Robert Goddard - Borrowed Time

“Sarah? It’s Robin. Can I come in?”

“Robin?” She sounded horrified as well as amazed.

“Yes. Can I come in?”

“What… How did you get here?”

“I’ll explain inside. It’s pretty cold and wet out here.”

“No. I… I can’t see you, Robin.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being. Please… Please go away.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Please, Robin. Leave. It’s best, believe me. Goodbye.” There was another click as she put the phone down. I pressed the buzzer instantly, reckoning she couldn’t just walk away while it rang. Sure enough, she picked up the phone again. “There’s nothing more to be said, Robin. I want you to-”

“Paul’s with you, isn’t he? I know he is, so don’t bother to deny it. The police are looking for him.”

“What? Why?”

“Let me in and I’ll explain.”

“Do they… have this address?”

“No. But if I have to walk away from here, they will have it.”

“Don’t do this, Robin.” Her tone had altered. She seemed to be pleading with me-as much for my sake as hers. “You have no idea what you’re getting involved in.”

“Open the door, Sarah.”

“Please, I-”

“Open it.”

Several long speechless moments passed, during which a faint buzz from the grille assured me she was still on the line. Then there was a much louder buzz from the lock on the doors. And when I pushed against them they yielded.

I stepped inside. The doors swung shut behind me. Warm air and insulated silence wrapped themselves around me. I walked down the hall to the point where it divided, glanced left and saw a brass plaque on the wall inscribed 225-226; LIFT TO 229-237. Glancing right, I saw another plaque, inscribed 227-228. I headed that way, turned left, passed flat 227, rounded a bend in the corridor and saw the door to flat 228 at the far end.

It was fitted with a viewing lens, through which Sarah must have been watching out for me. The handle turned as I approached and the door slowly opened. But she didn’t move into view. All I could see inside was a stretch of carpet and a bare wall, dimly lit. I called her name, but she didn’t answer. I hesitated for a moment and called again. Still she didn’t respond. Not that it made any difference. I knew what I was bound to do. It was too late to turn back now. I reached out and touched the door. It creaked slightly on its hinges. Then I stepped forward and crossed the threshold.

There was a window to my left, admitting some grey remnants of daylight. Ahead, the entrance hall narrowed into a passage, lit by two bare bulbs and the glare from a third beyond the right-angled corner at its end. Three or four doors stood open along the passage, but the rooms they led to were in darkness. The flat looked what I sensed it to be-carpeted and curtained, but otherwise unfurnished.

I heard the front door click shut behind me and turned to find Sarah looking straight at me. She was dressed all in black-pumps, tights, mini-skirt and polo-neck sweater. Her eyes were wide and staring. She was breathing with audible rapidity. And she was holding her right arm behind her back at an awkward angle, bizarrely reminiscent of a suitor concealing a bunch of flowers from his beloved.

“Hello, Sarah,” I ventured. “Where’s Paul?”

“Never mind Paul,” she replied breathlessly. “How did you get here? And why did you come?”

The how was easy to explain. And I did. But the why ? Something in her manner-something in her dilated eyes-stopped me telling her there and then that her father was dead.

“Mrs. Simpson,” Sarah muttered when I’d finished. “The stupid stupid woman. What do her bloody Christmas cards matter compared with-” She broke off and her tone became more controlled. “Why was Bella so anxious to contact me? Why isn’t she with you?”

“It’s your father. He’s… not well. Bella is… with him.”

“In Biarritz?”

“Look, can we-”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Why don’t we go somewhere more comfortable?”

“No. Tell me now. Tell me here.”

“I’m sure it would be better if-”

“Tell me!” Her cry-of pain as much as impatience-echoed in the empty hallway.

“All right. Calm down.” I moved towards her, but she stepped smartly back, bumping against the wall behind her. I saw a muscle tighten in her cheek. Her gaze narrowed.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. Really I am. But the answer’s yes. Your father’s dead.”

She half-closed her eyes and tears sprang into them. Her head drooped. Her voice faltered. “How? How did it happen?”

“It’s not entirely clear. Some kind of-” I stopped as her right arm slipped from behind her back and fell to her side. Then I saw what she was holding in her hand. A snub-nosed revolver, its barrel and chambers glistening in the cold electric light. “Sarah! What in God’s name-”

There was a movement-a shadow across my sight-further down the passage. I whirled round and saw Paul standing at the end. He was wearing jeans, trainers and a dark green sweat-shirt. And he too was holding a gun.

“Paul?”

“Leave now, Robin,” he called to me. “Walk out and forget you were ever here.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“This isn’t your affair. Don’t get involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“Just go. While you still can.”

“Sarah?” I turned and looked at her. She raised her head and dabbed away her tears with the knuckles of her left hand. She was holding the gun firmly, her forefinger curled round the trigger. And her jaw was set in a determined line. “ Sarah ?”

“You don’t understand, Robin. But you will. Later. Just tell me how Daddy died. Then go.”

“I’m telling nothing and going nowhere until you two tell me what the hell’s going on here.”

“It’s best if you don’t know. Believe me.”

“That’s right,” Paul cut in. “Believe her.”

“Why should I?”

“Just do it!” He leant against the wall behind him, glanced along the passage to his right, then looked back at us. “I’ll give you five minutes to get rid of him, Sarah.” With that he pushed himself upright and moved out of sight.

“Where’s he gone?” I demanded, turning to Sarah.

“Don’t ask.”

“But I am asking.”

“This is nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, but it is. I’ve seen through your deception, you know. Paul’s confession. The faked corroboration. The whole elaborate game you’ve been playing.”

She stared at me incredulously, something in her expression signalling that she didn’t intend to deny it. “How?” she murmured.

“Never mind. What I want to know is: why did you do it? Why the secret address? Why the guns, for God’s sake?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No. I can’t.” I peered down the passage. There was no sign of Paul. But there’d been a sound-a groan and a chink of metal. “Paul?” I called. There was no response. Except the same faint metallic rattle. I started towards it.

“Robin!” Sarah cried after me. “Stop!” But I didn’t stop. I don’t think I could have done. The passage drew me on down its carpeted length, dream-like and surreal in the low-wattage light, with the black gulfs of empty rooms to either side. I had to know now. I had to see for myself.

I reached the corner and looked to my left. At the far end of the passage, bright light spilt from an open doorway. A shadow moved across it. I glanced round at Sarah, who was slowly following me, shaking her head, as if to urge me even at this stage to turn back, to reconsider, to leave well enough alone. Then I walked on.