Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

In the end I stayed with the Powells for another three weeks after returning from America, before finding myself a small flat to rent just off the Hale Road. It was at the top of the hill past the Porthminster Hotel, quite a steep climb up from the town, and there was no sea view, but it was clean and comfortable, and would do well enough until I had fulfilled my next aim. I wanted to buy a modest home of my own. I had just about enough cash as long as I could work – and Mariette solved that problem for me a couple of weeks later when she announced excitedly that the St Ives Archive Study Centre, housed upstairs at the library, was looking for a new researcher. The pay was a pittance but it was better than nothing and the work suited me absolutely. Carl had been right about one thing: I had no experience of being employed and I had indeed wondered what kind of a job I would ever be capable of holding down. But I’d got lucky and found something that was close to perfect for me. It meant burying my nose in books and old papers, which I had done for pleasure all my life, and although I had never used computers before, I could type, thanks to Gran, and I took to the computer age with surprising ease. I was really quite excited about the whole thing. If I failed it would not be for want of enthusiasm or effort.

Nonetheless I found my first week at work totally exhausting. I supposed I would get used to it and that nervous tension was the main part of the problem. The Centre was involved in a particularly demanding project concerning the history of the part of town where the Tate Gallery now stands and I was even asked to work on the Saturday morning. Mariette was also on duty in the library but at lunchtime I turned down her suggestion that we go for a beer and a sandwich. All I wanted to do was to get back to my flat, put my feet up and have an afternoon nap.

It was the third week in August. Almost exactly three months had passed since Carl had escaped from the court jail at Penzance, and even I was beginning to wonder if he really had gone for good and reinvented himself somewhere else.

I kept in touch with DS Perry, but she had nothing more to tell me, although she assured me that she remained in contact with the police in America and that if there was any news of Carl there she would know at once.

For once I wasn’t thinking about Carl at all as I began to walk wearily home that sunny Saturday afternoon. My new job had not only proved to be both mentally and physically tiring, but had also given me plenty to occupy my mind, which was probably just what I needed. The walk was uphill all the way. There was a bit of a short cut, which I had so far avoided because it would take me straight past Rose Cottage, but I was so worn out that I decided only the fastest way home would do.

When I turned into the familiar alleyway for the first time in so long, I noticed a Dyno-Rod van on the corner and, as I walked past the cottage, out stepped Will Jones. I supposed I had realised that I would meet him sooner or later, although since returning to St Ives I had deliberately avoided anywhere close to his gallery and the two or three pubs that I knew to be his favourite haunts, but I was shocked to see him emerging from my own front door. I still thought of it that way, you see. Well, six and a half years in one little house is a long time.

I gasped. Will stepped smartly back. Then he smiled. I glowered.

‘Hi, Suzanne, I’ve been looking out for you,’ he said. I could hardly believe my ears. Had the man no shame?

‘What do you mean, looking out for me?’ I snapped. ‘Haven’t you been following me? Isn’t that what you normally do?’

He assumed a hangdog expression. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help caring for you.’

He made me sick, he really did. He had caused so much damage.

‘I’ve only ever wanted to look after you,’ he said. His voice was a whine.

I wanted to slap his face. In any case the last thing in the world that I wanted was anyone ‘looking after’ me ever again.

‘What are you doing in my house?’ I asked coldly.

‘It’s not your house any more,’ he replied.

‘You know what I mean,’ I said.

‘I’m renting it,’ he told me.

I had suspected as much. The very thought gave me the creeps. Was I to be haunted by obsessions all my life? ‘I don’t believe it!’ I said. ‘How could you?’

He assumed an expression of studied innocence. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I just wanted a little place in the middle of St Ives, that’s all.’ He smiled, only it looked more like a leer.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The whole thing was absurd. Will Jones lived in a big modern clifftop bungalow off the Penzance road. The only possible interest he could have in Rose Cottage was me. I knew that. And so did he.

‘You’re not actually living here, are you?’ I enquired.

‘Of course.’ He puffed up his chest a bit and stood up very straight, as if the full extent of his towering six foot five would automatically give him an advantage. Somehow he managed to look even more pathetic.

‘Will, you’re not right in the head,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself committed.’

‘What, like your Carl should have done?’

I was not as short on courage as I had once been. I took a step forward and probably would have hit him but for the man from Dyno-Rod who emerged with perhaps fortuitous timing from Rose Cottage and, apparently oblivious to the conflict between Will and me, stepped between us and began to speak.

‘Damned if I knows where it’s coming from, mate, I’ve checked the drains right through and I can’t find ought wrong...’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Will, turning his attention abruptly away from me. ‘But you’re going to have to keep looking because I just can’t put up with the stink in there.’

The Dyno-Rod man retreated back into the cottage, shaking his head and scratching it at the same time.

Will turned back to face me. ‘Did you and Carl have any trouble with the drains?’ he asked conversationally.

My anger welled up again. ‘Will, I don’t give a fuck about your fucking drains,’ I stormed. ‘But I’ll tell you this.’ I jabbed a finger firmly in his chest. ‘If you are following me around again, if I ever see you, if you ever come near me, then I’m warning you, I’m just not responsible for what I might do to you. I have had enough, do you hear me?’

I wasn’t entirely certain, but I didn’t believe I had ever used the word ‘fuck’ in anger before. I thought I was being pretty menacing. Will appeared to think so too. He looked stunned rigid, which had indeed been my intention. In spite of my angry reaction when he had first told me he had been responsible for all the threats, he obviously still thought of me as meek and mild Suzanne. Maybe he had put that out of his mind. He was the sort of man who went in for selective memory. After all, it came hand in hand with obsession.

‘OK, OK,’ he said, backing off with both hands held high in compliance. But I was so angry he didn’t move quickly enough for me. I pushed him out of the way and he must have been off balance because he fell heavily on to one knee.

‘I’m sorry, you just don’t understand,’ he whimpered pathetically.

I brushed past him, only narrowly overcoming the urge to kick him in the teeth.

I spent Sunday reading and being lazy. The afternoon was gloriously sunny and, braving the holidaymakers who were out in force, I went for a short walk along the beach. The sun felt warm on my back. I took off my shoes and walked barefooted, the way I used to with Carl, relishing the feel of the gritty sand between my toes. The afternoon light was almost blindingly bright. It was a true St Ives day. By the time I got home and made myself some supper to eat in front of the TV I was enjoying quite a sense of well-being.