Chapter Eight

The Bryants’ Place

A little before five o’clock on the morning after Derek Bryant had disappeared, Mrs Bryant allowed May and Micky to persuade her to go upstairs, at least to lie down. They had talked through this second frightening, lonely night, saying the same thing over and over again, reviving the old hurts without knowing what they were doing. Mrs Bryant’s face was as colourless as it had been after she had first been told. Micky, who talked more than any of them, was looking better. May Harrison had just let them talk, had made tea, had made them eat a sandwich or two.

None of the other children yet knew their father was dead, only that he was missing. And now Derek—

“Of course, I’ll have to tell the children myself, sooner or later,” Mrs Bryant said. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ll have to go through with it somehow.” She raised her hands from her knees, and dropped them again. “It isn’t the kind of job that I can leave to anyone else, is it?”

“Mum, dear, why don’t you try to get some rest?” May pleaded.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs Bryant said, “although how I’m going to rest, with Dad and Derek—oh, it can’t have happened to him, too!”

May said stiffly: “Please don’t talk like that. Have two of these tablets the doctor gave you.”

“I don’t want to drug myself into forgetfulness,” Mrs Bryant said crossly. “I—oh, I don’t know what I do want! May, I really don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t,” May said. “But come upstairs now.”

“Yes, Mum, you ought to,” Micky urged.

“I suppose I’d better,” Mrs Bryant said again, and stood up.

Micky went up with her, and May Harrison stayed in the kitchen. There was little sign of the party now, although some of the holly was still up, and a few of the festoons.

The younger children were in the two small bedrooms upstairs, two boys and a girl. Nine, seven, and three. Well, the toddler wouldn’t feel much. Nine, seven and three. And where was Derek? May felt her eyes stinging, and doused her face in cold water. The kettle was singing. She turned the gas up, filled a hot water bottle, and then put two tablets from a small box into the saucer with a cup of milk; she would heat the milk for Mrs Bryant in the bedroom.

May went towards the stairs.

Micky, on the landing, looked as if he was ready to drop. His eyes were red rimmed and glassy, his lips were strained. He’d had little sleep the previous night, none yet tonight, and in three hours it would be dawn.

“I think Mum will be a bit better, now,” he said. “May, do you think I could have a couple of aspirins, and lie down? I’ve got such a splitting headache.”

“Of course, Mick,” May said, and squeezed his hand. “You’ve been wonderful.”

“You have, you mean.”

They passed each other, and May went up to Mrs Bryant’s room. She was sitting on the side of the bed, looking at a photograph of herself and her husband, which had been taken a year before. She didn’t turn her head when May came in. It was ten minutes before May could persuade her to take the tablets, drink the milk and lie down. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her belt and skirt loose, and her shoes off.

Now, the house was silent.

Micky slept in a tiny cubicle which his father had partitioned off from the room where the younger boys slept; it gave him a little privacy. May saw the light go out under his door. She closed her eyes as she went downstairs, feeling dizzy and sick with tiredness and fear for Derek; now that there was no one to help, it was much more difficult to keep going. She went into the kitchen. There was a couch which she had slept on occasionally, in emergency; she would again tonight. She felt cold, and very lonely. It was as if ghosts were walking the house.

She put on her thick overcoat, pulled a blanket over her, and punched two cushions into position. She didn’t expect to sleep, just to rest and ease her aching eyes and head. If she felt like this, what on earth did Mum feel like?

She began to doze.

She went to sleep.

One of the children woke her when it was broad daylight. Pam, the girl. May sat bolt upright and clutched her, almost scaring the girl with her intensity.

“Pam, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“Mummy’s fast asleep,” Pam said, “and Daddy still isn’t there. And I’m afraid I’ll be late for school.”

“For school,” echoed May. “Yes, what a fool I am!” She pushed the blanket back and got up. “Pam, put a kettle on, there’s a dear, and then go and get washed and dressed. Are the others awake yet?”

“Bob is too, but Tim isn’t.”

Tim was the three year old.

“Don’t wake Tim then, but tell Bob to get washed and dressed. If you’re late for school I’ll come and tell the teacher that it was my fault.”

Pam went into the scullery; happier.

Still hardly awake, May pulled up the spring blind of the kitchen, so that more light came in. The window overlooked a brick wall which divided this garden from the one next door; and, beyond the wall, the window of the next house. It was drab and grey, but the morning was bright, and frost sparkled on some slates.

Pam was filling the kettle.

“I couldn’t even wake Mummy,” she announced.

“Couldn’t wake her,” May echoed.

In sudden panic, she went quickly to the stairs and hurried up. She could hear the younger children talking; so Tim was awake. She hesitated outside Mrs Bryant’s door, her heart thumping. Was it only the sleeping draught?

She opened the door.

The room was nearly in darkness; light came from the sides of the windows, that was all. She hurried and released the blind, then stopped it from banging. She turned and went towards Kath Bryant, hands outstretched.

It was all right; thank God, it was all right. The older woman was asleep; May could see movement at her breast and lips. It was just the effect of the sleeping tablets, then. That silly fear – it wasn’t much after nine, she’d hardly been asleep for three hours!

May tiptoed out.

She listened at the door of the room which Derek and Micky shared. There was no sound. She felt her heart pounding, opened the door, and peeped in.

Derek’s bed was empty; so he wasn’t back.

May went downstairs, heavy hearted, made tea, and then heard a knock at the front door. Mingled hope and fear flared up. She saw herself in the mirror, but hardly noticed that she had on no makeup, that her short fair hair was untidy, her thick, green coat was creased and crumpled.

It was Mrs Rosa Trentham, from across the road, Mrs Bryant’s oldest and one close friend. She’d been out on the night of the news, but had spent most of yesterday here. Behind her were several other neighbours; behind them, a dozen strangers including several men; and there was a policeman in uniform, looking very official. It had been like this most of yesterday.

“Let me in and then close the door, May,” Rosa Trentham said. “I’ve come to help.”

She cooked breakfast and got the children ready; another neighbour took them to school. A third carried off three year old Tim, as she had yesterday. Mrs Bryant was to sleep in as long as she could, and May must rest. As soon as either of them was awake, they must send for the neighbour next door, across the road, anywhere.

Let Kath Bryant sleep.

Let Micky sleep.

And May must get some sleep herself – why not use the girls’ room?

It sounded heavenly. If only Derek –

May went to bed, secure with Rosa Trentham’s promise to call her if any word came from Derek.

When she did wake, everything was different There was no sense of shock or surprise, and she lay for a few minutes, comfortably warm except for her right shoulder. She shrugged the clothes over it and lay on her back. Then, like a heavy blow, came realization that there could have been no word from Derek.

The sickening anxiety came back.

She glanced at the old fashioned alarm clock on the mantelpiece; it said five minutes to two. Slowly, she sat up. It was colder than she had realised, and she flung the bedclothes back and grabbed the green coat, which would serve as a dressing gown; the lining struck cold on her bare arms and shoulders.

Someone was moving about up here.

It might be Mum Bryant or one of the neighbours, or, she supposed, the police.

She opened her door and went on to the landing.

Mrs Bryant’s door was closed. May turned the handle cautiously, and opened it a shade. The blinds were still drawn. She fancied that she heard the sound of even breathing; certainly she didn’t hear a whisper. She closed the door as softly as she had opened it, and then turned towards the head of the stairs. She heard something squeak, followed by a muttered exclamation, and fancied that it was a man’s voice.

The police? Who else could it be?

May supposed Rosa Trentham’s husband might have come.

Derek?

She hurried downstairs, quite wide awake; it did not even occur to her that there might be anything to fear.

The movements were in the room immediately below the main bedroom – a tiny middle room used for all kinds of purposes. Ironing, packing, storing, and ‘office’. Tom Bryant had done a great deal of voluntary work, for the chapel and for two of his clubs, and he always used a small roll-top desk in that room.

The door was ajar.

Who would be in that room?

The police probably felt that they had to search everywhere, but –

May opened the door wide.

A man was standing at the desk, and turning round towards the door. He wore a scarf over his face, and a peaked cap pulled low over his forehead; it was like a scene out of a film.

In his right hand he held a big iron bar.

May stood with her hands raised and her mouth wide open, but she didn’t scream; she couldn’t make a sound. Something told her that the man was as scared as she. It was impossible to be sure how long they stayed like that, how long it was before she managed to gasp: “What are you doing here?”

As she spoke, she swung round, to run. The man leaped at her. She began to scream, but before a sound came out, his hand clapped over her mouth. She felt the pressure first of his hand, then of his body against her. She could see the iron bar, in her mind’s eye, and remembered vividly what had happened to Tom Bryant. She kicked and struck out, and plucked at the scarf, but it was useless; she couldn’t push the man away. She felt herself being pressed tighter against the wall, and a hand tightened round her throat. Then she felt something drop on her right foot, and the next moment the other hand closed round her throat, throttling her. She writhed and tried to scream and kicked out helplessly; the felt slippers made no impression, and she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs seemed to be getting fuller, with a band round them, gripping as tightly as the fingers gripped her throat. She felt her strength ebbing.

She could hear herself pleading: “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me!” She hardly knew the measure of her own despair, or the certainty that death was coming. There were shimmery figures in front of her eyes; bright lights, white and yellow and flashes of red. Red, yellow, white. Dots and dashes. There was worse pain at her throat and at her lungs, and she felt the strength oozing out of her legs and arms. She knew that her arms hung limp by her sides now, and felt her legs sagging.

She was just conscious of the fact that only the man’s grip on her throat was holding her up.

In hopeless, helpless horror, she was still pleading to him with her own inward voice, the voice which only she could hear.

“Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.”

She was losing consciousness.

“Oh, God, don’t let him kill me, don’t let me die.”

The light vanished, and there was only blackness, until she ceased to be aware of pain.

The man drew back.

He was gasping for breath, and sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip. His mouth was open, and his teeth showed. He looked down at the heap that was May Harrison. She had fallen on her left side, and her face was turned away from him, but he could see the slackness at her lips, and the puffiness at her throat. The coat gaped open. She wore a white slip underneath, of some shimmery kind of stuff, and some frilly lace at the top and the bottom. She didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe.

He gulped.

Slowly, he went towards the door and listened intently, but he heard no sound.

He picked up the iron bar.

It was just a crowbar; a jimmy. He weighed it in his right hand, while he looked down on the girl. His breath was rasping between his lips now.

“She didn’t—she couldn’t have seen me,” he muttered.

His hand went to his face. The scarf was down about his neck, and if anyone saw him now they would see him clearly. He didn’t know whether the girl had seen him properly or not.

“She couldn’t have,” he said aloud, and then after a pause:

“Could she?”

He went down on one knee, felt for her hand, then for her wrist. He couldn’t feel the pulse beating; he didn’t think he could, anyhow, but his own heart was racing so fast that he couldn’t be sure. Her arm was limp enough; she looked dead. He glanced at the jimmy.

He raised it.

He shuddered, and then thrust the jimmy in between his shirt and his trousers, and turned to Tom Bryant’s desk. He had searched everything except two drawers, and now started to look again, with feverish haste. Every few seconds he glanced round at May, and she didn’t move.

If she was dead, he was a killer.

She couldn’t have seen his face, could she?

He finished searching, and felt sure that he wouldn’t find what he had come for; what he had been sent for. He shivered again. He had two fears: that he might be trapped here, and that the girl might have caught a glimpse of his face before he had closed with her.

She couldn’t have.

Anyhow, she was dead.

And if she wasn’t dead, she damned soon would be.

He eased his collar, touched the handle of the jimmy again, and began to draw it from his waistband. Then as he did so, he heard a sound. It was as if an electric current had been switched on inside him; fear came in a single, searing flash.

A key was in the lock. He could hear it turning. He heard a man say: “Well, no one’s come out.”

“You’re not coming in,” a woman said brusquely. “You newspaper people ought to be ashamed of yourselves, pestering the lives out of someone who’s had such a terrible loss.”

“Now be a friend,” the man began. “Let’s have a word or two from you, Mrs Trentham, and we won’t worry you any more.”

The door slammed.

The woman who had let herself in with the key came walking briskly from the front door; and she would have to pass this door, which was ajar. She would be within a foot or two of the crouching man and the girl who lay so still.

Now, the jimmy was held tightly in the man’s right hand.