Banks thought David, an assistant bank manager, a bit of a bore, he made an effort to like him for Sandra's sake, and the two of them got on well enough. But Banks still found himself wondering what such a lively and interesting woman as Harriet saw in her husband.
The music was good; there were none of the modern, whining protest songs that got up Banks's nose. You could usually depend on The Greyhound for solid, traditional folk music-'Sir Patrick Spens,' 'The Wife of Usher's Well,' 'Marie Hamilton,' 'The Unquiet Grave' and the like-and that night there was nothing to spoil Banks's joy in the old ballads, which he loved almost as much as opera. The 'high' and 'low' or 'culture' and 'folk' distinctions didn't concern him at all-it was the sense of a story, of drama and tension in the music, that enthralled him.
Because it was David's turn to drive that night, Banks was allowed more than his usual two pints, and as the beer at The Greyhound-brewed on the premises-was famous for its quality, he indulged himself freely. He could take his drink, though, for a small man, and the only signs that he'd had one or two too many were that he smoked and talked more than usual. Sandra stuck to gin and tonic, and drank slowly.
The day, which had been heavy with disturbing feelings for Banks, seemed to be ending well. This evening out with Sandra and the Slades, good music and good beer, was driving Jenny from his mind. Looking back from a distance of four or five pints, what he had done didn't seem so bad. Many men would have done much worse. True, he had sounded terribly moral and sanctimonious-but how else can you sound, he asked himself, if you have to say no to a beautiful, intelligent woman?
As he reached for a cigarette, Sandra glanced over from her conversation and they smiled at each other.
IV
It was a good position on the sloping roof because, lying down, he seemed to melt into the slates, but it was very uncomfortable and he was getting tired of waiting. He'd done his reconnaissance well enough-not hanging around the front, especially as the street was a cul-de-sac, but just passing by occasionally, watching from the unlit alley at the back, nothing more than a narrow dirt track between fenced back gardens. Ideal. He'd slipped through the fence, climbed the pipe up the side of the wall-it was an addition to the house, a kind of storeroom or workshop attached to the back-and found himself just on a level with the bedroom window. He knew it was the right one because he'd seen the children's wallpaper in the front rooms as he'd passed by one day. He also knew that she tended to go to bed first. The husband would often stay up in the front room and listen to music or read for a while.
What was keeping her? They'd been home half an hour and still no sign. Finally the bedroom light came on and he took his position by the chink at the bottom of the curtains. The woman tied back her straight blond hair and reached behind her back for her zipper. Slowly, she pulled it down and slipped the black, silky dress from her pale shoulders, letting it fall all the way to the carpet, then picked it up and hung it carefully in the wardrobe.
There she stood, the dark V of cleavage clear at the front of her bra, the inviting curve in at the waist and out again, softly, at the hips. Her figure was slight; there was nothing out of proportion, nothing in excess. It was what he had been waiting for, what had first stirred his feelings and had eluded him ever since. He felt himself getting more and more excited as she sat at the dressing table and removed her makeup before undressing anymore. He could see her reflection, her concentration as she applied the tufts of cotton wool. It was just like he remembered. Almost unconsciously he rubbed himself as he watched, not wanting her to finish, willing it to go on forever.
Finally she stood up again and pulled her nightdress out from under the pillow. Facing him, she undipped her bra and he watched her small breasts fall slightly as it loosened. He was rubbing himself all the time, faster and faster, and then it happened. What he'd been waiting for. She saw him.
It all happened in slow motion. One moment she was taking off the bra, the next a look of shock spread across her face slowly, like spilled milk on a table, as she caught his eye. At the same moment he climaxed, and the spasms shook his body with pleasure. He slid off the roof, dropped to the garden and shot out through the fence before she could even open the curtains.
Sandra couldn't say exactly how or at what moment she knew she was being watched. It was sudden, a feeling of not being alone. And when she looked she saw an eye. It seemed disembodied, just hanging there in the gap in the curtains, but as she ran forward, yelling for Alan at the same time, she caught a glimpse of a figure in a dark raincoat slipping through the gap in the fence and making off down the back alley.
Banks came running up and then left Sandra to calm down the children, who had heard her cry out, while he gave chase. There was nobody in the alley, and it was too dark to see clearly anyway. First, Banks ran up to the main road end, but there was nobody in sight. Then he walked slowly and quietly in the other direction, wishing he'd had the foresight to bring a flashlight, but he saw nothing move in the shadows, and however still he stood, he couldn't hear breathing or rustling-nothing. All he managed to do was disturb a cat, which darted across his path and almost gave him a heart attack.
He walked as far down as the narrow gap at the far end that led to the park, but it was pitch black. There was no point in going any further. Whoever it was had melted back into the darkness, another victory. Banks cursed and kicked the rickety fence hard before storming back indoors.
Chapter NINE
I
On Saturday morning, as promised, Banks stood high on the castle battlements and looked out over his 'patch,' or 'manor,' as he would have called it in London. It was a sharp, fresh day and all the clouds had gone. The sky was not the deep, warm cerulean of summer, but a lighter, more piercing blue, as if the cold of the coming winter had already wormed its way into the air.
Banks looked down over the cobbled market square. The ancient cross and square-towered church were almost lost among the makeshift wooden stalls and the riot of color that blossomed every market day. The bus station to the east was full of red single-decker buses, and in the adjacent car park, green and white coaches dwarfed the cars. Small parties of tourists ambled around, bright yellow and orange anoraks zipped up against the surprising nip in the air. Banks wore his donkey-jacket buttoned right up to the collar and the children wore kagoules over their woollen sweaters.
To Tracy, Eastvale Castle represented a living slice of history, an Elizabethan palace where, it was rumored, Mary Queen of Scots had been imprisoned for a while and a Richard or a Henry had briefly held court. Ladies-in- waiting whispered royal secrets to one another in echoing galleries, while barons and earls danced galliards and pavanes with their elegant wives at banquets.
To Brian, the place evoked a more barbarous era of history; it was a stronghold from which ancient Britons poured down boiling oil on Roman invaders, a citadel riddled with dank dungeons where thumbscrews, rack and Iron Maiden awaited unfortunate prisoners.
Neither was entirely correct. The castle was, in fact, built by the Normans at about the same time as Richmond, and, like its more famous contemporary, it was built of stone and had an unusually massive keep.
While the children explored the ruins, Banks looked over the roofs below, checkerboard patterns of red pantile, stone and Welsh slate, and let his eyes follow the contours of the hills where they rose to peaks and fells in the west and flattened into a gently undulating plain to the east. In all directions the trees were tinged with autumn's rust, just like the picture on his calendar.
Banks could make out the town's limits: beyond the river, the East Side Estate, with its two ugly tower blocks, sprawled until it petered out into fields, and in the west, Gallows View pointed its dark, shriveled finger toward Swainsdale. To the north, the town seemed to spread out between the fork of two diverging roads- one leading to the northern Dales and the Lakes, the other to Tyneside and the east coast. Beyond these older residential areas, there were only a few scattered farmhouses and outlying hamlets.
