Where was McAvoy now she needed him?
Tathum glared at her and seemed to swallow the abuse he was ready to hurl at her. She flinched at a sudden movement of his head towards hers, but there was no contact, only a violent jolt to her nerves. He marched back to the house. She fumbled for the latch on the gate, made it through and tumbled into the car.
When she'd got her breath, McAvoy said, 'That was more like it.'
It was McAvoy's idea to pull over at the pub. If she hadn't been desperate to swallow a pill she would have put up more resistance. She retreated to the sanctuary of a draughty ladies' room and thanked God for the opportunity to medicate herself. She had got it down to a fine art: just enough to soothe her nerves without making her dopey. She had asked him for tonic water and had drunk most of the contents of the glass before she realized the feeling of well-being spreading through her wasn't only due to the log fire in the inglenook or the relief of having escaped her encounter with Tathum unscathed. There was vodka in it. Six months of sobriety up in smoke. She should have told him, but part of her thought: what the hell? I've been longing to feel this good. Where's the harm in just one drink? Instead, she sipped the rest of it slowly, telling herself it would hardly touch her that way. Like McAvoy said, she didn't want to go through life frightened. Having a drink was part of learning to handle herself again.
He was funny and contagious, sensitive and witty. He told her stories about his courtroom adventures that made her laugh until she cried, and tales of the tragic characters he'd met in prison that moved her to tears. And the more he drank, the warmer and more poetic he became. She began to see the complex layers of his contradictory character and to understand his moral code: his acceptance of people, both good and bad, with equal humanity because 'ultimately we're all God's creatures'. In her mildly intoxicated state she found him a beguiling mixture of humility and creativity, of wilful independence and thoughtful submission. His guiding philosophy as a lawyer, he said, had always been, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.' It didn't mean - as most people thought - that judging others was sinful, but that all who cast judgement would one day be judged, and by far more demanding laws than any contrived by man.
'And that's where I find my grain of solace,' he said, his fingers cradling his tumbler a whisker away from hers. 'I've done some wicked things in my life, mixed with some truly evil men in this fallen world, but I've never doubted for a moment that I'll be judged as harshly as the next.'
'Do you think you'll get through the strait gate?' Jenny said, with a smile.
'I'd like to think I might squeak it . . . who knows?' He sipped his whisky, his gaze drifting inwards.
Jenny watched him, wondering what he was thinking, what sins he was hoping this crusade might wash away.
She was tempted to ask, but something stopped her. She didn't want to know, didn't want to be forced into judgement. She was learning from him, that was enough, drawing down some yet to be defined wisdom.
From deep in his reverie, McAvoy said, 'Do you think those kids really were terrorists?'
Jenny said, 'Does it matter?'
'What's done in the dark must always come to the light,' McAvoy said. He tipped back the rest of his whisky. 'We should be going.'
Chapter 17
'Mum . . . You OK?'
Jenny rose out of a leaden, dreamless sleep, her limbs too heavy to move. Ross's anxious voice was coming from the foot of the bed.
'Mum?'
'Mmm?' she said, turning her eyes away from the shaft of light streaming through the partially opened curtains.
'I thought you might be ill . . .'
Something felt wrong, constricted. Barely awake, she tried to move to a sitting position and realized she was dressed in her skirt and suit jacket.
'You weren't well when you came home last night,' Ross said. 'I didn't know what was wrong.'
She blinked, her vision slowly coming to focus. Her sleepy gaze wandered around the room. She saw her shoes lying near the door, her handbag on the floor at the side of the bed, the contents - including her two bottles of pills - spilling out on the rug.
'How are you feeling?'
'Fine . . . just tired. What time is it?'
'Just gone nine. It's all right, it's Saturday.'
He glanced down at the pills then back at her with the same questioning eyes he'd had as a young child. 'What happened?'
She didn't have a clue. Didn't remember going to bed or even arriving home. A dim memory surfaced of driving out of Bristol on the motorway, jerking awake at the sound of a rumble strip under her tyres, a loud horn sounding behind her . . .
'I'll be right down,' she said weakly. 'Just give me a moment.'
She moved to the edge of the bed and swung her legs out onto the floor to prove the point. Unconvinced, Ross withdrew and went downstairs.
'You could make some coffee,' Jenny called after him.
It took several minutes under a cool shower to get any life back into her muscles. As the blood started to flow, the previous evening's events gradually drifted back to her. She remembered driving back from the pub to Bristol feeling fine. She and McAvoy were laughing and listening to music. Nearing the city, she'd become drowsy - that would be the alcohol combining with her beta blocker, slowing her heart. She had dropped him off outside his office. He told her to look after herself, then reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand. There had been a moment when he might have leaned forward and kissed her, but he did it with a look instead. She relived a feeling of near elation as she drove back through Clifton, crystal white fairy lights glittering on trees outside the cafes and boutiques like star dust. Then it went hazy . . . drooping at the wheel . . . crossing the Severn Bridge . . . her shoulder dragging against the wall as she climbed the stairs, Ross following behind her.
She was back in her bedroom pulling on a sweater over her blouse when she noticed the notebook, her journal, lying open on the floor at the foot of the bed where Ross had been standing. She stooped down and snatched it up, her heart in her throat. She had written yesterday's date in an erratic hand, and three scrawled lines:
I don't know what happened tonight. That man ... he does something to me. I don't even find him attractive - he's so tired and used up. But when he looks in my eyes I know he's not afraid of anything. What does it mean? Why him? Why now? It's as if
The last 'f' trickled off down the page leaving the thought forever incomplete.
She stuffed the journal into the drawer at the foot of her wardrobe, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame.
Ross called up the stairs. 'What do you want for breakfast?'
'Toast is fine. I'm coming now.' She took a deep breath and told herself not to panic. He hadn't seen the journal. He'd been too concerned about her to notice it. He'd probably spotted the pills, but she could explain those - stress of the divorce, new career; the medication a temporary help in easing the strain. Everyone took them at some point in their life. He'd understand.
He'd made toast and coffee and set out cups and plates on the small fold-out table, only big enough for two, which took up most of the floor space in the tiny kitchen. He was showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes - unheard of on a weekend.
She put on a bright smile. 'Anything planned for today?' He shook his head. 'Karen's away with her mum.' 'I've got to work tomorrow so I thought maybe we could go for a walk, drive over to the Beacons as it's sunny.'
Ross poured her some coffee. 'Don't you think you'd better rest?'
'It was a long week,' Jenny said, 'that's all. The mother of the boy who disappeared died on Thursday—'