Sue For Mercy Part 2

Like Charles, I went by feelings, and not by facts. Except...

There was something bothering me. Charles had as good as told me not to go and see him again, but he hadn't asked where I lived, or made any request about the disposal of his luggage. Was he leaving the door open for me to go and see him again, or had he just forgotten?

The police were at my flat when I got back, asking for a statement about the accident. I told them what I knew. They seemed set on the theory that Charles had been beaten up and robbed by hitchhikers, and I didn't see any necessity to query it. They said I'd probably saved his life, which was nice of them, if not entirely accurate.

The next morning I woke with a firm determination to put him out of my mind. I would phone Mrs. Burroughs, get Mr. Bessiter's work phone number, and confirm that Charles had been fixed up with accommodation; then I would drop Charles a note telling him where to collect his luggage, and that would be that.

Mr. Bessiter was only a trifle less loquacious on the phone than when we had met. He hadn't done anything about finding a room for Charles, but he'd visited him the previous night in hospital and found him "surprisingly chirpy". He told me Charles had decided he would have to return home for the rest of his fortnight's leave, and that he'd be phoning his brother to collect him from hospital, either on Friday or Sat.u.r.day morning.

"What about his luggage?" I asked.

"Didn't mention it, love. I suppose he'll be phoning you about it."

"He doesn't have my phone number or my address."

"He'll contact you somehow. Very capable guy, our Charles. Well, must dash - work calls, and all that. Cheers!"

Bessie came to lunch with a frown. "This Ashton," she said, picking at her food. "I don't know if it's the same family, but a friend of my aunt's lost a lot of money when a man called Ashton was prosecuted for fraud. You did say your chap was an accountant, didn't you?"

"It's the same one," I said, reaching for a bread roll.

"Well," said Bessie, "I wouldn't have anything more to do with him, if I were you." She said she'd been telling her mother about my little adventure, and her mother had got on the phone to her aunt, and obtained the story from her. The Ashtons had been chartered accountants for three generations, and were a highly respected family. Oliver Ashton, the father, had been popular and had done a lot of charity work, which made it all the more astounding when he was arrested, charged and sentenced for fraud.

Apparently he had suggested to one or two of his clients that they might care to invest in certain blue chip securities, and had asked them to send their cheques made out to him personally, rather than to the firm. Time pa.s.sed, but the clients received neither their share certificates, nor dividends for the money they had handed over. The money had vanished as soon as it reached Oliver Ashton. The prosecution case was that he had diverted the money partly for his own use, and partly to bolster up his wife's private company, Collett Cosmetics. Some of the money had turned up in a private bank account of Oliver Ashton's, but the bulk of it had never been recovered, and he had refused to reveal what he'd done with it. There had been no apparent reason why a respected chartered accountant should suddenly have taken to fiddling the books, but there was no doubt that he had done so. He had pleaded guilty, been sentenced, and the family firm pa.s.sed into other hands.

"Anything else?" I asked, although I didn't really want to hear.

"Not much. One of the sons is supposed to be brilliant - double first or something, but he's well out of it, working in London. She - my aunt - thinks the son who worked with his father in the family firm is now more or less on the breadline, working for a pittance in a sinecure found for him by family connections. I don't know anything else."

It was more than enough. I a.s.sumed that it was Charles who had worked for his father, and I spent most of the rest of the day wondering if he had been involved in the fraud or not. I thought it was very odd, to say the least, that Charles had been connected with one case of fraud, was now working for a very rich man, and had recently been beaten up.

Both Bessie and Charles had advised me to keep away from him. I would just go to the hospital to tell him where to find his luggage when he needed it, and that would be that.

He wasn't expecting me. I could see his bright head as soon as I entered the ward. His bed was now next to that at which the affectionate young girl was a visitor. He was sitting upright, and trying to write with a left hand free of bandages, but still bound round with strapping. There was an air of tension, almost of fierceness about the way he looked; I wondered if he'd lost weight again.

"h.e.l.lo," I said, keeping my hands deep in my pockets.

His eyes and mouth flicked into a welcome before he could control himself.

"Sue!" Then he had himself in hand again, and the smile was gone. "Nice of you to come, but as you can see, I'm getting on well now. I'll be out tomorrow or the next day."

"Left-handed, are you? I wondered why they'd concentrated on that hand."

He slid the letter under his pad, his eyes wary. I found I was enjoying our clash of wits.

"It was nothing but a rough-house that went too far. Nothing would have happened if I hadn't lost my temper and fought back. Everyone is very apologetic about it, and it won't happen again. So let's forget about it, shall we?"

I saw that there was now a gold pencil and a good quality handkerchief on the top of his locker, with a paperback. A nice-looking grey jacket swung on a hook at the back of his locker, and I guessed his leather grip would be inside.

"I'm so glad you've stopped having amnesia," I said affably. "It must have been wearing, trying to remember which lies you've told to whom. And have your 'friends' recovered your car, as well as returning your belongings?"

"Yes. It's at the Blue Star Garage. All's well that ends well."

"Except that you've lost your digs, had a week in hospital, and are still in pain."

"You've got it all wrong. I've known these people for years. It was a drunken frolic that got out of hand. It was quite accidental that I got knocked out, and I don't really blame them for panicking afterwards. It would be absurd to charge them with grievous bodily harm, when I have to go on working with them, and... anyway, they didn't get off lightly. One man's got a cracked kneecap and the other's still sporting a black eye." Satisfaction oiled his voice, and I smiled involuntarily. He twitched me a grin. "Simmer down, Sue! They're falling over themselves with apologies, paying for my car to be put right, buying me a radio to go in it by way of compensation. They've also offered to put me up."

"Like the curate's egg," I commented. "Good in parts. You're an awfully good liar, aren't you?" He opened his mouth to refute the charge, but by the quick snap of his eyelids I guessed I wouldn't get the truth. "Don't!" I said. "If you don't want to tell me the truth, all right; I suppose you've got your own reasons. But don't lie."

He grinned at me, acknowledging guilt, and didn't volunteer any more information. I realised I'd been standing since I came in, and hooked forward a chair.

"Your luggage is at my place when you want it. Number 10, Queens Gardens, top floor. Shall I post that letter for you?"

"No, I haven't finished it yet. I have to let my boss know when I'll be fit to fly out to him. I suppose I'll have to go."

"Do you lie to him, too?"

"Not the way you mean. We lie like the devil to each other, but it's..."

"A sort of game?"

"Yes, we both know the rules." We were like two fencers, circling each other; he was telling me a great deal about himself all the time. The picture he was giving me of his relationship with John Brenner hardly matched the one given me by our Company Secretary, and yet I preferred Charles' version.

"Will you move into Whitestones when you get back?" I asked.

"Maybe I'll have to, for a while. He has a staff of four living in already, so my presence wouldn't make much difference, but... I like to be independent."

"You could do with fattening up."

"I eat enough, but seem to burn it up. I've dropped nearly a stone this last six months."

Six months. Since his father was convicted.

"Why don't you go back home, then?"

"Most unrestful. Mother lives in the centre of a well-organised whirlwind and in any case doesn't tolerate weakness in her sons. She's incapable of allowing anyone except Jane - that's my sister-in-law - to sit down and rest while she's working, and she herself works a twelve hour day. She has her own firm, you know - Collett Cosmetics. Ronald works for her and I don't know how he stands it. Jane's not strong; she's expecting a baby, and... I'll find somewhere quiet where I can be on my own for a week or ten days. I had intended driving North to visit some friends, but that's out now. Then I'll join J.B. on the yacht. I'll see what happens after that."

"You told Mr. Bessiter you planned to go home."

"He's got a loose tongue in his head. I need somewhere quiet where n.o.body will fuss over me."

I crossed the fingers of both hands, took a deep breath, and told myself that a snub wouldn't kill me. "I don't suppose you'd be interested," I said, "but there's a flatlet going in the house in which I live." I told him about it, warning him it was in bad decorative order, that it wasn't particularly well furnished, that there was no garage or cooking, or services laid on. I said I could perhaps give him the odd meal, if he felt like it. I ended up mumbling into my coat collar, expecting him to interrupt at any moment to say he wasn't interested, thank you. When I finished, I found he was staring at me as if I'd offered him a room at The Hilton.

"Just for a week?" I said, beginning to hope. "And you do need fattening up. I can be your reference. The landlord would need a week's rent in advance, but..."

"Oh, Sue!" Somehow his hand was holding mine as tightly as ever. "If you were to get involved, I'd never forgive myself."

I sat there smiling, thinking I'd be able to make excuses to see him often during the coming week, and that maybe he'd even continue to see me afterwards.

"I don't know what time they'll let me out tomorrow, if they do. Number 10, Queens Gardens? I'll take a taxi..."

"No, you'll feel groggy on your first day out. You phone me when you're let out, and I'll collect you."

His hand was cool in mine, tonight. A movement from the next bed caught my eye, and I glanced up to see the girl visiting there was in tears.

"Industrial injury," explained Charles. "They hoped they wouldn't have to amputate, but it doesn't look as if he's going to get away with it."

"That's terrible," I said, clasping his hand as if to make sure n.o.body whipped him away to operate while I was there.

"Yes," said Charles, watching my face in a way I couldn't interpret. The bell for the end of Visiting Hour rang, and the girl next door flung her arms round her boyfriend, sobbing. I met Charles' eye, and coloured up. The urge to bend over and kiss him was strong, but I made myself step away as I stood up. Did his face betray disappointment? Had he pulled - just slightly - on my hand as I rose?

I hesitated. "That first day why did you send me to Mrs. Burroughs's to look for your shaving things, when you knew they weren't there?"

"I was confused," he said, looking innocent. "The knock on my head - I didn't know how much or how little I could say to you."

"And your luggage? Why did you tell me not to come again, but forgot to ask for my address?"

"You know perfectly well why. I wanted you to have an excuse to come back."

I had suspected it, but hadn't allowed myself to believe in it. I turned and walked out of the ward without another word, on the heels of the girl from the next bed. She was crying. I felt immensely sorry for her, and offered her a lift home. She lived the other side of town, but I didn't mind, I was feeling so elated.

"Do you go every night?" I asked idly. "It's a long way."

"Every night that I can. He just sits there watching the door if I don't go; even when he knows that I can't possibly make it. Like your chap did last night."

"Did he?" I couldn't have been more gratified. "But he had another visitor last night."

"Three. The first two didn't stay long. They were more like business acquaintances, if you know what I mean. He had longish fair hair - fairer than your chap's, and was very tall, and thin with dark gla.s.ses. He brought some clothes in a bag, talked a while, and then left. His wife was odd, though. She didn't say a word all the time they were there - just sat there smiling at nothing. She was wearing a super trouser suit."

"Was she wearing a red scarf?"

"No. Do you know them?"

"I don't think so. Did the man limp?"

"No, but I thought he was hiding a black eye behind those gla.s.ses. Did your chap give it to him? I thought they acted a bit cool. But the other fellow who came was ever so nice; he gave my Tom some cigarettes and wanted to fetch some beer in for us all, but of course Sister wouldn't have allowed that."

I had no difficulty in identifying Mr. Bessiter as the second visitor.

"Your man still looked for you, though. All the time the second chap was talking - and he hardly stopped - your man was checking to see who came in, every time the door opened. Tom said he knew just how he was feeling, and we were ever so glad to see you come again tonight."

"Thanks for telling me," I said. The news was worth the inconvenience of giving her a lift.

By the time I got Charles home, he was shivering. A big man, he was half a head taller than me; I'm well built with it, and he was far too thin.

"Where's your overcoat?" I asked, for he wasn't wearing one.

"I left it at Whitestones. That's how J.B. knew I was in trouble. He knew I might walk out on him, but I wouldn't go off without my overcoat in this weather."

I'd unpacked for him. He didn't have many clothes, and hardly any personal effects; no photographs, old theatre bills, bank statements or letters. Just a few receipted bills from his garage. He didn't even blink at the barely furnished room, but expressed himself more than satisfied. I thought of the meagre bed coverings, and wondered how he'd manage at night, if he felt the cold.

"Have a cup of coffee on me to start with?" I said, and showed him across the landing into my flat, which was warm and well-furnished. I'd gone without a holiday the previous year in order to lay down a good quality yellow carpet from wall to wall, I'd put up new curtains to match, and covered the bed-settee and armchairs in, gay-patterned material. He liked it, I could tell. He wandered around, fingering things, taking books out of place, glancing through them, and putting them back, shifting things. I laughed aloud, thinking of my mother's dictum that men were perfectly all right in the abstract, but when they were underfoot, they were inclined to make nuisances of themselves.

"Yes?" he asked, and then, seriously, "It's only a very slight risk, you know. They don't need to see me again until J.B. gets back."

I very nearly told him that I thought he was worth more than a slight risk, but offered coffee instead. He sat down, switched on the telly, and asked if I'd get him a Financial Times when I went shopping. He'd moved in.

He hardly moved from my best armchair all day, except when I dragged him out for a short walk in the afternoon. He made no attempt to return to his own room, and I certainly wasn't pushing him out. I cooked, he washed up as to the manner born, we chatted of this and that, I sewed a b.u.t.ton on his shirt, and he cleaned my shoes. I found myself singing, twice.

Then Rita came in to borrow some mugs for a party they were having that night in the ground floor flat, and for a moment I thought I'd lost him. Rita had long legs, a model figure, false eyelashes and although she had plenty of money, didn't appear to hold any job for long. I didn't like her, and she usually ignored me unless she wanted something. This time she saw Charles and wanted him to appear at her party. He declined, saying he was only just out of hospital and couldn't manage the stairs. She said he could put his arm round her shoulders and she'd help him down, and as she said it, she wiggled her hips suggestively.

"Broken collarbone," said Charles, not moving. "But why don't you go, Sue? No need for you to stay to look after me."

That wasn't what Rita had had in mind at all. I put her out of her misery, saying I wanted an early night, and as she left Charles treated me to a grin to show that he was pleased that I'd refused.

"That type bores me," he explained, adjusting the picture on the television set. I wondered exactly how much wool it would take to knit him a sweater.

I woke with a start, and sat upright, shivering. It was two o'clock of a dark winter's night, and very cold. I pulled the bedclothes around me, and wondered how Charles was faring.

"No!" There it came again, that cry. I switched on my light, and listened. Another few minutes and I thought I must have been mistaken. Then it came again; a cry of protest, or possibly of despair.

I slipped across the landing and knocked on Charles' door. The big house lay quiet below - even the party in Rita's flat had subsided to a grumble. Charles hadn't locked the door. I slipped in. He had left the reading lamp on, with a shirt thrown across it to dim the light. He was in the grip of a nightmare, with half the bedclothes on the floor. He was turning his head from side to side, obviously in pain. He wasn't wearing pyjamas, and now I could see exactly how much strapping they had needed to hold broken and cracked bones into place. Sweat stood out on his forehead, in spite of the cold.

I caught his hand and spoke his name. He started awake, breathing shallowly. I held his hand until I was sure he was fully out of his nightmare, and when I released it, he put it to his forehead. I guessed at a headache. I pulled the bedclothes up over him; he'd put a couple of sweaters on top of the clothes, but he was by no means warm. At this rate he'd get pneumonia and end back in hospital.

"Aspirins?" I asked. "You've got some painkillers from the hospital?"

He shook his head, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes.

"I've got some," I said, and made my way back to my room. I lit the gas-fire and thought I'd better light his, too. He'd probably been reliving the experiences of the previous weekend in his nightmare. When I turned round, he was in the doorway, a short towelling bathrobe round him, blinking.

"I'll sit up for a while," he said. "I don't want another nightmare like that."

I watched him take the aspirins. I knew he wouldn't step over the threshold of my room unless I invited him to do so, not at night. I told myself to be careful, and that I knew nothing good of him. On the other hand, if I did invite him in, and we did get to sleep together, he would be more likely to give me his company during the coming week.

"Come on in," I said, pulling at his sleeve. "I'll see you don't have bad dreams in here. Besides, it's too cold for you in that room." I pushed him towards my bed and surprisingly enough he went without argument. I turned out the light, but left the gas-fire on. I slid in beside him and pulled up the covers; he hadn't taken his kimono off, and he was very tense.

"Come," I said. "Let me get you warm again."

His response delighted me. He unb.u.t.toned my pyjamas and laid his cheek first against one breast and then the other. "Sweet Sue!" he said. "Sweet Sue!" It seemed to be enough for him. I lay there smiling into the half dark and felt the rhythm of his breathing slow into sleep.

I woke in the morning only when he placed a cup of coffee at my bedside and called my name.

"Sugar? I can't remember how many." He had shaved, washed and dressed in casual clothes. His eyes were now warm and now chill.