Lynda Plante - The Talisman

Harriet eventually came to the kitchen door. Her face was pale, and she shivered with the cold. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, how episodes of your life suddenly come back to you?’ She poured herself a mug of tea and heaped in three teaspoonfuls of sugar. ‘We’d all been hunting, Pa was furious with me, I took a fence badly, spent all night in the stable, but I knew it was hopeless, just as I knew it had been entirely my fault. Just as I know, deep down, I know it was my fault he died.’

Dewint presumed she was referring to her horse, he had no idea she was talking about her baby. She gulped at the hot tea, and her hands shook. ‘I kept riding, you see, I loved to ride so much. Early morning, when the grass is wet, everything’s clean and fresh, and they come out of the stables, snorting, pawing the ground and they want to run free. Up you get, and you have to hold them in, hold them tight, then you let go, and you feel that surge of power as they are released, the sound... ba-ba-ba-boom-ba-ba-boom.’ The tea spilt as she punched the air with the mug. Dewint could not take his eyes from her. She was so alive, her cheeks flooded with colour and her eyes sparkled. She slapped the draining board, making the sound of running hooves... ‘All that energy, Norman, all that life and...’ She spun round holding her arm out straight, her fingers shaped to form a gun. ‘I killed him... BANG.’

Dewint’s hands flew to his cheeks, gasping like an old woman. ‘Oh Mrs Barkley you didn’t... you didn’t, God help me if I ever break my leg.’

Just as that energy had flooded through her, he saw it drain away. Her whole body sagged, and she said she would lie down for a while. He followed her into the hall, watched her move slowly, heavily up the stairs. ‘What shall I do about South Africa, Mrs Barkley?’

She paused, seemed confused. ‘South Africa...? Oh yes, well I suppose you’d better arrange my ticket, you sort everything out that’s necessary, don’t want to talk now, can’t talk now.’ Dewint hovered at the foot of the stairs.

‘Are you sure you still want to go?’

He saw her hands clench and she snapped, ‘I need to see my husband, I want to see Edward. Now leave me alone.’

Edward lay beside the swimming pool, his body oiled and relaxed. He was tanned to a deep, dark brown, and his hair had grown even longer. He was smiling because the joint Skye Duval had presented to him was taking effect. Skye had harvested his own illegal crop from seeds brought in by one of his men. The grass was very strong, and Edward felt as if his head were opening up, his body drifting on a cloud.

Swimming length after length of the pool was Skye Duval. Eventually he swam to the side and hauled himself out. He was naked, and a young houseboy threw him a towel. Skye flopped down on to the sunbed next to Edward and took the joint. He drew heavily on it, letting the smoke drift from his nostrils, moaning softly. He rolled on to his stomach. ‘This is the life, eh? Sometimes this place isn’t so bad.’

Edward picked up the newspaper, the English Times , and tossed it to Skye. He stretched, yawning. ‘I put an obituary in for Dickie, felt I owed it to BB.’

‘That was very decent of you. I’m sure the old boy wouldn’t have given a bugger.’

Edward laughed, took the joint back for a last drag before stubbing it out. ‘He couldn’t have timed it better. What beats me is what he was doing in that section of town, he must have been out of his mind.’

‘Aren’t we all! Shall I roll another?’

Edward closed his eyes without replying. Skye gave him a hooded, hesitant look before rolling the joint. He used straight grass, no tobacco, and his joints were strong. He leaned over and switched on the transistor radio — and The Doors blared out across the pool, ‘I’m Your Back Door Man’. Jim Morrison’s heavy voice was joined by Skye Duval’s gusty laugh, he found the link between the lyrics and his own preferences hysterically funny. Stoned, he jumped up, danced around, puffing on the cigar-sized joint.

Edward turned over, began to rub more oil on his shoulders. He put on a pair of Skye’s mirrored shades, and continued to watch him dancing. He held up his hand as Skye proffered the joint. Edward gripped Skye’s wrist tightly. ‘What was Richard doing in the wogs’ area, Skye? Do you know?’

Skye released his wrist, backing off. ‘Sure! He liked black ass, always made his way there after a drinking session. He must have played around with someone’s wife, or daughter, his sister or mother — who gives a fuck. Whoever zapped him did us all a favour.’

‘Who was he having this booze-up with, Skye, do you know?’

Skye’s doorbell rang, and the houseboy moved as if to answer it. Skye waved him back to mixing drinks at the poolside bar and wrapped a towel round his waist. He ambled off, still dancing, to answer the door. Edward dragged on the joint, inhaling the grass deeply into his lungs. He had a bloody good idea exactly who Richard Van der Burge had been with that night. Skye Duval.

Edward had his eyes closed. Skye bent close, whispered in his ear, ‘You’ve got a visitor, and a very attractive one. I don’t know where you get the energy from, man, and this one’s far out.’

Edward half rose, then blinked in the strong sunlight. He reached for the shades again, and his hand froze. He tried to stand, but was so stoned he flopped back. Harriet stood on the verandah. She was wearing a black dress, a wide-brimmed, black straw hat. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Skye made a sweeping gesture for Harriet to come to the poolside. Out of the side of his mouth he said, ‘This one even I wouldn’t mind shafting.’ He called out, ‘You want a drink sweetheart... what did you say your name was?’

Harriet remained on the verandah, half in the shadows, half in the sunlight. Casually, she took her hat off and shook out her hair. Skye clapped his hands... ‘Oh yes... get ‘em off, she’s lovely... Eddie, I gotta hand it to you, you know how to pick ‘em.’

Edward pushed him aside. ‘Shut it, it’s my wife.’ Skye curled up with laughter, thinking Edward was joking. He yelled... ‘Man here says you’re his wife, that true?’

Edward glowered as he made his way to the verandah, and Skye shut the music off. Now he shaded his eyes watching with interest, more than interest. Wife? Edward had never mentioned to him that he was married.

Harriet’s heart was thudding, Edward moved up the steps into the shadows. ‘Hi. I was just passing on the way to the shops and thought I’d drop in, have I interrupted a business meeting? I mean I can always come back.’ He didn’t make it easy for her, he didn’t take her in his arms, even seem too surprised. Instead, he leaned against the wooden railing.

‘How in Christ’s name did you find me?’

‘Allard called me about Dickie, so I came for the funeral, ashes to ashes, you know, that kind of thing.’

‘He was buried a week ago.’

‘Oh well, in that case I’ll go home.’

Edward stared at her, his mind racing. He had always covered his tracks so well and if Harriet could find him, God knows who else would. ‘You tell Alex you were coming?’

‘No, but Allard knew where I could contact you, I didn’t know he worked for you?’

‘He doesn’t... come on down to the pool, I’ll introduce you, Skye, this is Harriet... Harriet, Skye Duval.’

Still he did not touch her, did not show any sign he was pleased to see her, in fact the reverse. Skye on the other hand held her at arm’s length, raved about her hair, her eyes, and promptly ordered a bottle of champagne to be opened in her honour. All the while Edward made no attempt to move near her, he picked up his towel, and casually said he would take a shower. He walked to the side of the pool and stepped under the ice-cold water. Distanced from her he could look at her, watch her sitting in her neat black dress, shading the sun with her hand as Skye chattered away. He saw Skye pick up her straw hat and stick it on his head. He sat close to her lounge chair, talking non-stop, asking about her flight, her hotel.