Red Alert (11 page)

Impossible. She was about to turn away and go back to the bus station, take a bus to London or anywhere else at all, and never see her mother or her mother’s house again, when the tutor put her arm around her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry, but she got worse and we had to send for an ambulance. I phoned you again but got no answer. So I knew you must be on your way here. I’ll get a taxi now to take you to the hospital.’

Betty nodded and all that broke the silence until the taxi arrived was the sound of the outside doors opening and closing, and the scuffing of students’ feet going in and out.

‘I hope everything turns out all right, dear,’ the tutor said. ‘Let me know how you get on.’

Betty no longer knew what to think. Her brain and her emotions had taken such a battering, and all on the one day. It was too much.

She found her way through the hospital to where she was told her mother was. Outside the ward, the nurse explained, ‘I’m sorry, Miss Powell. Your mother has suffered a stroke. Fortunately, she was brought in very promptly, and so she’s as well as can be expected, but I’m afraid it has affected her speech. She’s conscious but unable to speak.’

Betty began to tremble.

‘Would you like a glass of water, dear?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Sit down for a minute or two and I’ll fetch one for you.’

Betty sat trying to compose herself. The icy cold drink helped.

It could not be put off any longer and so she followed the nurse into the ward to the bed where her mother was propped up by pillows into a sitting position.

‘Hello, Mother.’ She sat down on the chair next to the bed. ‘I’m sorry you’re not well.’ Her voice sounded unexpectedly calm, not like her voice at all. It certainly did not reflect how she felt inside.

She didn’t kiss the older woman. They had never kissed. Even when she was a child. Perhaps because she was the product of a coupling with a man and therefore must have a bit of a man in her, that was why her mother had kept her distance and had been unable to show any affection. For the first time, she wondered what her mother’s mother had been like. Had that grandmother she never knew been a person with the same unnatural disgust and hatred of men and sex as her mother?

Now her mother’s eyes, dark and sunken, stared at her with unmistakable disgust and hatred. Their dark hollows made a startling contrast to the whiteness of her hair, no longer pinned back but straggling loose and long down either side of her face. She looked like an evil witch.

‘I’m sorry,’ Betty said, ‘that you had to find out about my course at the Art School the way you did. I never meant you to be upset.’ She fiddled with her spectacles and tried to avoid the dark accusing stare. ‘But you see, I never liked embroidery and I got this chance of attending the Life class. I thought if you didn’t find out and I got my degree, you’d just be happy with that. There was really no need for you to know.’

She wondered what was going to happen. Obviously she couldn’t take her mother home like this. She supposed they would eventually tell her at the hospital if and when her mother would be able to return home.

Now she rose. There was no point in staying just to carry on a one-sided conversation.

‘I’ll come back to see you as soon as I can,’ she said before leaving.

The flat was coldly silent when she returned. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. Then she felt a sudden rush of emotion, a wave that swept through her and sent adrenalin pumping through her arteries. She lifted the cake stand, paused for a second, then sent it crashing to the tiled kitchen floor, breaking each of the plates into jagged pieces that seemed to mirror her emotions. Then, one by one, she dropped every piece of the china tea set.

‘I feel terrible now, don’t you?’ Tommy said.

‘What about?’

‘What do you think? About Betty Powell, of course.’

‘Why should you feel terrible about her?’

Tommy rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t kid on you don’t know about her mother. Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘I know Betty Powell’s one hell of a liar. Fancy having her mother think she’s been in the embroidery class of all places, and for all this time.’

‘It’s why she felt she had to do that that bothers me.’

‘Tommy, will you stop thinking about her? I’ve told you before, if you must feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for somebody like Hamish Ferguson or Kirsty. Her life must be hell with a father like Simon Price.’

‘He might be all right at home with his family. I mean, compared to how he is at the Art School. He gets on to me so much because of my failure to reach proper standards in my work.’

‘Proper standards? You’re a better painter than he is, that’s the trouble.’

‘Sandra, don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not. OK, he’s a good painter but you’ve got originality, Tommy. There’s a spark of something extra, something different, in your work.’

Tommy shook his head.

‘There’s something different, all right. I wish I knew what it was so that I could tackle it properly and get it right. I’m never going to get my degree at this rate.’

‘You will. You will. Never mind what Price says. Have faith in yourself. By the way, Kirsty was raving about the portrait of me. She just loves it, and so do I.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘I’m glad about that.’ He didn’t sound in the least glad. His voice had gone flat and he had acquired the air of hopelessness that Sandra noticed had been increasing recently. She didn’t know what to do with him. She kept desperately trying to boost his self-confidence but nothing seemed to work. Even when she lost her temper, it only made him more loving towards her. He told her how much he appreciated her faith in him, how much he loved everything about her. He’d grin and add, ‘Even that wild temper and that fiery hair.’

Sometimes, when he was in one of his spells of silent hopelessness, Sandra wondered if she dared to suggest that he went to see a doctor. Maybe a doctor could give him some sort of antidepressant drug. He definitely needed help of some sort. Then, one night in bed, he actually burst into tears in her arms.

‘Tommy, you’re suffering from serious depression. You need medical help, darling. Please make an appointment with the doctor. Or I can make it for you. I’ll go with you as well.’

Tommy rubbed away his tears with the sheet.

‘I’m sorry. I’m making a right fool of myself. I don’t know how you put up with me, Sandra. You’ve the patience of a saint.’

‘Me?’ Sandra howled with derision. ‘The patience of a saint? Don’t be daft. I’m the most impatient, quick-tempered person imaginable. It’s just that I’m worried about you, Tommy. You’re suffering from depression but there’s nothing to be ashamed about in that.’

‘Well, I am ashamed. It’s true what Simon Price says. I’m a hopeless weakling.’

‘Simon Price. Simon Price. What the hell does he know about anything?’

‘He knows about art and who has talent and who hasn’t.’

‘Tommy, how many times must I tell you? He’s a bully and he’s picked on you because you let him get away with it. It’s got nothing to do with what he knows about art.’

‘You can’t deny he’s a brilliant artist, Sandra. Nobody can.’

‘OK, he’s a good artist. I never said he wasn’t. But he bullies you, Tommy. Nobody can deny that. Ask any of the others. It’s not just my opinion.’

Tommy turned away. ‘I’m sorry for acting like a kid. Now let’s just forget all this and get to sleep.’

Sandra teetered on the verge of losing her temper and flaying his naked back with wild punches. Only with super- human effort did she roll on to her other side, close her eyes and say nothing.

It was impossible to get through to Tommy. She wondered if she should go to the doctor and just tell him about Tommy and ask him to give her the necessary medications. But she knew in her heart that she was fooling herself. The doctor would not hand out drugs to her. He’d tell her he’d have to see the patient. He’d insist that Tommy would have to come to the surgery and speak to him.

She wondered if she should have another go at persuading Tommy to see sense. But she’d been trying her best for what seemed like ages to do that. She just could not get through to him. In fact, she was beginning to fear that Tommy would get sick of her nagging at him and withdraw from her – completely withdraw. Stop loving her, even.

She couldn’t bear for that to happen. Yet her desperation to help him wouldn’t go away. She tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep, as her worry and anxiety grew until she felt quite ill herself. Of course, everything always felt worse at night, she told herself. She would see everything differently in the morning and feel much happier.

But she didn’t really believe it, and in her ensuing nightmare-filled sleep, terrible things loomed black on the horizon.

A phone call had gone in to control. The control operator (at Johnstone) took all the details and sent out a PDA, a pre-determined attendance, to Queen Margaret Drive station because a road traffic collision had been reported in their area.

The alarm bells filled the station with clamorous noise. Kirsty always jerked in fright when she heard them. Greg was flexing his muscles on one of the machines in the gym area. His back was braced against the padded support of the pec deck, his arms pulled back like some sort of crucifixion, as he slowly flexed his chest muscles, bringing his arms together. When he heard the alarm, he leapt from the machine and raced towards the room where all their protective clothing was laid out in readiness.

Downstairs, a printer called a fire card was already printing through the details of the address, the location, and on this occasion the information that it was a road collision, the vehicle was on fire, and there was a person trapped inside.

Someone took the slips off the machine and rushed with them to the appliance so that the guys had all the details.

Firefighters flew down the poles, landed on the rubber mat, then ran out to the fire engine. They frantically clawed their way into boots and their ochre-coloured jackets and trousers. Helmets were slammed onto heads as they hauled themselves onto the engine. The huge engine burst forward and swung hard left out into the busy roadway, its siren screaming out a warning. Speed was of the essence. If life was in danger, they had to get to the location as quickly as possible. More often than not, they risked their own lives in their efforts to do so. Carved in the wall above one of the doors of the Queen Margaret Drive fire station was a long list of names of men who had died while fighting fires, attending road accidents and saving people’s lives.

Traffic blurred by as they thundered along the road, the engine swaying alarmingly as it swung from side to side, narrowly avoiding the cars that pulled over to let it pass. They slammed hard down into a pothole with teeth-jarring force. Hands gripped the metal supports with knuckles showing white with the strain. The lights were red directly in front of them and, siren howling, they barely slowed as the engine rocketed through. Instinctively, Greg braced his legs in nervous expectation until they were through the lights. Up ahead, they could see a pall of black, oily smoke.

They slewed to a halt near the blazing car and, although it was heavily blackened at the front and partially concealed by the smoke, it was obviously a Mini, and of a sickly yellow colour. With a sense of dread, Greg looked at the number plate.

On approaching the fire, they could see the charred remains of a body inside. The victim was obviously dead and in that scenario, the firefighters had just to leave the body and concentrate only on putting out the fire.

The steam hissed and the cooling metal clicked intermittently as the heat dissipated. The hideously contorted, blackened figure slumped forward, its black talons melted to the remains of the steering wheel, the cloying smell of burnt flesh mixed with the harsh acidic smell of melted plastic.

After the fire was successfully dealt with, the wreckage was left for the investigators and the police to take over.

Later, on the way back to the station, one of the firefighters said to Greg, ‘You think you know the guy?’

Greg was obviously in some distress. ‘Oh God, I don’t know how Kirsty and her parents are going to take this.’

‘You mean Kirsty in the station?’

‘Yes, it’s her brother.’

‘How can you be so sure? The victim has been burnt to a crisp.’

‘I saw the number plate. It’s Johnny’s car, all right, and no way would he ever allow anyone else to drive it. Kirsty and her mother have always doted on him. I don’t know how I’m going to tell them.’

‘I suppose it would be better coming from you than anyone else.’

‘I know. I know. Kirsty’ll be off duty by now so I’ll go around to her house as soon as I get back.’

They had already arranged that he would call for her and walk through the gardens with her to his place. She was going to make a meal for them both. Then, after enjoying the meal and a couple of glasses of wine, they would make love.

That wouldn’t happen now, of course. He would stay with her and her mother at Botanic Crescent as long as they needed him. He would try his best to be of some comfort and support. Johnny Price had never been his favourite person, to say the least, but he wouldn’t have wished such a horrific fate on him. He certainly would never have wanted anything like this to happen for the sake of Kirsty and her mother. He didn’t know how Simon Price would react. He never seemed to think much of Johnny, but he was his son. He was bound to have some feeling at the terrible news.

Eventually Greg forced his feet along Queen Margaret Drive and round to Botanic Crescent. He rang the bell of the house at the end of the terrace that had become so pleasantly familiar to him. He had never thought he would feel it such an ordeal to wait for the door to open.

Kirsty welcomed him with a kiss, happy and smiling at first, until she noticed how serious his face was.

‘Darling, is there something wrong?’

They had reached the sitting room and he put an arm around her and led her to a seat.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Kirsty. You’ll have to try and be brave for your mother’s sake.’