The Honours Read online

  She had a crazy thought: He’s not going to stop.

  She tweaked the focus. His outline sharpened. Water was creaming round his waist. The fingers of his left hand trailed in the water.

  Mr Garforth had warned her about the lethal riptides in this area. Breaks in the sandbars created currents that could drag even strong swimmers away from the shore in less than a minute. It was the kind of grisly warning that Mother came out with all the time.

  The water was up to Mr Kung’s belly. His left hand was submerged. The field glasses made it feel as if she were watching a scene in a film.

  She lowered them. Mr Kung was still there.

  ‘Hey!’ she called, startling herself. The word came out small and hoarse. He did not react. ‘Hey!’

  A gust frilled the smooth water into dragon scales. Mr Kung waded deeper.

  Delphine turned and ran.

  She hammered on Mr Garforth’s door and peered through the thick window. The cottage was dark.

  Moonlit nights brought out poachers. Mr Garforth said the problem had got worse over the past few years, on account of jobs being scarce. He said they worked in gangs. He said he understood that a man must feed his family and that he felt no ill will. Then he told her about the time he had surprised a man setting snares for rabbits and winged the fellow as he ran away. When Mr Garforth finished the story, his eyes got a faraway look and he chuckled.

  She hared across the marshes towards Prothero Wood, hoping to catch Mr Garforth patrolling the feed run. It had rained earlier and the ground was doughy. She vaulted trenches, silver ribbons of water flashing beneath her feet. The wind was picking up. Ahead, a belt of ash trees lapped at the damp air.

  She took a shortcut between dense-packed trees and dropped onto the track bisecting the wood. She squinted against the darkness. Pussy willows curled and rose on either side, forming a tunnel that looked as if it had been left in the wake of a monstrous, slithering crocodile.

  Since the incident with the bat, she had been wary of Prothero Wood. She steered clear of the tomb, but she could not avoid the wood entirely – she had to walk through it each day to reach Mr Garforth’s cottage. Her senses sharpened when she entered. It felt very much like enemy territory.

  ‘Hello?’ she shouted. ‘Hello?’

  Nothing. Cracks of sky glowed through the branches overhead. The moon was a headlamp in fog.

  She hesitated. Snug in the belly of the wood, listening to the slow shhhhhh of the wind, she started to doubt herself. Maybe she had misunderstood. Maybe she had imagined it. The thought calmed her.

  But she had seen Mr Kung, standing there. She had watched him through binoculars. What if she did nothing, and he died?

  Delphine fumbled for a plan. Mr Garforth could be anywhere on the estate. She could run round till sunrise and still not find him. By the time she got to the Hall, it would be too late. It might already be too late.

  She sprinted along the track, not sure where she was going. The track eased left then lurched right, dipping through slush and then flattening out. A shrew scurried across her path and she had to leap to avoid it; she skidded and when she looked up she saw Daddy.

  He stood side-on to her, in the middle of the track, breathing smoke. He had no coat. His back was bent and his unbuttoned shirt cuffs hung like tattered bandages. He lifted an open palm to his mouth as if yawning; a red point of light sharpened between the first two knuckles. He lowered his hand, sighed smoke. His eyes were closed.

  ‘Daddy.’

  He snapped upright. He cast around in the darkness, then found her. His face was pale. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mr Kung is in the sea.’

  Daddy squinted. ‘Sorry?’ He shook his head. ‘What do you want me to come and see?’

  ‘Mr Kung is in the sea. With his clothes on.’

  ‘Oh, right. Oh, well then.’

  ‘You have to come quickly.’

  ‘Right.’ Daddy raised his arms slightly and glanced around.

  ‘Now!’ Delphine swiped at the air, then turned and began running again. When she glanced back, he was following with clumsy, flat-footed strides. She slowed to let him close the distance then scrambled up the bank into the shortcut. She heard the gasp and crash as he beat his way through a holly bush.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he said.

  ‘The beach!’

  Once they were out on the salt marshes Daddy found momentum, pumping his arms. Delphine accelerated to two-thirds her normal speed and led him through the easy route – firm ground and plank bridges, no jumps. He kept pace. A crosswind kept trying to spin her clockwise, ruffling the reeds. The moon was out from behind the clouds, turning the dunes to caster sugar.

  She pictured reaching the crest to see Mr Kung in a stripy bathing suit, perkily towelling himself off. Perhaps nocturnal bathing was normal in China. Perhaps he had just got overexcited – from what she remembered from her atlas, Inner Mongolia was a long way from the seaside. Or what if there was no trace of him at all? Daddy seemed to be in one of his placid moods tonight, but if word got back to Mother that she had faked an emergency – and worse, that she had exerted Daddy unnecessarily – the showdown would be apocalyptic.

  Delphine fell onto her hands and knees as she hit the summit. The shoes were still there. She peered at the sea. The water was choppy – it was hard to pick out a figure amongst the slump and crunch. She moved to take out the field glasses then, remembering Daddy, angled her body to hide the bag as she removed them.

  She saw Mr Kung. He was up to his shoulders. He still wore his bowler.

  ‘He’s there! He’s there!’ called Delphine, pointing frantically.

  Daddy staggered up towards her. He had a scratch on his forehead and his ankles were painted with mud.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There!’ said Delphine. She looked. Mr Kung had gone. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘He’s gone under! He’s gone under!’ She was dashing down the dune, windmilling her arms. As the sand levelled out she broke into a sprint, focusing on the point where she had last seen him, but the sea was swelling, shifting, and she began to worry she was running towards the wrong spot. She slowed, searching for landmarks she could triangulate by, then something crashed into her shoulder from behind and she hit the sand.

  She landed face down. When she lifted her head she saw Daddy running faster than she had ever seen him, stampeding towards the waterline.

  ‘Where is he?’ yelled Daddy.

  Delphine scrambled to her feet. ‘I don’t know! He went under!’

  Daddy did not hesitate; he ploughed into the sea with a chain of splashes like a Vickers gun strafing a pond. He lurched forward as the water dragged at his ankles, then drove himself onwards with sweeps of his lean forearms.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Delphine halted at the water’s edge. ‘Somewhere here, I think!’ She waved her arm back and forth, indicating a wide cone.

  Daddy was waist-deep, paddling with his arms. He looked around.

  ‘I can’t see him!’

  ‘He was deeper! He went under!’

  A blast of wind lifted the water into spikes. Daddy dived.

  Delphine could not believe it. She stood at the water’s edge, stunned and alone.

  Daddy surfaced, mouth wide, filling his lungs. He dived. He came up again, swum a yard deeper, plunged. When he rose a third time he was gasping, tendrils of hair whipping droplets as he cast about.

  ‘I can’t see him! It’s too dark!’

  A stammer pinned her tongue to the roof of her mouth: ‘I duh . . . ’ She clenched, took a breath. ‘I duh-duh . . . ’

  Under again. Water rolled fizzing to her feet. She willed herself to step forward, to run in and help him, but her legs did not move. Another four seconds passed. Daddy did not surface. He burst up, spluttering, wiping hair from his eyes. He was treading water. He dived.

  This time he came
up quickly.

  ‘I can’t . . . see him!’ Daddy was weakening – she heard it in his voice. At night, the sea was freezing; dipping your head underwater felt like clamping it in a vice.

  He dived. He came up breathing raggedly. He slopped hair out of his eyes, screamed. A wave lifted him up. He looked around. He was alone. He took a breath and ducked back under.

  Delphine had her cardigan balled up in her fists. The tight, trapped feeling had spread from her tongue, down her jaw to her shoulders and chest. She wanted to yell at him to give up. He surfaced, coughing, slapping about for purchase. He let out a wounded cry. When he went under again, Delphine could not tell if he had meant to. His head tipped back and he sank.

  A wave hid the place where he had gone under. When it had passed, he was still missing. She stared. Her vision narrowed. It was crazy to believe this sucking, plunging sea held two living men. They were gone. Her bladder tingled. She was going to collapse.

  Daddy broke gasping, went under, surfaced, found his footing. Water streamed from his hair and nostrils. He was walking. He was yelling. She thought he was calling to her, but she could not make out words. His mouth was wide; his teeth glowed. He held something in his arms: driftwood wrapped in black canvas. As the water got shallower, his burden pulled him down to a stoop.

  ‘Gah . . . ah . . . gah . . . ah . . . ’ Every breath was a hoarse roar. The tide was dragging at his legs. He shook water out of his eyes, looked around. He spotted her. ‘Help me!’

  She ran into the sea. It was scalding. She gasped at the pain. Daddy staggered; the driftwood fell from his arms. She ran for him, steadied him. She looked down at the thing floating at his feet.

  It was Mr Kung.

  He was face down in the shallow water. She grabbed him under one of his arms. Daddy was huffing, shivering. He caught hold of Mr Kung by his other arm and, together, he and Delphine pulled Mr Kung out of the waves and onto the sand.

  They laid him on his back. His spectacles were gone. His eyes were open and crusted with sand, cataracts of froth purling in the corners. Blood and foam ran from his nostrils. Bloody water flowed from his mouth. His skin was the colour of tallow. He was not breathing.

  ‘Help me pick him up,’ said Daddy. Delphine caught hold of the sodden lapels and heaved. Once they had lifted Mr Kung upright, Daddy swung him round and began squeezing him in a bear hug, letting his head loll.

  Lots of water came out of Mr Kung’s mouth. It splattered brightly against the firm sand. Daddy squeezed again. More water came out. Mr Kung’s lips were slack and mauve. Phlegm hung in a silver beard. His eyes stared blindly. Daddy hugged him again and again. Water came out and each time Mr Kung shrugged as if to say it is no good, I am doing the best that I can.

  Delphine wrung her hands in wretched, trembling prayer. Daddy lowered Mr Kung onto the sand, rolled him onto his back and shook him.

  ‘Hello!’ Daddy said. ‘Hello!’ He slapped Mr Kung across a shining cheek – gently, at first, but then harder, and harder, as if interrogating a spy, left, right, left, right, and Mr Kung shook his head, no, no, no, no. Daddy thumped Mr Kung in the chest and water arced from his mouth.

  Mr Kung spluttered.

  Delphine shot a look at Daddy. Daddy’s eyes were wide. He thumped Mr Kung again. A little more water came out. Delphine looked down at Mr Kung’s pursed, purpled lips. Something black hung from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘In his mouth!’ she said.

  Daddy grabbed Mr Kung’s chin and tilted his face upwards. He squeezed the cheeks so Mr Kung’s lips popped open in a prim ‘oh’. His teeth were bad, ranging from cream to mahogany. Daddy plunged two fingers into Mr Kung’s throat; he hooked out a thick, dark clot of seaweed with a long tail that kept coming. The strand snapped; Daddy cast it aside and dug in again. This time, he pulled carefully, pinching thumb and forefinger to tease out the delicate flukes.

  Mr Kung coughed. His face tightened. Bloody water welled up in his mouth. He inhaled it, gargled.

  Daddy scraped the last of the weed from Mr Kung’s mouth. Mr Kung tried to breathe, and again he choked, froth streaming down his face.

  Delphine looked around for some way to help. She ran to the sea, scooped up some water, then knelt over Mr Kung’s head. She tilted her hands and poured a little water onto either eye, washing away the foam and sand. It made him look worse. His naked eyes were pink and sightless, pupils rolled back.

  Mr Kung made a strangling noise. Daddy gripped his shoulders with pale, tendon-mapped hands. He looked at Delphine.

  ‘I can’t save him,’ he said. He gazed around at the empty beach. Something brought him smartly to attention. ‘You have to go to the house and get help.’

  ‘But it’s over a mile away.’

  ‘I can’t save him.’

  ‘But what do I say?’

  Daddy pounded a fist against the sand. ‘Get Dr Lansley! Bring him here now!’

  Delphine sprang to her feet. She began sprinting back towards the dunes. The wind sliced across her sopping arms and legs. She remembered her bag and the electric torch inside. Perhaps she could signal the Hall for help.

  But who would be paying attention at this hour? They’d all be drunk, except Alice, who probably hadn’t even heard of Morse.

  There was nothing for it but to run – over the dunes, across the marshes, through the woods, past the north shore of the lake and over the lawns. She had timed herself before. She would treat it as a challenge. If there was ever a day to beat her personal best, this was it.

  ‘Do you know I think it’s my first memory? Reaching for the beautiful amber paperweight on my Papa’s writing desk, straining with my stumpy little arm and realising it wasn’t quite lo – ’

  ‘Doctor Lansley, you have to come now!’

  Miss DeGroot cut off mid-flow. She stood by the globe in the corner, one arm slung round its latitudes like a chummy Atlas.

  Everyone stared.

  Delphine dripped onto the rug. She could feel stiff spikes of hair hanging down across her brow. Dun gloves of dry mud ran halfway up her forearms. She had fallen twice crossing the marshes. Her wet feet tingled in the heat of the hearth.

  Mother, rising: ‘Delphine, what on earth is the meaning of – ’

  ‘Doctor Lansley has to come to the beach!’

  Miss DeGroot’s mouth shifted into a smile. She looked at the other guests, delighted.

  Dr Lansley, from the settee: ‘How dare you burst in here and start making demands of me!’

  ‘You have to come!’

  ‘I will do no such thing!’

  ‘Mr Kung is dying!’

  ‘Get out of this room this instant!’ Lansley stubbed out his cigarette. He gathered his hearing aid and wires in one hand and rose. ‘Look at the state of you!’

  ‘He’s dying!’

  ‘Do not test me, child.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ She cast around at the other adults. ‘He’s going to die!’

  ‘Delphine.’ Mother’s voice was thin and firm. ‘You have ten seconds to explain yourself.’

  ‘He’s in the sea!’ She looked to Professor Carmichael. ‘Please, Professor. Tell them! Tell the Doctor he has to come!’

  The Professor frowned. ‘Steady there, Titus.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Dr Lansley advanced round the coffee table, moustache writhing.

  ‘Wait,’ said Miss DeGroot. ‘Give the girl a chance.’

  ‘Miss Venner.’ The Professor eyed her carefully. ‘Is this a prank?’

  ‘No!’ She threw her arms out. ‘Daddy dragged him out of the sea. They’re down on the beach now and they need a doctor or he’s going to die!’

  Invoking Daddy brought them all up short. Dr Lansley hesitated. Everyone looked at him.

  He glared. ‘Is this true?’

  She met his gaze, glaring right back. ‘If he dies, it’ll be your fault.’

  Lansley’s chin retreated into his neck. He looked at the Professor.

  ‘Ring for Mrs Hagstrom. Have her
start the car and meet me outside the front door in three minutes. We’ll take the horse track. Patience – ’ he looked to Miss DeGroot ‘– fetch towels and my coat off the rack. I’ll get my medical bag. You,’ he shot a gloved finger at Delphine, ‘be waiting in the car when I arrive. You will give clear, concise directions when asked, otherwise you will remain absolutely silent, is that clear?’

  Delphine looked into the fire.

  Professor Carmichael prodded the bell button. ‘Had I better come?’

  ‘No,’ said Lansley and Miss DeGroot together.

  The Professor’s shoulders slumped. He trudged back to his chair.

  ‘Right.’ Dr Lansley grabbed a bottle of brandy on his way out the door. He stopped, looked back at Delphine. ‘I pray, for your sake, this is not a lie.’

  Mother stood very straight. ‘Did Daddy ask for anything else?’

  Delphine shook her head.

  ‘Well . . . ’ Mother looked away. ‘Be careful, please. Off you go.’

  Delphine hesitated, just long enough to indicate she was leaving of her own accord.

  The car rattled and jounced along the track, branches clatter-scraping off the bonnet. The rain-softened earth made the going a little easier, but even in the dark Mrs Hagstrom was a bracingly fearless driver, accelerating with a blind faith that bordered on zealotry. Delphine had stared the first time she had seen the housekeeper behind the wheel, knuckles shining as she swung the car out of the garage, but no one else at the Hall found it the least bit remarkable. Mr Garforth said that during the Great War, Mrs Hagstrom had driven a bus.

  Dr Lansley sat in the front, black bag on his knees. He took a cigarette from a fresh packet, tapped the end against the dashboard, then slid a matchbook from his breast pocket. In the back, Delphine sat hunched and malevolent.

  Mrs Hagstrom pulled up at the top of a stone slipway.

  ‘Turn the car round then follow me,’ said Dr Lansley, climbing out the passenger door.

  Delphine saw Daddy a way off, still knelt over the body.

  ‘Hey!’ she called. He turned and waved both arms. She ran to him, Lansley following, Mrs Hagstrom bringing up the rear.