The Art of Standing Still (28 page)

‘Do you need help with the chaperon?' Eliza asked.

‘Chaperon?'

‘The hat that looks like a dead chicken.'

He disappeared into the bathroom to change. Peacocks, indeed! Ruth had intended to spend the duration of the play alongside the rank and file of Monksford, dressed as a medieval peasant.

Alistair emerged in his tunic and chaperon, which did indeed look like a dead chicken, holding a cloth moneybag – Judas's purse. The thought made Ruth shudder. Alistair gave his imaginary moustache a twirl. In costume, he looked every inch a villain.

‘Very . . . dapper.' Ruth said.

‘Oy! You do look pernicious, Mr Fry. Do the face,' Eliza said.

Alistair gave a little sneer. This wasn't how Ruth had imagined Judas. This parody, this pantomime villain would have fooled no one.

‘No, Alistair. The whole point of Judas was that he didn't look like a bad guy. He was plausible. Right up to the moment of betrayal, they would have had full confidence in him. The disciples trusted him with their money; he was their treasurer. They thought he was one of them – honest, God fearing, and genuine.'

‘I know.' Alistair waggled his eyebrows.

‘Alistair, I'm serious. I don't want you hamming it up.'

‘Would I?'

‘I don't know.' She shook her head. ‘I just don't know.'

‘He'll be just fine. If we can boo and hiss at King Herod, why can't we do the same to him?' Eliza said.

‘Ruth, you know I would never do anything to thwart your plays. It was just my little joke. I'm sorry if I upset you. You do trust me, don't you?' He looked pleadingly at her. ‘Friends?'

‘Get changed, Alistair. I've got to go now. You can sort out any alterations with Eliza.' She gave Eliza a peck on the cheek. ‘You'll be all right, won't you? I promised to see someone in another part of the hospital. I'll call in again before I go home.'

‘Ruth, wait,' Alistair called. ‘I'll come with you.'

She sighed as he seized his clothes and rushed into the bathroom to change.

Eliza settled into her pillows. ‘Are you going to see that young friend of Jemma's? The one that was in the coma?'

‘Yes,' Ruth said quietly, ‘but I'm not sure I particularly want Alistair tagging along. I don't know what's got into him lately.'

‘You'd look good together, Ruth. It's a pity he's married.'

For the time being.
Whatever happened, she desperately wanted to remain friends. She would just have to be careful. She shook her head. ‘I don't think that would – '

Alistair appeared, panting slightly. ‘Ready?'

Ruth said her goodbyes again and started up the stairs, Alistair following like a puppy.

‘What's wrong with the lift?'

‘Exercise,' Ruth said. They reached the fifth floor and Ruth paused to catch her breath.

‘Do you want to wait here?'

‘Why, are you going to do something confidential and “vicary”?'

‘No, not at all. Just paying a visit on a young man who is recovering from a very nasty injury.'

‘Do you mind then?'

‘It doesn't bother me, but I'd better check that he doesn't.'

Ruth knocked and went in. Josh and Richard were playing chess, Josh on a plastic chair and Richard fully dressed but sprawled on the bed. Jemma sat near the window, pretending to read a magazine. She flipped the pages noisily.

‘I hope I'm not disturbing you.'

‘Not at all,' Josh said. Jemma and Richard exchanged glances.

‘I have a friend with me.'

‘The more the merrier!' Jemma said.

Ruth leaned out and beckoned to Alistair. He entered like a man at a job interview. He smiled and acknowledged the others in the room. Jemma looked away. She slung her magazine back on the pile on her way to the door. ‘Sorry to break up the party, I've got an early start tomorrow.'

She kissed Richard on the cheek and said a perfunctory goodbye to Ruth and Alistair. She ignored Josh, who didn't look up when she let the door slam shut.

‘Richard,' Josh said, ‘this is Ruth, the vicar who's been praying for you. She's producing the mystery plays.'

Richard held out his hand, and Ruth shook it warmly. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘Getting better, thanks.' Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed.

‘And this is Alistair. He's in the plays too.'

The smile froze on Richard's face. His eyebrows lowered. Alistair took out his handkerchief and mopped at his palms. He held his hand out. Richard didn't take it.

‘What's the matter?' asked Ruth.

‘I thought . . .' began Richard.

‘Do you know each
other?' Ruth looked from one to the other.

‘No,' Alistair said.

‘It's you.' Richard pointed at Alistair, his eyes wild. ‘It is. It's you!'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' Alistair backed away. ‘What's wrong with him?'

‘You! It's all your fault!' Richard's face reddened and the veins in his neck protruded like cables. ‘You did this to me!' he spat.

‘This is ridiculous; I've never seen him before.'

‘What's going on?' Ruth said. ‘Is he all right?'

‘I don't know how you thought you'd get away with it.' Richard elbowed Josh in the stomach and staggered towards Alistair.

Alistair looked astounded. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

Josh gripped Richard by the upper arms as he lunged again towards Alistair, who took a step backwards, nearly tripping over a chair.

‘What is going on?' Ruth said.

‘I think you'd better leave,' said Josh.

‘Did you think you'd get away with this? Did you think I wouldn't remember?' Richard struggled to release Josh's grip.

‘You must have mistaken me for someone else,' protested Alistair.

‘Get a doctor!' Ruth flung the door open and pushed Alistair backwards towards the open doorway.

‘You tried to kill me!' Richard screamed as Alistair stumbled into the corridor. ‘You tried to kill me!'

Scene Six

JEMMA BLINKED TWICE, RUBBED HER EYES, THEN TRIED TO GET THE SCREEN
back into focus. It was only ten to eleven. Not even coffee time. She was tired. Tired from rehearsing the mystery plays, tired from visiting Richard, tired from coming to terms with her relationship, or lack of, with Josh, and here at work her fatigue had just caught up with her. Had she been at home, she could have curled up on her bed for a ten minute power nap. That might have been enough to see her through, allowed her to finish the article, but today she had felt obliged to show her face in the office. Last Friday Mohan had asked for a photograph of her. She had puzzled for a while, wondering if he needed it for the editorial page, eventually asking why.

‘So I can remember what you look like!'

It took her several minutes to work out what he meant. Even his witty repartee was completely lost in her tired brain. There was no doubt her work was suffering. When she was this close to exhaustion, her ability to express herself was severely compromised. Words became curt and functional. They fulfilled their purpose of conveying meaning at some primitive level, but it was as if her articles were built of breeze-blocks – functional but aesthetically unpleasant. Writers need to play with words – to experiment with their shape, sound, and effect. A word can trigger associations and a seemingly innocent word can become taboo overnight. She remembered writing a piece one Christmas Eve where she had described a young band as a ‘Tsunami of Talent.' She loved the alliteration, the exotic, overwhelming sound of the word. She had even looked it up in the dictionary to check the spelling. When she returned to work after Christmas, she had to rewrite the piece. Her word, her lovely word, had become synonymous with tragedy, devastation, and death. It had been stolen from her, and she wasn't sure she would ever get it back.

Some words, she had decided, are intrinsically funny. She couldn't even type the words
gusset
and
kinkajou
without smiling. Other words –
deadline
and
sombre
– just sounded serious. Even the word
gravity
sounded heavy.

Also, she had been too tired to read. Most days she struggled through the weightier newspapers. Yesterday she had only managed the television page and the cartoons. Her writing was suffering from this lack of stimulation. Wonderful words, she knew, sparked off each other, kindled into brilliance. Now her words stumbled onto the page last place in the marathon – no victory, just relief. Weary words, spent words.

Her mobile started playing its irksome tune. She pressed the button quickly before it disturbed her colleagues.

‘Jemma Durham.'

‘Jemma, where did you get to last night?' Josh was speaking fast, tripping over his words.

‘Home. I wasn't in the mood.'

‘And your phone?'

‘It must have fallen out of my bag in the car. I found it under the passenger seat. Why, did you try to get hold of me?'

‘Can you take a tea break?'

She looked around. Everyone was heads down. Working, or pretending to. She glanced over at Mohan's office.

‘No!'

‘Jemma, I need to talk to you.'

‘We have nothing to say.'

‘I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to upset you.'

‘Okay. You didn't mean to upset me. I am not upset. Can I get on with my work?'

‘Jemma, please, this is important. It's about Richard.'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

Ten minutes later, in leather armchairs in Donatello's, Jemma sat wide-eyed over her cappuccino opposite Josh as he relayed the events at the hospital.

‘Poor Richard. How is he?'

‘The doctor gave him a sedative. He was sleeping when I left. Ruth said she was taking Alistair home.'

Jemma shook her head. ‘But he was getting so much better. He was more rational, he was making sense, his memory was returning – now this. I really thought he was getting it together. I'll try to see him at lunchtime.'

‘He was quite adamant that Alistair had tried to kill him.'

‘Perhaps he did,' she whispered.

‘Pardon?' said Josh.

‘It doesn't matter.' Jemma waved her hand, dismissing her comment.

‘I've never seen him that agitated. I didn't think I could hold him back for much longer. He was ready to attack Alistair. Do you think the brain injury caused it?'

‘Could be. He's not a violent man. Unless . . . unless he's telling the truth.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Alistair. Could he have hurt Richard?'

‘And seeing him triggered the memory?' Josh scratched his chin.

‘Do you think there's any truth in these allegations?'

‘Who knows? Somebody did it – that's for sure. Perhaps that somebody was Alistair Fry.'

Jemma shook her head, unable to assimilate the thought.

‘Josh, what are we going to do?'

DETECTIVE SERGEANT MORRISEY TOOK OFF HIS GLASSES, POLISHED THEM ON
his tie, regarded Jemma and Josh through the screen, and deciding they posed no threat of violence or infection, opened a door and escorted them through to an interview room.

‘Sorry, I just need to make a quick call.' Jemma fished in her bag.

DS Morrisey looked heavenward. He reminded Jemma of a weary basset hound. She finished her call to Mohan and stowed her phone. DS Morrisey indicated a desk with two chairs facing each other. He took one and Josh indicated that Jemma should sit on the other. He stood behind her with his arms folded. She craned round. They must have
looked like a Victorian photograph.

‘So, what do you think you need to tell me?'

‘Well,' Jemma began, ‘when the policeman interviewed me, after we found Richard, he said any piece of information, no matter how small was important.'

‘Go on.' DS Morrisey glanced at his watch and tapped his foot impatiently.

‘The thing is, Richard has accused Alistair Fry of trying to kill him.'

‘I know,' DS Morrisey said. ‘The doctor rang me. We sent an officer up there, but in view of Mr Sutton's serious injury and the resulting memory loss, he was unable to give us any more information.'

‘Isn't that enough?' Jemma rose to her feet, but Josh's hand on her arm prompted her to sit down again.

‘Miss Durham, can you tell me anything we don't already know?'

She had the distinct impression she was coming between a man and his coffee break.

‘So, have you talked to Alistair Fry?' Josh asked.

‘We are talking to anyone we think may have any involvement in this case.'

‘Is that a yes or a no?' Jemma pressed.

‘Not yet. We have no substantive evidence to link Councillor Fry to the incident.'

‘Apart from the victim telling you Fry did it.'

‘In view of Mr Sutton's “illness” we need to consider the reliability of the information before dragging in all and sundry for questioning.'