Could her mother have thrown the woman's address away? She hadn't bothered to write it in her address book. But yesterday she'd told the woman that she still had her ------------------------------------231
address, and her mother wouldn't lie. It had to be somewhere in here.
Perhaps it was in one of her mother's dresses in the wardrobe. She was hurrying across the room, past the bed where the fat writhing lump was nothing but a pillow troubled by shadows, when she heard her mother on the stairs. "Where are you, Iris?"
"In here." She was able to talk quite easily now; it was only when the subject turned to things she didn't want to remember that her lips began to feel like worms. She had to look as if she had a reason to be in her mother's room. She snatched up her mother's photograph album and sat on the bed.
"That's right, Iris. You sit in here if you want to." As soon as she'd assured herself that Iris seemed all right, her mother went downstairs. Iris had the feeling that her mother had always been like that, wanting to believe that nothing was troubling Iris, constantly checking and pretending not to do so. For a moment, as she gazed at a photograph of herself and her parents beneath the pointed bulbs of Brighton Pavilion, Iris felt close to remembering--but she had to find the address. She stood up, careful not to disturb the bulge under the sheets, and went to the wardrobe.
The card was in the third dress she searched. Barbara waugh: literary agent, it said. It must have been dry-cleaned with the dress, for the handwriting on the back was almost too faint to read; she could just make out an address in the Barbican. She closed the wardrobe hastily, because she was almost remembering a dim room where the object dangling in a wardrobe had not been clothes at all, for it had started writhing like a worm on a hook. Perhaps that was only a nightmare that felt like a memory because she had so few memories. She hurried to her room.
Now she had to be quick. She laid out her notepaper. It smelled years old, which it was. She had no stamp, but ------------------------------------232
she thought she knew where she could get one. Above the hum of the town a clock was chiming five. Her father would arrive at the station before six. If she wasn't there well before then, her plan would fail.
As soon as she picked up the pen it twitched out of her hand. She couldn't write about the nameless any more than she could speak about them. That trace of the bad was left in her, and she was close to remembering things she'd helped to do, remembering the time she'd fallen in the dark of one of the bricked-up rooms and tried to tell herself that she had touched a coil of slimy rope. The threat of memory blanked out her mind at once, to her relief. At least the memories were no longer tempting.
She could write about the bearded man. He had come later than her memories; the nameless couldn't stop her telling about him. She had to tell someone, so that they would catch the nameless before the nameless got to her. She could write, though her hand was shaking. But the clock was chiming the quarter hour, and she had written nothing.
Suddenly she thought she knew what to do. She wrote the address on the envelope. She had to write the whole address in large capitals, for her hand was shaking so badly that anything else would have been illegible; there was barely room for a stamp. Then, as if it was part of the same action, she wrote the man you brought to see me is a
NAMELESS. THEY CAN MAKE HIM DO ANYTHING THEY WANT. IRIS and stuffed the page into the envelope. She licked the flap so hurriedly that she cut her tongue, then she went downstairs as quickly as she could, hiding the letter in a pocket of her dress. She was afraid her hands would retrieve the letter in spite of her and tear it up. "Shall we go and meet daddy?" she said.
"Yes, if you like." At least this part of the plan was easy; her mother looked surprised and pleased. Sometimes ------------------------------------233
they took Iris for an evening stroll, when there was less traffic. It must look as if Iris was improving.
Her mother took her time in getting ready. As far as she knew they had plenty of time. She would have strolled down the hill to the road, except that Iris hurried. No doubt her mother was pleased that Iris wasn't holding back from the traffic.
Down by the Whip & Collar, on the road beside the canal, the noise of traffic was an invisible wall. Iris braced herself to shoulder through it, but it was growing louder every second, jerking her nerves. Suddenly there was a gap in the traffic, and her mother ushered her across to the footpath which led down to the canal.
By the canal it was much quieter. Reflections of trees drifted like waterweed. In the football field on the opposite bank, horses and cows munched grass between the goalposts. A barge was waiting for the lock to fill; several young men with bare varnished torsos watched from the deck as Iris passed. Of course they were on a canal holiday, they were nothing to do with the nameless.
When the clock chimed the half hour she made herself walk faster, even though the road bridge was ahead. On both sides of the canal the noise of traffic was kept at bay by wide fields, except where the bridge crossed the canal. As she hurried underneath the water grew dark, metallic; she was trapped in a concrete box by noise that was closing off both ends--but she broke through the noise and pushed open the squeaking gate that gave onto the avenue.
Nothing could stop her now. The horse chestnuts closed over the path, where she'd gathered conkers as a child. Metal claws encircled the tree trunks, to discourage climbing. There was the steeple next to the gasworks, which had used to remind her of Laurel and Hardy. In the lush grass by the canal, horses stood by their reclining foals. It wasn't yet a quarter to six when the women reached the ------------------------------------234
pub by the station and Iris said, "I've got to go to the toilet. You don't need to come in with me. I won't be long."
"All right, dear." Her mother looked a little anxious, but pleased that Iris felt able to venture into the pub by herself.
A few early drinkers stood at the sharply curved bar. Above the toilet door a car's license plate said 4U 2P, but that wasn't really what she wanted. She went straight to the woman behind the bar. "I've got to post a letter urgently," she said; she had been practicing silently for hours. "Can you sell me a stamp?"
"Just a minute and I'll see." She rummaged in her bag for more than a minute; the quarter-chime drifted in the window. Iris's mother must be wondering what had happened: suppose she came in to make sure that Iris hadn't sneaked in for a drink?
The woman looked up from her handbag. "No, I'm sorry. I thought I had."
When Iris turned dejectedly from the bar--she had been utterly unprepared for her plan to go wrong--a small face packed with features and red veins was waiting just beneath her. She cringed into herself, but he was only a pensioner, a head shorter than she was. "Is it very urgent?" he said.
"Yes." She couldn't say more, for her lips felt as if they were swelling.
"I was keeping this because I liked the picture." He gave her a stamp on which Peter Rabbit towered over Queen Elizabeth's bodiless head. "I suppose I can get another," he said wistfully.
She stuck the stamp on her envelope before he could change his mind. As soon as she'd given him the money she ran out, stuffing the letter out of sight. Her mother started up the ramp toward the station at once. ------------------------------------235
Embedded in the wall just outside the station was a mailbox. Iris hadn't time to hesitate, in case her mother looked back to see why she was lagging. Here was the mouth in the wall, and she could only snatch out the letter and push it into the dark. For a moment she felt apprehensive, but how else could she have protected herself? She hurried to catch up with her mother.
A train rushed through with a shrill hollow roar. A glazed face peered at her through the ticket window. Everything felt withheld from her: the small two-platform station, the sunlight so relentless it was unconvincing. The letter was locked away. Nothing could stop it now.
Soon a train brought her father. He didn't seem entirely pleased to see her, and stared at her mother, whom
he hadn't yet forgiven for letting Barbara Waugh in yesterday. "Are you better today?" he asked Iris.
"Yes." Both her parents were here to protect her now, nothing could harm her. Then she saw the post office van driving away from the mailbox, onto the main road and swiftly out of sight, and all at once she was terrified. She had been too preoccupied with tricking her mother to realize what she was doing. She would have been safe if she hadn't written the letter--the bearded man had seen she was no threat. Now she had betrayed the nameless, and she could feel that they knew.
All at once she remembered the day she had left them, the day she'd been so stunned by what she had just helped to do that she'd wandered out of their house without thinking. She had been so unaware of herself that perhaps they and their power hadn't even noticed her leaving. Somehow she'd caught a train home, and she had been halfway there when something had found her. Without any warning she had no longer been alone in the deserted sunlit railway carriage. After that she remembered nothing for ------------------------------------236
weeks, until one day she'd found herself back in her room at home, apparently safe--safe until now.
She followed her parents into the sunlight, as if that was any help. Now they were leading her onto the avenue. Couldn't they see how dark it was beneath the trees, how their metal claws gleamed? Didn't they realize that anything might drop from the low foliage or crawl out of the long grass? The nameless had once told her that she would never be able to betray them, but that if she ever tried, they would know. She remembered that now, too late. All the way along the avenue a horse paced her, staring. When her parents saw that it was troubling her they attempted to shoo it away.
The gate squealed, and they were waiting for her to go under the bridge. Her mother was in front of her, her father was behind, but they couldn't stop the noise from closing in. Now she remembered why it frightened her: it was like the noise in the decrepit houses where she'd had to live. Could the bad get into it too? The nameless must be more powerful now. They'd felt they were close to their goal, whatever it might be; the things they did--the things she'd helped to do--had brought them closer still.
"Go on, Iris," her father said impatiently. She was so frightened that he might push her that she stepped forward at once. As soon as she was beneath the bridge the noise walled up both ends of the passage; the water was slowing, congealing into a gray corrugated strip. The noise was closing around her, a thick dim medium, impalpable yet obstructive. She could feel her movements slowing.
Her parents didn't notice. They marched onward, taking her with them, and somehow she was out of the trap of the bridge. Sunlight seized her, but at least that was neutral. Trees stood on their heads in the water, drowning. Across the canal a ball clicked against a cricket bat. A train squealed along the distant line like a fingernail along a ------------------------------------237
blackboard. At least she was in the open now, and close to home, but how safe was her home? There was nothing in sight to harm her; nothing moved except the small shape above her. She glanced up.
It was a bird, which dropped at once. She flinched back, but it wasn't attacking her. It fell on the path at her feet. Though it was still moving, it was covered with blood.
"Dear God," her father said, and blocked her view as they hurried her past. Did he think someone had shot the bird, or that a predator had dropped it? More likely he didn't think about it at all, for he certainly would not have believed what he was seeing. But when she glanced uncontrollably back she saw that it was true enough. The twitching bird had been turned inside out like a glove.
They were telling her that they knew what she'd done, and that they could do anything. She would be no safer at home. She remembered the writhing beneath the sheets, and what else would be waiting for her? She sat down on the bank of the canal. Dry grass pricked her legs and arms, her parents were calling her and then calling louder, but these distractions were already fading. Her limbs had folded tight around her, pressing her down into the dark inside herself where nothing could reach: ------------------------------------238 ------------------------------------239
239
Twenty-nine
When the girls came chattering out of the school by the lake, their hair and their wine-red uniforms streaming in the wind, Barbara realized it was noon. Ted should have been here by now. She leaned out of her window and peered through her struggling hair, but could see nobody except a postman on the Barbican walkways. She wished Ted would hurry, for he was giving her doubts time to revive.
When she called his number there was no reply, yet she could see that he was at home; figures were moving beyond his window. Had something happened which would prevent him from helping her? But it was too late to hope. She was too heavily committed by now.
The September wind was unexpectedly chill. The willow groped about the brick plateau, the inverted church was shivering. The postman was on his way to her flat, but ------------------------------------240
she hadn't time to accost him; she was too busy fighting the gusts along the walkways, the wind which flapped her clothes and tousled her hair into her eyes. The chatter of schoolgirls kept rushing across the water like waves.
She was on the steps to the balcony which ran outside Ted's flat when someone took hold of her shoulder. Only a grab at the railing saved her from a fall. It must have been the wind, but for a moment she'd thought someone had tugged at her shoulder to stop her from climbing the steps. For that moment she had thought of Arthur.
She rang Ted's doorbell, rang again. Wind came floundering along the balcony. She was about to knock as well as ring when the door was opened, but not by Ted. It was a woman who looked older than she was, a headscarf knotted tightly around her tired face. Her eyes grew more pinched as she said, "You're Barbara Waugh."
Only one woman could greet her so coldly. "You're--was
"Yes, I used to be his wife. You know, I often meant to confront you, but I'm glad I didn't bother. You're just about what I expected." Ted appeared behind her in the hall, and she stepped out onto the balcony. "I only wonder if you know how much you've changed him," she said bitterly. "Even his own child doesn't recognize him now. I expect you'll be satisfied now that you have him all to yourself."
She stalked away along the balcony, her headscarf quivering. Barbara followed Ted into the flat while he found his keys. Her encounter with Helen had been too quick and unexpected to upset her, but it raised questions, none of which she particularly wanted to ask. Before she could say anything she noticed the typescript in a folder on the couch. "Have you finished your novel?" she said.
"It looks like it. Take it with you if you like."
"Yes, I will. I'll read it on the plane." She felt he needed encouraging; he sounded utterly indifferent to the ------------------------------------241
novel, as if it were nothing to do with him. Perhaps that was because of Helen. "What was that scene all about just now?" she had to ask.
He was rushing her out of the flat, "Oh, just something about Judy. She hasn't been the same toward me since I went to Scotland."
"Do you mean she was jealous because you went with me? Tell me the truth."
A cross wind dragged his voice out of shape; he couldn't really be laughing. "You could be right," he said.
He was hurrying her so fast she could hardly think. "But is that all? It seems so little reason for her mother to come to see you."
"Helen exaggerates, I've told you that before. This was just an excuse."
"An excuse for what? She doesn't mean to try to stop you from seeing Judy, does she?"
"I don't know. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. We've got to make sure you don't miss your plane."
He must be stunned by Helen's visit, or pretending to be unconcerned. As soon as she unlocked her door he hurried past her. "I'll get your luggage if you'll tell me where it is."
He stopped at once, for he'd stumbled over several letters, kicking them along the hall. He stooped quickly a
nd picked them up. He peered closely at one, then slipped it into his pocket. "That isn't for you. I'll deliver it later. No time now."
It hadn't looked like anything for Barbara: it had been addressed in large straggly capitals that hardly left room for the stamp. The other letters were negligible. Ted was already striding back along the hall with her luggage. He was so eager to send her on her way that she almost forgot to give him the spare set of keys.
On the way to Heathrow Airport neither of them said ------------------------------------242
much. Beyond Hounslow the fields looked frozen by the blue ice of the sky. At times Ted seemed hardly conscious of driving. He must be preoccupied with Judy, and that was Barbara's fault.
When he noticed her worried glance at him, he misinterpreted it. "It'll be all right," he said. "Everything's under control. I'll be in your flat at the times you would be. If there are any calls you can be sure they'll be answered."
She knew all that--he'd spent the whole of the drive back from Hemel Hempstead in persuading her--yet when it was time to check in for her flight she wasn't sure that she could go through with it. He would stay in her flat every night she was in New York, she had told him things that only Angela could know, she would be able to check with him as she couldn't with Gerry, but was all that enough? It was too late to doubt that it was; Ted had put her suitcases on the belt and they were sailing away, coffins into a crematorium. "Don't worry," he said, gripping her arm so hard that it hurt. "If Angela calls I'll know exactly what to do." ------------------------------------243
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Thirty
The Gregory auction lasted two days, and when it was over Barbara felt as though nothing existed but her suite at the Algonquin, the Thurber cartoon of a huge puffy woman lowering over a tiny victim, the monochrome view of West Forty-fourth through the high Victorian bay, the closet which seemed large enough to hide Woollcott and Benchley and Dorothy Parker and the rest of the old crowd. She called Paul to tell him that the bidding had ended in the millions, and got Sybil instead, who sounded grudgingly enthusiastic.
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