It was almost midday: the end of a long, gruelling morning, during which they seemed to have done nothing but give statements to the policemen who had been swarming all over the house ever since Phoebe had walked to the village and raised the alarm. Shordy after ten o’clock, the first journalists and press photographers had arrived. So far the police had been successful in holding them at bay, but they were even now spread out on the road like an army waiting in ambush, keeping the house covered with a whole arsenal of telephoto lenses, or sitting sulkily in their cars hoping to pounce on anybody who dared venture down the drive.
‘I wonder if things will ever get back to normal,’ said Michael. He turned urgently to Phoebe. ‘You will come and see me in London soon, won’t you?’
‘Of course: as soon as I can. Tomorrow, or the day after.’
‘I don’t know what I’d have done, if you hadn’t been here.’ He smiled. ‘Every Kenneth needs his Sid, after all.’
‘What about “Every Orpheus needs his Eurydice”? Just to clear up any gender confusion.’
But Michael seemed dejected by this analogy. ‘I’ll never forgive myself, you know, for what happened about that painting.’
‘Look, Michael, let me just say something. We’re never going to get anywhere, you and me, by harping on about the past. The past is a mess, in both our cases. We’ve got to put it behind us. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘All right, so repeat after me: Don’t — look — back.’
‘Don’t look back.’
‘Good.’
She was about to reward him with a kiss when they were joined on the terrace by Hilary’s pilot, Tadeusz, who had also arrived that morning. He was, it had to be said, a far cry from Conrad, the previous holder of this desirable position: for he was barely five feet tall, well over sixty years old, and, having only recently settled in this country from his native Poland, could not speak a word of English. He nodded brusquely to Michael and Phoebe and then stood at some distance from them, leaning against the balustrade.
‘I think Hilary’s husband must have put his foot down,’ Phoebe whispered. ‘Her last pilot was this godlike specimen. They came up here once and romped naked on the croquet lawn for most of a weekend. Somehow I can’t see this one entering into quite the same spirit.’
‘Oh well, as long as he knows how to fly a plane,’ said Michael. ‘He’s supposed to be taking me home this afternoon.’
Little more than an hour later, Michael was packed and ready to leave. Phoebe, who was planning to take an afternoon train to Leeds in the company of Mr Sloane, walked with him down to the edge of the tarn. They had been unable to find Tadeusz anywhere in the house, but the agreed take-off time was one o’clock, and Michael was relieved to see the pilot’s diminutive figure already squeezed into the cabin. He was fully dressed for the part, in what seemed to be an authentic World War I flying ace costume, complete with goggles and leather helmet.
‘My God, it’s the Red Baron,’ said Phoebe.
‘I hope this guy knows what he’s doing.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
He put his case down and hugged her.
‘See you soon, then.’
Phoebe nodded, stretched up on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. He clung on to her tightly. It was a long kiss, which after a fierce start became more leisurely and tender. Michael enjoyed the feel of her hair blowing in his face, the coldness of her cheek.
Reluctantly, he climbed into the cabin.
‘So, this is it, I suppose. I’ll phone you tonight. We’ll make plans.’ He was about to close the door, but hesitated. There seemed to be something on his mind. He looked at her for a moment, and then said, ‘You know, I had an idea about that painting. I can remember it quite clearly: so I was thinking that if we sat down and I described it to you, and you found your old sketches, you could maybe — Well, at least do something similar …’
‘What did I say to you up on the terrace?’ said Phoebe sternly.
Michael nodded. ‘You’re right. Don’t look back.’
Phoebe waved as the plane taxied round into the take-off position, and blew a kiss after it as it gathered speed and cleared the surface of the water, rising smoothly into the air. She watched until it was nothing more than a black speck against the blueness of the sky. Then she turned and walked back up to the house.
Her heart was heavy with foreboding. She was worried about Michaeclass="underline" worried that he already expected too much of her, worried that his preoccupation with the past was somehow obsessive; or adolescent, even. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that he was seven or eight years her senior. She was worried that the relationship might proceed too quickly, taking directions over which she had no control. She was worried that she could actually think of no good reason — if she was honest with herself — for having started it in the first place. It had all happened too quickly, and she had been acting out of the wrong motives: because she had felt sorry for him, and because she too had been scared and in need of comfort. Besides, how could they ever hope to forget the horrific circumstances which had brought them together? How could anything good come from such a beginning?
She went up to her bedroom, packed her suitcase, and then looked around to see if she had forgotten anything. Yes — there were some first-aid things, she now remembered, which would still be in the room where Henry’s body had been found. It would only take a minute to retrieve them, and yet for some reason the prospect filled her with disquiet. She found that she was shivering as she walked along the corridors, and climbing up to the second floor of the house, she had the sudden, ominous sense that she had begun to relive the events of the night before: an impression reinforced as she turned the last corner and heard the sound of the television set, tuned to the one o’clock news.
She opened the door. President Bush was addressing an empty room. It was a re-run of his broadcast to the American people, made shortly after the first bombers had been sent in to Baghdad.
Just two hours ago, allied air forces began an attack on military targets in Iraq and Kuwait. These attacks continue as I speak.
Phoebe noticed something: a stream of blood was running down the side of the sofa and dripping on to the floor.
The twenty-eight countries with forces in the Gulf area have exhausted all reasonable efforts to reach a peaceful resolution, and have no choice but to drive Saddam from Kuwait by force. We will not fail.
She peered gingerly over the back and saw that a man was lying face down on the sofa, a carving knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades.
Some may ask: Why act now? Why not wait? The answer is clear: the world could wait no longer.
She turned the man over and gasped. It was Tadeusz.
This is an historic moment.
There was a knock on the door, and one of the police officers on duty popped his head round.
‘Has anyone seen Miss Tabitha?’ he said. ‘We can’t seem to find her anywhere.’
Our operations are designed to best protect the lives of all the coalition forces by targeting Saddam’s vast military arsenal. We have no argument with the people of Iraq. Indeed, for the innocents caught in this conflict, I pray for their safety.
Would the madness never come to an end?
Michael sits in the cabin of the seaplane, craning forward and watching the South Yorkshire landscape unroll beneath him.
The pilot, sitting up ahead, starts humming a tune: Row, row, row the boat, gently down the stream. The pilot’s voice seems unusually high and musical.