Present Tense Page 10

  I went into Chadwin’s room to check on him, the pink monster, groaning a little for breath, his eyes sticking out like marbles. I removed the scarf from his mouth; it was bloodstained. And there was blood on the sheets and the floor, but Chadwin was surviving.

  He mouthed hoarsely, “I’m not afraid of cunt, baby, and when I get hold of you…”

  I didn’t speak to him. I couldn’t address complete unreason. I put a plaster on my arm, picked the fragments of glass out of my feet, and found my slippers. I decided I’d work in the tracksuit and burn it. I suddenly remembered the car out front. It immediately raised the question, where was the driver? I decided to put the car into the garage in the meantime. I got the keys from Chadwin’s jacket.

  When I went outside, the wind was sighing in the pines. It was a lonely sound. Occasionally a gust whistled around the house, pressing the window panes, and making the windows creak. The pine forest was like a dark sea, rolling in aggressive waves, and lapping at the windows of the house. I put the car in the garage, closed it, and locked the doors between the garage and the workshop.

  I went upstairs and resumed cleaning around Chadwin. He scoffed, “I may have slapped you around a few years ago, but you could get ten to twenty for what you’re doing.”

  “Listen, you punk. I was a kid when it happened. Since then I’ve followed many cases in the newspapers. I’ve learned about plea bargaining. And how a woman, alone with a man, can have difficulty having her word preferred. Maybe I’ll have to plea bargain, this time. Your word against mine. What a story!”

  “The story, lady, is all over my body!” Chadwin sneered.

  “Wrong again. If you were right, the scenario in the Westchester Court would have been about my beat-up face, and the doctor’s report on my vagina. But they didn’t count. The yarn as told by your greaseball lawyer, was about a football hero. Things haven’t changed. If I’m on trial for this, it’s about a criminal who plea-bargained out of rape, got a fixation on his victim, followed her to her house, terrorised her, beat her up, and tried to rape her again.”

  I showed him the cuts on my hands and feet, and I unzipped my tracksuit so he could see the bruises, now carmine, black and yellow, from under my brassiere, the legacy of our struggle on the bed.

  “Yeah, I reckon a court will be fairly sympathetic to a family woman who puts a few bruises on the man, ties him up, and hands him over to the cops, which is what I’m going to do with you. Don’t you realise that? I’m going to give you to the cops like a Thanksgiving turkey. That’ll look good in the newspapers!”

  It came out better than I expected, sounded quite credible. Chadwin was momentarily silenced. Even he could see that there could be another side to the story.

  “Nobody is going to believe you this time around, Chadwin. Not when I’ve got through the telling. You’ll be front page news. A turkey! How will that square with your new job, big man? They’ll love you down at Hudson. And your wife’ll be so proud of you when the board of directors meet!”

  “You scheming, fucking bitch!”

  11

  I mopped the bedroom floor around Chadwin, but I couldn’t get rid of the smell of whiskey and perfume. I decided not to burn the bloodstained bedclothes, or the mattress; they were evidence of the struggle. What I wanted to do was to eliminate anything, like the presence of liquor, which might suggest I was complicit with Chadwin. Whiskey poured over my head had counted against me at Westchester court as if I had been a drunk.

  The doorbell rang again, before I had a chance to clear away the trash I’d removed from the bedroom and dropped in the hall. One glance down the hall suggested that the two figures out there were the Kutash pair. It couldn’t have been anybody worse. They would know I was here, because they could probably see movement inside the hall. And some of the upper windows were open. I would have no alternative but to invite them in. I went into the bedrooom and gagged Chadwin. I made a careful job of closing the ill-fitting bedroom door, and turned up the volume of the rock radio again.

  In the short time it took me to perform these tasks, the formidable reasons why I couldn’t talk honestly to the Kutashs, confide in them, or ask for their help, came to me.

  Chadwin was a new friend, or acquaintance of the Kutashs. They would be slow to believe him guilty of the kind of violence I’d suffered today. They would never stand by and see him handed to the police, tied hand and foot. I was sure that their immediate reaction would be that Chadwin was one of us and had to be released. Talk might follow, but it would be dominated by Chadwin, and the Kutashs. Both Marty and Donna were irritable people, proud of the rightness of their snap decisions. Marty had already absorbed some dirt about me from Chadwin. The Kutashs would be quick to believe that I encouraged Chadwin. Whatever the twists of any discussion, Chadwin would talk himself free. I would escape violence today, but Chadwin would be stalking me tomorrow with renewed venom.

  When I opened the front door, I tried to form a barrier to entry against their leering faces.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go out now.”

  “What for?” Donna demanded.

  “The doctor. I have to see the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” Donna said, as she and Marty surged past me like expected guests. Donna had a narky tightness about her mouth which suggested that whatever was going on in my house, they were going to join in. Marty thrust a full bottle of bourbon at me.

  “In case you’re out of juice, we brought our own.”

  “Didn’t you hear me, Marty?” I asked.

  “What are you up to, honey?” Donna cooed.

  “I’ve got a terrible migraine.”

  “This is the official cure for migraine,” Marty said, waving the bottle.

  “You do look pale, Loren,” Donna said, her eyes darting about, examining, measuring.

  I glanced down at myself self-consciously, and realised that the extremity of the bruises on my chest were visible. I zipped the tracksuit to my throat.

  “What on earth happened to you, dear?” Donna asked, stepping forward, and reaching for the zip.

  I stopped her. “I had a fall, hit my chest on a packing case in the workshop. It looks worse than it is.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” Donna said.

  “I’m not getting undressed.”

  “I don’t mind,” Marty chuckled.

  “But I do.”

  “You sure you’re not having bondage sessions with a dashing Jaguar salesman?” Donna joked.

  That was exactly how my injuries could be viewed, now that I had given an excuse for them – the result of a perverted masochistic session. And even Chadwin, bruised and bleeding and trussed up on the floor, could be seen as a participant or a victim. I was convinced I was right in concealing everything from the Kutashs. Their involvement would only make this into a filthier scandal than it already was.

  I walked after Donna into the lounge, alarmed at her reference to a Jaguar.

  “Do you have anything for afternoon tea?” Donna asked, plumping on a couch.

  “I’ve just had lunch, and in any case, I have to go out,” I said, going back into the kitchen, where Marty had taken over as barman.

  He had turned the radio volume down, and I turned it up. “I like the Stones,” I said.

  “What’s for you, honey?” Marty asked.

  “Nothing. As I said…”

  “That noise won’t do you much good.”

  “Marty, I’m afraid you can’t stay. I’m not well. Please.”

  When I went back into the lounge, Donna was standing by the fireplace, a hand on her hip.

  “Who’s DLC?” she demanded.

  She was talking to me like a tax inspector.

  “I don’t know.”

  She held something behind her back, and gave me a knowing wink. She held up a key ring with a Jaguar symbol on it, which I must have carelessly left on the hall table. I flushed hotly at her nerve.

  “Must be Greg’s.”

&nbs
p; “But Greg’s initials aren’t DLC, Loren,” she said, in a childish tone

  “I fucking well know that, Donna!” I said, openly annoyed, snatching the keys, and putting them in my pocket.

  “Hey, what are you two girls shouting about?” Marty said, coming in with a drink for Donna and himself.

  “If I’ve said anything…” Donna began, with pretended innocence.

  “Let’s have a quick drink and go. Loren isn’t feeling so good,” Marty said.

  “Here’s a puzzle for you, Marty,” Donna said. “Who drives a Jaguar and has the initials DLC?”

  “I dunno… the only guy I know drives a Jaguar … Hey, DLC!… So?”

  “A friend of yours, Loren?” Donna asked. “Not that I need to ask.”

  “Sure,” Marty said.

  “I think we better go,” Donna said. “We could be interrupting something.”

  Donna threw her drink down her throat, hooted and walked to the door, followed by Marty. I was really an onlooker. I had no idea how to explain Chadwin’s keys. As she flounced along, I saw that Donna noticed the bucket, and pile of bloodstained rags and broken glass which I had hurriedly swept up. I had pushed the trash into the open alcove space in the hall. Her eyes were like searchlights.

  “Still cleaning up, dear?” she said.

  “I didn’t know you kept a dog,” Marty said, as he reached the front door.

  I looked at him. “A dog?”

  “Yeah, I could hear it in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, have fun with your puppy,” Donna said, widening her eyes in amusement.

  “The wind often whistles in the trees as though it was a cat or a dog crying,” I said, my voice trailing away hopelessly.

  When I shut the door on them, I almost screamed with disappointment. The Kutashs were the last people I wanted to take into my confidence, but I had been forced into a heap of lies to avoid it.

  Chadwin was suddenly making a lot of noise from the bedroom. His gag had evidently come loose. He was also banging with his feet. I went into the bedroom. I was taken aback to see that he had managed to unpick the cords that held his wrists to his ankles. And he had worked to loosen but not quite free his ankles. All that remained were his wrists. He let out an animal moan when he saw me, and hopped toward me, perhaps intending to use his feet as weapons.

  “I’m going to kill you, you whore!” he said, thickly.

  I bolted out of the room, and slammed the door. But it had no lock. I stumbled down the stairs to the garage three at a time, and went into the workshop, hiding behind, and partly in an empty packing case. My plan to hand a trussed-up, would-be rapist to the police had failed.

  I heard Chadwin at the top of the stairs, his breath rasping, mumbling incoherently. He came down the stairs slowly, his progress impeded by his wounded foot, and his tied arms. He stopped in the workshop, presumably looking for an implement to assist in untying his wrists; that would be his priority. I was shielded from his view by the boats and the packing case, and was able to slip upstairs. It would take a time before Chadwin could dislodge one of the tools from the rack above the work-bench, and use it. I locked the door at the top of the stairs, and dragged a small table across the doorway.

  I went into the kitchen, and picked up the useless phone without thinking. My precautions wouldn’t hold Chadwin for long. He’d soon loose his wrists. He had the option of forcing the door between the workshop and the garage. A man with both hands free, and the selection of tools available to him, would be able to do that without much trouble. If he broke out through the garage door, or the workshop door on the lakeside, he would have a number of ways of forcing entry to the house – the front door, the sundeck, the patio, the bathroom windows; all were vulnerable if you were determined.

  All I could do was run down the road, and hope to flag a passing car. I wondered whether I could get my car out of the garage without the serious risk of confronting Chadwin. I was afraid he meant to carry out his threat, to the extent of harming me grievously. I went outside to the garage door and listened. I heard a knocking sound. If Chadwin caught me in the house, it would be a short and terrifying siege, with only one result. The closet in the main bedroom held a couple of shotguns, but it would take time to get one out, find the ammunition; and I would never be able to remember how to load and fire, without having time to play around.

  As I re-entered the house, like a big beast, the rat-catcher’s yellow van rolled slowly past, and stopped. Without a thought, except that I had to get to him, I ran across to the road, waving frantically.

  “Please help me, Mr Rovnik!”

  Rovnik swung out of the cab of the van slowly, smiling in a friendly way. “Hi there, Mrs Stamford. You got trouble again?”

  “Oh, sure I have,” I said, putting out my arms toward him

  “Hey now, no need to cry,” he said, putting an arm protectively around my shoulders.

  “There’s a man in the house, a madman who’s going to kill me! Help me please!”

  I suppose to a man who works mostly alone, out-of-doors with only trees and animals for company, this must have sounded slightly mad.

  “You sure of that, mam?” Rovnik asked, holding me away, and examining me with a lopsided sparkle in his eye.

  “Help me, take me in your van to the nearest telephone, please!”

  He shrugged uncertainly, smoothed his hand over his tanned head to catch a few hairs blowing in the wind, and reached into the cab for his stetson.

  “I’m shorta time, Mrs Stamford. I have a bit of work to do. I’m late now, finishing up round here. Due back at the County yard.”

  “Have you possibly got a gun, Mr Rovnik?”

  “It’s not like that, is it?”

  “I might need a gun for protection.”

  “Why don’t we call the cops?”

  “Because this man cut the phone line. That’s why I want you to take me.”

  “Tell me, mam, it’s not your husband who’s in there, is it?”

  Rovnik had assumed that the Jaguar was my husband’s car, and it wasn’t in evidence any more.

  “God, no! It’s the guy who assaulted me!”

  “Is it the feller you elbowed out last week?”

  I shook my head, no. Now Rovnik would possibly think I was some kind of neurotic honey-pot.

  “Wait a minute, Mrs Stamford. This guy is inside?”

  “Yes, locked down in the workshop. All I want you to do is to help me call the police. At least take me with you, when you’ve finished your work. I don’t think he’ll try anything if you’re with me.”

  Rovnik summed this up, and seemed eased by the thought that there need be no physical confrontation. And I think he only half-believed me anyway. He gave me his deep, wrinkled grin and said, “Maybe we ought to go inside first.”

  We went back to the house. I locked and chained the front door when we went in, and took Rovnik to the barricaded workshop door. “He’s down there.”

  “He’s not going to get through there in a hurry,” Rovnik said.

  There was no sound from the workshop. Rovnik listened. He eased. He looked at me with a light in his eye. He was wondering if I was telling the truth, and perhaps I did look slightly crazed. I couldn’t help thinking of the time when Grace and I had been dumped on a vacant lot by Chadwin and Schultz, and nobody would believe we were victims.

  “Have you got a drink, Mrs Stamford? Maybe we both need one to steady us.”

  I thought he was out of order, but I had to play along. I fetched a bottle of Jim Beam from the cabinet in the lounge and poured him a shot. He was beginning to see the potential in the situation.

  “You not having one, Mrs Stamford?”

  “I told you, I want to get out of here immediately.”

  “Hey, this is the way I like it,” Rovnik said, easing down on the couch without any invitation.

  Rovnik was treating my call for help as an indication that I was interested in him; that I had dreamed up a tale to get his attention. He
didn’t think there was a maniac on the loose. But for the moment at least I felt safe.

  Rovnik took the bourbon fast. I listened for sounds of Chadwin. Silence in the house. Outside, the wind had dropped and the trees were still.

  “I want you to drive me in to Clayburg now, this moment, or somewhere I can make a call to the police. Will you please do that, Mr Rovnik?”

  “Sure,” he said, “but how about another little drink first?” Then I was startled by a footfall on the porch, and the doorbell.

  I made Rovnik come into the hall with me, and he took the opportunity to grope my ass. I could see though the frosted glass that it was a woman caller, and I opened the chained door on Donna Kutash. She had a skin like a Sherman tank. Her suspicious curiosity had completely overcome any hurt feeling she may have had as a result of my earlier rebuff to her and her husband. I was blunt.

  “I’m busy, Donna.”

  “My,” she said, taking no notice of me.

  She looked past me, down the hall and saw Rovnik. “All locked up cosy. Having a private party?”

  She walked in. Donna’s eyes were measuring, checking, adding two and two and making six. She was looking at Rovnik. Under her anorak, I could see she had changed to a pink lurex sweater shot with silver thread. She had added dangly earrings and plenty of war-paint. She was going to party.

  I was safe enough if Donna was about, but to try to explain the situation to her, so I could get her instead of Rovnik to take me to the police, was just too much to face. Donna would interrogate me like a spy. She’d help me, but she’d want to know every mortal detail first. I was certain that she would exult in the whole bloody awful business, from what happened in Yonkers, to my physical struggle with Chadwin. I recoiled at the thought, and I was too confused to make explanations.

  “I’m here for the knees-up!” she said, holding up the bottle of bourbon which Marty had taken with him when they departed.

  Donna thought she smelled fun. Her senses weren’t acute enough to detect distress. She raised her eyebrows at Rovnik who retreated, unintroduced, to the lounge.