A Place Of Safety(12)

Ann became aware of extreme cold. A quick upsurge of sour liquid filled her mouth. Struggling not to vomit or faint she rested her head on her knees. As she crouched, trembling, a shadow fell across the carpet.

‘You all right, Mrs Lawrence?’

‘What?’ Ann lifted her head. Then jumped to her feet. The paper fell, butter side up, onto the carpet. ‘What are you doing in here?’

A man was standing in the doorway, one hand resting casually on the frame. An extremely good-looking young man with short, curly hair so blond it was almost white and dazzling dark-blue eyes. There was a tattoo - suprisingly delicate - on his forearm. A dragonfly, azure and vivid green, the body a black exclamation point. He removed his battered denim cap, managing somehow to make this seeming courtesy an insult.

‘Lionel wanted the car at eleven but it won’t start. I think it’s the carburettor.’

‘You’re supposed to phone through.’ Her voice ran off the scale. He’d never done this before. Come into the house. Of all the times for him to choose.

‘The blower’s fucked.’ He smiled as Ann’s cheeks went scarlet. ‘I went to the kitchen to tell Mrs L but she’s not there.’

Having explained himself, the young man made no attempt to leave, just slipped both thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and stared at her with mock respect. The room suddenly became a lot smaller, crammed with tensions she willed herself not to understand.

‘I’ll tell my husband.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ Still he did not move.

There was no way Ann could leave. No way she would ease past that slender body, lounging so gracefully in the doorway. She forced herself to look at him, seeing insolence, even hatred in that brilliant glance then put it down to her present state of mind.

‘Dropped your letter.’

She snatched it up, crumpled it in her hand. Had he seen what it said? Impossible at that distance. She rammed the paper into the pocket of her housecoat and spoke with great effort.

‘You can go . . . um . . . Jax.’

‘I know that, Mrs Lawrence. No need to point that out.’

Ann stepped back, groping behind her for the window seat, lowering herself gradually down. What should she do now? Paralysed by indecision and alarm, she was saved by the arrival of Hetty Leathers.

‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Leathers, carrying a plastic tidy full of polish and dusters, pushed firmly past the chauffeur. ‘Some of us got work to do.’

A blink and he’d gone. One single flowing movement, like a polecat. Mrs Leathers couldn’t help noticing Ann’s distress.

‘You don’t want to let that load of old rubbish upset you.’ It was a mystery to Mrs Leathers that the Reverend could expose his wife to such riffraff. She started to remove the worn lace tablecloth, folding it carefully. ‘The sooner he slings his hook the better.’

‘It wasn’t just him.’ Ann braced herself. ‘Carlotta’s run away.’

‘She’ll fall on her feet. That sort always do.’ Mrs Leathers was not usually so forthright. She liked to think she was loyal to the Reverend as well as to his wife but today she just had to speak out. Ann was looking really ill. ‘I’ve finished in the kitchen. Why don’t you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea?’

Ann half ran from the room. She did not go into the kitchen but hurried blindly through the house with no sense of direction or understanding of where she was going. Eventually she found herself in the linen closet staring blankly at stacks of folded sheets on slatted wooden shelves fragrant with the scent of dried lemon verbena.

She took the letter from her pocket and smoothed it out. Her hand was trembling so much the cut and pasted words jumped up and down as if in some mad dance. She felt she was holding something obscene. Coated with filth. Crawling with slimy invisible life.

She ran to the bathroom and tore the letter into dozens of tiny pieces then did the same with the envelope. She dropped them into the lavatory, working the handle over and over again until every scrap had disappeared.

Then she undressed, turned on the shower, and scrubbed herself fiercely all over with the hand mitt. She cleaned inside her ears and inside her nostrils and under her nails. She washed her hair, rinsing it over and over again. When she had finished, she folded up her housecoat and everything else she had been wearing when she had first touched the letter, crammed them into a bin liner and threw the lot away.




Afterwards, looking back, Ann was surprised she had not anticipated her correspondent’s next step. She had seen enough thrillers, read enough crime novels. But the telephone call still came as a complete and utter shock. Almost as strong a shock as the letter itself.