Pretty Lady (10 page)

But he was a policeman. Did policemen ever really go off duty? Did he suspect her? Know that she was about to commit a crime? The worst crime of all?

But, you see, Brian, I must.
Slowly, she moved forward again. With the policeman behind her, she must go home now. It was time to go home, anyway. They'd have had their tea now, and Denny would be settled in front of the television until it was time for him to go to bed. Sheila would have done the dishes and, with a bit of luck, have gone off to visit one of her friends, or be sewing in her room. Safely out of the way.

The street lamps flickered on against the darkness as she turned the corner. A movement behind a lighted window caught her eye and she recognized the house.

Mary-Maureen lived there. Until they had to send her away. And that's part of the problem, too, Brian. Denny's so big now – and so old – he needs a man to control him. If anything should happen – if Vera's right in what she keeps thinking – what could we do? Two lone women. We can't watch over him every minute. Suppose he was to take a sudden fit of temper, like Mary-Maureen – although he's always been so sweet-natured? Sheila could never manage him by herself – and it would kill him to be sent away. He'd never understand. Oh, Brian, Brian, it's the only way-

Brian?
She was alone, at her own gate, with her soul silently keening a name into the darkness.
Brian?
A meaningless word which no longer had the power to summon him to her side. Brian had gone on before her. A long way before – and there was no catching up with him. He was lost to her, as Denny would be lost to her. Both of them safe in the arms of the Lord in the afterlife. And she – she was already condemned. There was no turning back now.

She opened the gate and waved reassuringly to the constable, who stood at the corner, watching her. He made no move to leave, obviously he intended seeing that she got safely inside her own door. After that, if she collapsed, it was not his responsibility.

Carefully, now.
She fitted the key into the lode, let herself into the house.
Act natural.
(Ah, God, could she even remember what was natural any more?)
Try! Very, very carefully – and very natural.

‘Mum, is that you?' Sheila – not gone out, nor even in her room, but hovering – waiting for her return. ‘Are you all right?' She appeared in the doorway at the far end of the hall. ‘What did the doctor say?'

‘What does he ever say?' Polly hung up her coat. ‘Get plenty of rest. Keep –' Her voice broke. She took a deep breath and tried again – ‘Keep taking those pills.'

A roar of canned laughter from the parlour and, over it, Denny's joyous chortle. Denny, God love him, watching his favourite programme. Such a good boy, Denny, and never a bother to her. Except in his own special way that he couldn't help.

‘But – is that all?' Sheila looked strained and anxious. Could she have some premonition of the trouble in store? She'd never seemed so nervous and jumpy before.

‘It's enough, isn't it?' Polly turned, still clinging to her handbag. (It weighed her down, the small bottle of capsules heavy as the weight of the world, as the weight of sin.) She could not put it down, afraid that it would topple over, spill out its deadly contents – and yet, there was nothing in it that should not be there. Sheila knew she was collecting a fresh prescription. In itself, it was perfectly innocent – nothing tell-tale about it. (It was only when you knew about the secret hoard of capsules hidden away upstairs that the deadly pattern began to form.) Still, she could not part with that handbag.

‘I suppose so.' Sheila remained, irresolute, in the doorway. ‘He didn't say how much longer you'll have to keep on taking them, or anything like that?'

‘Not much longer,' Polly said firmly. If Sheila chose to believe that that had been the doctor's assurance, so much the better.

‘Oh, good! ' Sheila's face brightened. ‘That must mean you're improving.'

‘About time, isn't it?' Polly asked noncommittally.

‘Yes – yes, that's the thing. It's taken so
much
time.'

‘Everything takes longer than you'd think,' Polly said. (
Even dying? This final day had gone on for ever. She might already be in eternity – endlessly, limitlessly, it went on.
She felt a sudden icy chill.
Suppose that was what hell was all about? Not the searing eternal flames, but being trapped in time with your sin. Condemned to live the crucial day over and over again, feeling the grief and guilt as poignantly as if it were the first time. And it would be the first time, going on and on, repeating endlessly –
)

Polly swayed. ‘I'm going upstairs,' she said abruptly.

‘Do that,' Sheila said. ‘I'll make you a cup of tea and bring it up. You can have an early night. It will do you good.'

‘No!'
That wasn't careful, wasn't natural.
Poor Sheila was as startled by the vehemence of her retort as ever poor Denny could have been, wondering what she had said that was wrong.

‘No,' Polly tried again, smiling. ‘No, don't bother about me. I'll come down later and make cocoa for me and Denny. Why don't you go out for a while, now that I'm back to watch over Denny? Go to a film, or something. You stay in too much. It's not good for a young girl.'

‘I'm all right.' Sheila was on the defensive now, as she always was when criticized about her social life – or lack of it. (Did she think her own mother didn't know the problem? Hadn't lived with it for longer than she had?)

‘I'm not saying you're not. I'm only saying you ought to get out and about more. It's a fine evening, you ought to go for a walk, or something. Why don't you drop over and visit your Aunt Vera?'

Sheila looked startled, as well she might. (
Holy Mother of God – that was going too far. She'll be measuring me for a straitjacket, suggesting she go and drop in on Vera.
)

‘You stay in too much,' Polly repeated. She watched, biting back compunction, as she saw Sheila begin to fear that she was in for a Vera-type lecture – if she stayed around.

‘I could go down to the library,' Sheila offered placatingly. ‘Are you through with your books? I could change them, as well as my own. And it would be a nice walk ...'

She'd be gone about an hour and a half, if she did that. Would that be time enough? It wasn't long, but it was better than nothing.

‘Do that, then,' Polly said. ‘It will do for a start. You've got to think about getting out and about more. You don't want to spend all your days and nights tied to an ailing woman and a – a – And Denny.'

‘I don't mind,' Sheila said quickly.

‘But
I
mind!' Polly snapped. ‘I mind very much. Remember that.' She softened her tone. ‘I only want the best for you. I want you to be able to go out like other girls and –'

‘I
am
able, I just –'

‘I'm tired,' Polly said. ‘Don't stand there arguing with me. Get along to the library and find me some nice books to read.'

‘All right, Mum.' Sheila recognized the finality in her voice and turned away.

‘Oh, and Sheila –' Polly said casually. ‘I may go to bed early, after all. If Denny and I aren't up when you get back, don't disturb us. An early night won't do him any harm, either.'

‘All right, Mum,' Sheila said again.

Polly sat in the bedroom chair until she heard the front door close behind Sheila. Then she went to the window and watched Sheila walk down the path, saying the last goodbye that had to be a silent one.

You'll understand, Sheila. Perhaps not at first, but later. It's the best thing I can do for you. And for Denny. Perhaps, some day, you'll even forgive me.

After Sheila was out of sight, Polly moved slowly away from the window. To the hiding place.

It was such a small pile of powder to carry such finality. A teaspoon, maybe. It was strange to think that it would put an end to both Denny and herself.

Don't think about it – it's too late to think about it.
She drew a deep breath.
Concentrate on the mechanics, now. One step at a time. That was the way to go. To go –

First
– she stood and gathered up the separated capsules –
dispose of the evidence.
If Sheila should find them both asleep, she'd think nothing of it. But if she found those tiny empty tell-tale cases in the rubbish, she'd know something was wrong.

They were a full handful. She fumbled to collect all the elusive bits of gelatine casings, but her hands were trembling. Some dropped, rolling over the dressing-table and on to the floor.

She stooped and gathered them up – surely that was all of them. From force of habit, she straightened slowly, although the familiar pain was missing, had been missing for some hours now. She wasn't fooled. It was just the same thing as the way a bothersome tooth stopped aching when a visit to the dentist was imminent. It was just a trick of the mind and body – not a spontaneous remission, not a cure.

She flushed the toilet, but only a portion of the capsules disappeared. At least half of them had filled with air and were bobbing mockingly in the bowl. She waited for the cistern to fill and tried once more. Again, some stubbornly refused to flush away.

Did it matter? They were only gelatine, after all, meant to dissolve in liquid. Wouldn't they just be shapeless blobs by the time Sheila got back? She'd never be able to tell what they had been – if she noticed them at all.

She pulled the chain frantically again, aware that she was half-sobbing.

‘Mum? Mum?' That was Denny, drawn away from his television, coming up the stairs. ‘Mum?' Worried about her. Upset, without knowing why, by the unaccustomed overactivity of the plumbing.

‘It's all right, Denny.' She went to the top of the stairs. ‘I'm here. I'm coming down now and make us some nice cocoa. Then we'll get to bed and have an early night.'

For a moment, Denny looked as though he might protest. He always hated going to bed early – just like a child. And nothing to be wondered about, he
was
a child.
Her
child. And she'd take care of him.

Unexpectedly, Denny capitulated without argument. ‘All right,' he said docilely.

‘You're a good boy, Denny,' Polly said. ‘Come up and get into your pyjamas now and I'll bring up our cocoa in a minute.'

She heard him climbing the stairs as she went back into her room.
Such a good boy, such a wasted life. What couldn't he have been, if only he'd had the brain to match that fine body?

Careful, mustn't spill any, or you might not have enough. She picked up the saucer of powder and went downstairs into the kitchen.

Carefully, even more carefully, she carried the tray with the two cups of cocoa upstairs. And a packet of biscuits for Denny – he loved chocolate biscuits so. He could eat his fill of them tonight without reproach. So long as he drank his cocoa with them.

Denny was already in bed, the covers pulled up around him. He usually delayed, stalled, wasted time. But tonight, he'd got straight into bed, meek as a lamb.

For a moment, the old reactions swept over her and she began to worry that he was sickening for something. Perhaps she ought to check his temperature.

Then the rattle of cups from the tray in her hands brought her back to the present, to the here and now. It didn't matter if Denny
was
coming down with some illness. They neither of them were going to be here long enough for it to matter to them.

‘Chocolate biscuits, Denny.' She set the tray down carefully on the bedside table. ‘Your favourites. You can eat all you want tonight. It's a special treat.'

‘Not hungry.' But, automatically, his hand reached out and closed around three biscuits.

‘You can't drink lying down like that. Sit up now, or you'll get biscuit crumbs all in the bed.'

‘I'm up! I'm up!' He wriggled to a sitting position as she bent over him, clutching the bedclothes defensively around his middle.

‘Then have your cocoa.' She handed it to him, watching him take the first big gulps.

‘That's right, Denny. Drink it down. It will –' her voice shook – ‘it will help you to sleep.'

Denny lowered the cup thoughtfully and took an enormous bite of one of his biscuits. She put the packet on the table beside him. ‘Have all you want, Denny.' And she picked up the tray with her own cup of cocoa. If she stayed here and watched him, she'd never be able to go through with it. She'd dash the cup from his hand. And what would be the good of that? It would only mean she had the whole thing to do over again later.

In the doorway, she paused and looked back. ‘Have you said your prayers tonight, Denny?'

His startled look, his quick guilty nod, told her that he hadn't. But he'd say them, now he'd been reminded.

‘Don't forget to make a good Act of Contrition,' she said, and closed the door behind her.

Perhaps she ought to make one herself – in case it would do any good, in case it might mitigate any of the circumstances. But she'd come to this decision – this deliberate sin –after too much thinking and planning. Could there be any forgiveness for her under those circumstances?

‘
Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry –
' As she sipped the cocoa, her mind slid into the old familiar formula – ‘
for having offended Thee. Because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but, most of all –
' Oh, Denny, Denny.

The cup was empty, she should wash it out. But she should write a note to Sheila, too. She fumbled in the dressing-table drawer for notebook and pen.

‘Dear Sheila -

‘I'm sorry for having to do this to you. Try not to blame me too much – '