thought of Michael getting himself arrested; of him wandering in tears through the streets of London in search of Lucy; of accident, madness and suicide. Even in her misery she knew that Lucy’s absence was far more worrying than Michael’s; the greater fear did not cast out the lesser, but it made it easier to bear. This did not stop her feeling angry with him.
‘The bloody man!’ she burst out after yet another phone call from someone she did not want to talk to.
‘That’s right, dear,’ Yvonne said helpfully. ‘Get it out of your system.’
‘Does Maxham know that Michael’s gone?’
Yvonne nodded. ‘I had to tell him. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
On the mantelpiece, Sally found the note from Oliver propped against the broken silver clock, the wedding present from David Byfield. Michael and Sally: Please phone me if I can do anything. Oliver. Underneath his name he had had the sense to put his phone number. A polite man, too. When Yvonne was making tea in the kitchen, Sally picked up the phone. Oliver answered at the second ring.
‘It’s me. Sally.’
‘Any news?’
‘No. Not really.’ She told him about Michael. ‘I – I wondered if he might be with you.’
‘I wish he was. Actually, Maxham’s already phoned. Shall I come over?’
‘No.’ She heard a clatter from the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Phone me, Sally. Any time. All right?’
‘All right.’ She broke the connection as Yvonne came in with mugs of tea. ‘Just checking with Oliver Rickford. Michael’s not there, either.’
Sally sat down with the tea. What hurt, then and later, was the way Michael had locked her out. For better or for worse: didn’t it mean anything to him? If it didn’t mean anything, why did he bother getting married? He could have found someone else to screw. Maybe that’s where he was now: with a prostitute, paying for what his wife was too tired to give him.
Yvonne went to the lavatory. The phone began to ring. Sally flung herself at it, spilling uncomfortably hot tea over her leg.
‘Shit. Hello.’
‘Is that the Reverend Appleyard speaking?’ A man’s voice; unfamiliar. ‘Sally? This is Frank Howell. Remember me? I did that piece on St George’s for the Standard.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve nothing to say.’
‘I understand, Sally.’ The voice was unctuous. ‘I don’t want to ask you anything. Truly.’
She remembered the man’s face now: the balding cherub with red-rimmed eyes; Derek’s friend. ‘I’m going to put the phone down, Mr Howell.’
He began to gabble: ‘Sooner or later you and Michael are going to have to deal with the press. Maybe I can help. You need someone who knows the ropes, someone on your side, someone who –’
‘Goodbye.’ She broke the connection.
‘Who was that?’ Yvonne asked, a moment later.
‘A journalist named Frank Howell.’
‘He’s already rung twice before. Leave the phone to me.’
‘I thought it might be Michael.’ Or Lucy. Sally started to cry again.
Yvonne gave her a handful of paper handkerchiefs. ‘Try not to worry, love. I’m sure there’s some perfectly simple explanation. He’ll be back. You’ll see.’
Through her tears Sally snarled, ‘I’m not sure I want him back.’ I want Lucy.
Afterwards, Sally learned that Michael turned right into the main road, walking towards the tube station. He went into the saloon bar of the King of Prussia and ordered a pint of beer and a double whisky. He sat by himself at a table in the corner of the room. According to the barman he gave no trouble. He drank two more double whiskies and repelled an attempt to draw him into conversation.
He took the underground to King’s Cross Station, where he bought a standard single to Cambridge. He had time to kill before catching the train so he killed it in a bar. From Cambridge railway station he walked slowly into the centre of the town and out the other side, stopping at two pubs on the way. He staggered up the Huntingdon Road. Just before eight-thirty he reached a small but ugly block of modern flats near Fitzwilliam College. He rang one of the bells and lay down on the wet grass to rest. Soon he was asleep.
A little later, the telephone rang in the Appleyards’ living room in Hercules Road. Yvonne answered. She listened for a moment, pressed the mute button and looked across the room at Sally.
‘It’s someone called Father Byfield. Do you want to speak to him? He says your husband’s with him.’
Sally was furious and relieved when she heard Uncle David’s voice. Jealousy was there, too, and also a sense of failure. She should have realized that in times of trouble Michael would turn not to her but to his godfather.
‘Therefore for Spirits, I am so far from denying their existence, that I could easily believe, that not onely whole Countries, but particular persons, have their Tutelary and Guardian Angels.’
Religio Medici, I, 33
‘Mummy. Mummy, where are you?’
Over the intercom, Lucy’s voice sounded mechanical, like a juvenile robot’s. Without the intercom and with the doors closed, they would not have heard her because the basement was now so well soundproofed.
‘Mummy.’ The voice sharpened and rose to a wail. ‘Where are you?’
Angel dropped her napkin on the table and stood up, stretching her long white arm towards the keys on the worktop. At the door she glanced back at Eddie.
‘You sort things out in here. I’ll deal with her.’
Lucy was crying now. Eddie imagined her standing by the door or curled up in bed. She was wearing the pyjamas he had bought especially for her at Selfridges; they had red stars against a deep yellow background and in normal circumstances would suit her colouring Last night, however, Lucy had not been looking her best: by the low-wattage light of the bedside lamp, her face had been white, almost green, mouth a black, ragged hole, the puffy eyes squeezed into slits.
‘Daddy. Mummy.’
The intercom emitted a series of crackles: Angel was unlocking and opening the door to the basement.
‘Mummy. I want –’
‘You’ll see Mummy very soon.’ Angel’s voice was tinny and precise. There was a click as she closed the door behind her. ‘Now, what are you doing out of bed without your slippers?’
‘Where’s
