Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

I think the pasta was very good, Carl’s cooking was usually excellent, but I barely remember eating it and did so only because I thought it would be the easiest option. I couldn’t stand the thought of Carl making a fuss. At first we ate in silence. I really did feel drained. In any case there was only one thing I wanted to talk to him about and he had made it quite clear that he did not want to talk about it at all.

There was fresh pineapple and local Cornish ice cream for dessert. While we were eating it the candle flickered more dramatically and blew out. The only light in the room then was from the single spotlight aimed at my Pumpkin Soup painting, and suddenly it seemed quite harsh and unforgiving. I thought Carl had probably opened the small kitchen window while he was cooking – he often did. He must have been more preoccupied than he was letting on because he made no move to relight the candle, which was unlike him.

When the meal was over I made one last attempt to question him about his recollections of Robert’s death but he still didn’t want to talk about it.

‘You saw Robert, didn’t you, bleeding from the knife wounds, from where I’d stabbed him...’ I began.

‘Go to bed and I’ll bring you up a hot drink.’

‘Carl, I do not understand what the police are saying to me. I really need to get to the bottom of it. Don’t you, Carl? Don’t you want that too?’ I persisted lamely.

‘The less we have to do with the police or any other officials in our lives the better,’ he replied obliquely. ‘We’ve always agreed on that, haven’t we?’

I nodded. ‘But things are different now, Carl, this can’t go on.’

Carl looked weary. ‘Honey, why don’t you go to bed?’ he asked again. ‘We’re both tired. There’s nothing we can do about the cops until they’ve completed their silly investigation. There can only be one result. You and I know the truth and so, soon enough, slow as they seem to be, will the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. That’s what I’m afraid of. It’ll spoil everything, won’t it?

‘But right now, why don’t you just go to bed. Things will look brighter and clearer in the morning. They always do, don’t they?’

I nodded in a resigned sort of way. But I didn’t really think so, not in this case.

‘Go on, I’ll make you some creamy cocoa,’ Carl encouraged.

Again I meekly obeyed him, from habit, I suppose, as much as anything. And in the end I was actually quite happy to do as he said. My brain was in turmoil. I was bewildered. I longed for oblivion.

I climbed the funny old staircase, proceeded to unfold the futon sofa and turn it into our double bed, a task I had performed so many times in this house. I opened the old seaman’s chest in which we kept our bedding, removed the duvet, bottom sheet and pillows, and flung them on the futon in a tangled lump.

Downstairs I could hear Carl moving about. He would clear up meticulously before he brought me the promised hot drink. That was in his nature. Crisis or no crisis, I had no doubt that all the dishes would be washed and put away, and both kitchen and dining room restored to perfect order. I had often thought that it was a good job I had been brought up by Gran to be tidy, because I couldn’t imagine Carl being able to live with someone who wasn’t.

I turned on the bedside radio in the hope of being able to listen to something restful and beautiful, which might calm me, but it was on CD mode and, predictably, the strains of Leonard Cohen filled the room. I wasn’t in the mood. I switched it on to radio, fiddling with the dial until I found Classic FM. Something I vaguely recognised as being Mozart, although I couldn’t have said what, was playing. It was both gentle and beautiful but I doubted anything would have done much to improve my distraught state of mind.

With a great effort of will I unfolded the bottom sheet and spread it over the futon, placed the pillows neatly side by side and shook the duvet into some semblance of order.

I really needed comfort so I sought out a pair of Carl’s heavy cotton pyjamas, warm and cosy, and engulfed myself in them. Then I climbed into the bed and pulled the cover up to my neck. It was all so familiar, so comfortable, but it gave me no solace at all.

I just lay there, wide awake and fretting, until I heard Carl go through his nightly routine of checking that both front and back doors were locked, then returning to check them both again as he almost always seemed to, and eventually his footsteps on the stairs. He put a steaming mug of cocoa on the floor next to my side of the bed and sat down alongside me.

He kissed me on the end of my nose. ‘I bet you’ve got my pyjamas on tonight,’ he said. He knew me so well. I allowed him to tug the duvet back an inch or two. ‘You have too. I really fancy you in my jim-jams, do you know that,’ he went on.

I forced a smile. I didn’t think I could face sex.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, gently stroking my hair and reading my mind as usual. ‘I just want you to sleep well tonight, that’s all. Now drink your cocoa before it gets cold.’

He passed me the mug. It was my favourite, with a reproduction of Monet’s Westminster Bridge over the Thames all round it. It reminded me of long Thames-side walks with Gran when I was a child. I took a series of deep drafts and after a bit I did start to feel much more calm and relaxed. My eyelids began to droop. My last memory that night was of Carl smiling at me, his face misting over before my eyes.

The next thing I was aware of was him shaking my shoulder gently, trying to wake me. Eventually and reluctantly I opened my eyes and blinked in the glare of daylight. Another glorious April day, it seemed. The sun was streaming in the window and I was vaguely aware that it was quite high in the sky. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was 11.15 a.m. I tried to raise myself off the bed. My limbs felt leaden and my head was still muzzy.

‘You’ve had a good long sleep,’ said Carl. ‘Time to wake up now.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘I must have slept for over twelve hours.’

‘Good thing too,’ he said. ‘Just what you needed.’

‘I suppose so.’ I shook my head tentatively. It felt a bit as if it belonged to somebody else. ‘I don’t feel all that hot this morning though.’

‘You soon will,’ he assured me. ‘This is going to be one of the good days.’

I smiled wanly. The memory of all the events of the previous day was already vivid in spite of my slight wooziness and, in the circumstances, I thought it unlikely that this new day could be much of an improvement.

‘Dress now, sweetheart,’ he told me. ‘Wear something warm. Don’t be long.’

Unquestioningly, I did as he bade me, maybe out of habit, maybe because I didn’t have the energy to resist. I pulled on jeans, a T-shirt and a big, thick sweater on top. Then I went downstairs. He had made tea and laid a light breakfast on the dining-room table.

I found to my surprise that I was ravenously hungry.

He watched with open delight as I demolished a brimming bowl of cornflakes, downed three large mugs of tea and consumed several slices of toast and honey. ‘Good, that will get your strength up,’ he told me.

‘Yes, and I guess I’m going to need to be strong,’ I remarked wryly.

‘You certainly are,’ he said. ‘I’m going to spirit you away. I’m taking you somewhere nobody can find us.’

I didn’t think that was what I wanted. Not any more. But I always did what Carl said. Doing what somebody else told me to had always been a habit for me and old habits die hard. In any case I did not seem able to think clearly. Everything appeared blurred.