Can you keep a secret, p.19
Can You Keep A Secret?, page 19
‘Five more minutes,’ she says, in her coy, syrupy voice, and it is this that alerts me to her companion. I remembered this voice, the seduction in it.
‘We could get caught. It’s too dangerous. I could get fired.’
‘We won’t get caught. No one’s here but us.’ Her voice is so low, so whispery, I have to strain to hear it. My heart is hammering away in my chest, the pieces of it all fitting dizzyingly into place.
‘Rach,’ he says, but the warning in his voice is fading, changing now as he succumbs to her.
‘Please, sir,’ she tells him, and I can tell how much she enjoys calling him that. ‘You know you want me.’
I stand still, as quiet as I can, listening, although there are no words now, only the shuffle of clothing, the sudden groan of moving furniture, and then nothing. Just the blood pounding in my own ears, the sour plunge in my stomach as I hold my body still outside the door. But my mind crosses the divide. It is there with them in the shadows, listening alongside them, watchful of every touch and thrust, each sharply taken breath, every little scream.
22
2017
Patrick returned not long after eight. We were all in the drawing room at the time. Niall, who had come back from the hospital not long before, had fixed us drinks, and the rest of us were sitting around, despondent, each of us unsure of what to say, or how we should proceed. No one said it, but I think we were all on tenterhooks, waiting for the phone to ring. Niall, shaken by his experience at the hospital – the fear and shock of Marcus’s relatives, the uncertainty as to whether he would survive – wouldn’t sit down, a nervous energy twitching inside him as he paced from the fireplace to the window and back again, until Hilary snapped at him to for God’s sake keep still, he was driving her mad. He looked at her coldly, but acquiesced to her demand, taking a seat on the couch next to Rachel, who the most part remained silent, keeping her thoughts to herself. With her legs folded up underneath her and her upper body swathed in a hooded woollen cardigan, her beauty seemed particularly severe. The couch had been pulled up to the hearth, where a crackling fire was burning in the grate, and some of the lamps had been switched on, but the room still couldn’t shake off its air of gloom. Draughts crept beneath the door and through the windows, and the shadows lingered in the corners.
I was sitting at the window-seat when I saw the car approach. The rain had stopped falling, but darkness was coming on, and the tyres sloshed over the wet gravel before drawing to a stop beyond the fallen statue, Patrick’s pinched face in the passenger-seat window swimming into view. Apprehension and relief jumped at once in my throat.
Patrick looked subdued, exhausted, his face and body wispy as a ghost’s as he got out of the car. Stepping past us into the hall, he raised a hand that seemed to ward off the clamour of our questions: was he all right? What had happened? Was he being charged?
‘Just give me a second, will you?’ he asked, then, turning from all of us, he disappeared into the study. Rachel, ignoring his request, followed him, closing the study door behind them.
‘Has he been charged?’ I asked Savage, who had come from the car and crossed the threshold now, an anorak over his clothes, hands in his trousers pockets. I couldn’t tell anything from his expression, except for the fact that he seemed to be waiting for something.
‘Not yet. We’ll have more questions for him once the guys from Ballistics get back to us. Poor fucker,’ Savage added. ‘Bawled his eyes out in the interview room – begged me to pin the blame on him. I didn’t know whether to charge him or hug him. Anyway, there’s no point rushing things,’ he continued. ‘I prefer to wait.’
He sounded amiable enough, but it was all surface. Underneath, he was watchful and grave. Taking a couple of steps further into the hall, he bent down to examine a glass case containing a dead stoat, stuffed and beady-eyed, arranged with a small bird caught between her jaws, a gang of pups cowering around her, awaiting their share of the kill.
Straightening up, he gave me a wolfish smile, jangling the coins in his pocket.
‘So I was having a look back through the records, and your name cropped up,’ he said casually.
‘Oh?’
‘You gave a statement on the night of Peter Bagenal’s death.’
‘We all did.’
‘You never told me you were there.’
‘You never asked.’
‘You didn’t think it was worth mentioning?’
My heart kicked out uncertainly. ‘It didn’t occur to me. I try not to think about it, to be honest.’
‘It’s a bit weird, though. Don’t you think?’ he asked, walking back to the door, leisurely, taking his time. ‘Taking up with the son after that?’
‘It happened years ago, Savage. It’s not so odd, surely, for the paths of two old friends to cross again?’
‘I suppose not,’ he conceded, before adding: ‘Who can account for the ways of the heart, eh?’
But there was something mean in his tone, and I felt that he was judging me. ‘Here you are, Sergeant,’ Patrick said, crossing the hall with his arm outstretched, a sheaf of documents in his hand.
Savage looked through them for a moment – gun licences and a passport – before folding them over and stuffing them into the pocket of his anorak. The uniformed guards, who were here earlier, had already taken away the guns.
‘We’ll be in touch in the morning,’ Savage said, and catching my eye as he left, he gave me a fractional nod.
Patrick stood at the door until the tail lights had disappeared, and then he seemed to wilt. Pushing the door closed, he turned to me and we went into each other’s arms, clinging to each other for a moment, feeling the silence of the hall around us.
‘I can’t believe this is happening again,’ he said, drawing free of my embrace and shaking his head in disbelief. ‘All those questions. Guards. Witness statements. It’s just like Dad’s death.’
‘What did you tell them?’ I asked, and then listened while he explained that he had been aiming for the deer when Marcus had stepped into his line of vision. That he had been too slow to react.
‘If only I had been quicker. If only I had seen what was going to happen—’
‘But how could you? It all happened so fast.’
‘We shouldn’t even have been firing at the fucking animal!’ he went on, not listening. ‘We had shotguns, not rifles. It was stupid of me.’
By now, the others had come back out into the hallway, and Niall urged Patrick to come inside and have a drink. Wearily, he did as was suggested, collapsing into the armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed, until Niall put a large whiskey in his hands and said: ‘Here. Get that down you.’
He was disinclined to talk, and all of us hung back, watchful as he drank and seemed to recover himself a little. The colour came back into his cheeks, the glassiness left his gaze. Once he’d drained the glass, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’m going to have a bath. Then we should eat.’
We all stared at him.
‘You can’t be suggesting we go ahead with the dinner?’ Hilary asked, her voice querulous.
‘Why not? The dinner is cooked. It would be a shame to waste it.’ He said this with a deadened air, as if he was too far gone to think about it.
‘But what about Marcus?’ Hilary asked.
‘Well,’ Patrick began, before saying quietly: ‘We’ll save him a plate.’
I stared at him, shocked. ‘Patrick!’ Hilary cried, horrified.
Patrick blinked, as if disbelieving he had actually said those words. Confusion crossed his face, then anguish, before Rachel stepped in. ‘We’re all tired and upset. Some food would do us good. And Patrick is right – it would be a shame to waste it.’
‘To tell the truth, I’m famished,’ Niall admitted.
‘Maybe a quick freshen up,’ Hilary suggested, with a doubtful air. ‘Or should we just eat as we are?’
Patrick had already made his way to the door, and left the room without waiting to hear the answer. In his absence, Rachel lowered her voice, saying: ‘Let’s meet back down here in half an hour. Wear what you want, for God’s sake.’
We all retreated to our rooms and, as I closed the shutters on my window, and listened to the gurgling of the pipes as Patrick filled his bath, I felt disappointment. Not just at Patrick’s distance – I had hoped there might be an opportunity for us to talk before dinner – but about how the weekend itself had turned out. Looking at my evening gown stretched out on the bed, I recalled my apprehension when buying it, my fear and doubt at the prospect of what the night might hold. The occasion had become fraught with anxiety and uncertainty, and the realization that I had been right to have my doubts gave me no satisfaction. I hung the gown back inside the wardrobe – there would be no need for it now – and lay down on my bed. From downstairs came the clatter of kitchen activity, and I could hear Niall’s voice in the hall. He was on the phone and, from his low tone and the ripple of irritation in it, I guessed he was talking to his wife.
‘Of course I didn’t,’ he was saying, ‘No, you listen, Claire … What the hell difference does that make? … No, she isn’t here, actually, not that it’s any of your business …’
I heard the bathroom door creak, footsteps on the stairs, and when I came out into the corridor, I saw light coming from underneath the door to the old nursery. This was Marcus’s room, and it struck me as odd that the light should be on, so I went down the corridor and pushed open the dark wood door.
The room, lit by the overhead light, was empty. A dinner jacket on a hanger was spread over one side of the narrow bed. The walls were covered in vintage paper with a jaunty hunting print – the same paper I imagined had lined the nursery when Peter Bagenal passed his infancy here. In one corner of the room, a large strip of it had come away from the wall, and an ugly brown stain of damp mushroomed from the corner. On the floor, a number of photograph frames lay face down and partially dismantled, the backings pushed to one side. It was as though someone had begun framing photographs but had been interrupted.
‘First Rachel, now you,’ Hilary said, and I swung around to see her standing in the corridor.
‘I saw a light on,’ I explained.
‘Rachel must have left it on earlier,’ she surmised, peering past me, explaining: ‘While you were at the hospital, I found her in here. She was pretty upset – well, we all were. She said she heard something that sounded like a child, or a baby.’
I remembered the snippet of conversation I had overheard that morning as we walked out to the fields. ‘I kept hearing this noise,’ Rachel had said. ‘It sounded like crying,’ and Marcus had guessed it was foxes. Had she said something then about the noise coming from inside the house? I couldn’t remember.
‘It seems wrong to be in his room,’ Hilary remarked, and she took a step backwards towards the stairs. ‘Like we’re trespassing or something. Come on,’ she urged, and I did as she asked and switched off the light. Because of the lateness of the hour, we had decided to forego pre-dinner drinks and gathered instead in the dining room, where the table had been laid with fine porcelain, with an oriental pattern in blue that seemed brighter against the white damask tablecloth. I recognized the ancient family silver, the scalloped heavy handles of the cutlery, each one embossed with the Bagenal crest. There were candles lit on the table and on the mantelpiece beyond, as well as a fire crackling in the grate. Someone – Felicia, perhaps – had gone to some trouble to arrange flowers in posies dotted along the table. Daisies and forget-me-nots, small twists of wild and humble nature marooned among the heirloom crockery and family silver.
Patrick and Rachel were seated at opposite ends of the long table, in the places I remembered their parents once occupying. Niall and Hilary sat next to each other, while I took my seat at Patrick’s side, the empty place next to me a reminder of Marcus.
‘Like Banquo at the feast,’ Hilary remarked, catching my eye.
‘He’s not dead yet,’ Niall said, picking up the bottle of wine in front of him. It was clear he was still furious about the phone call with his wife. I glanced at Patrick, but there was nothing in his expression – apart from a slight concentration in his brow – to suggest he was pained by the comment.
‘Here’s some advice for you all,’ Niall said, pouring a glass for himself and then passing the bottle to Hilary. ‘Avoid the married state. You can have that for free, gratis.’
‘Thanks,’ Hilary replied flatly, while Patrick encouraged us all to tuck into our starters – a carpaccio of salmon on a bed of lamb’s lettuce.
‘I second Niall’s opinion,’ Rachel said. She gave a tight little smile before spearing some salmon with her fork. Despite her composure, there was something beneath the exterior that suggested unease: her doughy complexion set off by the pale diaphanous fabric of her gown, or perhaps the way her eyes kept flickering across the table towards her brother. She was the only one of us who had opted to change into formalwear. I was surprised by her decision, made uneasy by it. It seemed disrespectful, as if she hadn’t fully taken in the seriousness of the situation. Somehow, the grandeur of her dress set her apart from the rest of us still wearing jeans and sweaters.
‘What about you?’ Niall asked, tilting his chin in my direction. ‘Ever tempted?’
‘Not really,’ I said, then laughed to cover my embarrassment, relieved when he dropped the topic of conversation and we all fell silent.
The truth was my only significant long-term relationship had lasted a little over eighteen months and had taken place almost a decade ago. It’s hard to explain to someone like Niall how you can watch the months and years roll past as you constantly try to gain purchase on another human being to call your partner, your love, your life’s companion, only to find that your hold is slippery and nothing will stick. And even though you battle to understand the reasons for your aloneness, and you strive to change, it feels as if a pattern is being etched into your life over which you have no control.
Once the starters were finished, Patrick got to his feet and began clearing away our plates while Felicia carried in the next course – a roast leg of lamb with all the trimmings. It seemed she had chosen not to have her niece come out after all, and had to rely on the host himself to help serve the guests. For his part, Patrick seemed nervy. There was a strain in his voice and tension in his shoulders, as if braced for a blow. As he carved the meat and Felicia passed around the plates, I could see the whites of his knuckles showing in the hand that held the knife, and the pull of muscles in his jaw and neck. With Marcus fighting for his life in hospital, there was little that could be done to dispel the air of disaster.
Niall picked up the bottle of wine that Patrick had opened and examined the label. ‘A 1961 Margaux,’ he observed. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘It was in the cellar. I chose it especially for this dinner.’ He spoke in a quiet, regretful way, and I had a sudden glimpse of how excited he must have been, making all the preparations for tonight, and how all of that had been dashed now, replaced by remorse and self-reproach.
‘That would set you back a few bob, I’d say, if you had to pony up for it in the off-licence.’
‘More than a few bob. About a grand, I would imagine.’
Niall, having just taken a swig, swallowed quickly, his face curling with distaste or horror. ‘A grand? You’ve got to be kidding me!’
‘My father fancied himself a bit of a collector. He put a few good ones down, and I thought it only fitting we lash into the best of it tonight.’
‘Quite right. Let’s drink our inheritance. Why not?’ Rachel said, in her quiet, stony voice.
‘I think paying that sort of money just for a bottle of wine is obscene,’ Hilary remarked softly. She was eyeing her glass with uncertainty, and she retained an aura of unhappiness. Her discomfort at being present at the dinner while Marcus was in hospital fighting for his life persisted throughout the night.
‘Nothing wrong with it if you can afford it,’ Niall maintained.
‘Does it really taste a hundred times better than a ten-euro Bordeaux from Tesco?’
Niall was unconvinced by her argument. ‘You buy cheap, you get tat.’
Annoyance flashed across Hilary’s face, and she looked at him now with real distaste. ‘Why do you keep saying that?’
‘What?’
‘That phrase. That’s the second time you’ve trotted it out today.’
‘So what? It’s my mantra,’ he stated proudly.
‘It’s not your mantra. It’s Peter Bagenal’s,’ she murmured.
‘I borrowed it from him. So what?’ He laughed, looking around the table at the rest of us, uncomfortable with the slide of the conversation.
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded,’ Patrick said kindly.
‘Do you remember his trick with the champagne bottle?’ Niall asked. ‘Taking the top off with a knife?’ He proceeded to recall Peter’s party trick – a dramatic swift ‘beheading’ of a champagne bottle, slicing the glass neck off the bottle, cork and all, before pouring from the brimming and spurting bottle, not a fragment of glass in the champagne. ‘It was a clean cut,’ Niall said, before adding in a tone of near-wistfulness: ‘It takes a steady hand and a sure head to do that. Did you ever master that trick, Patrick?’
‘Afraid not,’ was the reply, and I heard Rachel adding softly:
‘Of course not.’
We all looked at her, surprised by the meanness of her words. The expression on Patrick’s face registered how conflicted he must have felt: indecision over whether to confront her, battling against his desire to smooth things over and rescue the mood.
Niall came to his aid. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Being back here, all these little memories triggered,’ he remarked. ‘Like the crow shoot this morning – I wasn’t thinking of the times we all went out with shotguns as teenagers. Instead, I was remembering the odd occasion where Peter would take a pop at them with his pistol. Did you ever see him doing that?’ he asked me, and I nodded. I remembered.
He laughed abruptly at the memory, recalling the madness of it – Patrick’s old man, attempting to concentrate on some paperwork, when the raucous cawing of crows outside would cause something inside him to snap. It was then that he’d snatch up his gun and start firing out the window, aiming indiscriminately up at the trees.
