Heartbreaker (51 page)

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Authors: Susan Howatch

Tags: #Psychological, #Romance, #Suspense, #General, #Fiction

BOOK: Heartbreaker
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He stabs me between the shoulder blades.

I feel only a slight prick so I know I’m okay. Thank God I’m wearing a thick jacket. The nick’s a shock but I recover pretty damn quick—have to, because the bastard’s all set to cut me again.

This time I make no mistake. I punch him squarely on the jaw. Brilliant! He collapses, passes out. I kick him to make sure he’s stopped faking, and then I kick him again, bloody hard, to relieve my feelings. But after that it’s time to retrieve the keys. I’m about to shoot up to my room when I remember how he must have Chubb-locked the front door, and on searching his pockets I turn up Elizabeth’s keys. Bingo! Yet with the Chubb lock cracked I hesitate. That knife of Asherton’s is evidence and I’ve still got time to bag it—Tommy and the Big Boys will be galumphing around all the gardens in the block for some while yet.

Darting into the kitchen I draw a rubber glove over my right hand, tear off a strip of paper towel and return to the knife which I then wrap and drop in the shopping bag along with the Tucker tapes.

Time to leave.

Into the boot of the car go the suitcase and the shopping bag. Into the ignition goes the key. I’m off, I’ve done it, I’ve won.

I’m so awash with euphoria that I don’t at first notice the odd crawling sensation in my back where I’ve been pinked. I’m also too busy trying to work out what to do next. It would be crazy to join Susanne right now at Norah’s house—Elizabeth’s probably waiting there. She won’t want to be present at the Pain-Palace when the snuff movie’s shot, too risky, but she’ll be looking forward to a fun time later with the video. I can just see her relaxing on the sofa with an open box of chocolates beside her as she sips one of those liqueurs which look like sewage.

Once I’m over Lambeth Bridge I park on Horseferry Road, transfer my mobile from my suitcase to the driver’s seat and call Susanne to tell her what’s happened, but as the bell rings unanswered I remember her plan to leave Alexis at the cattery. Bloody hell. As I abandon the phone pain shoots through my shoulder and my shirt feels as if it’s glued to my skin. I twist my other arm behind my back to try to get a fix on the damage and my fingers come back red. Bugger it! The bastard’s knife must have gone deeper than I thought. Funny how I barely felt it.

The next thing I know I’m starting to feel wuzzy. God, that’s all I need! But the odds are the wuzziness isn’t the result of the pinking but of poor nutrition. What I need to do now is drive to the shops on Warwick Way and buy a takeaway to boost my energy levels.

But when I switch on the engine again I know I’m too wuzzy to drive even up the road into Pimlico. I’ll have to get a cab, but I hate to leave a Jaguar on the street at night in an area full of low-income housing. I don’t want a thief nicking the steel box once he’s popped the boot.

Then I have a bright idea. I’m not far from the Houses of Parliament, an area brimming with security cameras. If I could somehow . . .

I get there. By making an enormous effort I reach Great College Street, which runs alongside a patch of lawn known as College Green. It’s where the TV news people interview all those politicians. There’s even an NCP car park underneath it—nice for the Jaguar, but I decide I have to stick to my plan to park on the street. If I go underground I might be too wuzzy to walk back up again.

It’s too late for the parking restrictions to be operating so I drop the Jag on a yellow line right by the lawn. Great. But when I try to get out of the car I see to my horror that blood’s been pooling in the driving seat. I do manage to stand upright, but when I nearly black out I slump back into the seat again. What do I do? There are no people around. The tourists are all bobbing around the West End rip-off joints by this time, and there are no TV cameras operating tonight on College Green.

I pick up my mobile again. What I’ve got to do is keep calling Susanne, but I’m having difficulty pushing the buttons. Bad news. My situation’s getting trickier by the second. I wish I had some water. My mouth’s gone bone-dry.

I manage to dial Susanne’s number again but she’s still not there.

I’m not doing at all well now. Breathing hurts. God, if that swine winds up killing me I’ll—but no, I’ve got to live, there’s so much to live for, I must think of dancing with Susanne, I must think of The Bloke busting a gut to reel me in after my searing encounter with the mega-shark.

Remembering that I have to
work
at being rescued I say urgently: “What shall I do?” and straight away The Bloke snaps back: “Call Nicholas.” This is a smart response, but there’s a snag: I don’t know the Rectory number. I try to remember how to get hold of Directory Enquiries, but I can’t. Never mind, doesn’t matter, The Bloke’s yelling at me to call Carta instead. He knows I never forget any of
her
numbers. He’s made sure they’re all engraved on my heart.

I go for her mobile and she picks up at once.

“Carta!” I say, trying to sound loud and clear, but my voice comes out as a whisper.

“Who’s this?”

“Gavin. Emergency. Asherton’s stabbed me. Listen, take down this number—” I name the figures, using all my mental strength to get them in the right sequence. “It’s my friend Susanne’s number,” I say. “I’m getting out of the Life tonight and she’s coming with me to St. Benet’s. Tell her—tell her—”

“Yes, yes—go on, Gavin, go on—”

“Tell her I’m parked on College Green—the grassy bit—opposite the Houses of Parliament—she’ll sort everything out—”

“College Green—Parliament—”

“And Carta—one more thing in case I don’t make it—”

“Yes, I’m here, I’m here—”

“My Elizabeth . . . Your Elizabeth . . . One and the same,” I whisper, and then the phone slides sideways against the steering wheel as I pass out.

The next thing I know I’m in one of those weird white vans, the ones which wail as they swoop through the streets, they have a special name but I can’t think what it is. I want to open my eyes again but someone’s just put lead weights on them—or so it seems—and when I remember the old custom of putting coins on the eyes of people who have died I suppose I have to be dead too—and I want to be angry that Asherton’s killed me, but anger takes energy and I’ve no energy left to do anything but breathe.

Later the swaying and the wailing stop and I’m borne into a very bright building—I still can’t open my eyes but I’m aware of the change in temperature as I go indoors and I’m aware of the light beyond my eyelids and I’m aware of running footsteps and the buzz of voices and the drone of a public address system, though I can’t understand what’s being said. Someone starts to manhandle me and I get the idea it’s a punter—I’m so worried that I won’t have the strength to tell him I’m not seeing clients today, but this is no punter, his hands are kind, and when I at last manage to open my eyes a fraction I see everything’s white, there are white walls and white lights and people in white coats, and I’m hooked up to a line, it looks so weird, particularly as I can’t remember what happened, I’m so disorientated . . . But suddenly I understand. This is the last stage of the journey to the shore. I’ve got past the shark-infested waters, and now all The Bloke’s people have run into the surf to help pull me the last yards to the beach.

Finally one of The Bloke’s people, the leader of the surfers, says: “He’ll do. But keep the police out, he can’t be questioned yet.” And a woman asks: “What about that clergyman?”

“Clergyman!” I shout—or I think I shout but in fact I can’t speak and all I can do is listen to the leader saying briefly: “No visitors till tomorrow.” Then I’m whisked away somewhere not so bright. “Clergyman!” I shout again in my head. “Clergyman!” but still the word doesn’t get spoken aloud so no one takes any notice.

At that point I’m borne down a long corridor—or maybe it’s a tunnel, and my spirits rise because at the end of it I can see a brilliant white light, far more brilliant than any light I’ve ever seen. I think: this has to be The Bloke, has to be. And I’m so excited. But the next moment the light’s fading into a mist and the walls of the tunnel are melting away and I know it isn’t the time to see The Bloke as he really is. “But I’m with you always,” he says to me. “I’ll come to meet you again and again through other people.” And I know this’ll be true because this is what he’s already been doing. Then I see not only Richard, his eyes bright with love as we sail past the Needles, not only Carta, symbolising a world I long to recapture, not only the St. Benet’s people all rising to their feet as I enter the room, but Nigel telling me to come out of denial and Susanne showing me the power of the human spirit when we dance at the Savoy. And as I think of Susanne and me, somehow being enabled to care for each other despite the soul-destroying abuse we’ve endured, I see the giant forces of joy, truth, beauty and love merge in a huge blaze of colour which blots out the dark yet draws all the blackness back into itself so that everything is finally subsumed in that triumphant blaze and redeemed.

I say to The Bloke: “If you’re with me always, why haven’t I seen you before?” and he answers: “You always overlooked my footprints in the sand.” Then I realise I’m back on the shore, the shore of the life I was designed to live, the shore I left behind when I went swimming in the dark and dangerous sea, but now the sand’s all scuffed up from the surfers and although I look for the special footprints I can’t find them. So I say: “Where are the footprints you made when you stood on the beach just now and watched your people rescue me?” and he answers: “I wasn’t standing on the beach then. I was in the sea alongside you, I was with the others as we finally rescued you, and we all struggled together up the beach as we carried you to safety.”

I open my eyes. I want to know what safety looks like. I want to see the dawn of my new life.

I discover I’m in a small room with various tubes connecting me to machines. Sunlight’s streaming through the window and falling on the man sitting at my bedside.

The stranger’s a policeman, yawning over his notebook, but before I can speak to him the door opens and The Bloke walks in. He’s dressed up as Nicholas Darrow but of course it’s The Bloke, performing his usual trick of manifesting himself through someone else.

“You found me,” I say. “I was so lost but you never stopped looking.”

The Bloke smiles and asks me how I feel.

“Pretty beat up,” I confess. “I’m not sure I can walk yet.”

In another dimension of reality The Bloke smooths my bedraggled fleece before tucking me up on his shoulder and reaching for his shepherd’s crook. But in this dimension of reality The Bloke just takes my hand in his and says: “You’re going to be all right, Gavin. You’re coming home.”

PART THREE

Coming Home

Mud and Stars
A report of a working party
consisting mainly of doctors, nurses and clergy

Destructive memories frequently stem from repressed unresolved anger about emotional hurts in the past . . . The healing of memories does not erase the memories, indeed it commonly serves to bring them into consciousness, but their meaning is changed and their sting withdrawn. The memories become accepted and integrated into the person’s total life. The basis of this healing is forgiveness—forgiving the person responsible for the hurts . . .

CHAPTER ONE

Carta

For many people a sense of closure is very important.

A Time to Heal
A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS
ON THE HEALING MINISTRY

People attack in others the faults which they suppress in themselves . . . Therefore conflict has a voice. We learn most from the people who threaten us most, and from the things which we abhor and reject.

Mud and Stars
A REPORT OF A WORKING PARTY CONSISTING
MAINLY OF DOCTORS, NURSES AND CLERGY

I

Gavin survived his stabbing. In my relief I thought his troubles would now be over, but I was wrong. His physical recovery might have been under way but mentally, emotionally and spiritually he was still crippled, and the next stage of his journey towards healing was in many ways even more hair-raising than those final days of his old life. Why didn’t I realise this would be so? Because, as usual, I was too spiritually stupid to see the situation in all its dimensions. And also because at the time of the stabbing I was so euphoric at the thought of Mrs. Mayfield finally being brought to justice . . .

II

Mrs. Mayfield was at first not to be found, but the police arrested Asherton on the night Gavin was stabbed, and they searched his house before all the evidence of his criminal activities could be destroyed. I made sure of that; I told the police exactly what Gavin had said to me before he passed out.

As for Gavin himself, he remained in intensive care for several hours after the stabbing, and apart from the police only Nicholas, pushing his special status as a clergyman, was allowed to see him. But on the following afternoon the ban on visitors was lifted and Nicholas suggested to me that we go together to the hospital after work. By that time I was incapable of working anyway. Quite apart from the fact that I was beside myself in case Gavin had a relapse and died, I was also in a frenzy about Mrs. Mayfield. The police had searched both her Lambeth house and the Pimlico house that belonged to her close friend, but to my horror she once again appeared to have vanished without trace.

On reaching the ward we learned that Gavin was only allowed one visitor at a time, and Nicholas, who had seen Gavin that morning, suggested that I should be the one who went in first. I had bought a small bunch of flowers, nothing overpowering, but as soon as I entered the room I realised they would be almost invisible beside the enormous cluster of chrysanthemums which were glowering in a corner. This lavish display had obviously been organised by the mysterious Susanne, Mrs. Mayfield’s secretary, whom Gavin was now claiming as a friend. I had not yet met this female. Lewis had collected her in his car on the previous evening and she was now staying at the Rectory, but when I had arrived at my office that morning I was told she had already departed for the hospital. I was now braced to meet her, but a nurse informed us that “Gavin’s girlfriend” had gone down to the cafeteria to get some food.

I was unsure what the word “girlfriend” meant in this situation, and I found it strange he had never mentioned her. I had questioned Nicholas but he had been vague. However, Alice had been more forthcoming, and when she had told me Susanne liked cats and seemed a little shy, I had at once pictured a mousey little fluffette with a crush which Gavin had been able to manipulate to his own advantage.

“In you go, Carta,” Nicholas was saying as we reached the small sideward where Gavin was recuperating. “Remember, don’t press him for information—he’ll have had enough of that from the police.”

In I went. Immediately Gavin, ashen-faced and hooked up to various lines, opened his eyes and drawled: “So what kept you?”

We laughed, but then I found I had nothing to say. A shaft of emotion converted me into the dumbest of dumb blondes, and the next moment I saw that he too could find no words to express his feelings. The mask of the debonair hero slipped and I saw only his fragility. There were shadows like bruises below his eyes.

He stretched out his hand and I clasped it as I set aside my flowers and sat down on the bedside chair. “In the end,” he said after a while, “yours were the only phone numbers I remembered—and you wouldn’t have given them to me, would you, if I hadn’t done the fundraising . . . Yeah, it’s all been part of the journey, hasn’t it, that journey you mentioned when I didn’t want to listen. Look, I’m sorry I just treated you as shag-meat in the beginning, I didn’t realise you were a gift—a life-saving gift, as it turns out—”

“You were a gift too, Gavin, identifying Mrs. Delamere as Mrs. Mayfield.”

“Mrs. Mayfield!” he said with scorn, but I noticed how he looked away as if fearful he might betray the complexity of his emotions. “Hey, did they nick her yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you about her, but I loved her and I thought she loved me.”

“I understand,” I said, but I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine him loving Mrs. Mayfield, and to distract myself I asked: “Why did you never mention Susanne?”

“We hated each other till last weekend. I hated her because unconsciously I was jealous—she’d got out of prostitution and I hadn’t. And she hated me because unconsciously I reminded her of the way she used to be.”

From some distant corner of the past I remembered Nicholas—or was it Lewis?—saying to me: “We hate and fear in others the faults we unconsciously hate and fear in ourselves.” Enlightenment overpowered me. I think I even gasped.

“What’s the matter?” said Gavin at once.

“I’ve had a revelation. About Eric.”

“Oh him! You know, you could do better for yourself, you really could—you should marry someone truly amazing, like Nicholas.”

I got a grip on my cosmic thoughts. “Nicholas?” I yelped. “A clerical workaholic long on charisma but short on spare time? No, thanks!”

Nicholas chose that moment to look into the room. “The nurse says keep it brief, Carta.”

“I’m out of here.” I gave Gavin’s hand another squeeze. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be back,” I said, and blowing him a kiss I slipped away into the corridor.

III

I was still waiting for Nicholas to finish his visit when I heard the clack-slap of high-heeled boots ploughing purposefully down the corridor, and the next moment a tall, tarty-looking piece had planted herself in front of me. “You Carta Graham?”

“Uh—”

“You the one who dragged Gavin into all that fundraising crap and nearly got him killed?”

“I—”

“Well, great! He needed a wake-up call to get him out of the Life. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said, silently cursing Alice for making me expect a shy little fluffette, and added in my politest voice: “You must be Susanne.”

IV

She had pouty orange lips, black eyes and also black hair which was twisted and skewered into a topknot. Her surgically deformed figure consisted of enormous breasts, a tiny waist, androgynous hips and very long legs. Wearing black tights, a short mauve skirt and a silver-spangled sweater under a fake-fur jacket, she was flaunting junk jewellery so copious that she clinked in time to the clacking of her high-heeled boots.

Hiding my horror as best I could I said in a heroic effort to be sociable: “Any enemy of Elizabeth’s is a friend of mine!”

“Fuck Elizabeth,” said Susanne. “It’s that pinhead in there we gotta talk about. You shagged him?”

I realised honey-voiced diplomacy was a waste of time. “Never.”

“Just checking. Seen the mums?”

“Excuse me?”

“The chrysanthemums! In his room!”

“Oh yes, very nice—”

“I brought them earlier. I’ve been here all day. In fact I’m going to be around in his life more and more from now on. Got it?”

“Yep. Great. Good luck.”

“You don’t mind?”

“He’s all yours.”

Susanne still looked suspicious. “You do realise he’s got a thing about you? Says that no matter who he shags in future you’ll always be his Beatrice.”

“Who?”

“Some cow in a book. The hero’s lost in a dark wood and remembers this Beatrice who represents things.” She looked me up and down as if I’d missed a trick. “I’m surprised you don’t know about the book,” she said severely, “seeing as how you’ve been educated.”

“Well, I—”

“I’m getting educated right now, as it happens. Computers today, law tomorrow. Got to have a career because Gavin’s not the career type, he just likes opera and boats.”

“Maybe later when he’s recovered—”

“Nah. But I don’t mind. Career-crazed men are usually swine— which is why I think you were smart to hook up with a bloke who just writes stories. Going to marry him?”

“Well—”

“Everyone says marriage is going out of fashion but as far as I can see people keep doing it.”

“True, but I think a lot of people are justifiably nervous about making a long-term commitment in view of the fact that—”


Nervous?
God, how wimpish can you get? Can’t those people recognise happiness even when it stands up on its hind legs and kicks them in the teeth? Fuck all the fear-of-commitment rubbish, this is real life, for God’s sake, it’s not a bloody rehearsal! Well—” She turned away. “—I’d better go and see what that pinhead’s dreamed up next. Glad to have met you, I’m sure, and I suppose we’ll meet again once Gav’s with me at the Rectory, but if you so much as think of shagging him you’re dead, know what I mean, and don’t think I’m not serious because I am.”

“I assure you—” I began, but yet again I was not allowed to complete a sentence.

She turned her back on me and clip-clopped away.

V

“Nicholas,” I said crossly as we left the hospital, “why on earth didn’t you warn me about Susanne? She’s frightful! And how could Alice possibly have described her as shy?”

“She was shy when she arrived at the Rectory last night. Or perhaps ‘overwhelmed’ would be a better word to use.”

Realising that a traumatised Susanne might have acted out of character, I said no more on that score but merely commented: “The sooner Gavin ditches her the better.”

Nicholas looked politely interested. I knew that look. It meant he had a devastating reply to make but had decided now was not the time to offer it.

“Okay!” I exclaimed, feeling crosser than ever. “Okay, okay, okay! I’m jealous of her because she’s got him and I haven’t—but this is ridiculous because (a) I hate jealous people and (b) I don’t want him anyway and (c) I’m much too sensible to be so irrational, and the fact that I’m being so irrational makes me
absolutely furious
!”

“Well done!” said Nicholas amused. “Keep going!”

“I only want to add that despite all this I’m not totally fruity-loops. I’m still capable of deciding—in a rational manner quite unconnected with jealousy—that Susanne’s not nearly good enough for Gavin!”

“Fair enough, but look at it this way, Carta: even when Gavin’s physically recovered, he’s going to need all the support he can get when he grapples with the reality of his new life, and Susanne’s presence could well be crucial.”

I saw I could not argue with this, but I was still cross enough to ask: “What are the Healing Centre’s trustees going to say when you tell them two ex-tarts are sharing the attic flat of your Rectory?”

“Should anyone complain,” said Nicholas, very steely, “I shall tell them that I’m not the bedroom police, monitoring my guests on CCTV, and that there’s no reason why the Christian tradition of hospitality shouldn’t be extended to two former prostitutes who want to lead a better life.”

After a pause I said: “Right.”

“And besides,” said Nicholas, moving in for the kill, “although marriage is the ideal for couples, I’m not about to turn my back on two people who have a valuable one-to-one relationship. As you well know.”

At that point I did ask myself why the thought of an unmarried couple should now be arousing such strong feelings in me, but unfortunately the answer seemed only too obvious: the stress of my relationship with Eric had to be twanging some very discordant strings in my unconscious mind.

I felt mortified.

VI

The news I had been longing for came twenty-four hours later. Lewis rang me at home.

“They’ve got her,” he said.

The whole world paused on its axis, tilted, then began to revolve at an entirely different angle.

My voice said: “Where—when—how—”

“It was just as Gavin suspected. She waited until the police had searched her friend’s Pimlico house and then she hid in the basement flat where Susanne had been living. The police made a second raid early this morning.”

Hot tears burnt my eyes and scorched my cheeks.

“Carta, are you all right? Would you like me to come over?”

But I just wanted to be alone to digest the fact that my unfinished business was finally finishing. It was as if the year 1990—
my
1990—was ending twenty-three months late, and I was set free to move forward into the future. I said to Kim, whom I still thought of so often: “You can rest in peace now,” and the moment the words reverberated in my mind the peace enfolded me so tightly that I could no longer cry.

I thought about Kim then with great clarity. It had been a rotten marriage but for a brief time we had been happy. He had been a damaged man, but he had had a good side as well as a bad side, and I had loved that good side before the bad side, nurtured by Mrs. Mayfield, had destroyed him. He was part of my past, an important part of my past, but he no longer had to exist in my present as an unavenged ghost nagging for retribution and making sure I was unable to make a full commitment to anyone else. Now I no longer had to look at an unmarried couple and feel subconscious guilt and shame about my inability to cut myself loose from someone so corrupt. With the “good” Kim avenged, the “bad” Kim would be free to wither away, and suddenly I caught a glimpse of him existing as a benign pattern in my mind, a catalyst in a dynamic process which in 1990 had led me to St. Benet’s and revolutionised my life.

I stayed with my memories for a long time but at last I felt strong enough to call Eric in Norway. I had been unable to talk to him about Gavin’s stabbing, and in fact it was several days since our last conversation, but I was sure I could talk to him now.

And I did talk. I talked and I wept and I got in a muddle and I apologised and I repeated myself and I thought in despair how very unlike a cool rational lawyer I was being, but in the end none of that mattered; in the end all he said was:

“I’m coming home.”

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