The Yeare's Midnight (28 page)

Underwood was about to open the black oak door of The Jack Tar when a BMW turned along the road ahead and parked. He paused for a second in the doorway of the pub, invisible. A hole in the night. The driver’s door opened and Paul Heyer stepped out. Underwood’s stomach clenched into a painfully tight ball and he edged closer, ducking into an alleyway. He could smell onions cooking. Heyer was about twenty yards ahead of him now, standing by the car, hands on hips.
Musical
ponce.
Underwood caught his breath as Julia climbed out of the passenger seat. Her black hair was tied back into a neat bow.
She dyes her hair, mate,
Underwood thought darkly.
I bet she
hasn’t
fucking
told
you
that
yet.
You’ll
find
out,
though.
All
her
banal
little
secrets.
Her
smells
and
insecurities.
She shut the car door and smiled at Paul. He walked to the front of the car and took her hand, kissing her gently on the lips.

Underwood boiled with rage. He wished he had brought the hammer with him. He would have rushed out at that
oh-so-
perfect
moment
and smashed the back of Paul Heyer’s head in as the adulterer violated Underwood’s wife. Instead, he held back in the darkness of the alleyway and watched them walk slowly down the cobbles towards the tiny high street. Julia looked slimmer than he remembered.
All
that
screwing
must
have
helped
her
to
shed
a
few
pounds.
She wore a dress he didn’t recognize and heels that didn’t suit her or the pavement. He recognized her perfume, though:
same
old
same
old.
Dress
it
up
like
a
lady
and
it
still
smells
like
a
tart.
He followed them at a distance until they entered the narrow doorway of a seafood restaurant.

Paul Heyer was beginning to relax. With New Bolden behind them, the quaint isolation of his friend’s cottage seemed like an entirely different world. Julia had unwound visibly and looked beautiful in the outfit he had bought for her in Holt. The old worry lines still nagged at her brow but Paul was confident that a few days of fresh air and good food would iron those out. She had been through a lot, he reminded himself. He knew it would take time for her to shed her old skin of guilt and anxiety. He was prepared to wait. She was worth it.

A good meal would move things along nicely. ‘Oysters’ was a popular local restaurant and Paul was a big fan. The maître d’ showed them to a window table that looked out across the estuary and Paul ordered two gin and tonics.

‘It’s beautiful here, Paul,’ Julia breathed. ‘It’s so quiet.’

‘They’ve got a great menu, too. The sole is fantastic. They also do a cracking lobster. Caught locally every morning.’

‘I haven’t had lobster for about ten years.’

‘One of life’s great pleasures. I had a New England lobster in
Boston once that I swear was hanging off the plate. It looked like an alien. I was actually quite scared of the thing in case it went for me.’

‘I bet it was good, though.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘I’d love to go to America.’

‘I’ll take you. If you survive a week of me in Norfolk, that is.’

‘I’m coping OK so far.’ She took his hand across the table. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been on holiday.’

‘Too long, Julia. That’s behind you now. Let’s look forward. Be positive.’

‘Agreed.’ Julia Cooper sat back in her chair happily, again the giddy schoolgirl. ‘What about some wine?’

‘You choose.’

‘I’m hopeless. I don’t know many wines. You’re the expert.’

‘Don’t be silly. Positive, confident Julia starts today.’ He nodded at the wine list. ‘Give me your best shot.’

Julia scanned the list for something familiar. White wine with fish, obviously, but which one? There were so many. South African Chardonnay. That was a safe bet and easy to pronounce too.

‘The Pine Forest Chardonnay,’ she said boldly, folding the wine list shut with a flourish.

‘An excellent choice, Madame,’ said Paul in an affected waiter voice. Julia smiled and took his hand again as their gins arrived.

Underwood hurried back to his car in a daze of anger, hurt and jealousy. He was careful to walk past the back of the restaurant, taking the long way round to the car park. He would drive to a spot closer to Heyer’s BMW and follow them.
Drive
through
the
darkness,
lights
off,
unseen.
Careful
to
keep
a
distance.
Careful
to
be
anonymous.
They
are
both
on
edge.
They
would
both
recog
nize
me
immediately.
Must
be
on
my
guard.
Must
stay
invisible
until
I
am
ready
for
them.
Ready
to
show
them
myself:
explain
what
they
have
created
in
me.
Reveal
the
monstrosity
I
have
become.
Make
them
understand.
Make
them
fucking
understand.

He paused at a street corner. He was at the car park.
Breathless and in pain, as if his lungs had burst in agony. He no longer coughed up slabs of phlegm but long strings of blood: the warmth clung in his throat. He hacked the strings into his mouth and pulled them out into his handkerchief. He was coming apart from the inside: dissolving into a shapeless bloody nothing. Underwood sat on a low wall and composed himself, brushing away the tears that felt so cold on his exposed skin.
For
in
a
common
bath
of
teares
it
bled,
he remembered,
yes,
tears
that
freeze
with
blood.
Lucy
Harrington’s
one-eyed
gaze;
Elizabeth
Drury’s
last
breathless
panic
to
escape;
Julia
Cooper
tied
to
a
bedpost,
wild-eyed
with
fear.
Underwood wiped his face dry: every chilled tear was a horror.

Underwood’s hand rested briefly on the bag of items he had brought with him. He had stopped at a garage in Holt to buy a few essentials: a roll of thick masking tape, some bin bags – and a hammer.

He was hungry again. The infection in his lungs was draining his body’s strength, its ability and desire to fight back. He looked up. There was a fish-and-chip shop about fifty yards away. He ordered a bag of chips and two pickled eggs. Five minutes later, in the darkness of the car park, he slid half an egg into his mouth and imagined it was Lucy Harrington’s eye. He rolled it gently around his mouth, cleaning it with his saliva. He could almost feel the gouges with the sensitive tip of his tongue, the ragged hood of flesh where it had been torn from the socket.

He placed the egg back in its bag and repeated the process with the other, this time remembering Elizabeth Drury: elegant even when floating in her own blood. He cleaned the egg with care, at one stage even taking the entire object into his mouth. It fitted perfectly. Suddenly he thought of Julia’s soppy green eyes rolling in pleasure as she writhed orgasmically under Paul Heyer. Underwood bit down hard on the egg. He imagined smashing down through the lenses of Julia’s eyes, snapping the ciliary muscles with his teeth. He relished the crunchiness of the cornea and the cold liquid of the aqueous humour that broke over his tongue like a liqueur. He swallowed hard.

The wine had been excellent and the lobster enormous. Paul Heyer and Julia Cooper had no room for a dessert so they settled for coffee. By eleven-thirty, the restaurant was nearly deserted and Paul finally got the message from the awkward-looking waiting staff. He left a generous tip, shook hands with the maître d’ and walked back to his car, holding Julia’s hand. He was well over the legal alcohol limit but knew that the area was pretty thinly policed and, besides, he was still in control of all his faculties. The BMW started first time and Heyer steered the powerful car gingerly along the narrow road that led out of Blakeney and edged along the cliffs towards Wells. He concentrated so hard on the black road in front of him that he did not notice John Underwood’s Mondeo, following quietly behind him with its normally powerful headlights turned off.

Heather Stussman dined in the college hall. Although the prospect of another intellectual flaying at the hands of Dr McKensie filled her with gloom, she was tired of being kept prisoner in her own rooms. Besides, seeing the photographs of the murder victims at New Bolden police station had unsettled her: she wanted to be with people.

As it happened, McKensie and his coven left her alone during the meal. Perhaps the presence of a uniformed policeman at the door made them nervous: skeletons jangled in everyone’s cupboards. After dinner, Stussman retired to the warmth of the Combination Room with a coffee and her battered edition of John Donne’s
Songs
and
Sonnets.
The ancient room was almost empty and she sank gratefully into the security of a high-backed leather armchair in front of the open fire. A steward brought her the brandy she had requested at dinner and stirred the burning logs in front of her. Sparks flew high into the old stone chimney, glowing brightly orange before disappearing for ever.

She tried to organize her thoughts. It was hard: comfort
worked against her, it was seductive and distracting. She leaned forward in the chair and tried to simplify what she had spent her career complicating.

What
are
the
major
themes
that
Donne
addresses
in
his
poetry?
she asked herself.

Love,
Sex,
Religion,
Death.

His
poetry
reflects
the
uncertainties
of
the
time.
It
attempts
to
fuse
religion
with
science.
The
humanist
obsession
with
classical
philosophy
was
also
important.
Indeed,
the
killer
of
Harrington
and
Drury
had
asked
her
about
the
music
of
the
‘spheares’.
Donne
was
one
of
a
number
of
writers
who
developed
this
notion
from
the
early
writings
of
Aristotle
and
Pythagoras.

A log hissed and spat in the flames. Stussman jumped, despite herself. She looked around the room. Only Professor Proctor and Dr Wuff remained: both seemed at best semi-conscious, their eyes losing focus under sagging lids. The brandy tasted good and she rolled its fire around her tongue with relish. Cambridge had
some
advantages.

So
Donne’s
poems
were
essentially
hybrids:
fusions
of
ideas
that
often
contradicted
each
other.
The
poet’s
own
life
had
been
something
of
a
contradiction.
Donne
was
born
a
Catholic,
a
descendant
of
the
martyr
Sir
Thomas
More,
and
yet
he
became
a
high-profile
Anglican.
Indeed,
he
ended
up
as
the
Protestant
Dean
of St
Paul’s
Cathedral.

Was the killer religious, Stussman wondered? He had not referred to any of Donne’s overtly religious works. And yet, religious uncertainty was central to understanding the poet he had selected.
Curious.

She returned to her book and flicked to ‘A Valediction: Of Weeping’. The killer had written a line of this poem – ‘Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare’ – on Lucy Harrington’s wall. Stussman shivered as she remembered the grisly photograph of Harrington’s butchered face.

The
poem
is
about
separation.
It’s
a
valediction:
a
farewell
poem.
The
conceit
is
based
on
the
idea
of
reflection.
The
two
lovers
are
reflected
in
each
other’s
tears.
The
woman’s
tears
reflect
the
poet’s
face
and
vice
versa.

Stussman frowned as an idea began to germinate. She reread part of the first stanza: