The Four Last Things (17 page)

Without warning, Michael shambled into the room and leant on the back of the sofa. He stared at them as if at a roomful of strangers. Sergeant Carlow stood up, snapping shut his notebook. Yvonne looked at Maxham, asking mutely for guidance. Maxham simply sat there, his hands clasped loosely on his lap.

Sally had left the door open when she came into the room. Had Michael been standing in the hallway and listening for long? He was in his pyjamas, and he looked terrible: the jacket unbuttoned, his hair tousled, his face unshaven, his body dazed by the sleeping pill.

‘Find her, Maxham,’ Michael whispered. ‘Just find her. Stop talking and find her.’

Sally did not like Maxham, but she had to admit that he handled the situation shrewdly. He asked Sally to show himself and Carlow round the flat. He left Yvonne sitting at the table with Michael. Michael might have picked a quarrel if he had been left alone with either of the men. But he would not quarrel with a woman. He treated women he did not know well as if they were delicate beings, easily damaged by rough handling.

Sally heard Michael and Yvonne talking as she showed the two police officers round the flat. She could not hear what they were saying, but their voices rose and fell, stopped and started, in a reassuringly normal pattern.

When they returned to the living room, however, Michael looked up at Maxham and Sally knew from Michael’s face that nothing had changed.

‘The odds are a man took her,’ he said. ‘You know that. Women tend to take babies.’

Maxham drew back his lips and hissed. ‘We’ll have to see.’ He turned to Sally. ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Appleyard. We’ll be in touch. And don’t worry – we’re doing everything we can.’

‘Bastard,’ Michael muttered audibly in the living room as Sally was showing the police officers out.

Michael shaved and showered. By now it was mid-afternoon. Sally made a pot of tea which only Yvonne wanted. The policewoman was doing her best, Sally thought, but it was like having a nanny on the premises. She sat by the phone, apparently engrossed in the last few clues of the
Daily Telegraph
crossword.

Michael pushed aside his mug. ‘I’m sorry, Sal. I can’t stay here. I feel like the walls are pressing in. I’m going to get some fresh air.’

She wanted to seize his hand.
Don’t leave me alone.
Instead she said, ‘Will you be long?’

He didn’t answer the question. He found his jacket and dropped his wallet in one pocket and his keys in the other. It was a waxed jacket, which reminded her of Oliver.

‘Should you phone Oliver at some point?’ she asked.

‘When I get back.’ He bent down and kissed the top of her head. ‘I love you,’ he murmured, too low for Yvonne to hear. He straightened up. ‘I won’t be long.’

His hand touched Sally’s shoulder for an instant. He nodded to Yvonne and left the room. The two women sat in silence. The front door opened and closed. They heard his footsteps moving steadily down the stairs. Sally hoped that he wouldn’t get into a fight with the journalists. In a moment or two she relaxed because no one was shouting in the street.

That was the last she saw of Michael on Saturday. She spent most of the next five hours near the phone. When the phone rang, Yvonne would answer it, shaking her head at Sally when it became clear that Michael wasn’t the caller.

Sally thought of Michael getting himself arrested; of him wandering in tears through the streets of London in search of Lucy; of accident, madness and suicide. Even in her misery she knew that Lucy’s absence was far more worrying than Michael’s; the greater fear did not cast out the lesser, but it made it easier to bear. This did not stop her feeling angry with him.

‘The bloody man!’ she burst out after yet another phone call from someone she did not want to talk to.

‘That’s right, dear,’ Yvonne said helpfully. ‘Get it out of your system.’

‘Does Maxham know that Michael’s gone?’

Yvonne nodded. ‘I had to tell him. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

On the mantelpiece, Sally found the note from Oliver propped against the broken silver clock, the wedding present from David Byfield.
Michael and Sally: Please phone me if I can do anything.
Oliver. Underneath his name he had had the sense to put his phone number. A polite man, too. When Yvonne was making tea in the kitchen, Sally picked up the phone. Oliver answered at the second ring.

‘It’s me. Sally.’

‘Any news?’

‘No. Not really.’ She told him about Michael. ‘I – I wondered if he might be with you.’

‘I wish he was. Actually, Maxham’s already phoned. Shall I come over?’

‘No.’ She heard a clatter from the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Phone me, Sally. Any time. All right?’

‘All right.’ She broke the connection as Yvonne came in with mugs of tea. ‘Just checking with Oliver Rickford. Michael’s not there, either.’

Sally sat down with the tea. What hurt, then and later, was the way Michael had locked her out.
For better or for worse
: didn’t it mean anything to him? If it didn’t mean anything, why did he bother getting married? He could have found someone else to screw. Maybe that’s where he was now: with a prostitute, paying for what his wife was too tired to give him.

Yvonne went to the lavatory. The phone began to ring. Sally flung herself at it, spilling uncomfortably hot tea over her leg.

‘Shit.
Hello.’

‘Is that the Reverend Appleyard speaking?’ A man’s voice; unfamiliar. ‘Sally? This is Frank Howell. Remember me? I did that piece on St George’s for the
Standard.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve nothing to say.’

‘I understand, Sally.’ The voice was unctuous. ‘I don’t want to ask you anything. Truly.’

She remembered the man’s face now: the balding cherub with red-rimmed eyes; Derek’s friend. ‘I’m going to put the phone down, Mr Howell.’

He began to gabble: ‘Sooner or later you and Michael are going to have to deal with the press. Maybe I can help. You need someone who knows the ropes, someone on your side, someone who –’

‘Goodbye.’ She broke the connection.

‘Who was that?’ Yvonne asked, a moment later.

‘A journalist named Frank Howell.’

‘He’s already rung twice before. Leave the phone to me.’

‘I thought it might be Michael.’
Or Lucy.
Sally started to cry again.

Yvonne gave her a handful of paper handkerchiefs. ‘Try not to worry, love. I’m sure there’s some perfectly simple explanation. He’ll be back. You’ll see.’

Through her tears Sally snarled, ‘I’m not sure I want him back.’
I want Lucy.

Afterwards, Sally learned that Michael turned right into the main road, walking towards the tube station. He went into the saloon bar of the King of Prussia and ordered a pint of beer and a double whisky. He sat by himself at a table in the corner of the room. According to the barman he gave no trouble. He drank two more double whiskies and repelled an attempt to draw him into conversation.

He took the underground to King’s Cross Station, where he bought a standard single to Cambridge. He had time to kill before catching the train so he killed it in a bar. From Cambridge railway station he walked slowly into the centre of the town and out the other side, stopping at two pubs on the way. He staggered up the Huntingdon Road. Just before eight-thirty he reached a small but ugly block of modern flats near Fitzwilliam College. He rang one of the bells and lay down on the wet grass to rest. Soon he was asleep.

A little later, the telephone rang in the Appleyards’ living room in Hercules Road. Yvonne answered. She listened for a moment, pressed the mute button and looked across the room at Sally.

‘It’s someone called Father Byfield. Do you want to speak to him? He says your husband’s with him.’

Sally was furious and relieved when she heard Uncle David’s voice. Jealousy was there, too, and also a sense of failure. She should have realized that in times of trouble Michael would turn not to her but to his godfather.

‘Therefore for Spirits, I am so far from denying their existence, that I could easily believe, that not onely whole Countries, but particular persons, have their Tutelary and Guardian Angels.’

Religio Medici
, I, 33

‘Mummy. Mummy, where are you?’

Over the intercom, Lucy’s voice sounded mechanical, like a juvenile robot’s. Without the intercom and with the doors closed, they would not have heard her because the basement was now so well soundproofed.

‘Mummy.’ The voice sharpened and rose to a wail. ‘Where are you?’

Angel dropped her napkin on the table and stood up, stretching her long white arm towards the keys on the worktop. At the door she glanced back at Eddie.

‘You sort things out in here. I’ll deal with her.’

Lucy was crying now. Eddie imagined her standing by the door or curled up in bed. She was wearing the pyjamas he had bought especially for her at Selfridges; they had red stars against a deep yellow background and in normal circumstances would suit her colouring Last night, however, Lucy had not been looking her best: by the low-wattage light of the bedside lamp, her face had been white, almost green, mouth a black, ragged hole, the puffy eyes squeezed into slits.

‘Daddy. Mummy.’

The intercom emitted a series of crackles: Angel was unlocking and opening the door to the basement.

‘Mummy.
I want –’

‘You’ll see Mummy very soon.’ Angel’s voice was tinny and precise. There was a click as she closed the door behind her. ‘Now, what are you doing out of bed without your slippers?’

‘Where’s Mummy? Where am I? Where’s Daddy?’

‘Mummy and Daddy had to go away for a night or two. Don’t you remember? Eddie and I are looking after you.’ There was a pause, but Lucy did not respond. ‘I’m Angel.’

Lucy began to cry again. The intercom twisted and distorted her sorrow.

‘That’s enough, dear. I don’t want to have to get cross. Think how sad Mummy would be if she heard you’ve been naughty.’

The crying grew louder.

‘Lucy. You won’t like it if I have to get cross. Naughty children have to be punished.’

The wails continued. There was a sharp report like the crack of a whip. The crying stopped abruptly.

‘We don’t allow cry babies here, dear. You’re going to have to pull your socks up, aren’t you?’

Eddie could bear it no longer. He switched off the intercom and listened to the silence seeping into the kitchen like water flowing into a pool.

Here we all were on this overcrowded planet, Eddie thought, all members of the same species and yet each of us a mystery to everyone else. Especially Angel, who, like Churchill’s Russia, was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. For example, where did she come from? How old was she? Who was she? If she did not particularly like little girls, why did she spend so much time with them? Last but not least, why had Angel said that Lucy was special? What made Lucy different from the other three?

Nothing about Angel was straightforward. To all intents and purposes she might have been born adult less than six years before, on the March evening when Eddie met her. She came to the house in Rosington Road in answer to an advertisement which Eddie’s mother had put in the
Evening Standard.
The advertisement gave the name of the road but not the Graces’ name or the number of the house. Eddie’s mother said that you couldn’t be too careful, what with all the strange people roaming round the streets today.

From the start, Thelma refused to consider male applicants. ‘They’re dirty beasts. Women are tidier and cleaner.’ Eddie himself was excepted from this general view of the male sex, which confirmed his suspicion that his mother did not think him entirely masculine.

When Angel phoned, Eddie’s mother gave her the number of the house almost immediately. She liked Angel’s voice.

‘At least she speaks the Queen’s English. More than you can say for the rest of them. And she says she’s got a job. I don’t want one of those Social Security scroungers under my feet all day.’

There had been nine other calls before Angel’s, but none of them had led to an invitation to see the room. Thelma disliked the Irish, West Indians, Asians and anyone with what she termed a ‘lower class’ accent.

When the doorbell rang, Eddie and his mother were watching television in the front room.

‘She’s on time,’ Thelma commented, looking at her watch. ‘I’ll say that for her.’

Eddie went into the hall and peeped through the fish-eye lens at the person on the doorstep. He could see very little of her, because she had turned to stare at the traffic on the road; and in any case, she was wearing a long, pale mackintosh with a hood. As he opened the door she turned to face him.

She was beautiful. For an instant her perfection paralysed him. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in real life, only on television, in pictures and in films. She stared at him as though she were assessing his suitability rather than the other way round.