‘I meant,’ she began gently, but changed her mind. A quivering smile had formed on his lips; his eyes grew passionately resentful.

  She stepped into her pants discreetly, realizing she would not be able to put on her sun-dress without making it obvious she didn’t want him to see her body. She picked up the dress first, and then, almost in a single movement, dropped the towel and slipped the light cotton over her head.

  ‘Didya think I’d leap at yer if I saw anything?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she murmured, shocked to see tears brimming.

  ‘Like I was some dirty old creep.’

  ‘Please, Roy … I don’t know what I feel,’ she blurted out, feeling both pity and panic.

  ‘You know what you feel.’ He had not spoken loudly, but his words seemed to roar in her head. ‘You couldn’t’ve done the half of what yer did … the best tart in the world couldn’t have put on that kind of act, not without feeling fantastic love.’

  Eleanor’s face was burning. In this tiny space, his bitterness seemed to fill every inch and corner.

  ‘You told Paul things … hit me,’ she gasped faintly.

  ‘But why, baby?’ he moaned, jumping up suddenly; thrusting himself towards her. ‘You never gave yourself a chance; let his lies cheat us.’ His conviction scared her.

  ‘If they’re lies, isn’t the best way to …’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he breathed, with the same aching catch in his throat.

  ‘I want us to talk calmly,’ she faltered, already desperate.

  ‘Like see how good I argue?’

  ‘No,’ she cried.

  His eyes met hers reproachfully. ‘Can’t play games like that. Can’t let yer put me on trial.’ He reached out and touched her cheek tenderly. ‘Baby, he’s really fucked up your mind to get you thinking this way. “Said the wrong thing there, Roy. Caught you out with that one.” That’s not your scene, Elly.’

  ‘Can’t you see it from my side?’

  He let his hands drop. ‘There’s one way you’re gonna believe me, and that’s come away with me. Love’s the only card I’ve got.’

  ‘You can’t pretend nothing happened,’ she shouted, no longer able to bear his eerie certainty.

  ‘Words are nothing to what’s inside o’ both of us.’ His eyes pitying her now. ‘Can’t let him put words between us.’

  ‘Words ruined my father … Love’s a word too.’

  As if she had not spoken, he said calmly, ‘Are you coming with me?’

  A proprietary arm circled her waist, and fastened there.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘Will you?’ His voice gentle; his fingers vice-like. ‘Honey, you’ll be doing this for yourself, not just for me. Got ter get yer away from him.’

  ‘You’re hurting.’ She moved sharply to free herself, but his other hand clamped around her wrist. His eyes looked strange and inexpressive.

  ‘It’s easy,’ he whispered. ‘My motor’s nice and close.’

  Humour him, she thought – anything to get outside.

  ‘All right. Let’s go.’ She made as if to kiss him, but darted aside the moment his grip relaxed. In wrong-footing him she tripped on the rope matting. Eleanor could not fathom why he looked so scared as he stood over her. Certain he would manhandle her if she raised herself, she stayed where she was. A person on the ground did not try to run away. She forced a smile.

  ‘Honestly, Roy I had to … I can’t just vanish into thin air without a word. Well, can I?’

  He made no answer, as he fumbled in the deep pockets of his quilted coat. A moment later a sweet sickly smell hung in the air; Eleanor saw a dark stain spread across the lower part of his coat. As he pulled out a gauze pad, she scrambled to her feet.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ she gasped, backing away. Ether; chloroform; the biology labs at school. She wanted to scream, but only managed a small sob of fear.

  She had never thought him particularly strong, but though struggling with all her strength, Eleanor couldn’t break free, not even when the cloth was pressed hard across her mouth and nose. Don’t breathe, don’t, don’t, don’t. He kept telling her to relax and stop fighting it; murmuring that he couldn’t live without her; had to be with her for a while. ‘Don’t be afraid; only a few days, right?’ Her lungs were bursting; eyes starting out. If she went limp, he’d think …

  She let herself flop against him so realistically that he needed both hands to stop her falling. Eyes closed, she could not see what had happened to the pad. She breathed laboriously, trying to make it sound different; as if unconscious. He placed her on the floor, and she heard him move away, but still did not dare open her eyes. He seemed to be looking for something. What? As she heard him over by the locker, she scrambled up and ran.

  Some of it must have got in her lungs, because she felt sick and dizzy; the ground tilted under her as she ran, making her stagger, but she went on somehow, slipping and sliding on the tiles beside the pool. She knew he was gaining by the pounding of his feet. Ahead of her, half on the grass, half on the path, she saw the long shaft of the net used to fish out leaves. His footsteps louder; rubber soles slapping down hard. Have to do something; do something. She snatched up the pole, meaning to smash it against his head; but, though swinging with all her might, it only skimmed the ground at ankle-height. At full-stretch, Roy jumped to avoid it; he landed exactly where Eleanor had climbed out dripping minutes earlier.

  Eleanor staggered on, carrying with her blurred comic-strip images: his feet flying out under him; his body hurtling against the metal uprights of the ladder; resting a moment, as if stuck, then slipping nonchalantly into the pool. The images collided; splintered. One idea now: must reach the gate, must, must, must. Her mouth was gaping wide, breath fought for with sobbing gasps, her legs felt soft and spongy. She couldn’t bring herself to look back in case he was already clambering out. Everything began to spiral: the sun a spinning light-bulb; the wall, the gate. She was there … almost, almost … there.

  Outside, the ground fell away steeply and she slithered to her knees. She willed herself to rise, but her legs had become wax under the sun. A wave of dizziness. That nauseating smell. She knew she would be sick, and was – painfully. She lost count of the times.

  Later. How much? Her mind kept lapsing, playing tricks. Too weak and blurry to support herself, she lay on her side; without fear imagined Roy finding her. Her head was so heavy, nothing would ever lift it; everything quite still: limbs, even eyelids leaden; only clouds could rise in this thick air.

  A dream. She is on a grouse moor; wonderful shooting but Roy keeps asking endless questions: Why do the birds keep coming? Every year, bang, bang, bang. Why can’t they learn? ‘Oh do shut-up,’ she cried, seeing empty sky. He started to shake her; wouldn’t stop. ‘Elly, Elly, Elly,’ over and over. When she looked at him, she saw he wasn’t Roy any longer; but Paul.

  *

  Paul had risen late, breakfasted later, then read for an hour before asking anyone where Eleanor was. Since her return, he had never pressed himself on her unless she had first done something to encourage him. Though knowing that injured pride jostled with common sense in this dispensation he could not do otherwise. Only once before (at Gemma’s hands) had he suffered rejection painful enough to breed similar self-doubts. If Eleanor had loved Roy, and from what she said, this seemed undeniable, the qualities she would have found attractive were not such as he could duplicate. Nor was he able to forget that Roy had unlocked a box of bedroom treats, which he had never found the key to.

  Shortly before noon, Paul learned that almost an hour ago, Eleanor had left word for him to join her at the pool. Irritated that this message had not been relayed earlier, Paul left the house.

  He paused briefly on the terrace and looked across the hazy gardens – the kind of day when the whole countryside seemed drunk with sunshine. Past box hedges, and pergolas heavy with climbing roses, Paul sauntered, coming at last to the paved court by the swimming pool.

  Then he saw her.

  ‘Elly,’ he screamed, ‘Elly, Elly.’ A flailing dash to the spot where she lay. He lifted her by the shoulders, calling her name again and again. His first thought, when able to think at all, was to fetch water to splash on her. Her breathing seemed regular, but she was inexplicably drowsy. The vomit on her dress scared him. His mind seething with nightmares of serious illness, he hurried towards the pool, intent on bringing water. A moment later he stood transfixed, trapped in a sun-soaked vacuum; his breath, heart, everything inside him seemed to pause. Only the pool moved; a faint stirring of the surface by the filter; a gentle circular motion, which imperceptibly turned the body’s head towards him. Paul’s muscles bunched, and flung him forward; he dived, arrowing towards the submerged shape, arms surrounding it, feet thrashing the water in frenzied motion.

  Without knowing how, he was back on the side, turning Roy on to his stomach, bearing down on his back with all his weight, pumping, pressing, on and on. And all the time his mind shied from a realization he could not grasp. His teeth began chattering, as the water ran from his clothes. Too exhausted to go on, he had to rest. Then he started sobbing as though he would never stop.

  It was no good. But he rolled the body over, and tried to calm himself enough to administer the kiss of life. So difficult, the way the mouth sagged open; the flaccid lips giving his own no purchase. But worst of all, were Roy’s staring eyes; inches from his own; already seeming to cloud.

  Before abandoning his efforts, Paul noticed a livid contusion on the side of Roy’s forehead. Until that moment he had been too shocked to wonder how Roy had come to be in the water. Now, eyes fixed on that cruel swelling, Paul could think of nothing else. An accident? How? Was there any way Roy could have dealt himself that blow? A dive into the pool perhaps; too near the corner, his head hitting the side? But fully dressed? Paul’s knees shook as he straightened, saliva filled his mouth. Eleanor must have done it and left him there.

  What else could he suppose? Why else had she been sick and faint? His thoughts were whirling. Random memories: Eleanor’s obsessive belief that his involvement with Roy was sinister. The little God he had ‘created’. If that was sinister, what was her so-called love for the poor bastard? Paul sank to his knees; beat his fists on the ground. Destroy the creature to bring down his creator? A spasm of pure terror tightened around his heart. What would anyone think who saw him now? The deceived husband beside the body of his wife’s lover. The blow to the head. His own wet clothes. All the evidence was against him. First the blow; then the struggle in the water; holding the stunned man under.

  If he could be calm; if he could only remember why he had once believed so blindly in her ‘love’ for Roy. But now nothing – except the fury she had made him feel. But what did anything matter, set against the fact of Roy’s death, against what she had done? Only this exists. The body, he thought wildly, looking for a place to hide it.

  He was on his feet, dragging it towards the changing hut; much heavier than he had expected. The white and purple shoes were eased from the corpse’s feet, as its heels dragged against the grass, It, it … not Roy. Nausea again, but he conquered it. He covered him with towels, then blundered out to retrieve the shoes. At any moment someone might arrive from the house; a phone call for her ladyship; luncheon is served. Had anyone but Eleanor known Roy was coming?

  Must stop her; gain time. Again he was running. She was leaning against the wall near the gate. He stopped; wondering for a moment whether he was seeing her at all. How long had she been there? Had she seen him dragging the body? As he approached, Eleanor murmured indistinctly, ‘Where is he?’

  Paul wanted to spring at her and thump her head against the wall. Then, in spite of the horror, he smiled. She hadn’t meant: where is Roy? But: where is the body? Of course.

  ‘In the hut,’ Paul told her.

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘Have some pity,’ Paul groaned. ‘You know he’s dead … just tell me what you plan telling the police.’

  When she started to sob, Paul didn’t try to stop her. Whether it was still shock, or part of her charade, hardly seemed to matter. But when the noise went on, great choking gasps from the pit of her stomach, he seized and shook her. She became quieter; her face as empty as the pale blue sky. He brought his mouth close to her ear.

  ‘What did you hit him with?’

  And then she poured out an incredible, incoherent tale about how he had tried to chloroform her; she’d broken away and ran; he’d hit his head, and fallen in; she’d kept going until fainting.

  Even when Paul had found some folded gauze that stank of ether, he felt no happier. The stuff couldn’t be hard to get hold of. What could Roy possibly have hoped to gain by knocking her out? Why had he come straight to the pool instead of to the house? Unless she had asked him to. Paul remembered the message summoning him. So nicely timed.

  She had sunk down on the grass with her back to the wall. Paul sat next to her.

  ‘Where did you ask him to leave his car?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I didn’t ask him to do anything.’

  ‘It’s not near the house, or I’d have seen it.’

  ‘He said it was close.’ She tore at the grass and wailed, ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘You wanted to be alone with him … no interference till I turned up.’ He paused. ‘Let me guess. You’ll have asked him to leave it out of sight … Well?’ She gazed back as if he were mad. Paul leaned closer. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell me why you never told me he was coming?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know,’ she screamed, scrambling to her feet, and covering her face with her hands. He dragged them away.

  ‘Suppose what you’ve told me is the truth, it isn’t; but let’s suppose it’s what you tell the police. What would they think?’ He could not hold in his rage. ‘That it was the most blatant case of a husband and wife in collusion they’d ever heard. The husband stumbles upon wife and lover; bashes lover on the head. Maybe didn’t intend to finish him off, but does. So he cooks up this rubbish about his wife being chased, and passing out. Reluctantly she agrees to go along with it to save his neck. They get hold of some chloroform; she sniffs enough to give the thing a fraction of conviction …’ He paused for breath; taking in the way she was gazing at him. As if what he had said was so fantastic, so utterly without substance, that he must indeed be out of his mind.

  So once again he asked why Roy had come straight to the pool. Once again demanded what possible motive he could have had for wanting her unconscious. But Eleanor only shook her head like a clockwork doll. He couldn’t look at her. ‘You knew all along … knew they’d never swallow a story like that. Knew who they’d go for.’

  ‘No,’ she screamed, ‘no, no, no,’ blocking her ears like a child in the wrong. And still no answers. Yet, even though so much was against her story, Paul found himself wavering. The very unlikeliness of it unnerved him. Could she have invented anything so improbable? She would tell her story in a coroner’s court, and everyone would think her a heroine – the beautiful wife perjuring herself to save her husband’s skin; though he had killed her lover in front of her. She couldn’t have contrived it. Only life itself could make such ironic lunacy credible.

  Something on the ground caught his eye – a book. He picked it up and began to laugh, feebly at first, then louder; a life of saintly William Wilberforce.

  But while some doubts dispersed, others remained. He could not believe his wife, yet could not disbelieve her. Longing for certainty, he was denied it. After the frenzy and emotion, he felt tiredness such as he had never known. Everything in him running down, like an engine spluttering on its last dregs of fuel.

  Eleanor was pulling at his arm, saying in a small insistent voice, ‘If they don’t believe me …?’

  ‘You know perfectly well,’ he sighed. How pale she had turned: her eyes black holes in a white sheet. ‘They’ll think I did him in,’ he added helpfully. ‘Unless I can make them think you did.’

  ‘You’ll try to make them think that?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll probably make a straight confession.’ He hadn’t thought about his reply, but as soon as the words were out, they sounded right.

  ‘Can’t we tell the truth?’ she whimpered.

  Confused by the change in her, he wondered if he had unwittingly exposed some crucial weakness. He said patiently, ‘How do I begin to sound convinced when I’m not?’

  Suddenly she stumbled towards him. ‘I didn’t do this to you, Paul.’

  He held her and said nothing. In spite of the sun, he was shivering again. ‘This isn’t happening,’ she moaned. ‘Tell me it isn’t.’

  He stroked her hair gently. ‘Let’s get it over and phone them.’

  She backed away from him. ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘You made him what he was. You must get rid of him.’

  ‘Dispose of the body?’ He couldn’t believe he had heard her right. Hope blazed through him. ‘You’ll allow that?’

  She was nodding vehemently. ‘Couldn’t you bury him miles away? Nobody knows he came.’

  As if an iron door had swung open, he could see light again. No … if Roy simply disappeared they’d go on searching, questioning; on and on till they found a body. Then dump him somewhere? But – chlorine in his lungs; drowned in a swimming pool. Which of his friends had swimming pools? What were their relations with him? The thoughts came so fast Paul was dazed. The car too … Make things harder for them; dump it in some busy part of London. The body somewhere else. But his lungs. He heard Eleanor’s excited voice.

  ‘You’ll find a way, Paul. You always do when you want things enough.’ She was squeezing his hand; imploring him, ‘You told Roy to make love to me … wanted it over when I got involved. Over? My God! You can do anything, Paul. Anything.’

  ‘Please,’ he begged her, trying to concentrate. Perhaps Roy bought petrol on the way down. A pump attendant would probably remember the car, even if he hadn’t recognized its owner. Without a word to Eleanor, he ran to the hut. The keys … could have fallen in the pool. He found them in a pocket. With great difficulty he heaved the body from the floor into the locker. They’d have to go back to the house; have lunch as usual. When did rigor mortis start? He opened the locker and folded Roy’s arms across his chest; the legs were reasonably straight. If the fuel gauge was low, they could presume he hadn’t filled up en route. But no time to check now. At lunch they would announce their intention of going to town that evening; leave in his own car; then come back after nightfall for Roy’s car, and for his body. Too risky to try moving the Cobra now; have to gamble on it being well-hidden.