Godfrey was overwhelmed. He sat in his chair, first rubbing his face in his hands and then closing his eyes with a sigh that became a low moan. ‘Good God! What can have possessed the woman? Never in my entire…’
He looked at his watch: ten to three. Again, he exhaled a breath of exhaustion and his eyes lifted to the sherry cupboard.
He pulled himself up, robotically, and reached for the bottle and a glass. The opened bottle he left standing on his desk. Frightened himself, he downed the drink standing up. He knew he couldn’t wait until morning to see Bertram again. He had to know if he intended pressing charges or not. At least he was alive! Oh God! The place would be overrun, what with the Philips man and now the police. He shuddered visibly. Whatever had come over her? Something possessed her. The last person in the world—Damn the woman! He should feel sorry for her, concerned – she was obviously deranged – but he was furious and panicking.
He turned towards the door, hitting his leg on the corner of the desk. He wasn’t in control any more. No, everything was a shambles. If Wiltshire heard—He brushed his hair violently with his hand and left the room.
All the lights were on in the corridors and he ignored the mutterings behind the closed doors.
The light showed under Bertram’s door and Godfrey knocked. His irritation was growing by the minute; he should feel sorry for him, but he did not.
Bertram was propped up in bed, a large plaster over his head, through which blood had seeped.
Godfrey remained standing at the end of the bed, challenging Bertram to look at him for, unusually, he was now avoiding Godfrey’s eyes, while Godfrey could not disguise his contempt and some pleasure at Bertram’s descent.
He studied the podgy figure, pale and ill-at-ease as he lay against his pillows.
‘Are you going to bring charges or not?’ Godfrey had no time, nor the will for niceties.
Bertram shook his head.
Relieved beyond words, Godfrey had difficulty in maintaining his severity, yet he desired to prolong Bertram’s discomfiture.
‘Why not? You are entitled to, I should suppose.’
Bertram’s hand found the glass of water on the table beside him. It shook and some water spilled on the covers as he lifted it to his thick, flabby lips.
‘What were you doing out, anyway? Rather late, wasn’t it? Lights out and all that?’
Bertram replaced the glass, looked at Godfrey with some of the old defiance and shrugged. Godfrey made himself hold his eyes; never again would he allow Bertram to drive him onto the defensive.
‘I can guess,’ he sneered, and turned towards the door. But he hesitated for a moment before leaving. ‘Good job the foxes didn’t get that rabbit.’
Joseph was still on his knees, praying, when he heard the hurrying of feet, the talking, never allowed, the opening and shutting of doors, lights switched on. He peered into the corridor. Someone was in Brother Oswald’s room. And was that crying? He wanted to help. Then he heard the word rabbit. Quite distinctly. ‘Rabbit.’
‘Francis!’ he choked aloud. ‘The foxes have got Francis.’
He pulled his habit over his vest and, still in his slippers, ran, already breathless, down the stairs and out into the night, across the lawn and up the avenue towards the kennels. All the time uttering breathlessly, ‘Francis! Francis.’
He tripped and crashed down and, unsteady as he tried to get up, his legs giving way, he fell again and now he began to cry, the tears from his red eyes dripping down his roughly shaven face.
‘Francis, Francis. Holy Mother of God.’
With all his strength and willpower, he got up a second time, steadied himself as hastily as he could, and then half ran, half stumbled onwards, too breathless now to utter anything.
When, finally, he arrived at Billie’s kennels, he saw a group of brothers. That’s all he saw. He pushed past, gasping, choking, holding his chest as if to stop it from bursting open.
Someone caught hold of his shoulder, but he pushed away. Where did the strength come from? He cried out for Billie. Then someone took his arm and led him through the closed gate into the run and he saw the lady. She was sitting down and she had hold of Francis.
He fell to his knees with exhaustion and with relief. His nose was running now, as well as his eyes, his breath rasping. He couldn’t speak.
No one spoke that he could hear.
‘Francis!’ When he had breath, he got hold of the rabbit and someone helped him to his feet, but still he couldn’t speak, nor smile. Nor anything. He would carry Francis away.
They brought the box and walked with him. Was it Brother David?