Incarnate (43 page)

What drugs have you been taking? Geoffrey wanted to demand. You look the type… . But he wasn’t quite sure enough of himself to ask. Suppose Joyce had finally gone the way he’d been afraid she would after Oxford? “Are you saying she’s there now?”

“I’m sure she is, Mr. Churchill. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You can help instead.” Geoffrey stood up and held the door open. Now that his fears had come true he felt almost relieved; at least it seemed he could do something. “I told you one of the old ladies you used to look after is staying. If you’ll keep an eye on her, I’ll find Joyce. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As soon as Mark came into the hall, Geoffrey hurried upstairs. When he reached the top, Mark was hesitating halfway up, gazing toward the breathing. “Which old lady?” Mark whispered.

“I don’t know her name, and I don’t think she does. You’ll know her when you see her.” Geoffrey was murmuring impatiently through his cupped hands so that she wouldn’t hear. “Very fat and almost bald.”

Mark stared at him. “There was never anyone like that.”

“Of course there was. Don’t be absurd.” Geoffrey was sure he’d seen her at the center. “Please be quick. I must find Joyce.”

He opened the door of the old lady’s room as Mark ventured onto the landing. Geoffrey had to beckon him before he would step forward. “That’s the old lady I mean,” Geoffrey murmured. “Recognize her now?”

Mark barely glanced into the room before he recoiled. Geoffrey wouldn’t have believed he was capable of turning so much whiter. “I can’t go in there. It isn’t—” Mark muttered as if he didn’t care if he were heard or didn’t know what he was saying. “I did my best, Mr. Churchill. I told you about Joyce.”

Geoffrey glanced into the room as Mark fled toward the stairs. For a moment he could see only something pale and very large that hung down from the bed in several places, He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, and there was the old lady, asleep. He must have been seeing the blankets.

A moment after the thud of Mark’s feet at the bottom of the stairs, Geoffrey heard the slam of the front door.

Mark must be on drugs, Geoffrey thought. But did that invalidate everything Mark had said? Geoffrey wasn’t sure. He put on his overcoat, but by the time he’d buttoned it and taken hold of the lock of the front door he knew he couldn’t go. He couldn’t leave the old lady by herself.

He didn’t need to go to Joyce, he could talk to her when she came home. He hung his coat on the hallstand and climbed the stairs into the slow deep breathing. The sheets of the new issue were waiting on his desk. Perhaps he wouldn’t tell her about Mark after all, it would only disturb her unnecessarily, and in any case he had almost forgotten what Mark had said—something about the old lady, some nonsense. Mark shouldn’t be looking after old people if that was how he felt about them. The breathing settled around Geoffrey, slow and heavy and somehow vulnerable, as he drew the ruler down the first of the sheets. If Joyce mentioned Mark he would tell her what had happened, warn her against him. If there was one thing besides the stamps he was sure of, it was that he didn’t want Mark working with her in her new place.

43

M
OLLY
was gluing together the kitchen drawer that had fallen to pieces and wishing she could put her life together that simply too. She’d thought of nothing but the episode at Rankin’s for days, though thinking was hardly the word. Couldn’t he have suffered some kind of nervous paralysis— the doctor had said so—perhaps brought on by guilt, and couldn’t he have confessed out of terror? He had certainly seemed unstable enough. All the same, her doubts about precisely what she had achieved and how were among the reasons she hadn’t yet called Martin to tell him his reputation was secured. Besides, she thought it would be like offering him compensation for his father’s death.

Later she met Leon and his lover in a restaurant that overlooked Tower Bridge. Rain streamed like ink down the windows, the bascules of the bridge rose into the dripping night as strips of bright windows were drawn silently through, ebony funnels glistening. Molly sipped her Harvey Wallbanger and wondered why Leon’s lover, Michael, a graceful young man with oval eyes that looked Oriental and large pink delicate ears, had taken an instant dislike to her.

“Have you heard from Martin?” Leon said.

Michael glanced sharply at him. “Not yet,” Molly said.

“Nor I. And you haven’t called him? You don’t want me to, do you?”

“Not unless you want to,” she said.

“You should, even if it’s just to say how are things. He may be waiting to hear from you. And you’d have good news,” he said, draining his tall glass of gin and bitters, “on the whole. They’ve got to take him back now, they just want it to seem like their idea. It’s best he waits while they come up with a way that will save their faces and get them the most publicity, of course.”

“If he still wants to come back.”

“I hope he does. I near as dammit told them they could stuff my job if they took their mistakes out on him.”

“I’m sure he’s grateful to you, Leon.”

“So long as he is to you.” He sat forward and squeezed her hand. “You really shook them up, you know. They don’t know what to do with you. I think they’d like to have you as an investigative reporter, except for Eccles and except they’re afraid you might investigate too much. Their story is you’re so
unstable,
of course,” he said, breaking suddenly into camp, “she can’t be
trusted,
we don’t know what she might
do.
They’ll take you back as Martin’s assistant, no doubt, and probably make reluctant noises. My advice is you should start finding out who else might take you on as a reporter. I’m surprised you haven’t been approached already.”

Michael looked offended by Leon’s display of camp. “Leon must be very fond of both of you to go to so much trouble,” he said.

“God, you’re a jealous bitch sometimes.” Leon grasped Michael’s hand in both of his until Michael managed to smile at him and stopped trying to pull away. “Listen, I’m not
interested
in Martin, in case that’s what you think. Anyway he’s a good straight Southern boy. It’s this lady here I’m trying to look out for, more than Martin. I just want to be sure things stay good for her now.”

“I expect they’ll work out, Leon. Maybe I’ll call him later,” she said, though she didn’t think she would: she didn’t think she would be able to avoid trying to explain what she had done to Rankin, and the strain would only make her unhappier if she restrained herself. All at once, out of desperation, she said, “I dreamed all that about Rankin before it happened, you know.”

Michael clicked his tongue at her. “Good heavens, aren’t you already famous enough?”

“Tell me about it,” Leon said.

She might as well now, though she wished she didn’t have to convince Michael too. “I’ve been able to foresee things ever since I can remember.”

“You never told me.”

He sounded accusing. “By the time I knew you,” she said, “I thought I’d lost the knack.”

“But you haven’t?”

“Apparently not. As I said, I dreamed I saw Lenny Bennett’s identity bracelet in Rankin’s flat.”

“I wondered how you knew. Christ, was
that
how.” His eyes were wide, his gaze held hers. “You’re not just spinning us a yarn? It’s the truth, hand on heart?”

“I promise.”

“Jesus. It does make sense, it’s the only explanation that does. You couldn’t have known any other way. I wonder what it tells us that nobody thought to ask how you knew.” He rubbed his temples. “This is quite a shock. Give me a few minutes to take it in.”

Michael was staring at her with undisguised skepticism. “Be careful, Leon. Don’t go rushing into anything.”

Leon patted Michael’s hand. “Would you be willing to talk about it, Molly?”

“I am. I haven’t finished. I’m not sure that I’m just foreseeing things any longer. I feel as if my dream somehow made Rankin confess.”

“I can imagine how you could feel that way,” Leon said. “But what I meant, Molly, was would you be willing to talk about it to the camera?”

“I don’t know. Suppose the police tried to use it to discredit us?”

“Fair question. I don’t see how they could, but on the other hand, you’d be making a claim you couldn’t prove. All right, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” His tentative smile was a plea. “But I’ll tell you, Molly, I’d love to make a film about you.”

“That’s very flattering, Leon, but—”

“It’s not flattering at all after what you’ve just been saying. I’d like to start filming now, this week. Do you remember most of your dreams, or do you think you could?”

“I suppose so,” she said, remembering Oxford. “I used to be able to.”

“Maybe you could write them down as soon as you wake and then we’d film you talking about them, say once a week. We’d date the sessions so that nobody could argue later. Can you tell at the time which dreams will be prophetic?”

“They’re more real,” she said, which seemed inadequate.

“Of course we’d check all of them, and if enough of them proved accurate, maybe you could talk about Rankin after all. Will you think about what I’ve said, Molly? I’d take it as a great favor. I realize you might not want that kind of exposure. I’ll respect your decision if eventually you say no.”

“I will think about it.”

On her way home, Molly wondered if Leon’s proposal might help her achieve whatever she was capable of. She made her way down her frosty steps and selected her key, which burned like ice. She was slipping it into the lock when she hesitated. Was someone waiting in the flat for her?

It must be Martin, for nobody else knew where she kept her spare key, but why would he be waiting for her in the dark? She felt as if the apprehension she’d experienced the first time she had seen him had reached its point at last. Of course, he must be sleeping after his flight. She let herself in and went into the bedroom. But her bed was empty and so, when she switched on all the lights, was her flat.

She was almost asleep when she realized the flaw in Leon’s proposal. If they broadcast her talking about her dreams, mightn’t the others who had been at Oxford contact her? She still felt they should stay away from one another. All the same, if MTV reinstated her she must try to get Joyce on the air despite Ben Eccles.

She fell asleep happily, only to dream that the others had found her and they were all dreaming together. She had to stop dreaming before it was too late. She struggled to wake, and then she was afraid to, because whatever was waiting for her to awaken was worse. She couldn’t prevent herself from wakening now that she’d fought the dream. She jerked and awoke.

Surely it had only been the dream that had made her afraid of waking. She opened her eyes and saw her room, the dim patch of light that seeped through the curtains and hovered on the wall, the leg of her old toy monkey poking out from under the pillow. She turned over to put herself back to sleep, and froze. A man was standing in the doorway of her bedroom.

A pulse began to pound in her throat, which seemed to be swelling up; she felt she might never draw another breath. Her nightmare had come true at once, and all she could think was that she’d had years to move the phone into her bedroom from the hall, where it was useless now. She was inching out of bed and trying to think what she could grab for a weapon when he switched on the light. It wasn’t Danny at all, and how could it have been? “Oh, Martin,” she cried, “thank God it’s you.”

His face went blank so quickly she couldn’t tell what his expression had been. “Who were you expecting?”

“Nobody really. I was just dreaming.”

“Sure you were. Seems as if you don’t do much else.”

She knew he blamed her, she could hear it in his voice, and she didn’t know if going to him would simply antagonize him further. “Have you just got in?” she said, ignoring his coldness. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“Forget it. Stay where you are.”

She’d expected blame, but this felt more like hatred. “Martin, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” He raised his hands as if to spread them incredulously, except that they were fists. “Now what do you think could be wrong? My father’s dead. Try that for openers.”

“I know.” She couldn’t let him stand so far from her and work himself into a rage. She swung her legs off the bed. “I’m sorry.”

“Stay there!” Rage convulsed his face. “Goddamn it, why the good Christ did you have to wake up? I just wanted to see how I felt about you after your crazy damned dreams kept me away from my father.”

“Martin, I tried to stop you going to Oxford, if you remember. I know you went for me. and I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.” She held out her hands as if that would open his fists. “Won’t you come here? You look so tired. When did you last sleep?”

“What the fuck does that matter?” The blankness of his face was worse than his rage; it looked as if he had no feeling left for her. “Maybe I should go to sleep and dream I got to my father in time, okay? Maybe for you it would be just like the real thing.”

“Stop it, Martin. You’re only hurting yourself.” She stood up. “Or say it if it makes you feel better. Just don’t tell me to stay away. You mustn’t tell me what to do in my own flat.”

If she went to him and touched him, he would have to respond somehow. She crossed the room to him. “Martin,” she said gently, and reached out for his hands.

He spoke before he moved. “Know why I had to come back here last time? Because you wouldn’t even leave me alone when I was with my father. All that shit about the film got me so confused I ended up telling him about it and that was the last I ever saw of him, you fucked-up, meddling bitch.”

The only warning she had was a gleam in his eyes, so harsh that it made them look blank. She thought he was lifting his fists out of her reach until he punched her in the face.

She staggered back against the wall; her shoulders felt as if someone had hit them with a plank. Her left eye was already puffing up and closing. The sight of him through one eye made him seem even more unreal than his action had. He was grinning as if to control an atrocious pain. “That’s what reality feels like,” he snarled. “You never would believe I had a temper, would you?” Before she could say anything, he punched her in the mouth. She didn’t know how many more times he hit her before a blow to her chin smashed her head against the wall and into blackness.