Pig Island (17 page)

I can say it all quite calmly now, a few days later, but as much of a professional as I am, as much as I’ve seen with Christophe’s work, I’m not completely atrophied, you know. I couldn’t even look at Oakesy as he told me. I listened with my eyes locked on the frozen blades of grass at the edge of the layby, my arms folded, half of me wanting to scream at him, ‘
Shut up
.“ When he was finished I was quiet for a long while, feeling my heart knocking deep against my stomach. Then I turned round to where Pig Island just peeped out beyond the headland. It was too far away to see anything, of course—not the village or the chapel or anything—just this great silent shape taking all the light away.

“Lex?” He put his hand on my foot. “You OK?”

I looked down at his hand. “I’ve seen things, you know. At work.”

“I know,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I know.”

There was a bit of a silence while we both thought about the island. Then he stood and felt in the back pocket of his shorts. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and passed it over. I took it, my eyes not leaving his face.

“Well?” I said. “What’s this?”

He didn’t answer. He put his hands in his pockets and stared out to sea, as if he’d just handed me one of those awful private-detective photos—him with another woman. I unfolded the paper shakily, my heart thumping.

“It’s the rental agreement for the bungalow.”

“Yes.” He bent his head and scratched the top of his scalp hard—the way he always does when he knows he’s done something wrong. For a moment I thought he was going to start crying again. “Found it in Dove’s cottage,” he said, his voice all thick. “I took her to get a bag packed and I found it. I never said, but it was missing from my rucksack—after he gave me that twatting.” He paused. “You know what it means?”

My blood was racing now. Oh, yes. I knew what it meant. Now
everything
made sense. Like why he’d called me and told me to lock the doors. Like why he was so anxious. “My God,” I said faintly. My legs felt like jelly. “He knew where I was? All that time?”

“I’m sorry.”

“All that time.” I looked back down the long, empty road in the direction of the bungalow. I was scared out of my mind. I kept picturing the woods surrounding the bungalow, thinking how close I’d been. Maybe he’d been out there, watching me. Maybe he was
there now
. ‘My things. Oakesy, I left all my things in the bungalow.“

“Yeah.” He got to his feet and put his hand on my back. “The police’ll deal with it.”

The walk back to the car was only a few yards—but it felt like miles. I kept my back stiff, resisting the impulse to whip round. I knew if I turned all the mountains and clouds would be glaring down at me, scrutinizing my back. As Oakesy put his hand on the driver’s door he stopped and looked round quite suddenly as if someone had called his name. He stared up at the mountains, at the dark green, almost black ribbons of trees on the upper slopes.

‘
What
? What did you hear?“

“Nothing,” he said. He gave a long, violent shiver as if he wanted to shake something off his back. He threw a glance out at Pig Island, then got into the car, locked his door and leaned across me to lock mine. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 3

I don’t know if this is a good time to point something out, but you may as well know, if you haven’t already guessed: your comments about Christophe really hurt my feelings.

“Lexie, would it be very difficult for you to accept that Mr Radnor wanted nothing more than a professional relationship with you?”

That’s what you said. Remember? Well, I’ve thought about it and the other day I remembered an incident I should have told you about before. It’s something that
absolutely proves
there is more to Christophe’s relationship with me than
you
could ever guess at.

It was one morning when I’d been at the clinic for only about a month. He came in early because that was his habit—all clean and scrubbed and smelling of aftershave—his
Telegraph
tucked under his arm. Usually he’d just raise a hand as he passed my desk, but that day, maybe because no one else was around, he stopped and looked at me curiously.

“Good morning,” he said, as if he’d never seen me before and was impressed with what he saw. I was wearing a very neatly pressed white blouse with a matelot collar and a rather sweet black skirt that ended mid-thigh. But Mr Radnor is too much of a gentleman to be staring at my legs. Instead he pretended to be admiring the vase of fresh yellow ranunculus I’d placed on the counter-top. “This all looks very attractive,” he said, taking in the gleaming floors the magazines lined up neatly, the plasma screen monitor polished carefully. “Yes,” he repeated. “All very attractive.”

Well, off he went into the lift and that was where the exchange ended, short and polite and not very remarkable. But I’m not stupid. I knew quite well the message he was sending. His choice of words,
very attractive
(used twice), wasn’t lost on me. From that day on I kept the reception area shining and bright, squirting perfume into the air and sweeping the floor every time a patient walked leaves and dirt in from the street. Every day Christophe came breezing through; no matter how late he was or how stressed, he always found time to comment on how attractive it looked, and every day I worked harder at it, always thinking ahead, trying to do what would please him.

I think I’ve told you—and you probably knew anyway—about all his
pro bono
work, the fabulous things he’s done for people around the world too poor to pay for operations? Well, I’d saved a lot of the press cuttings, interviews and photos of him with the people he’s helped, and it suddenly occurred to me how nice it would be to have them framed. I found someone in Tottenham Court Road to do them quite cheaply and two weeks later I got to work early and spent an hour hanging them around the reception area until they looked perfect. Then I polished everything, swept the floor, straightened my blouse and sat neatly, waiting for him to come in

He was a few minutes late. He came in, shaking his umbrella and propping it in the corner. “Good morning, Alex.”

“Morning, Mr Radnor,” I said, my smile getting wider. I could hardly keep still I was so excited. “What filthy weather.”

“Dreadful.” He looked up, and when he saw all the pictures arrayed behind me, his expression changed. He paused, then came forward slowly, a hesitant smile on his face. “Those are nice,” he said uncertainly. He stopped at the desk, unbuttoned his raincoat and seemed to be thinking hard. Then he said, “Maybe not
entirely
suitable in Reception? I wonder if they look a little—uh—showy. Do you think?”

My smile faded. “You’ve got a lot to be proud of, Mr Radnor.”

“I tell you what,” he said kindly, “don’t you think they’d look rather good in my office?”

“Your office?” And then, of course, I understood. He wasn’t upset or angry—he was being modest. That’s the sort of man he is. I stood up behind the desk, very erect and proud. “Yes. Your office. Your office it is.” I turned and began to take them down, piling them efficiently on the counter. “I’ll carry them up for you.”

“Oh, no no no—no need for that.”

“None of the staff’ll be here for half an hour. I can lock the door.”

“It won’t be necessary.”

“But I’d
like
to.”

I stood on tiptoe to reach the top ones, and here I blame myself—because I didn’t give a thought to what it might do to him to see my skirt ride up and reveal the tops of my legs in my black tights. When I got the last picture down and turned to him, his expression had hardened. He was red in the face.

“Come on, then,” he said, picking up half of the pictures. “I’ll get the lift.”

I’d never been in his office because that dragon of a secretary guards it like Cerberus. Well, it was absolutely
exquisite
, with oak-panelled walls and elegant curtains and a marvellous view of the rain-spattered roofs of Harley Street. You could even see the tops of some of the trees in Regent’s Park. I stopped and sighed, looking around me.

“Oh, it’s
lovely
, just lovely, up here. It’s exactly what I expected.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking off his raincoat and hanging it on the hatstand behind the door. “You can put them on the window-seat. I’ll deal with them later.”

So I took the pictures to the window-seat, with its lovely raw-silk cushions in a dusty apricot colour, and put them in a pile. Then I loitered for a moment or two, next to the window where the sun could come through and show the highlights in my hair. Christophe sat down at his desk and switched on his computer.

“Was there anything else?”

I smiled and stretched up on tiptoe once or twice, my shoulders up, I was so full of excitement. This was like a secret game we were playing.

He smiled, a little tightly. “Sorry. I said—was there anything else?”

“Your secretary’s got a great job,” I said. “It’s the sort of job I’d love.”

He nodded, and looked at the door, then at the computer screen. Then he rubbed his top lip a little anxiously, with the side of his finger.

“Don’t worry,” I said, because I know that’s the thing with men and sex—it overwhelms them, like a wave. He needed time to come down to earth. “I’m going. Call me if you need anything. I finish at five.”

I stopped at the door and turned round to give him a last little wave, but he was busy with the computer, clicking through his appointments—like the professional he is—so I went back to my desk and spent the whole day glowing with that amazing feeling you get when you know you’ve met someone who is going to change your life.

I didn’t tell you any of this before out of respect for Mr Radnor—the medical community is like a grapevine, isn’t it? And, God knows, it’s not easy for a man of his age, struggling with these feelings. But don’t think I’m dismissing what you said: in fact, when you said, “professional relationship‘, I think you were closer to the truth than you realized. Because in the last few days it’s become very clear to me: what Christophe needs is an
excuse
to have a closer professional relationship with me. He needs a bit of breathing space to relax around me, so the real thing between us can develop. What’s ironic is I didn’t see any of this until what happened that awful morning with Oakesy and Angeline Dove.

Chapter 4

Sometimes you surprise yourself. When we drove away from the layby I was trembling with shock. But then I wound down the window and put my face into the slipstream, the cold air racing up my nose and into my lungs and I thought of one thing.
I thought about Christophe.
I thought about the things he’s endured—the human tragedies, the danger, the disaster zones—all the appalling conditions he’s confronted (without, incidentally,
ever
being reduced to
tears).
The sun floated free of the horizon and warmed my face, and suddenly I felt very close to him. I had the strange feeling that what had happened on Cuagach was going to unite us in some way. By the time we got to Oban I wasn’t trembling any more. If anything, I was excited. I was in the middle of something enormously important. No one at the clinic would be able to ignore that for very long.

The seaside town was absolutely silent: aside from the early Mull ferry in the harbour, lit up like a Christmas tree, the only sign of life was the remains of last night’s drinking sessions—chip-wrappers blowing along the cobbled street, a seagull tugging at a half-eaten kebab in the gutter. Oakesy parked in a back alley and we all got out of the car, our faces stony and shocked in the early sun. Angeline took a little longer getting out, struggling a bit. I think it was then I realized there was something wrong with her.

Earlier I suppose I must have thought she’d hurt herself on the island and that was why she was sitting strangely. It’s amazing that, with all my experience at the clinic, I didn’t give it much thought. But now, as we walked to the police station, I studied her out of the corner of my eye and it dawned on me that something was very wrong. She limped slightly, lurching a little, as if her right leg was shorter than the left, and once or twice held her hand up, as if to reach for something to catch her balance, the hem of her coat swaying. She kept up with us—but whenever I slowed down to try to get a glimpse of her from behind she slowed too, so I couldn’t see. But I was getting an impression, even out of the corner of my eye, of a strange bulk at the back—looking at her, you’d think she was wearing a bag strapped under her coat.

The police station was in a dark brick building on a main street, and while we waited in Reception for someone to come to the desk, she stood with her back to the wall, arms folded tight round her, eyes darting from side to side as if she expected to be ambushed. The man behind the glass shield was friendly enough until Oakesy told him why we were there. Then his smile froze and the friendliness left him. He looked from Oakesy, to me, to Angeline and back again, as if he was sure we were having him on. “Wait there,” he muttered, and disappeared for a while. When he reappeared he didn’t meet our eyes, but ushered us through a door, down a corridor and into an office, a small stale room at the back of the police station, full of filing cabinets, with chipped mugs on the desk. “Wait in here,” he said, switching on the light. “DS Struthers is out on a call, but he’s coming back to speak to you. I’m going to get you some coffee.”

We sat in the office waiting for our coffee, none of us speaking. Oakesy spent the time bent over, inspecting his legs, running his fingers down the messy long grazes already scabbing over. I kept watching Angeline. She could hardly keep still she was so nervous: swallowing over and over again and putting her coat sleeve up to dab at the sweat that kept popping out on her forehead. It was strange the way she was sitting, half on her right leg, one hand clutching the seat as if she was sore or something.