Gemma Makes Her Mark, page 9
Thursday 8 October 1981
Turning into the university grounds, Mark tried to fight the somewhat surprising feelings of regret, almost sadness, that had been building up as he circuited Hove and then Brighton on the A27. As he pulled off the Lewes Road and up to the university campus the rich autumnal colours hiding the not unpleasant 1960s buildings reminded him of how it could have worked out. Designed by Sir Basil Spence, Sussex University certainly put to shame the functional technical colleges that Mark had tried his luck at earlier in the year.
It was strange but after less than a year his time in prison had become a kind of blur. ‘Doing time’ was such an accurate description and he’d never really dwelt on what might have been in terms of his academic career – he’d focused his frustrations and anger more on how Justine and others had let him down. He would surely have been a Senior Lecturer, if not Professor, by now.
It was just after 4 o’clock; various classes and lectures must have just finished, judging by the groups of students heading to the bus stops or car park. Mark realised that it was probably the first week of teaching after the summer break so it was not surprising there were so many around. He remembered how attendance gradually declined as the academic year progressed and students found more interesting things to do with their time. The initial keenness and naivety of the quaintly-named ‘freshers’ soon receded, particularly when it was clear that attendance at lectures wasn’t monitored in the ways they might have been used to at school, and indeed that such events were in many ways peripheral to student life anyway.
From what he’d picked up the social sciences were still attracting more and more students and no doubt the Sociology department was thriving. Craig was waiting for him outside the science block: he didn’t drive and Mark had offered to pick him up and go into town for a bite to eat and a couple of drinks. Craig was the only person there whom Mark had kept in touch with and they had decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for Mark to risk bumping into any of his ex-colleagues, and particularly Sandra. She’d been his friend and mentor when he had started at Sussex; in fact their relationship had strayed beyond the professional but in the end her suspicions, coupled with jealousy when Justine took over his attention, had helped everything unravel back in 1974.
‘It’s good of you to invite me down, Craig. Let’s go to the Ship for some food and then maybe the King and Queens, I haven’t been there for years.’
Brighton was still his favourite town and it felt good to be back there and to drive down past the entrances to Stanmer and Moulscomb parks, then along Lewes Road and through the outskirts of town, on to Victoria Gardens, the Old Steine fountain and the Royal Pavilion. They parked just off Church Street and walked through the pavilion grounds, resplendent with purple and pink hydrangeas still in full bloom, then past the front of the ornate, Regency-style Theatre Royal and on to the Old Ship Hotel. A few office workers were grabbing a quick drink after work but it was easy enough to find a table overlooking the promenade and Palace Pier.
Craig filled him in on what had been going on in the world of Sociology. He had only just started in the department at Sussex the term before Mark’s confession and subsequent imprisonment, but had been the only one to offer any kind of support or sympathy; and the only one who had visited him during his years away. Sure, there might have been a bit of ghoulish interest, and it did fit in with his interest in developing the sociology of deviance courses he’d taken over, but it was better than the way just about everyone else he had worked with had lined up to condemn him. He even suggested he could try to help Mark get back into his old role.
‘You know I could have a word with Michael, he’s still Head of Department, we’re bloody short staffed right now and they’re looking for part-time people, hourly paid.’
It was nice of Craig to suggest but Mark knew it would never happen.
‘That’s nice of you Craig, but they’d never have me back either at Sussex – or anywhere else, for that matter. These places might try and appear liberal and unprejudiced but a conviction for murder would be a step too far. Anyway I’ve got plans of my own, you know.’
He didn’t want to give too much away but needed to see if Craig could help.
‘The thing is, I’ve basically lost touch with people I used to get stuff from and I could do with getting some drugs, speed or coke maybe; just for me and Gemma, old habits die hard and all that. I know you’re into that and there were a couple of students who used to help me out in that direction, one in particular was Greg Corner and I think he was planning to go on to a PhD in our department. I was wondering if you knew anything about him or had any other contacts?’
‘Bloody hell Mark, I’m not really in touch with it all, but I do know who you mean and he actually completed a year or two back; but the thing is, I never really knew him anyway. I do get a bit of dope from time to time but that’s about it and not so often now. I reckon I’m getting past it but I suppose I could try and ask around surreptitiously.’
‘Fair enough and that’d be nice, but Greg could get hold of all sorts. Anyway, it was worth a try, I guess. We could go to the King and Queens but I guess that’d be a bid dodgy just trying to score randomly.’
The look on Craig’s face indicated that he agreed.
‘Yes I don’t think that’d be a good idea – you never know if any of our students are there – but let’s go and have a pint anyway.’
It had turned out to be a pleasant enough evening. Mark enjoyed picking up on a bit of gossip and had learned that there had been something of a division in his old department. On the one hand there was a loose combination of the Marxist and feminist advocates who seemed to think their purpose there was to convert the undergraduates who came their way to the fight for justice; and then there were those tending to support a more qualitative and broadly interpretivist approach, who were pretty much focused on research for the sake of it. As well as that there was Ernest, close to retirement but still number-crunching and seemingly in a world of his own. By virtue of longevity, really, Ernest had been given the title of Reader and Deputy Head of Department and was the only one there interested in quantitative research. According to Craig, Michael had been promoted to Professor and had been trying to keep it all on track while busy building a mini-empire there. It was all quite interesting but not much help to Mark, or to his and Gemma’s plans. He dropped Craig off at the house he’d bought close to the Seven Dials and they promised to keep in touch, but Mark doubted Sociology would play much part in his own future.
Wednesday 14 October 1981
Gemma had dropped Roger off at his rented cottage in the little village of Tortington, on the outskirts of Littlehampton and just up the road from Ford prison. It really did merit the title of small holding and beyond the quite impressively stocked vegetable patch there must have been close on an acre of open countryside that came with the property. She didn’t bother to ask where he had been cultivating his marijuana; probably better for her to keep some professional distance.
All in all, it had been quite a successful day and she had a bag of fly agaric mushrooms along with a handful of Amanita phalloides, better known as death cap mushrooms. Driving home through Arundel she was looking forward to getting back and providing Mark with something useful. He’d been a bit down since his unsuccessful trip to Brighton and she needed him to keep positive and busy.
She had met Roger late that morning at the Littlehampton office for his regular supervision meeting and then taken the afternoon off so they could get to the New Forest for some foraging as Roger put it. To avoid any gossip, she hadn’t told her colleagues and rather than leave the office together they had met up on her way out of town; the slightly cloak and dagger approach had appealed to Roger. The afternoon itself had turned out to be great fun; it had taken her back to school trips out to local woods, nature reserves and the like. Roger had told her to bring decent walking boots or something sturdy at least and he was dressed for the part: a warm jacket with plenty of pockets, brown cord trousers and what looked like mountaineering boots. He looked quite good and certainly good for his age; fringed with his slightly greying but full head of hair, his face evidenced the warm, slightly careworn, look of someone who was happy in his own company. She’d been a little taken aback when he told her he was almost 52. It was nice that he obviously fancied her and took every opportunity to help her over gates and through the various bits of woodland they visited; and especially that there wasn’t anything obviously salacious or creepy about his concern for her. She was surprised that she had found herself thinking that maybe when this is all over she could keep in touch with him. If he had actually made a move she wondered whether she would have put up that much resistance – she reckoned it was those blue eyes that did it.
It had soon become clear that Roger was something of an expert. On the drive out of Sussex, past Portsmouth and over the mouth of the Solent he had lectured Gemma about the ins and outs of mushroom hunting. He was particularly excited as September to November was apparently the best time of year, and even more so today because the rain they had had overnight would trigger the appearance of mushrooms as well as improve their chances of finding what they wanted. On top of all of that, she had learned that the New Forest was probably the most fruitful place in the country for such fungi hunting.
Once they’d passed Totton and parked up they had started on a route that Roger obviously knew well. As they moved from one wooded area to another, he had explained why the wicker basket he’d brought was ideal as it held the mushrooms but at the same time let the spores through the gaps in the rushwork as they walked. Roger had various brown paper bags in his pockets to separate out different batches; he explained that plastic bags were no good as they made the mushrooms sweat and spoil. When they had found a cluster of fly agaric in a small copse of what he told her were ancient beech trees, he’d stopped Gemma just pulling them out by hand and showed her how to use a knife to cut them from the base. He explained that fly agaric were not the same as liberty cup mushrooms, which were the type known colloquially as magic mushrooms, but reckoned they were stronger and had a nicer effect as well. Even though she had felt like a schoolchild he hadn’t talked down to her and she had really quite enjoyed his attention; he’d even brought a separate knife for her to use as well. What she’d liked most, though, had been the magnifying glass he had fished out from somewhere to inspect each of the mushrooms they located. If he had added a deerstalker it wouldn’t have been out of place. After a couple of hours, as well as the fly agaric and death caps which she had told him she wanted as a sort of souvenir – and which Roger seemed to show little concern over her interest in, so enthused was he by having a pupil to collect with – they had also harvested a decent supply of edible varieties, particularly chanterelles and blewits, which he assured her would be fine to cook and eat.
By early evening Gemma had arrived back in Petworth in good spirits and the rest of the night had turned out pretty well too. Mark was made up he had another and different ingredient to add to his collection and repertoire; and he seemed pleased that she was getting involved too. She didn’t bother to mention how much she had enjoyed spending the time with Roger – no point in tempting fate, or more precisely jealousy. Even though he had claimed to have taken most available drugs during his student days, Mark had never tried mushrooms and had suggested they try a small amount of the fly agarics she had brought back, as they weren’t the deadly ones and so as to check them out, as he put it. He had dried a couple out and made some tea with them and they’d certainly worked. Gemma had never taken acid but Mark had compared the effect to a mild trip; everything gave the impression of being softer and somehow fuzzier and Gemma had felt light-headed and excited at the same time. They’d sat out in the garden till the early hours and had just listened to the sounds of the countryside. It was either karma or just luck, but there was a full moon that night and the fields behind their cottage had been lit with an ethereal glow that enhanced the whole experience. In the end she hadn’t got to sleep till around four or five and had had to phone in sick the next day; even though there was no particular hangover she was tired and just couldn’t be bothered.
Tuesday 27 October 1981
Mark was preparing a decent selection of ingredients from his supply of castor beans, fruit pips and stones and thallium. As well as all of that, he thought he might as well try out the death caps for the first time too.
It was the day he had arranged to take Anne up to London for a night out and he knew that they needed to get on with sorting things out. Gemma was clearly fed up with her probation job. In fact, of late she seemed to be pretty fed up in general. The only things she had shown any enthusiasm about recently revolved around the guy who’d got the mushrooms for her and was on some kind of probation register, apparently for growing marijuana – mind you, he did sound an interesting character. Mark put aside a definite twinge of jealousy – Gemma had told him he was fifty-two, after all. They had been discussing how to hurry things along with her mother the other night and Gemma had made it clear that she wanted to get on with it and to have enough money to do what she wanted, and in the not too distant future as well. It had struck him at the time and he didn’t know if it was just because he hadn’t noticed it before, but Gemma had been looking really good recently. She’d started swimming a couple of evenings a week, driving the ten miles or so up to the public pool at Haslemere; and she’d taken to wearing tight t-shirts or jumpers over jeans, all of which highlighted her great figure. She was a good few years younger than him and looked it, and he realised he’d need to make sure he kept her happy and, as she reminded him from time to time, well off.
They had only been up to Farnham a couple of times since the soiree-cum-party, just over a month ago now and time was beginning to drag. On each occasion Mark had done the cooking and added a little of his favourite flavouring, ricin made from castor beans; but now was the time to really go for it. After all, it had taken a good few weeks to wear Jean, his previous mother-in-law, down and she had definitely been in a worse general state of body and mind than Anne before he had begun the process.
Mark had set off for Farnham early that afternoon. Gemma had helped to persuade her mother it would be good for her to get out and that it would be a nice opportunity for her and Mark to get to know one another. Also that Gemma would be happy to have some time to herself while they were away – which wasn’t a lie. She had always liked to have her own space, to use that irritating description, but since they’d moved in together, and with Mark not working, she’d rarely had any time without him being there, and it was beginning to do more than just niggle her. Once the date had been agreed Anne had arranged for her and Mark to stay over at her friend Ruth’s flat, just off Oxford Street; Mark had suggested that it would be too late to get back after going to see some live music at the Marquee and they might as well make a night of it. He’d even prepared a couple of versions of his signature shepherd’s pie in the usual separate individual casserole dishes, one with edible mushrooms added, the other an additional sprinkling of fly agaric and death’s cap. Only a small amount the first time: he needed to monitor the results to begin with. It’d be too obvious if he overdid it. Mind you, he had done a bit of research and discovered that poisoning from mushrooms was a pretty common occurrence. Of course, it might be easy enough to recognise at autopsy but he reckoned the symptoms could easily be confused with a bout of gastroenteritis.
As he drove into Farnham and on to Lynch Lane he wondered if this was his real identity, and destiny too. The slightly disarming thing was that it all seemed so normal. The back door was unlocked and Mark went straight in; he found Anne in her usual spot in the living room. After checking that the housekeeper, Edith, had left for the day he suggested they eat something there before taking the train up to Waterloo.
‘Good idea to line our stomachs, Anne. I fancy a few drinks and a good night out later.’
Anne looked quite presentable, at first glance anyway. The heavily applied make-up had done a reasonable job in hiding the stretched skin and deepest wrinkles and her trouser suit over a high-necked blouse hid the bony chest and protruding collar bones. He had never been able to understand the obsession so many women seemed to have for developing a gaunt and emaciated, almost cadaverous, look. It was something to blame the sixties for and certainly didn’t do anything for Mark. After all Marilyn Monroe’s shoulder blades and clavicles had been well hidden, as were those of Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner and the Hollywood icons of earlier decades; and it was curvaceous females who inspired the classic paintings of Rubens and Rembrandt, and before them the Renaissance masters such as Titian and Correggio. Anyway, all that was by the by. He pulled up a chair and launched into action.
‘You look well Anne, and the trouser suit’s very nice.’
Anne smiled at him.
‘You know it’s good of you to take time out for me, Mark. I’m going to make sure I have a good time. I’ve been having odd stomach pains and cramps recently and I’m fed up with just sitting around feeling my age.’
That sounded positive, and as if the previously administered bits and pieces of ricin and the rest were beginning to have the expected cumulative effect. Mark realised it would be useful to get any deterioration in Anne’s health logged by her doctor, and as soon as possible.
‘Well no harm in seeing your doctor about that, it’s important to get things checked out, we’ll make an appointment when we get back, you must remind me. Anyway, let me heat up the shepherd’s pie I’ve brought and we’ll get going after. I thought I’d take the car up to the station, park it there and leave it for the night. You know, I’m looking forward to it too: I haven’t been to London for a while now. It’ll be a pleasure – and you do look bloody good, by the way.’
