The following day, Wednesday, Sally took Lucy to meet Carla. She lived in a small terraced house which was almost exactly halfway between St Georges and Hercules Road. Half West Indian and half Irish, she had an enormous mop of red curly hair which she wore in a style reminiscent of a seventeenth-century periwig. The house seethed with small children and the noise was formidable. Carlas feet were bare, and she was dressed in a green tanktop and tight trousers which revealed her sturdy legs and ample behind; she was not a woman who left much to the imagination.
Carla swept a bundle of magazines from one of the chairs. Do you want a Coke or something? And what about you, Lucy?
Lucy shook her head violently. She kept close to her mother and stared round-eyed at the other children, who ignored her. Carla took two cans from the refrigerator and gave one to Sally.
Saves washing up. You dont mind, do you? She stared with open curiosity at the dog collar. What should I call you, by the way? Reverend or something?
Sally, please. What a lovely big room.
One of my fellas did it for me. He was a builder. I told him to knock down all the walls he could without letting the house fall down. And when hed finished I gave him his marching orders. Im through with men. If you ask me, youre better off without them. She leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly. Sex. You can keep it. Mind you, men have their uses when you need a bit of DIY.
Sally glanced round the room, ostensibly admiring the decor. She noticed that most of the horizontal surfaces held piles of washing, disposable nappies, toys, books, empty sweet packets and video tapes. The back door was open and there was a sunlit yard beyond with a small swing and what looked like a sandpit. Sally thought that the place was fundamentally clean under the clutter and that the children seemed happy; she hoped this was not wishful thinking.
While she and Carla discussed the arrangements, Lucy feigned an interest in the twenty-four-inch television set, which was glowing and mumbling in a recess where there had once been a fireplace; she pretended to be absorbed in an episode from Thomas the Tank Engine, a programme she detested.
Why dont you leave her for an hour or two? Trial run, like.
Sally nodded, ignoring the sudden surge of panic. Lucy lunged at her arm.
You just go, honey. Carla detached Lucy with one hand and gave Sally a gentle push with the other. Have you ever made gingerbread robots with chocolate eyes? she asked Lucy.
The crying stopped for long enough for Lucy to say, No.
Nor have I. And we wont be able to unless you can help me find the chocolate.
Sally slipped out of the house. She hated trusting Lucy to a stranger. But whatever she did, she would feel guilty. If you had to list the top ten attributes of modern motherhood, then guilt would be high up there in the top three.
Sally Appleyard could not say when she first suspected that she was being watched. The fear came first, crawling slowly into her life when she was not looking, masquerading as a sense of unease. Her dreams filled with vertiginous falls, slowly opening doors and the sound of footsteps in empty city streets.
Rightly or wrongly she associated the change in the emotional weather with the appearance in mid-September of Frank Howells feature in the Evening Standard. In his idiosyncratic way the balding cherub had done St Georges proud. Here, Sally was interested to learn, was the real Church of England. Two photographs accompanied the piece: one of Derek equipped with dog collar, denim jacket and Afro-Caribbean toddler; the other of Sally. In the text Howell described the incident at Sallys first service.
Pity he had to choose St Georges, Michael said when he saw the article.
Why?
Because now all the nutters will know youre there.
She laughed at him but his words lingered in her memory. There was no shortage of rational explanations for what she felt. She was tired and worried. It was not unnatural, particularly for a woman, to equate a sense of unease with being watched. She knew that a solitary and reasonably attractive woman was vulnerable in parts of the parish. To a certain type of male predator her profession might even add to her allure. Perhaps Michael had inadvertently planted the idea in her mind. Besides, to some extent she really was under observation: she was still a novelty in Kensal Vale: the woman with the dog collar was someone to stare at, to point out, sometimes to laugh at, and occasionally to abuse.
She-devil. Blasphemer against Christ. Apostate. Impious bitch. Whore of Babylon. Daughter of Satan.
One evening near the end of the month she was later home than expected. Michael was watching from the window.
Where the hell were you? he demanded as he opened the door to her. Do you know what time it is?
Im sorry, she snapped, her mind still full of the room she had left, with the bed, the people, the smells and the chattering television and the view from a high window of Willesden Junction beneath an apocalyptic western sky. Someone was dying and there wasnt a phone.
You should have sent someone out, then. Ive phoned the Cutters, the hospitals, the police.
His face crumpled. She put her arms around him. They clung together by the open door. Michaels hands stroked her back and her thighs. His mouth came down on hers.
She craned her head away. Michael
Hush.
He kissed her again and this time she found herself responding. She tried to blot out the memory of the room with the high window. One of his hands slipped round to the front of her jeans. She shifted back to allow his fingers room to reach the button of the waistband.
Mummy, Lucy called. Im thirsty.
Oh God. Michael drew back, grimacing at Sally. You go and see her, love. Ill get the drink.
The following evening, he came home with a personal alarm and a mobile phone.
Are you sure I need all these?
I need you to have them.
But the cost. We
Bugger the cost, Sal.
She smiled at him. Im no good with gadgets.
You will be with these.
She touched his hand. Thank you.
The alarm and the phone helped at least for a time. The fact that Carla could now contact her at any time was also reassuring. But the fear returned, a familiar devil. Feeling watched was a part of it. So too was a sense of the watchers steady, intelligent malevolence. Behind the watching was a fixed purpose.
But there was nothing, or very little, to pin it to. The evidence was skimpy, almost invisible, and capable of innocent interpretations: a small, pale van which one afternoon followed her car round three successive left turns; someone in a long raincoat walking down Hercules Road late at night and glancing up at the windows of the flat; warm breath on the back of her neck in a crowd swirling down the aisle of a supermarket; Lucys claim that a man had winked at her in the library when she went there with Carla and the other children. As to the rest, what did it amount to but the occasional shiver at the back of the neck, the sense that someone might be watching her?
To complicate matters, Sally did not trust her instincts. She couldnt be sure whether the fear was a response to something in the outside world or merely a symptom of an inner disturbance. This was nothing new: since her teens, she had trained herself to be wary of her intuitions partly because she did not understand them and partly because she knew they could be misleading. She lumped them together with the uncomfortably vivid dreams and the moments when time seemed to stand still. They were interesting and disturbing: but there was nothing to show that they were more than freak outbreaks of bioelectrical activity.
The scepticism was doubly necessary at present: she was under considerable strain, in a state which might well induce a certain paranoia. In the end it was a question of degree. Carrying a rape alarm was a sensible precaution against a genuine danger: acting as if she were a potential terrorist target was not.
In November, leaves blew along the pavements, dead fireworks lined the gutters, and mists smelling of exhaust fumes and decaying vegetables softened the outlines of buildings. In November, Uncle David came to lunch.
The Uncle was a courtesy title. David Byfield was Michaels godfather. He had been a friend of his parents and his connection with Michael had survived their deaths and the cooling of his godsons religious faith. An Anglo-Catholic, he was often addressed as Father Byfield by those of the same persuasion. The November lunch in London had become a regular event. In May the Appleyards went to Cambridge for a forbiddingly formal return fixture at the University Arms.
This Saturday was the worst yet. It began badly with an emergency call from Derek, who had gone down with toothache and wanted Sally to take a wedding for him. Sally abandoned the cooking and Lucy to Michael. Neither the service nor the obligatory appearance at the reception did much for her self-esteem. The bride and groom were disgruntled to see her rather than Derek, and the grooms mother asked if the happy couple would have to have a proper wedding afterwards with a real clergyman.
When Sally returned to Hercules Road she found the meal over, the sink full of dirty plates, the atmosphere stinking of Davids cigarettes and Lucy in tears. Averting his eyes from her dog collar, David stood up to shake hands. Lucy chose this moment to announce that Daddy was an asshole, an interesting new word she had recently picked up at Carlas. Michael slapped her leg and Lucys tears became howls of anguish.
You sit down, Michael told Sally. Ill deal with her. He towed Lucy away to her room.
David Byfield slowly subsided into his chair. He was a tall, spare man with prominent cheekbones and a limp due to an arthritic hip. As a young man, Sally thought, he must have been very good-looking. Now he was at least seventy, and a lifetime of self-discipline had given his features a harsh, almost predatory cast; his skin looked raw and somehow thinner than other peoples.
Im so sorry not to have been here for lunch, Sally said, trying to ignore the distant wails. An unexpected wedding.
David inclined his head, acknowledging that he had heard.
The vicar had to go to casualty. Turned out to be an abscess. Why did she have to sound so bright and cheery? Has Lucy been rather a handful?
Shes a lively child. Its natural.
Its a difficult age, Sally said wildly; all ages were difficult. Shes inclined to play up when Im not around.
That earned another stately nod, and also a twitch of the lips which possibly expressed disapproval of working mothers.
I hope Michael has fed you well?
Yes, thank you. Have you had time to eat, yourself?
Not yet. Theres no hurry. Do smoke, by the way.
He stared at her as if nothing had been further from his mind.
Hows St Thomas coming along?
The book? The tone reproved her flippancy. Slowly.
Aquinas must be a very interesting subject.
Indeed.
I read somewhere that his fellow students called him the dumb ox of Sicily, Sally said with a touch of desperation. Do you have a title yet?
The Angelic Doctor.
Sally quietly lost her temper. One moment she had it under firm control, the next it was gone. Tell me, do you think that a man who was fascinated by the nature of angels has anything useful to say to us?
I think St Thomas will always have something useful to say to those of us who want to listen.
Not trusting herself to speak, Sally poured herself a glass of claret from the open bottle on the table. She gestured to David with the bottle.
No, thank you.
For a moment they listened to the traffic in Hercules Road and Lucys crying, now diminishing in volume.
The phone rang. Sally seized it with relief.
Sally? Its Oliver. Is Michael there?
Ill fetch him.
She opened the living room door. Michael was sitting on Lucys bed, rocking her to and fro on his lap. She had her eyes closed and her fingers in her mouth; they both looked very peaceful. He looked at Sally over Lucys face.
Oliver.
For an instant his face seemed to freeze, as though trapped by the click of a camera shutter. Ill take it in the bedroom.
Lucy whimpered as Michael passed her to Sally. In the sitting room, Lucy curled up on one end of the sofa and stared longingly at the blank screen of the television. Sally picked up the handset of the phone. Oliver was speaking: complaining. You know what that She dropped the handset on the rest.
Its a colleague of Michaels. Im afraid it may be work.
I should be going. David began to manoeuvre himself forward on the seat of the chair.
Theres no hurry, really. Stay for some tea. Anyway, perhaps Michael wont have to go out. Desperate for a neutral subject of conversation, she went on, Its Oliver Rickford, actually. Do you remember him? He was Michaels best man.
I remember.
There was another silence. The subject wasnt neutral after all: it reminded them both that David had refused to conduct their wedding. According to Michael, he had felt it would be inappropriate because for theological reasons he did not acknowledge the validity of Sallys orders. He had come to the service, however, and hovered, austere and unfestive, at the reception. He had presented them with a small silver clock which had belonged to his wifes parents. The clock did not work but Michael insisted in having it on the mantelpiece. Sally stared at it now, the hands eternally at ten to three and not a sign of bloody honey.
Michael came in. She knew from his face that he was going out, and knew too that something was wrong. Lucy began to cry and David said he really should leave before the light went.
The last Friday in November began with a squabble over the breakfast table about who should take Lucy to Carlas. As the school was closed for In-Service Training, Lucy was to stay with the child minder all day.
Cant you take her this once, Michael? I promised Id give Stella a lift to hospital this morning.
Why didnt you mention it before?
I did last night.
I dont remember. Stellas not ill, is she?
Theyre trying to induce her daughter. Its her first. Shes a couple of weeks overdue.
Its not going to make that much difference if Stella gets there half an hour later, is it?
Itll be longer than that because Ill hit the traffic.
Im sorry. Its out of the question.
Why? Usually you can
Michael pushed his muesli bowl aside with such force that he spilled his tea. This isnt a usual day. His voice was loud and harsh. Ive got a meeting at nine-fifteen. I cant get out of it.
Sally opened her mouth to reply but happened to catch Lucys eye. Their daughter was watching them avidly.
Very well. Id better tell Stella.
She left the room. After she made the phone call she made the beds because she couldnt trust herself to go back into the kitchen. She heard Michael leaving the flat. He didnt call goodbye. Usually he would have kissed her. She was miserably aware that too many of their conversations ended in arguments. Not that there seemed to be much time at present even to argue.