‘It’s the Easter holidays. Maybe he won’t be there.’
‘Maybe he will.’
‘If the police have any sense it’s the first place they’ll look.’
It was he who had suggested Gerald. Now he was hedging. Perhaps he was afraid of her being hurt. Gerald, she was sure, would never hurt her. ‘I’m willing to chance the police. If you are.’
He turned away, felt for the side of the van. ‘I’m free of the lot of them. They’ll want money, of course. Their money back. Their money . . .’ He smiled, and seemed to be seeing. His eyes were clear, and bright brown, and seemed to be seeing. ‘. . . I’ve a wife and a son. Did I ever tell you that?’
‘Mostly we talked about me.’
‘Anyway, that’s all . . . She’s Tracey. I met her on a trip to Boston. We call the boy Roddie Two. I’ve a photograph somewhere.’
He dug his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans and held it out to her. She took it, but did not open it. After a pause she said, ‘He’s a fine little boy.’
‘He’ll be grown, of course. That picture’s two — no, nearly three years old.’
She gave him his wallet back. She didn’t want to know. She was glad he had another life, someone to go to, but she didn’t want to know about it. ‘So we’ll ask Mr Tucker if he’d be kind enough to give us a lift as far as Gerald’s school,’ she said.
She couldn’t always be noble. She couldn’t always be happy for the people who would be here, and loved, when she wasn’t.
~ * ~
The telephone beside the bed rang for a long time before either of them stirred. Finally the woman put out a frowzy, motherly hand and lifted the receiver. She listened briefly, then shook Harry. ‘It’s for you, love. The TV man. He’s on the telephone. He wants a word.’
Harry straggled awake, saw her looking down at him, was relieved. ‘What time is it?’
‘Not yet nine. Bloody cheek.’
He took the receiver from her. ‘Vincent? It’s not yet nine. What on earth are you—’ He broke off. Listened. ‘Well, that’s your problem . . . No, I’ve no idea at all where she might go. I stopped trying to guess what she’d do years ago.’
He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. ‘Gerald? After what he did to her? You must be joking . . . No, unless she’s gone stark, staring mad, that’s the last place she’d go.’ He opened his eyes and gestured toward the kitchen and a cup of tea. ‘I told you, I’ve no suggestions at all. She had a thing about old places — if there’s a ruin around you might find her there . . . Her passport? It’s in the desk here . . . Of course I’m certain.’
He put down the receiver, hauled himself out of bed and padded through to the living room, scratching as he went. A moment later he returned. From the kitchen there were comfortable noises of the kettle being filled. ‘Hello? It’s in the drawer like I said. Though from what I saw of her on the show last night she’ll hardly be trotting about the gay Continent, passport or no passport.’
He climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin, then reconsidered and pushed them down low across his stomach, ready for the arrival of the tea. ‘No. And you can give her father a miss too. She hated him. In fact she hated everybody. She even hated me, it seems . . . No — a ruin’s your best bet. She had this thing about old places.’
He was about to ring off. Then, ‘Vincent? Yes. I wonder . . . when you find her, give her my love, will you? Tell her I miss her. And let me know if you decide to bring her back here. Give me a chance to . . . tidy up the flat a bit.’
The tea arrived. He smiled, and nodded at Vincent’s voice, and returned the receiver between forefinger and thumb to its cradle. He’d seen a man do it like that in a movie once.
‘They’ve lost her,’ he said. ‘Camera’s broken down or something. Thought I might know where she’d go.’
‘Bloody cheek.’
‘Steady on. Go easy. I’m still her husband. If not me, then who?’
‘It’s just the time, love. Not yet nine.’
‘She was a very remarkable woman. Just you remember that.’
‘Tea up, love. And you’re a very remarkable man.’
She placed the tray in the middle of the bed between them and around it they played little games with each other’s sexual extremities. Then, before it got too cold, they drank their tea. The time passed delightfully.
~ * ~
Peter was having a cooked breakfast with his friend when the telephone called him away from the table. He liked a cooked breakfast and he always had a cooked breakfast, so he took it with him out into the hall.
‘Who? Mr who? Ferriman ... oh yes, the man from NTV.’ He stopped chewing. ‘My God. It’s bad news. You’re ringing to tell me she’s dead. Poor Katie-Mo. Poor, poor Katie-Mo…’
... A long while later he returned to the breakfast table. His friend saw his face, and sat him down, and fetched him fresh coffee from the hot plate on the side.
‘How should I know where she’s gone? I told them I hadn’t a clue . . . They knew she’d been here — perhaps she’d given me some kind of hint. I tried to remember ... I expect you heard most of it. All about going away, and . . . sort of saying goodbye. There wasn’t anything else, was there?’
His friend sorted out what Peter was talking about. He shook his head. There’d been, he was sure, nothing. Only sort of saying good-bye.
~ * ~
Clement Pyke’s telephone rang on an empty boat — empty, that is, of the living. He had died by his own hand some ten hours before, after watching his daughter dance on a gray pebbly beach. There were things that had long been beyond him. He left a large number of notes but the police, when they finally came, were to suppress them every one.
Vincent let the bell ring for a long time before giving up. ‘Evidently not at home,’ he said.
Dr Mason took his ball-point out of his pocket, stared at it and put it back. ‘There’ll be a pattern,’ he said. ‘She knows she’s not got long. She can no longer afford just to let things happen.’
‘Unless of course that’s all she can afford to do.’
‘You’re playing with words.’
‘Perhaps I am. But the two of them couldn’t be picky. They’d have taken the first lift that came along.’
‘We’ve got to find her.’
‘I know that. The police have their roadblocks. Now we’ve got them checking ancient monuments. I don’t see what else we can do.’
‘Ring your man’s wife. Perhaps she’ll have some suggestions.’
‘You’re behaving like a frightened hen.’
‘And you like an empire builder, dressing for dinner while the ship goes down.’
‘I will not ring Tracey. All that would do would be to bring her along here, emoting all over the place. She’s hardly seen him in three years . . . Klausen’s the man who could help if anybody could. And all he talks about is transference, and mutilation trauma, and Roddie being saner than anyone here imagined.’
‘Saner?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘I’d like to meet this Dr Klausen.’
‘No you wouldn’t, old son. He keeps a sense of humor. And he’s got his guilts well in hand.’
The telephone rang, making both men jump. But it was only Search HQ phoning in a negative report on the instructions of the Chief Inspector. Dr Mason got up, went to the window, leaned his forehead on the glass. Vincent phoned down to the cutting room — unless something happened pretty damn quickly he’d have to start knocking together some fill-in footage for the evening’s show.
Roddie’s behavior he did not think about at all. Certain things — like the Civil Liberties Committee or the nation’s tax structure — only annoyed his ulcer.
~ * ~
It was comedy spy-thriller stuff. Katherine and me squashed into the vanished part of one of Tommy Tucker’s vanishing cabinets. It had been designed for one occupant, and a pretty skinny occupant at that. But neither of us laughed much. Neither were
we all that turned on by the thrills of sexual propinquity. We accommodated ourselves to each other as best we could, and waited . . . The van slowed at the roadblock and stopped. After a brief conversation the back door of the van was thrown open. I felt Katherine take a deep breath. If she had one of her shakes now, we were done for.
The van sagged as someone heavy climbed in. Grunting ensued as things were shifted about. ‘You’ve got enough stuff in here, dad. What’s it all in aid of?’
‘Royal Charter, that’s what. That’s what it’s in aid of. I tell you, some old king, George it might have been, or William, give Punch and Judy the right to twenty minutes, any time, any place.’
‘Yeah. Well, there hasn’t been no George or William around for a year or two now . . .’ The policeman was clambering nearer. ‘You got a license?’
‘A license?’ Tommy sounded worried. Were we going to be caught just because he didn’t have some bloody silly bit of paper?
‘That’s right, dad. A showman’s license.’
‘I sets up my show, see. Never cause no trouble. It’s the kids, they—’
‘Kids or no kids, you need a license.’ The policeman’s head was turned, looking out of the van. When Tommy didn’t answer he swore under his breath and started working his way out again. At his nearest he’d been a foot, maybe two, away.
Under cover of his banging about Katherine breathed again, and shifted her head against my chest. The policeman slithered down onto the road, followed by what sounded like a small avalanche of Tommy’s pots and pans. ‘I tell you, dad, if you’ve not got a license you’re in dead trouble.’
‘My brother taught me the way of it. He never had no license.’
‘That’s as may be.’
There was a long pause. ‘I got a permit? Is that what you mean? All showmen got permits.’
They went away around the side of the van, arguing. We relaxed. Good old Tommy. To any self-respecting policeman a license in the hand was worth two missing persons in the bush any day . . . Finally Tommy climbed back into the driving seat.
‘Now remember,’ the policeman said, leaning in, ‘if you see a couple like that by the road, don’t pick ‘em up. Just drive on to the next phone box and give HQ, a tinkle. The number’s there on that bit of paper.’
‘Me pick up a couple of loonies? You must be joking.’
He drove off. After what seemed a very long time he stopped the van and came and let us out. ‘They must want you bad,’ he said. ‘But I tell you one thing though — a couple of saner loonies I never seen.’
It was a testimonial I really needed. I smiled at him, hoping he’d notice. One way and another over the last couple of hours the blindness had been getting me very low, getting me so I no longer knew myself, no longer knew what I was. But Tommy knew.
You see, in the past I’d often imagined being blind. I’d thought of it in terms of doing things, of getting about, of not hurting myself. And I’d been wrong. Even in the strangest surroundings you can feel safe by a wall, or in a chair, or against some tree. No, the worst vulnerability is to be seen and not to see. There is nothing, no cloak, no box, nothing that will protect you from the eyes of those you know are there yet cannot see. I no longer knew myself. I’d felt it first in the night, talking in the van with Katherine. I’d felt it again standing in the sunlight, remembering Tracey. I no longer knew myself. Katherine and the old man, they talked together, and with me, and they didn’t seem any different, but I got back from them nothing of me.
Then Katherine jolted me out of my mood, had one of her shakes, a bad one. I helped her. She needed exactly what I could give: closeness. Poor Tommy was embarrassed and went away, I’ve no idea where. A long time later he came back with a bottle of milk and Katherine drank some. Later still I heard him pumping up a primus and prepared myself for the arrival of more all-purpose stew. But I’d underestimated him — it was water he was heating. The lady might like a wash, he said, over his shoulder, going again.
The trouble was that when Katherine was better she was so very much better. She was gay. There was a lightness about her presence that demanded little of me but that I couldn’t match. Tommy drove very slowly. I sat beside her in the back of the van and thought about Tracey. What would she see? Me? Me as I remembered myself, or me as a self-mutilated lunatic? And how would I know what she saw? How could she tell me what she really saw? They were pointless questions. They went round and round so that I was glad when Tommy announced a roadblock up ahead and we had to hide. At least the danger gave me something else to think about.
Gerald Mortenhoe’s school was at the top of a long slow hill. Tommy had been there to give shows, and remembered the approach. Katherine asked him to stop when he thought there was about half a mile to go.
‘Find a place where we can get out without being seen. If the police did happen to be there and you drove us in, you’d be in trouble.’
‘Old fool like me, they’d only chew me up a bit.’
‘Please, Tommy. I wouldn’t want you chewed up, not after all you’ve done for us.’
‘You know me. Never forget a face or a favor . . . Besides, you’re a real nice lady.’
He drove on a bit, then turned off the road and bumped along some sort of rough track.
‘It’s not far from here. Just across the fields. You can see the school between them trees.’
He stopped the van and we climbed out. ‘Tommy,’ I began, ‘you’ve been—’
‘Just across a couple of fields. Not too difficult.’ He leaned closer. ‘And mind you look after her. She’s not all that spry.’
If he wouldn’t be thanked, he wouldn’t. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.
Katherine called from a little distance away: ‘We’ll miss you, Tommy.’
‘Huh. You’ll be the first as ever has, then.’ He bashed his suffering gears into reverse. ‘Mind how you go.’
‘And you.’
He ground away, his engine yowling fretfully. In the distance it changed its note, checked, and climbed again through the forward gears, fading into silence. Other cars passed, going up and down the hill. Birds sang. There was a smell of wild garlic warmed by the sun. Far overhead an airplane hissed in the wake of its own echo. I was alone with Katherine Mortenhoe, on a vague track, by two shapeless fields, below unnamed trees and an inconceivable school. I heard her move behind me, a rustling of clothes as if she were sitting down. I went toward her, feeling the space about me with my ears, my skin. Learning. My foot struck something soft. ‘I’m finding it harder to stand,’ she said.
But she got up again neatly enough when I helped her.
Halfway up the side of the second field he groped around and stopped.
‘We’re out of the sun here,’ he said. ‘Is it a high hedge? Would I be noticed if I stayed put?’
‘I’ll wait with you if you’re tired.’
‘It’s not that. I don’t know your first husband. He doesn‘t know me. It would be better if you went on up alone.’
‘I’d rather you came with me.’ He’d said he’d look after her. He’d promised he’d look after her. ‘I can’t do this alone. Please come with me.’
Do what alone? Visit an old friend? Talk over old times? Or perhaps at last find someone she could fairly blame . . . He went on with her up the side of the field and over the gate at the end. She placed his hands and he climbed it easily.
They were among the trees now, the wide rambling buildings of the school only a few hundred yards away, beyond the edge of the copse and across a graveled drive. Nothing moved. It was holiday time, the school empty. She leaned against a flimsy silver birch, gathering her strength. Then she went on between clumps of bluebells, Roddie close behind her. On the drive she paused. In front of her was a block of locked classrooms. She turned right and followed the drive around the side of a three-story laboratory unit. Big brass scales stood in the windows, and things in glass bottles. The drive widened into a turning space with grass in the middle and a tall aluminu
m abstract sculpture streaked with birdlime. She wondered if she should tell Roddie everything she was seeing. Where did one start?
‘It’s a nice school,’ she said inadequately. ‘There’s . . . there’s a sort of swooping roof over the main part and then flat blocks on either side. It’s mostly blue. A green-blue. Turquoise really . . .’ She was so bad at it. ‘There are fir trees with swings on long ropes from the lower branches . . .’ She trailed off.
‘I can smell the fir trees.’
But she was seeing into the deep shadows under them. She lowered her voice. ‘And Gerald’s standing under one of them. He looks very much the same. He thinks we haven’t seen him. He’s making up his mind what to do.’
The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe Page 26