The Last Weekend (24 page)

If I lost my way in the weeks before Badingley, Campbell Foster and the tribunal were to blame. I had been looking forward to a weekend away because temptation would be removed: out in the sticks there would be no betting shops or Internet, and even if there were I’d be too proud to frequent them with Daisy and Ollie around.

Yes, Badingley would be a break, I thought — till Ollie conned me into making the biggest bet of my life.

There was a surprise when we entered the living room. Though it wasn’t yet ten, Em and Daisy were sitting there fully dressed. And opposite them, on the sofa (the sofa where I’d lain with Daisy a few hours earlier, and which I imagined might still be damp with our exertions), sat a stranger. He was a man of about sixty, small in build and with the kind of face usually seen only on toby jugs: bulging eyes, slobbery lips, bulbous nose and raw-red cheeks. A local tradesman, I thought, come here to flog us fish or firewood, until I took in his suit, with its cheap city sheen. He looked awkward in it, not as a farm worker might, wearing it as Sunday best, nor because the day was too hot for ties, but because the boldness of the stripes and double-breasted collar overwhelmed him.

‘Darling,’ Daisy said, addressing Ollie not me, ‘Mr Charles is here about the house.’

‘It’s Quarles, in fact, with a Q,’ the toby-jug man said,
standing to shake hands. ‘Albert Quarles.’ His left heel was built up, I noticed — three or four times as thick as the right.

‘Ah, our landlord,’ Ollie said. ‘We didn’t know you were in Badingley.’

‘I’m not, as a rule,’ Mr Quarles said. ‘But I felt it imperative to pay a visit.’

‘Imperative’ sounded curious, coming from him. But it worked on Ollie.

‘Do please sit down,’ he said. ‘I trust the girls have offered you coffee.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Mr Quarles said, nodding at the cafetière on the table. ‘And excellent it is too.’

‘Right then. How can we help?’

I could tell from his excessive politeness that Ollie was pissed off. He was hot, he was hungry and he wanted a shower.

‘I had two reasons for calling. First, to check that you were happy with the accommodation.’

‘Perfectly,’ Ollie said, not looking at Daisy.

‘Because I understood from Mrs Banks you had some complaints.’

I remembered Daisy describing Mrs Banks as a battleaxe.

‘Whatever gave her that idea?’

‘She said you said that the house looked damp and unlived in.’

‘Me? Really?’

‘And that the owner should be strung up.’

‘Not at all.’

‘She was adamant.’

Ollie shook his head, and the two of them sat in silence, not sure where to go next, until Daisy spoke.

‘That must have been me, Mr Quarles.’ I looked forward to her giving him what for but all she said was: ‘When we arrived it was raining heavily and there were a couple of leaks.’

‘Leaks? I’m not aware of any leaks.’

‘Well, they sounded like leaks. The point is it was late, and dark, and I was tired after the journey, and not at my best, and I may have said something I didn’t really mean.’

‘I don’t often rent the place out,’ Mr Quarles said, ready to be placated, ‘and I pride myself on satisfying clients.’

‘We’re very happy here,’ Ollie said.

‘And we’re sorry for upsetting Mrs Banks.’

Daisy isn’t usually deferential. Was she afraid of a scene? Desperate to get shot of Mr Quarles? Or out of sorts from the previous night?

‘That’s all right,’ Mr Quarles said. ‘Between ourselves, Mrs Banks can be oversensitive.’

‘You mean she dragged you all the way here to throw us out?’ Ollie said.

‘No. I had a second reason for calling. I was intrigued by what you said when you booked, Mr Moore.’

‘I’ll get more coffee,’ Daisy said, now the discussion had moved on. Her face looked pale, her hair lacking its usual sheen. Had last night been too intense for her? Doubtless she’d lain awake, guilty and fretful, then been forced downstairs by Mr Quarles’s arrival. Em’s presence must have been difficult too: there she was, full of goodwill, helping to cope with the strange intruder, unaware that Daisy had seduced me.

‘In your email you said you’d stayed here before,’ Mr Quarles said.

‘That’s right, as a teenager.’

‘Under the name Moore?’

‘Yes. My father’s name.’

‘It’s odd. My father used the place as a holiday home and only let it out three or four times a year at most. I’m the same.’

‘We were lucky then.’

‘He kept a visitors’ book. When I looked through I couldn’t find the name Moore.’

‘I recognise the house, the barn, everything. We were here in 1976.’

‘I remember that summer,’ Mr Quarles said. ‘My wife and I came with the children.’

‘Not in late August. That’s when we were here.’

‘I suppose it’s possible. Bit of a mystery, though.’

‘Not to me,’ Ollie said.

Embarrassed by the impasse, Em began asking Mr Quarles about his family and I got up and left the room. My plan was to snatch a word with Daisy — even a kiss. But as I entered the kitchen, she swept past with the coffee. To return would have looked odd, so I walked out onto the terrace. No sign of Milo. It was too much to hope he had returned to London; maybe he’d gone out for the day.

I felt embarrassed for Ollie. The story of finding the house had seemed fishy from the start and now Mr Quarles had made it look even less plausible. Perhaps the tumour was disrupting Ollie’s normal brain functions or had skewed his memory. The need to devise fantastic stories was disturbing nonetheless.

Rufus trotted past as I stood brooding, and I followed him as far as the orchard fence, through which he squeezed in search of rabbit scents in the field. Shorn of its wheat cover, the scorched earth had split open, like crazy paving or shattered glass. I called Rufus back before the stubble could lacerate his pads. Leaving the orchard, we ambled to the end of the drive. Most of the blackberries in the hedge had shrivelled to ash but those lower down looked more promising — until I touched them and they imploded, black corpse blood staining my palms. I knelt and wiped my fingers in the grass, like a
killer removing the evidence. When I looked up again, there was Mr Quarles, tottering towards us on his raised heel. It seemed to take for ever, as if the house had him in its force field and wouldn’t let go.

‘Long walk back to Belgium,’ I joked when he finally arrived.

Rufus doesn’t usually bark at people but I had to shush him.

‘Sorry?’

‘I understand you live in Belgium.’

‘No, I’m in London these days. Though I did …’

Rufus barked again so I missed the rest. It was irrelevant anyway. Clearly Belgium was another of Ollie’s fantasies.

‘Did you sort out the confusion?’ I said.

‘Sorry?’

‘About my friend staying here in 1976.’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ Mr Quarles said, reluctant to make Ollie look any more foolish. ‘But I’m happy to take Mr Moore’s word for it.’

When I reconstruct the events of that weekend, I find it hard to be sure what I was thinking or feeling at particular points. But perhaps you’ll believe me when I say that it was then, on the drive, next to the rotting blackberries, with Mr Quarles, that I understood for the first time what a liar Ollie was. I should have seen it years ago. The man was false as water. He lied as easily as he breathed.

I felt sad but vindicated. If he couldn’t be trusted to tell the truth, I owed him nothing.

‘Well, I’d better not keep you,’ I said.

‘It’s all right,’ Mr Quarles said, ‘I’m waiting for Mr Moore.’

‘Really?’

‘We’re going to church together.’

‘Church?’ I said. ‘Since when did Ollie go to church?’

‘He went last week, apparently.’

‘With Daisy?’

‘On his own.’

‘Christ. Has he had a religious conversion?’

‘He said he found it restful there. He wasn’t planning to go today but then he felt sorry for Mr Quarles.’

I’d gone up to our room to undress for a shower and Em had followed. It felt awkward being alone with her after last night, but the bathroom was occupied — by Milo or one of the girls, I presumed — so for now I had no choice.

‘Why sorry?’

‘Weren’t you there when he told us? It’s an awful story. Mr Quarles lost his whole family in an accident. His wife and two boys. It happened up here somewhere.’

‘Recently?’

‘Twenty or thirty years ago. All the same.’

‘A car crash no doubt. That’s what the locals are famous for — bad driving and incest.’

‘They were drowned. Mr Quarles should have been with them but some problem came up so his wife took the boat out without him. She was an experienced sailor, he said. But a storm got up and they capsized.’

Em sat down and rootled in her handbag.

‘Now do you understand why he might want to go to church?’ she said, peering at her mobile phone. ‘Ollie too, given … you know.’

That would explain it, of course: Ollie seeking solace in his hour of need. The thought made me angry, nonetheless. I didn’t like to think of him as weak.

‘Church isn’t going to cure him,’ I said. ‘Or bring back Mr Quarles’s family.’

‘No, but it might help them cope.’

Typical Em. So calm and understanding. Sometimes her halo infuriates me.

‘If God gave me a terminal illness or killed my family,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t pray to Him, I’d burn His fucking church down.’

‘What’s wrong with you this morning?’ she said, looking up from her phone. ‘Did you lose your little race?’

‘That’s nothing to do with it. I hate people using faith as a comfort blanket.’

‘Why shouldn’t they? Faith’s empowering. You could do with more of it yourself, Ian.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Faith in yourself, faith in your friends. You’re too suspicious.’

‘There’s a lot to be suspicious of. Trust people and they betray you.’

‘Have I betrayed you?’

‘You’re an exception.’

To my relief, she went back to playing with her mobile. Betrayal was too near the bone.

‘Still no damn signal.’ She held the face of her mobile up. ‘Magda could have been trying to get hold of me.’

My socks were sweaty and hard to roll off. I sat on the edge of the bed to make it easier.

‘Forget Magda,’ I said. ‘Give yourself a break.’

‘If you’d seen the state she was in —’

‘So what? You’re not on duty. You’re supposed to be relaxing.’

‘How can I relax, with all these cobwebs and creaky floorboards and weapons on the wall? It’s spooky here. Don’t you find it spooky?’

‘It’s too hot to be spooky.’

‘Well, it gives me the creeps.’

My socks were finally off. I stood up and dropped my boxer shorts, turning away from Em as I did, in case my nakedness gave me away.

‘
You
were late to bed last night,’ she said, more teasing than reproachful.

‘I know,’ I said, wrapping a towel round my waist.

‘What time was it?’

‘Dunno. I lost track. Milo was there. We were talking. Then Archie came in.’

‘And Daisy?’

‘Yes, Daisy was up, too.’ I heard the bolt slide across the hall, just in time. ‘That’s someone coming out of the bathroom.’

‘Are we staying tonight?’ she said, before I could make it out the door.

‘That’s the arrangement.’

‘They’d understand if we left,’ she said. ‘I’ve work to do. Your hearing’s on Wednesday.’ She stood up and put her arms round me. ‘We could beat the traffic and have tomorrow to ourselves.’

‘It would look rude,’ I said, pulling away.

‘No one would miss us. We could drop in on your parents and have tea. I know they’d like it.’

‘On a bank holiday weekend? They’ll be in Blackpool with all the other morons.’

‘When did your parents ever go to Blackpool? You always make out they’re working class, when they’re not. Your dad had that job at —’

‘I don’t want to see them. Anyway, I promised Ollie we’d stay.’

‘Ach, you boys and your stupid bet.’

I opened the door. She let me go. I’d got away with it.

Under the thin, hot spray, I took my punishment. Let me be pricked to death with burning needles. Let me be irradiated. Let me be washed in gulfs of liquid fire.