D. Compton - The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

The name shocked her. ‘Gerald?’

‘Your first husband. I never got to see him. What sort of a man is he?’

‘It’s been a long time. I don’t know. I don’t—’

‘Would he take you in?’

‘Take me in?’ Ten seconds before she would have denied any such idea, but now she knew with the utter certainty of hindsight that it was Gerald she had been circling, Gerald she had not quite been making for ever since she left the city. ‘I don’t know if he’d take me in. But I’d like to try.’

‘If he doesn’t, you’re landed.’

‘We’d think of something.’

‘Besides, with the money I’ve got maybe you and old Tommy could—’

‘Gerald’s school isn’t far. I’d like to see him.’

‘It’s the Easter holidays. Maybe he won’t be there.’

‘Maybe he will.’

‘If the police have any sense it’s the first place they’ll look.’

It was he who had suggested Gerald. Now he was hedging. Perhaps he was afraid of her being hurt. Gerald, she was sure, would never hurt her. ‘I’m willing to chance the police. If you are.’

He turned away, felt for the side of the van. ‘I’m free of the lot of them. They’ll want money, of course. Their money back. Their money…’ He smiled, and seemed to be seeing. His eyes were clear, and bright brown, and seemed to be seeing. ‘…I’ve a wife and a son. Did I ever tell you that?’

‘Mostly we talked about me.’

‘Anyway, that’s all… She’s Tracey. I met her on a trip to Boston. We call the boy Roddie Two. I’ve a photograph somewhere.’

He dug his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and held it out to her. She took it, but did not open it. After a pause she said, ‘He’s a fine little boy.’

‘He’ll be grown, of course. That picture’s two — no, nearly three years old.’

She gave him his wallet back. She didn’t want to know. She was glad he had another life, someone to go to, but she didn’t want to know about it. ‘So we’ll ask Mr Tucker if he’d be kind enough to give us a lift as far as Gerald’s school,’ she said.

She couldn’t always be noble. She couldn’t always be happy for the people who would be here, and loved, when she wasn’t.

The telephone beside the bed rang for a long time before either of them stirred. Finally the woman put out a frowzy, motherly hand and lifted the receiver. She listened briefly, then shook Harry. ‘It’s for you, love. The TV man. He’s on the telephone. He wants a word.’

Harry straggled awake, saw her looking down at him, was relieved. ‘What time is it?’

‘Not yet nine. Bloody cheek.’

He took the receiver from her. ‘Vincent? It’s not yet nine. What on earth are you—’ He broke off. Listened. ‘Well, that’s your problem… No, I’ve no idea at all where she might go. I stopped trying to guess what she’d do years ago.’

He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. ‘Gerald? After what he did to her? You must be joking… No, unless she’s gone stark, staring mad, that’s the last place she’d go.’ He opened his eyes and gestured toward the kitchen and a cup of tea. ‘I told you, I’ve no suggestions at all. She had a thing about old places — if there’s a ruin around you might find her there… Her passport? It’s in the desk here… Of course I’m certain.’

He put down the receiver, hauled himself out of bed and padded through to the living room, scratching as he went. A moment later he returned. From the kitchen there were comfortable noises of the kettle being filled. ‘Hello? It’s in the drawer like I said. Though from what I saw of her on the show last night she’ll hardly be trotting about the gay Continent, passport or no passport.’

He climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, then reconsidered and pushed them down low across his stomach, ready for the arrival of the tea. ‘No. And you can give her father a miss too. She hated him. In fact she hated everybody. She even hated me, it seems… No — a ruin’s your best bet. She had this thing about old places.’

He was about to ring off. Then, ‘Vincent? Yes. I wonder… when you find her, give her my love, will you? Tell her I miss her. And let me know if you decide to bring her back here. Give me a chance to… tidy up the flat a bit.’

The tea arrived. He smiled, and nodded at Vincent’s voice, and returned the receiver between forefinger and thumb to its cradle. He’d seen a man do it like that in a movie once.

‘They’ve lost her,’ he said. ‘Camera’s broken down or something. Thought I might know where she’d go.’

‘Bloody cheek.’

‘Steady on. Go easy. I’m still her husband. If not me, then who?’

‘It’s just the time, love. Not yet nine.’

‘She was a very remarkable woman. Just you remember that.’

‘Tea up, love. And you’re a very remarkable man.’

She placed the tray in the middle of the bed between them and around it they played little games with each other’s sexual extremities. Then, before it got too cold, they drank their tea. The time passed delightfully.

Peter was having a cooked breakfast with his friend when the telephone called him away from the table. He liked a cooked breakfast and he always had a cooked breakfast, so he took it with him out into the hall.

‘Who? Mr who? Ferriman… oh yes, the man from NTV.’ He stopped chewing. ‘My God. It’s bad news. You’re ringing to tell me she’s dead. Poor Katie-Mo. Poor, poor Katie-Mo…’

… A long while later he returned to the breakfast table. His friend saw his face, and sat him down, and fetched him fresh coffee from the hot plate on the side.

‘How should I know where she’s gone? I told them I hadn’t a clue… They knew she’d been here — perhaps she’d given me some kind of hint. I tried to remember… I expect you heard most of it. All about going away, and… sort of saying goodbye. There wasn’t anything else, was there?’

His friend sorted out what Peter was talking about. He shook his head. There’d been, he was sure, nothing. Only sort of saying good-bye.

Clement Pyke’s telephone rang on an empty boat — empty, that is, of the living. He had died by his own hand some ten hours before, after watching his daughter dance on a gray pebbly beach. There were things that had long been beyond him. He left a large number of notes but the police, when they finally came, were to suppress them every one.

Vincent let the bell ring for a long time before giving up. ‘Evidently not at home,’ he said.

Dr Mason took his ball-point out of his pocket, stared at it and put it back. ‘There’ll be a pattern,’ he said. ‘She knows she’s not got long. She can no longer afford just to let things happen.’

‘Unless of course that’s all she can afford to do.’

‘You’re playing with words.’

‘Perhaps I am. But the two of them couldn’t be picky. They’d have taken the first lift that came along.’

‘We’ve got to find her.’

‘I know that. The police have their roadblocks. Now we’ve got them checking ancient monuments. I don’t see what else we can do.’

‘Ring your man’s wife. Perhaps she’ll have some suggestions.’

‘You’re behaving like a frightened hen.’

‘And you like an empire builder, dressing for dinner while the ship goes down.’

‘I will not ring Tracey. All that would do would be to bring her along here, emoting all over the place. She’s hardly seen him in three years… Klausen’s the man who could help if anybody could. And all he talks about is transference, and mutilation trauma, and Roddie being saner than anyone here imagined.’