Deception and Desire Read online

‘Shit!’ She was silent for a moment. ‘ Brendan! I can’t believe it. I know he’s, well, an unpredictable character, but suicide! I never would have thought … Do you suppose he was drunk?’

  ‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’

  ‘He must have been drunk. He’d never do such a thing otherwise. I don’t think he’d have the guts.’ She shivered. ‘Oh God, it’s too awful to even think about! You are sure?’

  ‘I heard this morning there had been a fatality at the bridge last night but he hadn’t been identified. But just now, on the six thirty bulletin, the man was named as Brendan. There’s no doubt, Maggie.’

  ‘Oh, poor Brendan!’

  Mike looked at her with concern. The full implications had obviously not hit her yet.

  ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘There’s tea in the pot …’

  ‘You could do with something stronger than tea, and so could I.’

  He went into the sitting room and returned with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. Maggie remained seated at the table, chewing on her fingernail, as he poured generous measures and dropped cubes of ice from the refrigerator into them.

  ‘Here – drink this.’

  She gulped at the whisky, coughed as it burned her throat.

  ‘Mike, do you think it’s possible that Brendan … might have done something terrible to Ros and couldn’t live with the knowledge any longer?’ she asked after a moment.

  So it had occurred to her.

  ‘The thought did cross my mind,’ he said uncomfortably.

  ‘Oh God.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘If he did … we might never find out what happened to her.’

  He covered her hand with his, trying to comfort her.

  ‘We don’t know it was that. There may be no connection.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But I don’t like it, Mike. You don’t know how violent he could be. I’ve seen for myself. And I’ve also seen his remorse. He did love her, you see, very much. But he couldn’t control himself – in any way at all, really. That was the trouble.’

  Mike swallowed his own whisky and refilled the glasses. Comfort from a bottle – Brendan’s downfall. The irony of it was disconcerting.

  ‘What happens next?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘God knows – I don’t. To be honest I think we have done all we can. We’ll have to leave it to the police. Maybe now Brendan has done this they’ll take the whole thing more seriously.’

  ‘They must, mustn’t they? I mean, every day Ros is missing it becomes more … well, ominous. Perhaps – they’ll search Brendan’s flat and find … something.’ She shivered, a small shudder at first, then more convulsively. The darkness was closing in, the shadows taking on substance.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he said, touching her arm. ‘Get a jumper or something.’

  She got up, obedient as a child, and went upstairs to fetch a cardigan.

  ‘It’s not really cold,’ she said when she returned. ‘ It just feels cold because everything gets more and more like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.’

  He looked at her, loving her, wanting to comfort and protect her, remembering all too clearly how she had felt in his arms and the eager response of her lips. How would she react if he went to her and held her now? Perhaps that first time she had been caught unawares; certainly later she had made it clear that she simply wanted to be taken home. Make another move now and it was quite possible she would reject it. More than possible – likely – and the result would be the sort of nasty embarrassing situation that would put an end to the ease of their relationship.

  He got up.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Maggie. I think I should take you out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know – anywhere. For a drive, a drink. It’s a nice evening and we could both do with a breath of fresh air. Come on.’

  ‘All right. Give me a minute to put on some lipstick.’

  ‘You look fine just as you are.’

  ‘No I don’t. I’m a mess. And if we’re going to stop at a pub …’

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right – if you must.’

  She disappeared up the stairs and he prowled around the kitchen, waiting. Ros’s kitchen. Ros’s possessions. Yet already there was something of Maggie superimposed. It was a trifle disconcerting.

  A few moments later she was back. She had changed into tan slacks and a cream cotton sweater, combed her hair and applied a little make-up. He felt his stomach contract at the sight of her and warned himself: Don’t be stupid. Don’t say or do something you will regret.

  ‘Ready then?’

  ‘Ready.’

  She went round closing the windows and locking the back door, taking, he thought, a little more time than was absolutely necessary to ensure they were all secure. This business was beginning to put her nerves on edge, he realised. As he opened the door of his car for her to get in he caught a whiff of her perfume – scarcely perfume, really, more a light flowery fragrance that stirred his senses again.

  ‘Let’s go.’ His voice had a faintly rough edge.

  He drove out on to the main road and turned in the direction of the Chew Valley lakes. Inevitably there were still a few cars drawn up along the roadside that skirted the vast expanse of still water and parked in the designated lots beneath the trees, couples strolling or sitting to enjoy the pleasant evening, a family playing cricket whilst their two dogs acted as unofficial but enthusiastic fielders. Mike parked and they got out and walked to the very edge of the lake, sitting on a low stone wall. The sun was going down now, a ball of fire sinking towards the water which reflected its rosy glow; ducks moved lazily, wildfowl skimmed the surface, dived and rose again. The peace was almost soporific and Mike could sense that Maggie was at last beginning to relax. They sat for a long while, not talking, watching the sun dip lower until it disappeared in a bank of low cloud and a chilly wind began to whisper in over the water. He got up.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Poor Brendan,’ she said when they were back in the car. ‘He must have been very unhappy to do something so dreadful.’

  She seemed to have forgotten her earlier suspicion that it might have been guilt that had driven Brendan to suicide, and Mike chose not to remind her.

  They found a country pub and went inside. Again the atmosphere was relaxed, peaceful, far removed from the gloom of gathering horrors that had pervaded the cottage. Maggie got out her purse.

  ‘I’ll get these. What will you have?’

  ‘Lemonade and lime. I had my fair share of whisky earlier on – I don’t want to go over the limit.’

  She smiled. ‘Since I’m not driving I don’t care. I’m going to have a glass of wine.’

  She bought the drinks and they carried them over to a corner table.

  ‘What sort of a day did you have?’ she asked, sipping her wine, and Mike realised that she was making a conscious effort to avoid returning to the unpleasant subjects that were still uppermost in both their minds.

  ‘As you’d expect …’ He regaled her with a few anecdotes and again sensed the shadows receding as she laughed at his stories and the wine relaxed her still further.

  They were still there when the landlord called last orders, and Mike saw Maggie’s expression cloud. The evening and the brief respite it had brought had come to an end. Now it was back to reality.

  Darkness had fallen; soft and complete apart from a sprinkling of stars, and the headlamps of the car cut a swathe through the blackness as they drove back to the cottage.

  ‘Will you come in for a nightcap?’ Maggie asked as they drew up outside.

  Mike hesitated. To be alone with her in the cottage would be to invite temptation. In spite of his earlier determination to keep things cool he was not at all sure he would be able to resist it.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘ Some of us have to get up for work
in the morning.’

  ‘Of course.’ She said it lightly but he sensed her disappointment. ‘Mike – I just remembered something. It may be nothing, of course, but a man phoned for Ros today.’

  Instantly he was alert. ‘A man? For Ros?’

  ‘Yes. I forgot all about it. I suppose this business with Brendan drove it right out of my head. He said his name was Des Taylor and that he was returning Ros’s call. No – wait a minute, he couldn’t have said that, because he gave me a number where she could reach him. If she’d telephoned him she would have known it, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘No. He was only on for a couple of minutes. It was a London number.’

  ‘And you took it down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’ Mike’s voice was hard. ‘ In that case I’ll give Mr Des Taylor a bell and find out what it’s all about.’

  He was getting out of the car, angry for no reason he could explain except that the fact that strange men were ringing Ros had touched a raw nerve. Maggie caught at his arm.

  ‘Not now, Mike.’

  ‘There’s no time like the present.’

  ‘Oh please! Not tonight! I really can’t take any more …’ Her voice was almost tearful and his anger died, replaced by tenderness. She’d had enough for one day; the Brendan business, coming on top of everything else, had really shaken her. He wouldn’t do anything to upset her further. The call to Des Taylor would have to wait until tomorrow.

  He put his arm around her, feeling her shoulders rigid with tension and quivering slightly from overstretched nerves.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Don’t worry. Do you want me to see you to the door?’

  She nodded, then, without warning, buried her head in his shoulder.

  ‘Maggie?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to be on my own, Mike.’ Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Oh Maggie …’

  ‘I know I’m being stupid, but I just don’t want to be in that cottage on my own … not tonight.’

  Oh Christ, he thought, how much can flesh and blood stand?

  ‘You are not being stupid, Maggie,’ he said gently. ‘I know how you feel. But I can’t stay with you. You must know that.’

  She raised her head. Her eyes were full of a longing so deep he felt he could drown in it, and her lips, slightly parted as if to make a fresh plea, looked more kissable than ever.

  The last of Mike’s resolve ebbed away. The hell with it! he thought – and kissed her.

  It was some time before they left the car and went into the cottage, and by the time they did they both knew what was going to happen. But it was so inevitable now, and so good, that Maggie found both the shadows and the guilt slipping away until they no longer mattered. Ari and Corfu were a world away, the tensions and shocks of the day were relegated to the periphery of awareness, vaguely unreal, totally unimportant. She was living now only through her senses and each one of those was heightened to a pitch that was sweetly, burstingly unbearable.

  She clung to him as he unlocked the door with her key and put the lights on, not wanting to let go of him for so much as a single second.

  Mike. His name was a soaring aria in her heart, synonymous with the glow and the sharp singing desire. I love him, she thought, and she wanted to shout it from the rooftops, only his mouth was covering hers again, so instead she repeated the words with every fibre of her being, sliding her arms around his neck, twining her body to his and feeling the instant response.

  His lips left her mouth, running a line of kisses down her chin and neck and her skin seemed to tingle with sharp awareness wherever they touched. With a swift movement he lifted her as easily as a child, carrying her into the sitting room, setting her down on the chintzy sofa and kneeling beside her. Then they were kissing again with all the fervour of two people who had wanted nothing else almost from the moment they had met.

  For a little while, lost in the joy of allowing themselves at last to indulge that desire, it was enough. But not for long. Soon his hands were on her breasts, sliding up beneath her loose cotton sweater, and she moved only to allow him to begin to undress her.

  Oh, the touch of his hands on her sensitised body! Oh, the feel of his back beneath her fingers, broad, smooth, muscular. Her head swam. She was not thinking now, only feeling, and every one of her senses was full of him.

  Afterwards, when she remembered the glory of that first time, savouring every detail, every delight, Maggie was surprised to find that she had only a hazy recollection of how she had come to be lying on the hearthrug, totally nude. She supposed he must have lifted her there, or perhaps she had moved of her own volition, still in the circle of his arms, so that it was no more than a fluid progression, but she could not be sure. What she did remember with arousing, sensual clarity, was the urgency and the wonderful sense of calm; the look of his body as he lowered himself to the rug beside her – the hard lean body of a man who plays a great deal of sport, tanned from the open air; and the feel of skin against skin as they reached hungrily for one another, burrowing closer, closer, until they were one. That she would never forget; that she would remember for ever. His weight upon her, making her feel both trapped and submissive, and at the same time gloriously free, the first moments of utter stillness when they lay, afraid to move in case it ended before they had savoured the joy of completeness, and then the fevered activity of lovemaking that would not, could not, wait a moment longer for fulfilment.

  In spite of that mutual postponement it was over too soon. If she were to die now, at this moment, it would scarcely matter, Maggie thought, because she held the whole world within her arms and her body. For long wonderful seconds she floated, high above the summit of the tallest mountain, then gently descended to a plateau where once again thought was coherent, if contented, a lovely languorous state of complete satisfaction and happiness.

  Reality was encroaching, yet still it did not matter. Ari, Ros, Brendan were there once more, yet they were shadow figures. Only Mike was real, still holding her in his arms. She trailed a finger from his shoulder to his chest, twining it into the mat of dark hair, and pressed her lips to his skin, touching, tasting, replete with love.

  ‘Maggie,’ he said softly, and she found her own voice.

  ‘You won’t go, will you, Mike? You won’t leave me?’

  And his voice was rough but also totally comforting.

  ‘I won’t go, Maggie. I won’t leave you. Not tonight – not ever.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  They slept that night in the narrow bed in the spare room. It was less than comfortable, for Mike was a big man, but sleeping together in Ros’s bed was one thing they could not bring themselves to do. The cramped conditions and the unfamiliarity of being in one another’s arms made for a restless night but neither of them minded. They made love twice more, once in the small hours when they woke to find themselves already almost at the point of union, warm, sleepy, yet already aroused, and once in the first rosy light of dawn with the birds chorusing in the trees outside the window and the early sun streaming in through a gap in the curtains.

  Afterwards, as they showered and shared breakfast, the glow of newly discovered love was still with them, suffusing everything, even the ever-present problems, in a soft haze.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to go to school,’ Mike said, drinking freshly-brewed coffee from Ros’s big French-style earthenware cups.

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to.’

  ‘I’ll get away from school as early as I can and see you at home this evening.’ They had already decided that she should move in with him – one night in the narrow bed had been romantic, too many would be exhausting. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll make my way over when I’ve cleared up here.’

  But when he had gone, driving off along the lane, she experienced a moment’s utter loneliness and for a moment the shadow of the nightmare was there again, hanging over he
r like the sword of Damocles. When the engine of his car had died away into the distance the quiet of the morning was unbroken, with not even the usual sounds of the countryside to disturb it – no birds singing now, no cows coughing or mooing, just the occasional sharp rustle of movement in the hedges to prove she was not the only living thing in this strangely silent world.

  She went back into the cottage. The clutter of used breakfast things on the table was comforting – the sight of two cups and saucers, two plates made her feel as if Mike was still there with her. She washed up, then went upstairs to attend to the bedroom. It seemed to her that the aura of love was still in the small sunny room, the sheets still warm from where their bodies had lain entwined, the dent made by Mike’s head still evident in the pillow. Warmth flooded her, a soft weakness in the pit of her stomach, and she sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, remembering and enjoying.

  How could she feel like this – so totally blissful – when she had been so sure that if she gave way to her emotions she would feel nothing but guilt? How could she be so utterly happy knowing she had betrayed both Ari and Ros? But she did. They were still oddly unreal; only Mike loomed large, filling the horizons of her world, and she thought: Don’t question it now. There will be time enough later for guilt and recriminations. Enjoy it while it lasts, store up every single blissful moment against whatever the future may hold.

  She stripped the bed, took the sheets and pillowcases downstairs and bundled them into the washing machine. She turned on the radio, singing along with the music as she worked, but when the news headlines came on on the half-hour she turned it off. She didn’t want to hear Brendan’s death mentioned – and they were sure to mention it. She didn’t want the shadow of reality to encroach on her fragile happiness.

  While the washing machine was working she packed the things she would need to take to Mike’s into her suitcase – practically everything she had brought with her since she had travelled light – clothes, toiletries, her nightdress, though somehow she could not imagine she would need a nightdress, if last night had been anything to go by. Another warm glow suffused her body at the thought. Already she could hardly wait to be in his arms again.