The Half Sister Page 35

  ‘These look a treat in here,’ she says. ‘Yellow always brightens things up, gives you a bit of faith in the world.’

  ‘You said you wanted a word?’

  Having wiped her hands on the cloth, Grace perches on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Is it too early for a little damson gin, do you think?’ says Edmund with a smile.

  Retreating to the dining room, he dithers, finally fetching two small glasses and the bottle after rummaging for the little wooden inlaid tray from Sri Lanka, although it’s hardly necessary. He hesitates in the hall before carrying it in and pouring the gin.

  ‘I shouldn’t really,’ says Grace.

  How happy the room is now that it’s spring. The sunlight shines through the long windows and then reflects off the mirror and the silver photograph frames so that the walls look like dappled streams. For the first morning for a long time, he hasn’t lit a fire.

  The dog nuzzles up to Grace, places his head on her knee and growls for attention; for a moment they both welcome the distraction. ‘I had a word with John. About Diana’s request and the difficulty for you.’

  ‘Grace, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I thought he might be able to help and I was right.’ From her trouser pocket she pulls out a piece of paper and reads it to herself, as though she’s checking the small print before handing it over. ‘If you’re still thinking along the same lines, he says to tell you he knows people, people who can get hold of’ – she sips her drink – ‘something that will do the trick.’

  Picking up yesterday’s newspaper, Edmund shakes out the news with its headlines of murder and terrorism across the world and folds it all up neatly, following the creases. ‘Why would John stick his neck out for me? Let’s face it, Grace, he doesn’t have a very high opinion of me.’

  With her empty glass back on the tray, Grace starts to tidy up. ‘That’s true,’ she admits. ‘But something changed after that night he came over here. He admired you for not walking away. Not’ – she busies herself plumping up the cushions – ‘just taking your father’s way out. And on top of that, I think John sees life and death a bit differently. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, after what he’s been through.’

  ‘And?’ says Edmund.

  ‘He understands the position you’re in. We both do. We want to help. He says to give him a call. Monty, get out of here.’ Grace picks up the tray, leaving the note on the table. Just one word on it, as incomprehensible as the situation he finds himself in.

  ‘Wait, Grace.’ As if to physically stop her leaving the room, Edmund moves towards the door. ‘That’s not the whole story, is it? You’ve both got reasons you’ve never told me about. I’ve never seen you so bitter as you were when we first discussed this.’

  The world witters on around them, the radio in the kitchen, Monty outside now, barking at the Spotless Angels who have just arrived.

  ‘You really want to know why?’

  There is only ever one answer to that question.

  ‘You were married in May.’ Grace readjusts her grip on the tray to prevent everything sliding off. ‘That summer, after your honeymoon, our Liam came here to do some odd jobs in the garden to earn money before college. Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course.’ The boy did a few days before giving up, which Edmund thought typical of kids like him. Edmund bangs on the window to get Monty to stop barking.

  ‘Well, I may be getting on a bit and I know times change, but as far as I’m concerned if a man did what she did, it would be called rape. He was fifteen. She was nearly forty. It was disgusting.’

  ‘Rape?’

  The glasses on the tray clink against the bottle as she leaves the room. ‘There. Now I’ve said it.’

  In the porch, they stand side by side. Hiding in the ivy on the coach house wall, the wren waits impatiently for access to one of his many cock-nests built high up on the pillar above them.

  ‘You’re telling me she never said anything to you?’

  ‘Look at me.’ Edmund physically turns her towards him. ‘I promise, Grace. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I didn’t think so, she’s a sly one like that,’ says Grace. ‘Truth is Liam bragged about it to his sister, Louisa told her parents, they told us. Eventually. I wanted to resign there and then, but what with living in the lodge and everything, it wasn’t that simple. Our Liam was crying, bless him, he never knew if she’d told you, or anyone else. He felt used, ashamed. Neither of us will ever forgive her for that. John says it’s a class thing, I say it’s nothing of the sort. It’s just the type of woman she is. I’ll tell you a funny thing . . .’ Grace pulls her cardigan tighter around her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know your Psalm, the one the little girl embroidered that used to hang in the drawing room before she took it up to the tower? Louisa’s doing Psalms for her RE, she had her books out on the kitchen table, and I was telling her about the sampler and even recited it to her – I know it off by heart after all these years – but then she pointed out that in the version they use nowadays it doesn’t say “cunning”. Oh no. It says paralysed. “If I forget Jerusalem, let my right hand be paralysed.” I’m no churchgoer, Edmund, you know that, but I can’t help wondering if what’s happened is God’s way of punishing her. And one more thing . . .’

  There’s always one more thing.

  ‘John doesn’t want me to have anything more to do with it, if there is a plan. He says if you want any help, you’re to call him direct.’ She reaches down to pull up a young nettle which is pushing its way through the gravel. They sting at this age, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘And we both agree, if there’s anything to be done, sooner rather than later’s best.’

  On slideshow mode, his laptop tells the story of his marriage, starting with that first hot, heavy summer at Wynhope. Diana, sunglasses on her head, perfecting her tan on a lounger under the catalpa tree – she always hated strap lines, not that they’ll concern her now. Here’s another: a lunch party they held, small marquee and caterers in black and white, and forty of their closest friends, only three or four of whom have been in touch since he fell from grace in the City and she fell from the window at Wynhope. Himself and Monty in the orchard with the wild rose tumbling through the fruit trees. Finally, the screen presents him with a photo of Diana taken by him; she is wearing very little and blowing a kiss at him, but looking over her shoulder, and in the background the tower is still there, of course, and Liam is cutting the hedge. Long shorts, brown legs, a bare-chested, beautiful boy. Having pressed pause, Edmund studies the picture closely. Dancing with Flacido Domingo, that’s what Diana called his little problem, and suddenly it’s clear that everything his wife ever said about not minding, about there being other ways of feeling close, that his lack of physical competence was in some ways a relief for her, was all a lie. Her list of sins was damning enough already before this; what she has done to Mikey on its own is reason enough, but this! It isn’t the infidelity in itself – he tells himself that he could live with that – it’s the lies. Lies upon lies upon lies, the fact that he can never again believe one word she says. She had good reason to want to kill herself, and he has good reason to help her. Bitch isn’t a word he normally uses, but it’s the only word that has enough spit in it.

  Google confirms that John’s one-word remedy is indeed very effective. It is a drug legally prescribed in some Eastern European countries and the risks which prevent its use in the West include the difficulty of working out a safe dose and brain haemorrhage – a quick, painless death, not unusual in people who have suffered catastrophic head injuries, sometimes months even years after the trauma. It is almost impossible to trace, although there are documented, if rare, cases of it showing up in blood tests in post-mortems. Now he’s turning into the sort of person who should delete his search history.

  Ask and it shall be given unto you. It will probably take her by surprise; she’ll assume he isn’t man enough to see this through. She is wrong. />
  The first message is to John: ‘Thx for offer of help. Let me know further details asap. E.’

  The second is an email, sent only a few hours later when he has had time to plan ahead and that is sent to Dominic.

  ‘Hi. Following up on your idea of taking Diana out for the day. Can you bear to come with me? Pathetic, I know, but I’m a bit daunted about the idea of doing it on my own and can’t face having that enormous care assistant dragging along. Diana always did love flirting with you, it might do her good! How does a visit to Stourhead appeal? Gardens are her thing. Let me know if Easter Monday is any good? It will be busy there, but it might be nice for D on the holiday weekend, if you’re not on call. You could always bring along whoever it was who was texting you throughout dinner . . . I’m sure she’s gorgeous, as always. E.’

  Using his best friend as a doctor in situ who can witness the death and act as an alibi is perhaps a greater crime, ethically at least, but this is how it happens, one thing leading to another, no simple solitary act. There is no way the drug can be administered to Diana at the Angeline without suspicion falling on him, but if they are out and about, who knows what might trigger a stroke? The stress of unfamiliar surroundings, late medication, the cold? Grace will have Mikey for the day, obviously.

  Was he half hoping Dominic might say no? He doesn’t. Then John confirms in a note hand-delivered by Grace that the order is placed and he’ll bring it over when it arrives. Was he half hoping it might be like online shopping, out of stock? Who are the men behind this supply line? They must meet in small towns and slip bags into pockets of leather jackets left over the backs of chairs in shabby pubs, but Edmund has no real idea, only images based on film and fiction, stories he is now part of. On the Monday, the weekly pay envelope on the sideboard with Grace’s name scrawled in biro on the front is thicker than usual. She tucks it away in her handbag and makes no comment other than to say that John will pop in next week, probably on the Tuesday. Liam is never mentioned again. It is like the stories of war crimes and exploitation Edmund hears on the news, when victims, their families, their descendants, even whole nations demand apologies from visiting heads of state. Maybe he should say sorry for what Diana did to Liam, for use and abuse of various sorts over the generations, for this will not be the first time the lords and ladies of Wynhope have exploited their servants. If you went back far enough the whole place was founded on slaves. It is difficult, if not impossible, to think of how one might make amends.

  The delivery is left for him in the glasshouse. The packet is tiny and unlabelled. What is he expecting? ‘Once opened use within seven days and keep out of the reach of children’? Stepping out from the oppressive glasshouse into the fresh orchard where the boughs are brought low with blossom and the grass, spring lush and long, he feels the future is both butterfly and ogre, paradise lost and possibly regained. It is not safe to leave the pills among the flowerpots where Mikey sometimes plays and the contract gardeners keep supplies. In the drawing room, the walnut box on top of the piano offers its services. It is after all her box for her valuables, and, he must remind himself, this delivery belongs to her. The tiny brass button on the side is pushed, the secret compartment slides out, the packet is slipped inside, and the box is locked, guarded by the silver key and its telltale twisted thread.

  ‘What are you planning?’ asks Mikey at supper time.

  ‘I’m not planning anything.’

  ‘Are you planning what to do with me? Why haven’t you eaten your supper?’

  Scraping his untouched portion of Grace’s shepherd’s pie into the bin, Edmund replies without looking at him. ‘I’m not hungry, and I’ve said I’m not planning anything.’

  ‘Yes, you are, you’ve got planning eyes. Like the Enormous Crocodile.’

  As he brings yoghurt from the fridge for pudding, Edmund says he can’t remember that book. Roald Dahl, isn’t it?

  ‘Yes, and the Enormous Crocodile has secret plans and clever tricks,’ says Mikey, and Edmund snaps at him with his teeth and snarly face and the boy screams with delight.

  Later, Edmund stretches out on the sofa in front of the television. He has a full glass of wine beside him and he watches a film as a distraction from the fear churning his stomach. Alone in the green room, all set for the opening night. Even Monty senses the occasion, restless, getting up, turning, scratching at the carpet repeatedly before he can settle to sleep. On the ten o’clock news nearly all the images are of murder of one sort or another, bombs and battered toddlers. He will be adding one to the grand total, but it is nothing like these killings, the brutal, unnecessary culling of the innocent. This is a different sort of killing: requested, not inflicted. This is what she has asked for, and it’s hardly a death at all – more of a passing, a release, a slipping away. What is it about S words – serendipity, surreptitious, sanctimonious? Their lovely, long Latinate deceptions. Anglo Saxon has simpler words. Sorrow. Sad. Sin. Sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The night helps. In the end the spring warmth could not hold its own and a bitterly cold wind has driven it away. The sky is fathomless; ice-white stars shine against the restless blackness out at sea and only the faintest smudge of light pollution is visible in the north, towards London. This is an impulse visit to the Angeline. There will be no opportunity for goodbyes on the Stourhead visit, he has not even decided whether or not Diana should know it is planned for that day. Would he want to know if it were him? To have the chance to pack up his soul and prepare for its long journey? One last visit, that is all he craves. He was up in London anyway; there is good news on the financial front and the possible prosecution over the Riverside Development has been dropped, and, with Mikey staying over with Grace, he was in no hurry so two or three of them gathered in the name of the Index to share a bottle of champagne to celebrate. For him, Dutch courage maybe, but it is certainly true that his stock is rising. He shouldn’t be driving, he keeps one eye on the rear-view mirror for the police. Visit any time, that is the policy, but the staff are surprised to see him so late nonetheless, probably surprised to see him at all. Diana is very tired today, the night nurse says, unlikely to wake easily. Perhaps they are using similar tactics to those he has planned, drugging her for the sake of a peaceful life. He doesn’t mind, he reassures them, he just wants a few quiet moments together – one last time, he almost says, but stops himself.

  In her room, the television is on mute. A man is pounding the streets in the rain in a foreign city, someone chasing him. He’s bleeding, staggering. It isn’t the sort of thing Diana watches; he guesses a member of the care team would have planned to slip in later and see how it all ended, and he’s put paid to that.

  At the bedside, he pushes a strand of hair away from Diana’s eyes. There is a skilled hairdresser here, but as he runs his fingers through the sparse, thinning strands, he knows she must hate it, the lurid colour, the puffed-up ugliness of it. The drugs they’ve got her on are bloating the character from her face. She was such a beautiful woman. He traces her cheekbones and, beneath his touch, time slips. Despite everything, they never stopped kissing and he will kiss her now. Here. What is it Macbeth’s porter says about desire and performance? He never lost desire. Nor did she, apparently. But certainly they are both knocking at the gates of hell. Sssh. With his forefinger on her chapped lips, he envisages forgiveness not incrimination. She does not stir again. It could be done now, quickly, quietly, with a pillow, she wouldn’t suffer at all, wouldn’t know a thing, but what would happen to him? He’d pull the cord, there would be light, action, fingers pointing at him. Her collarbone is sharp beneath his cheek. He moves his head to her breast, her heartbeat drums and summons him from its lonely watchtower. Nothing is infinite any longer, but numbered, limited, the clock and the lock, and the step by step on the stairs, counting all the way to the quiet end.

  If someone were to paint this picture, it would be called Husband Awaits the Death of His Wife. The dark oils on the canvas would be lit not by candles,
but by the flickering glare of the dumb television, the winking red light above the alarm cord, the luminous clock moving relentlessly from minute to minute. At midnight, not so far off, it will read 00:00. She is straight like a corpse, he is bent double, supple like a lover. So very rarely alone with her like this, just the two of them in the night, holding hands, slipping apart. And if he goes ahead, this is indeed what this is, a last night together. If he goes ahead, he will never sit alone with her again like this, she will be gone for ever. He was foolish when he said in the hospital that there was nothing of her left, that she was as good as gone. She is alive. If he goes ahead, she will be dead. A terrible, binary clarity. Edmund turns to music to soften the equation. Someone once said it was helpful in restoring memory. He can understand that. A single note held is like a moment in a river. He took CDs to the hospital quite soon after it all happened and they were packed up and delivered here along with her nighties and her grey cells in the hope that someone would find the connecting leads which seemed to have been mislaid. All their favourites, La bohème, for instance.

  ‘Diana, can you hear the music?’ She is still sleeping. ‘It’s bohème, Diana, our favourite.’

  Maybe she squeezes his hand, maybe she doesn’t. At least now he is honest enough to recognise that this is only partly about Diana, or for Diana; it is also his own need to punish himself. Deliberately he selects Act IV, the final unbearable farewell when Mimi and Rodolfo sing of candles extinguished and keys lost. It is important for him that this hurts.

  ‘Ho tante cose che ti voglio