Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

I nibbled at a biscuit without much interest and made myself sip the tea. It was no good. I just couldn’t be bothered. My chest and head really hurt now. I was beginning to wonder how big a mistake I had made in leaving hospital prematurely. Maybe sleep would help, if anything could.

I dragged myself upstairs, switched on the electric fire to full blast, then half fell on to the bed and buried myself in the duvet.

Almost at once I was overwhelmed by oblivion.

The next thing to enter my consciousness was the sound of a loud banging on the front door. ‘Carl,’ I thought at once as I sat up groggily. I was wet with sweat. The room now felt stiflingly hot.

It was a second or two before the remains of my brain told me that my first reaction was wrong. He was locked up in the Devon County Prison at Exeter. It could not be Carl.

Anxiously I clambered out of bed, still fully clothed, and hurried down the stairs, eager to see who was outside, but afraid.

I am not really sure who or what I feared at that instant, but it was both a relief and a surprise to see Mariette standing in the alleyway clutching two bulging supermarket carrier bags.

‘I phoned the hospital to see how you were. They said you’d discharged yourself. I would have come to pick you up. You should have called...’

I nodded apologetically. It had not occurred to me to call Mariette or anyone else. Without Carl I considered myself to be quite alone.

‘I’ve brought some shopping,’ explained Mariette unnecessarily, lifting her carrier bags a couple of inches towards me. ‘Come on, then, aren’t you going to invite me in.’

I stood aside and she bustled past me. She had never been in our house before although I had been to hers several times. Carl and I had not encouraged visitors, except Will with his cheques.

I watched Mariette take in the small, dark dining room and the way Carl and I had tried to brighten it with pictures and candles.

‘Shall I put all this in the kitchen?’ she enquired and was halfway through the kitchen door before I had chance to reply.

I followed her meekly. She at once opened the fridge. There was nothing inside at all except a few dubious-looking jars of unknown vintage.

‘Thought so,’ announced Mariette triumphantly. ‘You look like you could do with this lot.’

She waved a hand at her bags of groceries and began to unpack while I just stood there watching.

‘What time is it?’ I asked vaguely.

‘Just gone five,’ said Mariette. ‘I managed to get away early.’

Five in the afternoon. I had slept for nearly six hours. As I began to wake up more I thought that maybe I did feel a little better. Well enough, anyway, to take some notice at least of the provisions Mariette was piling on the worktop. There were all the basics – milk, bread, butter, cheese and eggs, and there was also pasta, chicken, mushrooms, an assortment of other vegetables, some fruit and two bottles of wine – one white and one red.

‘We’ll start with this,’ said Marietta, lightly touching the bottle of white and sounding quite masterful. ‘It’s cold. Where’s the corkscrew?’

I gestured to the cutlery drawer. I was pretty sure there was a corkscrew there even though I could hardly remember when it had last been used. Carl and I only drank wine at home at Christmas, or maybe on our birthdays if we couldn’t afford to go out for a celebration meal. Mariette had the bottle open in no time and even found two glasses without asking me where to look. I felt rooted to the spot, completely unable to contribute.

‘Right then, let’s get stuck in,’ she said, in a tone of voice that indicated that she would countenance no argument.

Clutching bottle and glasses, she headed for the chairs around the dining-room table.

‘No, let’s go upstairs,’ I said, coming to life again just a little bit.

She followed me up the rickety staircase and let out a gasp of admiration as she saw the view across the bay from our picture window. The room really was very hot, though.

‘No wonder you’re sweating,’ said Mariette, gesturing towards the glowing electric fire. ‘It is the end of April you know, and we are in Cornwall.’

She should have been in that dreadful old damp hut with me, I thought, but she was right about the temperature.

Hastily I switched off the fire and began the familiar transformation of bed into sofa. Mariette put down the bottle and glasses on the little table by the window and came to help me, glancing back over her shoulder as if reluctant to turn away from the view.

The lights were just starting to go on in the town below. The effect was rather wonderful. We were so far above the harbour, which you could glimpse only over and through the convoluted shapes of dozens of rooftops. I always thought it had an unreality about it, particularly at night, like a kind of toy town.

‘Stunning room,’ said Mariette.

‘Yes, Carl and I more or less live up here,’ I agreed quickly and without thinking. ‘Lived, I should say,’ I added more quietly.

Mariette put a hand on my arm, but didn’t say anything.

‘You know what he’s supposed to have done in America, don’t you?’ I said. ‘You know about the manslaughter charge?’

She nodded. ‘I heard some garbled account, but I’d hoped maybe it was just a rumour...’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

I shook my head. ‘No, I’m afraid it’s true. At least that’s what the police say. I’ll know when I see him, I’m sure of that.’

I was too. I told her how I planned to go to Exeter in the morning, after seeing DC Carter.

‘Good, that’s exactly what you should do,’ she said. Then she poured the wine while, almost automatically, I folded up the duvet and sheet.

‘Let’s get drunk.’ She passed me a brimming glass.

I took a deep drink and thought she could turn out to be an exceptionally good friend.

When we had more or less polished off the bottle Mariette announced that she was cooking me supper. I protested weakly and she ignored me, which was probably all for the best because my head was already beginning to spin a little, the combined effect, no doubt, of half a bottle of wine and not having eaten all day.

‘If you don’t eat you’re really going to get ill,’ she said.

‘I have really been ill.’

‘And now you’re going to get better,’ she told me, again in a tone of voice with which I was not inclined to argue.

She busied herself in the kitchen and I laid the table and lit the candles. She poked her head through the door and mumbled approvingly. ‘Amazing what candlelight hides, isn’t it,’ she remarked.

‘Thanks very much,’ I said.

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ she added cheerily.

She turned out to be what Gran would have referred to as an excellent plain cook; perfectly grilled chicken, well seasoned and enlivened with just a little garlic and rosemary, was accompanied by potatoes sautéed with onions and crisply cooked green beans. She was quick too, carrying in a tray laden with food in what seemed like no time at all.

We spoke very little about Carl or any of what had happened. Unlike the oppressive Mrs Jackson, Mariette did not try to push me into talking about it and I found I just didn’t want to. There wasn’t a lot to say, really. All I wanted to do was get through the time before I could see him, meet him face-to-face and ask him to tell me the truth. And the wine certainly helped with that. Mariette swiftly opened the second bottle and by the time we were halfway through it I was beginning to forget about time entirely. I was not used to so much alcohol. I had never thought about it before, but when Carl and I occasionally shared a bottle of wine he always drank the greater part of it.