Pat Barker - Double Vision

She went out, locked the door and changed the combination on the alarm. It took her a long time to remember what she had to do to achieve this, and while she was doing it the rain started again, though only a few scattered drops, just enough to freshen her burning face.

Back in the house, she forced herself to wash, dress, comb her hair, though her efforts only seemed to make the shadows under her eyes more apparent. She looked dreadful, ancient. Felt it too. And yet the improvement in her shoulder was even more remarkable this morning. They’d told her that if it worked at all, the effects would be dramatic, but she hadn’t dared hope for anything as good as this.

The lights came on at ten o’clock. Various pieces of electronic equipment clicked and whirred, the freezer light glowed red but quickly turned to green. A hum in the distance resolved itself into the sound of a car’s engine. Peter? She immediately wished she’d phoned Angela and asked her to come round, but it was too late now. The car stopped by the side of the house, and with relief she saw Stephen Sharkey walk past the kitchen window.

He was making for the studio, taking it for granted that at this time of the morning she’d be there.

‘Hello,’ she said, opening the kitchen door.

‘Hello. Rough night?’

She must look even worse than she thought. ‘Yes, it was a bit.’ She stood to one side. ‘Come in.’

He stepped over the threshold. ‘Did your lights go off?’

‘Yes, they came back on half an hour ago. And yours?’

‘The same. I expect we’re on the same bit of the grid. Did you manage to sleep through it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Do you know,’ he said, taking off his coat, ‘I saw an owl sitting on the fence back there, in broad daylight. I think I could have walked up to it.’

‘Perhaps it’s lost its tree, poor thing. There’ll be a good few of them down.’

She was remembering he’d arranged to come this morning to look through Ben’s prints. It had completely slipped her mind. ‘Would you like some coffee before you start?’

She put the kettle on, but had peppermint tea herself. Her mind buzzed and fizzed with caffeine, but not in any way that produced useful thought. Stephen watched her sip the greenish-brown liquid. She looked shaken, he thought.

‘Don’t you like thunder?’

‘No, it wasn’t that. I was woken up by I think it was a dustbin lid blowing around — but then I saw a light in the studio. So I went across…’

She told it, or attempted to tell it, as an amusing incident, unaware of the expression of fear and distress that had spread across her face and deepened as she spoke.

‘Anyway, there he was with my clothes on.’

‘Your clothes?’

‘Yes, you know, work clothes. He wasn’t prancing about in high heels and a bra.’ A spasm of irritation born of exhaustion. She controlled herself. ‘He was pretending to carve the plaster.’

‘Pretending?’

‘Oh, yes, he didn’t touch it.’

‘Imitating you.’

Imitating domesticated it, she thought. It had been a lot more than that.

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing very heroic, I’m afraid. I just came back here and locked the door.’

‘Did you phone the police?’

She shook her head. ‘The lines were down.’

‘Have you tried this morning?’

‘No, I don’t see the point.’

‘Was there any damage?’

Good question. ‘No, not really.’ She couldn’t explain that the damage was to her belief in herself and in the project. There was nothing the police could do about that.

Stephen was silent for a moment, holding the steaming mug in his clasped hands. ‘Did you know he’d been in prison? Did Alec tell you?’

‘No. How do you know?’

‘Justine told me. It’s about five years ago, so he’s been out for a while.’

‘I don’t suppose he did anything dreadful. Possession of a Category A drug?’

‘I think it was a bit more than that.’

‘Doesn’t Justine know?’

‘No, he never told her.’

‘Alec would know.’

‘Oh, yes, he’d know.’

‘I can’t believe he didn’t mention it.’

‘No, well, I agree. I think you had the right to know what you were taking on.’

‘Yes.’ She was starting to feel angry. A simpler and much more enjoyable response than the mixture of disgust and self-doubt she’d experienced till now.

After Stephen finished his coffee, she took him off to Ben’s studio, tapped in the combination and unlocked the door. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘why don’t I write this down for you? Then you can come and go as you want.’ He gave her his notebook and a pen, and she leant against the wall to write the numbers down. ‘I hope you have a good morning,’ she said, handing the pad back to him.

She went back into the house, but a few minutes later she came out, got in her car and drove away.

Parking outside the churchyard gate, Kate realized she could see the headstone of Ben’s grave, backed by bleached blond grass. She’d wanted him to be there, on the edge of the cemetery, with the rolling moors shrugging their bare shoulders behind him, rather than close to the village with its dense, secretive life, its rivalries, feuds and gossip.

As she walked up the path to the front door of the vicarage, she saw pale gashes in the trees that had been damaged overnight. Twigs and small branches were scattered over the lawn as they were over her yard, but, more worrying for Alec, there were broken slates mixed in as well.

She rang the bell twice, resigning herself to a long wait and possible disappointment, but after a few minutes she heard footsteps — too light to be Alec’s — and turned to the door, expecting to see Justine.

But it was Angela who stood there. They stared at each other. The buttons on Angela’s blouse had been done up in the wrong order, obviously fastened in a hurry. Kate blushed, Angela didn’t. Trying to keep her eyes off the button, Kate asked, ‘Is Alec in?’

‘Yes,’ said Angela, not moving aside.

Somewhere in the depths of the house Kate heard the slapping of bare feet on lino. ‘Could I have a word with him, please?’

She had never spoken to Angela in that chilly, formal way before, but it had an effect. Angela stood aside and let her in. Kate followed her along the corridor and down a flight of steps to the basement kitchen. A dreadfully old-fashioned place. The gas cooker had clawed feet. Kate sat at the table. Angela filled a whistling kettle at a tap that juddered with the effort of producing water, and put it on the cooker to boil.

The window looked out over the churchyard. It said a lot for the kitchen that one appreciated the comparative cheerfulness of the view. Kate said, ‘I’m not surprised Victoria ran away.’

Angela shrugged. ‘She’d only herself to blame. The bishop offered them a modern house, but she wouldn’t have it because it was on a housing estate. She was quite county, you know, Victoria.’

‘Was she? I never really got to know her.’ A pause. ‘Where’s Justine?’

‘With Stephen, I suppose.’

‘With Stephen?’

‘Oh, yes. That’s been going on quite a while.’

Alec had come in on slippered feet and was standing just inside the door. ‘Hello, Kate. What can I do for you?’

She didn’t want to say anything in front of Angela, but it was difficult to make that clear without appearing to snub her. She looked so pink and pleased with herself, presiding over the teapot in this desolate kitchen with its smells of congealed fat and mice. Poor Justine.

‘I’d like to talk about Peter, but there’s no hurry. Have your tea, first.’

Alec beamed as he accepted a cup. He looked so happy, so nice, so rubicund and smiling, so engagingly and endearingly well fucked above his clerical collar, that it was difficult to go on being angry.