wilberforce.

But while some doubts dispersed, others remained. He could not believe his wife, yet could not
dis
believe her. Longing for certainty, he was denied it. After the frenzy and emotion, he felt tiredness such as he had never known. Everything in him running down, like an engine spluttering on its last dregs of fuel.

Eleanor was pulling at his arm, saying in a small insistent voice, ‘If they
don’t
believe me …?’

‘You know perfectly well,’ he sighed. How pale she had turned: her eyes black holes in a white sheet. ‘They’ll think I did him in,’ he added helpfully. ‘Unless I can make them think you did.’

‘You’ll try to make them think that?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll probably make a straight
confession
.’ He hadn’t thought about his reply, but as soon as the words were out, they sounded right.

‘Can’t we tell the truth?’ she whimpered.

Confused by the change in her, he wondered if he had unwittingly exposed some crucial weakness. He said
patiently
, ‘How do I begin to sound convinced when I’m not?’

Suddenly she stumbled towards him. ‘I didn’t do this to you, Paul.’

He held her and said nothing. In spite of the sun, he was shivering again. ‘This isn’t happening,’ she moaned. ‘Tell me it isn’t.’

He stroked her hair gently. ‘Let’s get it over and phone them.’

She backed away from him. ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘You made him what he was. You must get rid of him.’

‘Dispose of the body?’ He couldn’t believe he had heard her right. Hope blazed through him. ‘You’ll allow that?’

She was nodding vehemently. ‘Couldn’t you bury him miles away? Nobody knows he came.’

As if an iron door had swung open, he could see light again. No … if Roy simply disappeared they’d go on searching, questioning; on and on till they found a body. Then dump him somewhere? But – chlorine in his lungs; drowned in a swimming pool. Which of his friends had swimming pools? What were their relations with him? The thoughts came so fast Paul was dazed. The car too … Make things harder for them; dump it in some busy part of London. The body somewhere else. But his lungs. He heard Eleanor’s excited voice.

‘You’ll find a way, Paul. You always do when you want things enough.’ She was squeezing his hand; imploring him, ‘You told Roy to make love to me … wanted it over when I got involved.
Over
? My God! You can do anything, Paul.
Anything
.’

‘Please,’ he begged her, trying to concentrate. Perhaps Roy bought petrol on the way down. A pump attendant would probably remember the car, even if he hadn’t
recognized
its owner. Without a word to Eleanor, he ran to the hut. The keys … could have fallen in the pool. He found them in a pocket. With great difficulty he heaved the body from the floor into the locker. They’d have to go back to the house; have lunch as usual. When did rigor mortis start? He opened the locker and folded Roy’s arms across his chest; the legs were reasonably straight. If the fuel gauge was low, they could presume he hadn’t filled up en route. But no time to check now. At lunch they would announce their intention of going to town that evening; leave in his own car; then come back after nightfall for Roy’s car, and for his body. Too risky to try moving the Cobra now; have to gamble on it being well-hidden.

He felt sick again and leaned against the wall. Towels all
over the place. Looked wrong. He bundled them into the locker, then stopped. Her dress. Can’t go into the house with it in that state. A towel over her shoulders to cover it. He didn’t want to open the locker again, but forced himself. Only a fraction of a second to snatch one out, but long enough to note the change in Roy’s skin, the creeping blueish tinge; the dullness of his eyes. He slammed the lid, and ran.

On their way to the house, Eleanor insisted on talking, as urgently as if her life depended on it, while all he thought of was that dead face. Paul made no sound though his whole body was shaking. The day they had recorded
Image
Man
; the first concerts;
Getting
Clever
. Eleanor was saying, ‘You don’t believe
me
, but can I be sure
you
didn’t find him still alive?’ A pause. ‘Don’t care for that, do you? That’s what it’s like for me when you keep doubting. That way you look at me, as if I’d somehow beaten you. I can’t take that, Paul, just can’t. It’s too cruel.’

He did not answer; a new thought tormented him. Should he have tried the kiss of life
first
? Had he done it right? The nostrils should be blocked … but had they been?

‘Did you hear me at all?’ she cried. ‘Maybe it’s what you wanted all along … the day reality finally blew apart …
ended
.’ She started to run, but he soon caught up.

‘Elly,’ he murmured, ‘plenty of time to talk about it; years and years.’ He took her arm firmly. ‘
Your
help
: that’s all I need today.’