[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
clouded his mind, allowing him only tiny, occasional glimpses tormenting him
with elusory visions.
Psychiatric treatment, he had been told, could possibly help, but it would
take time. Anyway, psychiatrists could only help the mind to cure itself,
could not effect that cure themselves. He needed to know more about the air
crash. Perhaps some detail - technical or human - had been discovered by the
AIB by now, something that would trigger off his memory. Perhaps Harry Tewson
had more proof of his theory. Anything -whether it absolved him from blame or
incriminated him further - would be better than having his mind stay in this
limbo.
The compulsion was there again. He had to return to Eton.
He left the remains of the Scotch in the glass and stood up. 'I've got to go,
Beth.'
She was startled and disappointment showed clearly in those deep eyes.
'Stay a little longer, Dave. Please, I need someone.' She reached up for his
hand
file:///F|/rah/James%20Herbert/Herbert_James_-_The_Survivor__(proofed).htm (68
of 227) [5/21/03 10:08:38 PM]
Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR
and clasped it tightly. 'Just to talk, Dave, nothing else. Please.'
He shook his hand free and said not unkindly, 'I can't stay now, Beth. Maybe
I'll come back later, but now I've got to go.'
'Will you? Promise me, Dave.'
'Yes.' Perhaps. Probably not.
He left her sitting there, a different memory of her imprinted on his mind
Page 41
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
this time: the white blouse, the hands clutching the glass, the face that had
suddenly begun to show its approaching age. And strangely, the same bitter,
scornful smile.
The car threw up gravel as it lunged away from the house, the tiny stones
rattling against the wall. He drew cautiously out of the drive and headed in
the direction of
Windsor and Eton, a new nervousness beginning to rise in him.
Chapter 8
Emily Platt was slowly poisoning her husband to death. She was taking her time
deliberately, not just to allay suspicion when his death finally came, but
because she wanted him to suffer for as long as possible.
Over the past three weeks she had kept the doses of Gramoxone small so that
his health would break down gradually and undramatically, but she had been
surprised at how soon he had become bedridden. The paraquat contained in the
weedkiller was much more potent than she had imagined, and the first dose
Emily had adminstered to his morning coffee had frightened her with its
suddenness of attack. Allowing him a couple of days to recover his strength,
she had cut down on the doses drastically so that his suffering had become
less acute, and more protracted. Naturally their doctor had had to be called
in at the first, most violent,
file:///F|/rah/James%20Herbert/Herbert_James_-_The_Survivor__(proofed).htm (69
of 227) [5/21/03 10:08:38 PM]
Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR
attack, but he was totally mystified by the illness; he was an unimaginative
man.
He had told Emily if her husband got any worse within the next few days he
would have to be admitted into hospital for proper care and tests to discover
the nature of the illness. However, as she had eased up on the doses of the
poison and her husband's condition had appeared to improve, the doctor had
seen no cause for alarm. He had merely left instructions to be called in
promptly if the illness did not disappear completely within the next few days.
Of course, Emily had not bothered to get in touch with him again and her
unfortunate husband had been too weak to do so himself.
It was not until she had made absolutely sure there was no chance of his
recovery that she would call in the doctor again. She would say the attack had
come suddenly, that her husband had been fine over the past couple of weeks
although a little more tired than usual, and that he had just collapsed
without any warning.
She wouldn't mind his being taken to hospital for she knew that even if they
discovered the cause of his malady, there was no known antidote for paraquat.
Whether there would be grounds for a post-mortem or not after his death, she
wasn't too sure. But then, she didn't really care; she just wanted him to die.
Painfully. Cyril Platt was younger than her - he thirty-six, she forty-three
but when they had married only five years before they had agreed that the
difference in age did not matter at all to their relationship. And it hadn't.
It had been Cyril's strange demands that had made the difference.
She had seen Cyril for the first time gazing at a tiny and delicate figurine
displayed in the window of her antique shop in Eton's High Street. She had
continued to look through a stack of various local newspapers she had sent to
her each week, making a list of the various bazaars, jumble sales or village
fetes that were to take place during the following week. She knew, as did
other antique dealers, that it was at events such as these that rare and
valuable collectors' items could be found and she spent a large part of her
time travelling around the country to such functions. Competition in the trade
was fierce and, since antiques had become fashionably popular, it was becoming
even more so, especially in Eton where there were many similar shops. Since
Page 42
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
her father had died, leaving her to carry on the business, she had had time
for little else but work.
file:///F|/rah/James%20Herbert/Herbert_James_-_The_Survivor__(proofed).htm (70
of 227) [5/21/03 10:08:38 PM]
Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR
Occasionally, she glanced up from her task to see if the young man was still
there and, for some reason other than business, hoped he would come into the
shop. Too often people stared through the window, their eyes lovingly
examining the objects displayed, and too often they wandered on to the next
shop along without bothering to come in. Even if they did, there was never any
guarantee they would buy: antique shops were similar to bookshops - there for
browsing but not necessarily for buying. It had infuriated her when she was
younger that people could spend so much time examining - even worshipping -
these treasures, asking questions, fondling them, and then walk out of the
shop as though they had been merely passing the time of day. But her father
had taught her never to harass or even try to influence a potential customer,
and never
, under any circumstances, to bargain over an object. Their profession was too
dignified for that sort of thing;
they could leave that to the street traders.
Her father had been a man to fear and respect Even to this day she was not
sure if she had ever loved him. Her two elder sisters had left home because of
his tyrannical strictness. A deeply religious man, he had ruled their home
with a rod of iron, a rod that had never tempered or softened even after their
mother had died.
He was from the Victorian era, an age he had loved because of its moral codes,
its revulsion at the abnormal, its firmness of character, the dominance of the
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
