A Cry from the Dark (15 page)

“Pushy little bitch,” said Bettina disgustedly.

 

When she had talked to Murchison for some time it occurred to Bettina that she could not—and certainly didn't want to—spend the night in her own flat. The thought of sleeping, or tossing sleepless, in the bed from which Katie had been awakened and gone to the brutal attack which maybe would still prove her death made her gag. Unwilling to interfere with the SOCO investigations she went downstairs to her best friend in the flats—Nick Szabo, a refugee from the 1956 Hungarian uprising, who had proved to have a Midas touch on the stock exchange. He had been in the flats almost as long as Bettina and remembered the scandal when she had taken up with a bus driver.

“Hello, Bettina—still bringing trouble on us,” he said genially when he found her at his door.

“No, Nick. Someone is bringing trouble on me,” she said firmly. “Or on poor Katie. Can I use your phone? I need somewhere to rest my head.”

“I suppose you do. Are you going to the Prince Leopold?”

“If they have got a room for me.”

“They'll find one.”

The Prince Leopold, one of the few family hotels left in that or any other part of London, had figured in one of Bettina's later novels—one that had contained sharp portraits of all sorts of literary figures including Kingsley Amis, Muriel Spark, and Ted Hughes. Bettina had been a favored client ever since, had stayed there whenever she had had the decorators in, and had parked there any visitor she did not care to have in her own flat. They had heard the news of the break-in, were very concerned, and had already penciled her in for one of their best rooms.

“Come as soon as you like,” Harry on the desk said. “Get away from all the nastiness.”

“I may just do that,” said Bettina. “I'm only in the way here.”

An hour later, having packed a small suitcase under the watchful eye of the policewoman who had driven her from Heathrow, she was installed in a small suite in the Leopold with an unasked-for pot of tea, a plateful of her favorite crab sandwiches, and a cake stand with the sorts of goodies they did particularly well at the Prince Leopold.

“Got to pamper you a bit,” said Harry, the son of the house, who brought the tray up himself. “Now, are you in hiding or in retreat here, or are you receiving visitors and phone calls?”

“Being in retreat sounds marvelous,” said Bettina, “but I can't hide from what has happened. The police know I'm here, so I suppose I'm available to them or anyone else who calls.”

So it was that she was hardly into her second triangle of sandwich when there was a knock on the door and Peter came in carrying a cup, saucer, and plate.

“Can I join you? They said you were receiving—like bleeding royalty, it seems. That's what being robbed does for you. Still, I suppose you need a bit of luxury and waiting on. Come as a nasty shock, this must've.”

“Very nasty. But worse for you, I suppose.”

“Seen worse things in Cyprus,” said Peter, harking back to his brief period in the army, and apparently inclined to shrug off the horror of finding Katie. “Anyway, it wasn't my flat. It's always nastier when it's your place—like being invaded.”

He sat down and tucked into the sandwiches.

“But I don't understand why you were around,” said Bettina. “You were supposed to be in Bournemouth with a lady friend.”

“She never turned up. We were to meet on the coach, and she didn't show her face, nor in the next day or two. Can't think why she didn't. Things were going so well.”

“Hmmm. I suppose she was in her late forties or early fifties,” said Bettina, who knew the way of a woman's world.

“Round about. I never asked for her birth certificate.”

“You're in your seventies, Pete. You're not much of a catch so far as the look of the thing goes. The bed bit may be all fine and dandy, but a woman that age will always prefer to be seen with a man nearer her own age, and probably younger.”

“Materialistic, that's what women are,” said Peter, apparently without malice. “They go for appearances. Anyway, it left a gaping hole in my holiday. Nothing but bingo and touring Agatha Christies at the local theater. Gave me the heebie-jeebies. By Tuesday I decided to cut and run.”

“Twenty years ago you'd have found another lay,” said Bettina.

“You do wonders for a fellow's confidence,” said Peter. “Anyway, you don't know Bournemouth out of season.”

“No, I'm fortunate that way. So you came back and went round to see Katie?”

“That's right. I thought she might like me to take over. I shouldn't think it's all that pleasant being a single lady in someone else's flat.”

“An
elderly
single lady. Peter, I've been very thoughtless. If only you'd
said
when it was arranged in the Duke of Sussex.”

“I wasn't thinking, same as you,” said Peter, with genuine regret. “Seemed a sensible setup. Once I'd been stood up and was back home it didn't seem so sensible.”

“We're a selfish pair,” said Bettina, rather resentfully watching him wolfing crab sandwiches. “So what did you do next?”

“Well, when I didn't get any reply I went back home. Thought she was out shopping or something. But then I thought you'd probably left her anything she might need, and remembered that the whole point of her being there was because you thought someone had been in your flat. That made me nervous, so I went back. When I got no reply the second time I called the police.”

“Why didn't you use the key you had?”

“Key? Have I got a key to your flat?”

“Yes, I gave it to you years ago. I think you were going to walk Mr. Growser when I was away for the day once.”

“Don't remember. I'd have given it back, surely. It's not as though we've had anything going since I moved out, is it? I haven't got any use for it.”

“Is that what you mostly keep keys for?”

“Well, yes. If we have a big bust-up I might throw it at her and storm out—big gesture, you know the sort of thing. Otherwise I generally keep them. You never know, after all.”

“I'm pretty sure you kept mine, even if you did think we were finished forever—
rightly.
Anyway, you didn't use it. The police came round and you went in with them, did you?”

“Yes. It was horrible. She was lying there in the doorway to the study.”

“Did you see the wounds?”

“Yes. Of course we ran over, and she was lying face-down. There were nasty wounds on the back and side of her head—almost like cuts. I don't know how she'd survived that long if she was surprised during the night. You know the police don't think she'll pull through?”

“I know…But I've got to hope. Otherwise it'll be as if I signed her death warrant.”

“Don't be daft, woman. She wanted the job, remember? It's not as though you pushed her into it or anything.”

“I shouldn't have agreed.”

“OK, luxuriate in guilt. You intellectuals are really into guilt, aren't you?”

Oh no, thought Bettina. That's not my problem.

Later that evening she rang Hughie. She only got to speak to him after going through the filter of Marie, who doled out shock, horror, and sympathy as if they were regulation portions of a school meal.

“Poor, poor Katie. You must be devastated. She was such a character. I feel like I've lost a friend, even though it's years since she was your daily, and the most I did more recently was see her around in Kensington and swap the odd word. But she was always so ‘straight from the shoulder' and told you exactly what she thought.”

“It's not ‘was' but ‘is,' Hughie. She's still alive.”

“Is she? That's wonderful! When I heard you'd been broken into I rang the police and it sounded as if there was no hope.”

“Katie is a fighter, so I'm going to hope. I don't suppose you know that the John Mawurndjurl has gone.”

“Gone? Been stolen, you mean?”

“Yes. Presumably by whoever attacked Katie.”

“Oh God. It is the most wonderful thing—so intricate and so various and look-at-able. But far from the most valuable thing you have.”

That was Hughie. The aesthetic appeal came first, but the monetary value came a very good second.

“I know,” said Bettina. “It's odd.”

“But it was in that article on Kerry Probyn in
Hi!
magazine this week—did you know? I saw it in my newsagent's.”

“Hughie, I do not believe you inspect cheap little magazines like
Hi!
in your newsagent's. Pornography I'd believe, but not
Hi!
”

“Well, Marie actually saw it, and saw the picture of you. But there it was by the door—Kerry Probyn beside the John Mawurndjurl.”

“I know. If I'd known that interview would be placed in a magazine like
Hi!
I wouldn't have bothered doing it. They must have known that, and kept quiet about it. Do you think it convinced someone the picture was worth stealing?”

“Quite possibly. Art thieves often need guidance.”

“Well, I hope if anyone comes to you for guidance on this particular picture you turn them straight in to the police. I want it back. I love it. But why did they only take that? I've got a lot of small paintings they could have grabbed along with it.”

“Presumably the thief was surprised by Katie.”

“But Katie was attacked on the other side of the room, in the doorway to the study.”

“Maybe he was over there when she surprised him, then when he'd attacked her he grabbed something close to the door on his way out.”

“I suppose that is possible. But I don't like coincidences like the picture being in the magazine the same week.”

“Coincidences happen, even if they're difficult to make convincing in books.”

“I know the difference between life and books, Hughie.”

No one better, she thought grimly as she put down the phone.

The next day, after a long, luxurious breakfast that included scrambled eggs almost up to American hotel standards, Bettina went up to her room, found it was already done (they knew her habits at the Prince Leopold), and settled down in front of her desk. Could she write? Could she put a clean sheet of paper in front of her and write with a pen in her hand, as she had done throughout her writing life until the terrible pains had gripped her hand? She had in fact felt much less pain recently when she ate her meals. No essential difference, surely, between wielding a knife and fork and wielding a pen? She could go and get the little tape recorder from her flat if necessary, and if the police would agree to it, but something inside her told her to leave the police alone to do their job. And she did so want to write the next chapter of
A Cry from Bundaroo,
dealing with the aftermath of the rape, because she felt now, at the end of her adult life, as if the rape in the school grounds had been the beginning of it, that she had at that time run away from the situation, and she must not do the same thing now.

That nagging feeling had been there almost since she left the little town of her birth and growing up. Often she told herself that she couldn't have done anything else, that she could not have gone on living in Bundaroo, and that she had made the decision to leave it long before the rape. But she knew in her heart that there were many girls, her contemporaries, who had had no way of leaving the place, no escape route, that they would be—had been, still were—there all their lives, making the best of it, or the worst.

Perhaps it was a consciousness of this difference between them that led to the general bitterness at Hughie, then at her, that had been the prelude to the rape. Jealousy, but of an understandable sort.

She drew toward her the Prince Leopold folder on the desk, took out the little bundle of stationery, and began to write.

 

The only thing that Betty was grateful for in the period that followed the worst happening in her life was the doctor's command that she should be kept in bed for some days. Her first instinct had been to get up and face the world straight off, say to it: “This is not my fault. This had nothing to do with me, with what I am. I'm the victim here, and I'm going to have my revenge.” But lying in bed, with a sheet over her for decency in the baking heat of an outback summer day, she felt that this reaction had been childish—felt, in fact, a wave of relief that she didn't have to do anything, didn't have to meet anyone except the three people she most loved in the world.

Her father at first didn't know whether he ought to say anything about the rape.

“The police are questioning someone,” he blurted out at last.

“Who?”

“Sam Battersby.” That was all right then.

“What have they found out?”

“I don't know. Nobody knows. But people say he was there in the school hall, watching the dancing.”

“When?”

“Nobody really agrees. He was in the little group at the door, but the group kept changing. Maybe someone who was in the back room at Grafton's will remember what time he left and came back.”

“So maybe he saw me and Hughie—”

“
Maybe.
Always remember it was not your fault, darling.”

Two days later, the day which she had decided was to be her last day in bed, and after visits, endured but still appreciated, from Miss Dampier and Michael Potter-Clowes, her father came in with more news. Betty knew he was putting a brave face on things.

“Battersby has been released for the moment,” he said. “The police need more time to investigate—that's their line anyway. Battersby's poor little wife has been running Grafton's, but hardly a soul has gone in there. Now he's back I doubt if anyone will go there, apart from casuals in the town. And you can't make a living from casuals, not in Bundaroo.”

“I'm glad no one's going there…Why did they fix on Battersby, Dad?”

“Because of something you said…And you kids wouldn't have heard talk of it, but people have been noticing the way he's always been out in the street at the beginning and end of the school day. We're not daft, Betty.”

“No. Pity no one did anything about it.”

“What could we do when he'd done nothing?” protested Jack Whitelaw. He thought for a moment. “Though there was talk about that daughter of his.”

Betty thought it was best to leave things there.

“Have they talked to anyone else?” she asked.

“Oh, they picked Al up near Walgett. Blackstone went back there and questioned him. He's a lot brighter than Sergeant Malley.”

“I should hope so. Imagine anyone making Sergeant Malley an inspector.”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Betty's father, who knew how things worked in New South Wales, even if he didn't capitalize on his knowledge. “Al is pretty much out of it. He was having a meal at a farmstead this side of Walgett on Saturday around five. Difficult to see him getting a fast car back to Bundaroo. Difficult to see why he'd want to.”

“Of
course
it is,” said Betty hotly.

“Anyway, there's talk that he was in bed with the widow lady running the farm later in the evening.”

“Oh…Anyone else?”

“Oh yes. All the parents who came and watched the dancing. They were in the vicinity. Very difficult to find out who was there when, since they weren't noticing who else was there. Then there were the boys in your year—the ones who were so rotten to you.”

“Steve Drayton and that lot?”

“Yes. What they did was real crook, but I don't think it was one of them, Betty.”

“Nor do I,” said Betty, and then thought, But I don't see why they shouldn't get a bit of a shock.

“No. It's all very difficult, you know, darling. Everyone knows you were…the victim—”

“Raped.”

Her father put his head in his hands.

“I hate saying it, Betty. Anyway, the problem is proving who did it. Unless there were marks on him, or on his clothing…”

“I don't think there would be marks on him. He held me so close I couldn't do anything. So you think he'll get away with it?”

“I didn't say that. There's more ways of skinning a cat…”

“Dad! You're not thinking of a lynch mob!”

“Course not, Betty,” said Jack, shocked. “This isn't the Deep South. But you can't go on for long if folks won't do business with you.”

Betty felt the need to change the subject.

“I'm getting up tonight, Dad. We can all have a bit of supper together—maybe have a game with Ollie.”

And so things started to get back to normal. Ollie had begun to be depressed by the atmosphere in the house, so they played hide-and-seek and hopscotch with him, and ate braised mutton. Betty could see how happy it made both her parents to see normality—slightly strained normality—returning to the house. Two days later she decided to go into Bundaroo.

There was nothing she wanted to buy there, and certainly no one she wanted to see. She had to badger her mother to tell her something she could find a use for from Phil's. Her mother understood what was at stake, but was unsure whether it was the right time for Betty to go into Bundaroo on her own. Eventually, as usually happened, she gave way.

The walk to town began bravely enough. She waved to her father in a far paddock, and then to one or two people in cars or on horseback on the road into town. “Betty back to her old self,” they probably said, to themselves or their companions. But as she approached Bundaroo there was a tightening in her throat (that throat that the surprisingly strong arm had nearly throttled), and that tightening seemed to spread to her entire body, so that she hardly knew how to hold her shoulders naturally, could barely put one leg in front of the other to get herself to
that place.

But she got there. Feeling like nothing so much as a doll or a puppet she reached the main street, walked past Grafton's Hotel, though not so much as a glance did she cast in its direction, past Mr. Won, who was arranging cauliflowers in a box in front of his shop and raised a tentative hand, past Bob's Café, not yet open, and at last, as if the walk had been miles instead of merely yards, out of the merciless sun and into the shade of Phil's General Store.

“Well, hello, Betty. Good to see you. What can I get for you?”

Give Phil his due, he did exactly the right thing. Just the tone he would always have adopted if she hadn't been in for a few days.

“Hello, Phil. Mum wants a tin of tomato soup and a tin of pineapple chunks, please.”

She watched, aware that she was relaxing, as Phil reached up behind him to get down the tins and put them down on the counter. As he did so Betty was aware of someone else entering the store. She handed over her shilling and waited for the change, then heard a sort of shuffling behind her. As she turned to go she saw Steve Drayton.

“Betty, I—”

“Hello, Steve.” She was conscious of putting a warmth into her voice that she did not feel.

“I wanted to say I'm sorry—we're sorry—”

“I'm sure everyone is. Nearly everyone.”

“They are, they are! But I meant what happened before. We all got screwed up about things, and it got nasty. Maybe it was the Leaving doing funny things to us. Anyway, it became just silly.”

“Yes, well, I think we all became a bit silly. But then we were all doing the Leaving. It doesn't seem quite so important now.”

“I suppose not. We
were
so sorry, Betty—”

“Thank you, Steve…Steve, would you do something for me?”

“O' course.”

“Will you just walk me down the main street—just till we're past Grafton's?”

“O' course. No probs.”

“That's right,” said Phil, “keep the little girl safe,” thus losing most of the Brownie points with Betty that he'd earned earlier.

They left together through Phil's door onto the street and walked back in the direction Betty had come. Steve didn't seem to have much conversation for such a situation, and Betty would not have had much attention to pay to small talk. Eventually Steve said, “I don't think he'll try anything on.”

“We'll see,” said Betty.

“He'd better not!” But as they neared Grafton's there he was, pushing his way through the main door, intent on bearding them. He seemed to have lost weight, though he was still bulky and menacing, dwarfing Betty's defender, who was clenching and unclenching his fists. Sam's eyes had a wildness to them, very different from the creepy and insinuating gleam they had had before when he talked to Betty.

“Betty! Stop! You've got to tell them—”

“Get lost, dickhead. Now,” said Steve, and they both continued walking, Betty quickening her pace as she walked within a couple of feet of Sam, and Steve immediately following suit.

“Betty, you've got to tell the police I had nothing to do with what happened to you. They've got this daft idea—”

“Cut it out, will you?” shouted Steve.

“—this daft idea that it was me. And you know we've always been friends, always had our little jokes together. Betty, you've got to tell them—”

Betty turned around, and Steve put a restraining hand on her arm, but couldn't stop her.

“How can I tell them you didn't do it? I don't know you didn't. I don't know who it was. But I do know you make me want to throw up.”

And she turned and almost ran till they were on the dirt track, past the last shop and house, Alice's, and on the way to Fort George. Betty stopped, drew breath, and turned to Steve.

“Thanks, Steve. I'm very grateful.”

“No fuss, Betty. You told him, anyway. Bloody bull-shitter.”

Suddenly Betty seemed to crumple, lose all her fire. She hid her face in her hands.

“I can't stay here. I can't stay any longer.”

“Don't say that, Betty. It will get better, really. They'll arrest that mongrel—”

“They won't. They've no evidence. He'll always be here, leering at me…Tell the others, Steve: It's nothing to do with what happened at the dance. Tell Hughie, too. I just can't stay here any longer.”

And when she got home she walked straight out to her mother, feeding the chickens.

“Mum. I can't stay here any longer.”

 

Bettina's second morning at the Prince Leopold was marked by a flying visit from her agent.

“I heard this was where you were,” she gabbled, “though I could have guessed. Rellies still in Edinburgh? Do Australians call them rellies? No—well, that was a fair guess too. Now, I thought you'd want to work, so I rescued your tape recorder from the police.”

Bettina was breathtaken by Clare's barnstorming style.