Thorn in the Flesh (16 page)

Nicky took her fingers, kissed them and then held them in her hand. For a long time.

‘It’s okay,’ Nicky said. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything else. Not if you don’t want to.’

***

In the morning, when Kate woke, she couldn’t place herself in her surroundings, couldn’t understand why everything felt different. Then memory flooded in. Above her, the faint shimmer of the white ceiling and, beneath, the comfort of the bed. She wondered where Nicky was, if she’d stayed the night in the spare room or gone home instead.

A knock on the door made her sit up and reach for her dressing gown, the light blue silk of it soft against her skin.

Nicky was standing on the threshold, fully dressed. Her face was pale but calm. While Kate gazed, she swallowed but didn’t look away.

‘I wanted to say I’m glad you told me,’ she said. ‘About what happened that night. You know I love you very much. I’ll always be your friend.’

Kate nodded. ‘I know. I love you too. I always have.’

And then there seemed nothing else to say.

With a movement as natural as the flow of water, Nicky took Kate into her arms, and Kate felt the warmth of her friend’s breath against her cheek.

Downstairs, the two women made breakfast and ate in silence. It’s going to be all right, Kate thought, I’ve told the person closest to me nearly all of what happened and what I believe, and I’m still here. But what will happen if I tell it all?

Ten minutes later, Nicky was on her way home with her departing words echoing through Kate’s mind:

‘Anything you want to do now, to find your son, I promise I will help you.’

Chapter Seventeen

In the end, getting the information she wanted was easier than she’d hoped. Much like finding Mr and Mrs Williams. She hired an investigator from Guildford, a small man, single-trader, with shrewd eyes and a slight stammer, but whom somehow she trusted. She told him everything she knew and waited. It took a week and a half. His expenses were rather more than she’d anticipated but it wasn’t the money that upset her. It was the stark facts showing the life of her son. While the file itself was detailed, the précis at the front said it all:

Name: Stephen Williams

DOB: 1.6.1986

Age: 19

Birthplace: Durham Hospital

Height: 5 feet 9 inches. Slim build

Colour of hair: Dark blond

Colour of eyes: Blue

Physical peculiarities: Old acne scarring on cheek

Adoptive parents: Jenny and Charles Williams, in York

Education: Comprehensive School. Left school at 16. No qualifications

Marital Status: Assumed single

Children: None known

Career: Unknown

Last known whereabouts: London

Current whereabouts: Unknown.

The précis itself told her little more than she’d gleaned from Mrs Williams, and for a moment or two she wondered how her own short history would read. And how near to the truth it might or might not be. Especially now. She shook her head. The full report on Stephen was more revealing, the final conclusion particularly so. She had read through pages detailing her son’s criminal record, which had been hinted at but not fleshed out by his adoptive parents. It told her he’d hated school from the start and had in fact been bullied there, although later he’d meted out punishment to younger boys and had quickly grown, according to the school report, almost impossible to control. He’d started playing truant with an older gang and had from there begun his drug-taking – cocaine mainly – and petty crime. He had a short police record, smudged in the photocopying and with most of the last paragraph almost indecipherable. She could just make out the words, “potentially dangerous”, though. Perhaps she didn’t want to know any more. What must it have been like for Mr and Mrs Williams? Was this somehow her fault for giving away her child? Or would it have always been this way? After that, he’d disappeared, as his adoptive parents had told her. More recently, there’d been one or two possible sightings, a note of irregular attendance at a hostel for the homeless in London, the latter being last year, and since then nothing. Silence. It was even possible he might be dead. A part of her hoped so.

Unable to bring any logic or way forward to the flutter of thoughts in her mind, she read the report’s conclusion again:

Stephen Williams is a young man who has slipped through the system, in spite of the advantages of his upbringing, and is a known cocaine user and petty criminal. He also has a tendency to occasional bouts of violence, probably linked to drugs. He left school and home as soon as he could and began to live in London. Some of the time he lived rough. His current whereabouts are unknown, though he may well reappear in the future, as he has in the past. It cannot however be ruled out – bearing in mind that his current absence has lasted for longer than usual – that he may now be dead.

What if that were true? Kate wondered. What if the man she was searching for was no longer alive? Did it actually matter? She was no longer sure. After all, she felt no emotional ties to him. Not in the way a mother should do, and certainly not in the way society expected. Especially in this child-obsessed age. Still, she’d started on this journey with the expectation that it would finish. One day. Somewhere. Why had she begun it at all? No. She shouldn’t be asking. That at least was obvious.

The attack. And her survival. That was what had begun her private quest. It had made her think again about her life and, perhaps, why she was still alive after all. What had been unimportant and barely considered before was now of primary interest. Why had she chosen the life path she’d been on? She’d taken her degree, then followed it with postgraduate study, this in turn leading as if there were no other choices into the life of a lecturer at a good university. She enjoyed it, yes, the stimulation, the students, her colleagues, but if she were honest there had always been something lacking, something more she should have been doing. Now she was no longer there, she found she didn’t miss it. There had been a few phone calls and emails from the university, but in her replies she’d made no promises. Professor Dickinson had called every couple of weeks or so and left messages of support. Her job would be open in September if she wished to return. But did she?

She rubbed suncream over her face and arms, poured a glass of lemonade, added ice, and took her chair into the garden. It was nearly lunchtime, a hot July day. She should eat something, but she wasn’t hungry. Opening her book – a novel by Margaret Atwood – she pretended to read, more for herself than to appease any neighbour who might look. Her thoughts would be clearer if she could focus, even half-heartedly, on something else.

If she hadn’t become a lecturer, what else could she have done? Thinking back, she could remember no childish urges for any one profession over another. She’d never felt passionately about what her career should be. It had simply happened. There had been other things she’d felt passionately about. Her friends, the house she lived in, her environment. Even love, for a while. But that hadn’t lasted, had it? Her college affair and its aftermath had killed any thoughts of love. Instead she’d put her energies into her job and the responsibilities that came with it. All those years, she’d thought that had been enough. All those years, she’d heard her colleagues whisper about her intellect, her logic, her capacity for rational thought and decision-making, but never once had they talked of, or asked her, what her feelings might have been. No, that wasn’t fair. It was the impression of herself she’d fostered for so long. The choice she’d made. And how could they have asked about the other Kate, when she didn’t even know who that was? The professor might have guessed at it; he’d always been the closest she’d come to a work friend, rather than a colleague.

She smiled as a female blackbird hopped in front of her, grown bold by Kate’s stillness. From somewhere further down the road, a dog barked. She took a sip of her lemonade.

Had she been living a half-life somehow? Because of Peter? And Stephen? But no, even that was too simple an explanation. Her life was no-one’s responsibility but her own. And it wasn’t true that she had repressed her emotions and become an automaton. What about Nicky? The two of them had always been friends. Smiling, she hoped they would be so for ever.

She blinked and the colours around her seemed brighter. The grass glowed a deep and shadowy green as the wind moved across it, the trees quivered with light, and the sound of the birds was melodic, rhythmic in a way she couldn’t remember noticing before. The sky also was a clear, piercing blue.

Since the night when Kate had told Nicky about the rape, they’d only seen each other twice, once when her friend accompanied her to visit the private investigator, although they had spoken often on the phone. Kate felt glad of her support. And she knew she should return it. A couple of times she’d been on the point of asking about David, but something had stopped her.

Shivering, she noticed the sun was now hidden behind a passing cloud and reached for her cardigan at the back of her chair. She finished the remainder of her lemonade and rested the glass on top of her book beside her.

Nicky. Until recently, Kate had thought she had everything: a happy marriage, two wonderful daughters, a burgeoning career locally and, now, further beyond, stretching into more of the southern counties as her reputation grew. She was a good artist, more often lately an inspired one. Even Kate, who didn’t have an artist’s eye, could see that. And she’d always known she wanted to paint, even from a young age. That certainty of purpose was what she envied more than anything. Kate could remember Nicky in art lessons – if they could be called lessons – at school, her face a mirror of concentration, stroking her paintbrush across the bare sheet of paper and, unlike all the others in the class, producing recognisable shapes and colours and forms with ease. Her path had been mapped out for her even then, its journey simply a matter of time. How she envied that.

But what would happen with Nicky and David now? She’d imagined they’d always be together. They were her family base. Her only close friends. Had she expected too much from them? But lately everything around her seemed out of place, as if the way the universe was built had shifted slightly and left her stranded. She had nothing familiar to rely on. Not any more.

Collecting her book and glass, she left the chair where it was in case she came back later, and walked inside the house. As if it had been waiting for the signal of her return, the doorbell rang. When she saw who it was, she opened the door at once.

‘Professor Dickinson. Andrew,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

Five minutes later, Kate had installed her one-time manager on the sofa in the living room and was pouring him a cup of weak tea with lemon. They’d exchanged a few pleasantries, but so far he’d given her no clue as to the purpose behind his visit, though she thought she might be able to guess.

When she sat down opposite him, he took an appreciative sniff of his tea and smiled.

‘Do you know,’ he said. ‘I think it’s the lemon that makes it special.’

‘You may be right.’ Kate smiled and sipped at her refreshed lemonade.

They sat in easy silence for a minute or two, then Andrew coughed. ‘I imagine you must be wondering why I’m here.’

‘It’s not simply a social visit to see a friend and former colleague then?’

Although she’d made the comment light-heartedly, the professor frowned. ‘Yes, of course. It will always be so, Kate. You know that. I wanted to see how you were getting on for myself. It’s not always easy to express the right things over the telephone, or even by letter. Sometimes – always – it’s important to see people too. No matter what this modern day and age would have us believe. I didn’t want to lose touch with you by default.’

Despite herself, Kate was moved. She couldn’t think of anything to say in reply, but Andrew didn’t seem to notice.

‘More than that,’ he said, ‘I feel I’ve let you down.’

‘No, that’s not true. You’ve been very good indeed.’

He shook his head, ‘No, I don’t think so. I should have called round like this before, but, to be truthful with you, I’ve been afraid. Perhaps I should also have rung you to let you know what I was planning but, again, I feared it would be too easy simply to telephone and not to call round. So, as you can see, I’m here.’

‘And I’m grateful. It’s lovely to see someone familiar.’

‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘I’m glad you see it that way. I was afraid that … that …’

‘… that it wouldn’t be right because you’re a man and, under these difficult circumstances, don’t know what to say to me because I’m a woman?’

Kate never knew where she found the courage to make such a statement but she knew that simply because of the way the world was, it would always be true. Her companion put down the cup he’d been clutching and folded his hands into his lap. She saw him swallow.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but yes, it is something like that. With all my heart, Kate, I don’t want to make things worse for you than they are. Please, believe me.’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘And no, Andrew, you don’t make things worse. Whatever happens, and whatever gender someone is, a friend is always a friend.’

Andrew nodded. After a few seconds, Kate put her half-finished glass on the table.

‘Would you like anything to eat with your tea?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you,’ he said and the atmosphere lightened a shade or two.

Kate waited.

‘What I’d really like to do, if I may,’ he continued, ‘is to have a chat with you about your resignation. A proper chat. Would that be all right?’

Kate couldn’t help herself; she took a sharp intake of breath and stood up. She moved to the window. Andrew didn’t follow her so she allowed herself the luxury of a few moments’ grace. Outside, the sun was still shining and the wind had dropped. A small bird hopped silently across the lawn, but this time she couldn’t tell what it was.

She returned to her seat. In front of her, the cup that she’d brought in for herself earlier on but hadn’t poured out was now full.

‘I thought you’d appreciate the tea,’ Andrew said, his eyes when he glanced at her shrewd but warm. ‘I’m happy with just one. But I’m afraid I don’t know if you take lemon.’

‘No, thank you. It’s all right as it is.’

The hot liquid scalded her tongue, but made her feel more able to deal with whatever conversation might follow.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘You’re not. I simply didn’t introduce the subject well. But as it’s now hovering between us like the great and proverbial sword of Damocles, may I continue?’

After a second or two, she nodded.

‘Thank you,’ he said and paused before speaking again. ‘It strikes me, Kate, that when you handed in your resignation, I might have accepted it for the wrong reasons. I believed then that you needed to give yourself time to recover from the attack and I thought you would be happier with – what shall we say? – a change of scenery? While those things are undoubtedly true, and perhaps valid in your case, I’m not convinced that they are any reasons at all for leaving a job you enjoy and are extremely good at. Do you understand what I mean?’