The Judas Boy

by Simon Raven

  Then Maisie told him where to come and rang off.

  In the room which looked out over the gorge, Fielding looked down on the firm, brown stomach and lowered his face to kiss it, while the boy moved his hands in his hair. Naked, the boy was just as Fielding had always remembered him. But there were differences in other things. There was no shyness, now that he had come back after all these years, and no shame. Instead there was pride of flesh and complicity in desire.

  'Christopher,' murmured Fielding into the brown skin, 'where have you been?'

  'My name is Nicos.'

  'Now it is. But I shall still call you Christopher. Do you mind?'

  'It can make no difference.' Hie boy went on playing with Fielding's hair. 'What happened to your face?'

  'I was hurt in an explosion. Does it ... upset you?'

  'It can make no difference,' the boy said again, and ran one finger down to the base of Fielding's spine.

  'So you see,' Maisie said to Tom, 'Somerset Lloyd-James is trying to do you down.'

  'But you've refused to help him, you say.'

  'He'll find someone else ... or some other way.'

  'Fore-warned is fore-armed.'

  'That's what I thought.'

  'Thank you,' said Tom. 'Why did you bother?'

  'Because I didn't like the smell of it. And then, you're a friend of Fielding's.'

  'Are you fond of Fielding?'

  'I've known him a long time.'

  'I see ... I'll tell you something,' Tom said. 'Somerset was right If you'd set yourself out to do what he asked, it could have worked. I'm married, and I love my wife, but it could still have worked.'

  'Should I be flattered?' asked Maisie.

  'No. It's not you, attractive as you are. It's the set-up. It's ... forgive me ... It's the brevity, the lewdness, the disgust. That's what I always went for.'

  'I understand,' said Maisie placidly.

  Tom looked at her, panting slightly. His hand went towards his breast pocket, but then he closed his eyes, shook his head, turned firmly about and walked from Maisie's flat.

  'I'm due in Athens in a day or two,' said Fielding. He got, off the bed, went to the window and looked out over the darkening gorge. 'But once I've finished my business there, we can go anywhere we like.'

  'I'll go wherever you wish,' the boy said, 'but not to Athens.'

  'It won't be for long.'

  'Not to Athens.'

  'But why on earth not?'

  'Not to Athens.'

  The police, thought Fielding. Some trouble tike that. Christopher was in trouble with the police, he thought, seventeen years ago.

  'Then I must go alone. You can wait for me wherever you choose, and I'll join you as soon as I can.'

  'If you leave me,' the boy said, 'I shan't be able to wait for you. Anywhere.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'You've been very fortunate to find me—to find me once more, as you say. If you let me go ... a second time ... I shall have gone for ever.'

  'But why? Why?...'

  'Because I shall have been ... recalled.'

  Like Eurydice, Fielding thought, sweating with fear. 'Come here,' the boy said, 'come to the bed.'

  As Fielding went towards the bed, the boy held out his arms as he had on the theatre stage that afternoon. He kissed the shiny pink skin, then took Fielding's head between his hands, cradled it in his warm belly, and stroked Fielding's hair.

  'You must not leave me,' the boy said; 'you must not let me go again.'

  'Why are you home so late?' said Patricia to Tom in Southwell Gardens.

  'Because I've been with a whore.'

  As Patricia slowly opened her mouth, a wail like that of a siren rose from somewhere down in her stomach and came spiralling out with steadily increasing volume. Baby, not to be left out of the act, emitted shrill screams of accusation at short intervals of deadly regularity.

  'It wasn't what you think.' said Tom.

  He picked up the howling Baby, thrust her out into the little passage, then closed and locked the living-room door.

  'It wasn't what you think,' he repeated to Patricia, 'but it might very easily have been. Because there's a hot, dirty, ratty side to me which I've never shown you yet but which has only been waiting to come out.'

  Patricia looked at him, silent now.

  'I might have taken it out on that whore,' Tom said, 'and kept it from you that much longer. But I think it's time you knew about it, once and for all.'

  He forced her down on the sofa.

  'For better or for worse.'

  He fumbled with her clothes and his own.

  'Quick,' he said, 'hot, nasty and quick.'

  'Tom ... Tom.'

  'Into the bushes,' Tom hissed, 'and do it before anyone comes. Standing up or like the dogs. Dirt. Sweat. Stink. Quick, Patricia, quick.'

  'Oh God,' she whimpered, as Baby hammered on the door. 'Oh dear God,' she panted, 'it's never been like this. Quick, Tom, quick. Like the dogs, Tom. QUICK.'

  I've got to go through with it. Fielding thought. I've got to see Grivas and get that evidence for Tom.

  He looked at the sleeping boy beside him. The fair hair was plastered with sweat over the temples and the brow; the full lips pouted, as if ready to be wakened by a kiss.

  No. Think. I've taken on a Job, for which I'm being very well paid. Succeed in this, and it could mean more jobs, more money, later on. Fame. Anyway, Tom is relying on me, trusting me to do this for him.

  But I could always say I'd been with Grivas and failed. (Those lips.) After all. I've been through a lot already, what right have they to force me into more?

  But Tom didn't force me. He asked me if I wanted to go on with it, and I said yes.

  Those lips, those cheeks.

  But leave Tom aside, and to hell with the BBC, the job is one that ought to be, that must be done. I want to do it. 1 want to finish what I've started, now that I'm so near. I want to destroy Restarick, show up the whole rotten business, warn everybody what goes on.

  But if I go to Athens, I shall lose him. For the second time.

  Slowly, Fielding drew down the sheet. Chest. Belly. Loins. Thighs. Soft skin, silver down, catching the early morning light. The boy whimpered slightly in his sleep, and Fielding settled the sheet back over him, shuddering with joy at the sight he had just seen.

  If I go to Athens, I shall lose it all.

  I must go to Athens. For my career, for Tom's friendship, for truth.

  But I am not due in Athens until one p.m. of the day after tomorrow. Two more days, two more nights.

  'Take care,' said Patricia to Tom at breakfast.

  'Take care?'

  'You know ... What you told me last night. What that woman—'

  '—Maisie—'

  '—What Maisie was warning you about.'

  Baby, who sensed peace and solidarity, gurgled happily.

  'I'm grateful to Maisie,' said Patricia, 'for making it so much better for us.'

  'It was all right before.'

  'Not like that, though, never like that. And I'm grateful to her for warning you. You must take care, Tom. Why do they want to harm you?'

  I'm not sure. I think ... that they think ... that I may be going to broadcast something that will make trouble for them. There have been hints from other quarters.'

  'Must you go on with it?'

  Tom shrugged.

  'Yes,' he said. 'But if I keep my nose clean, there's nothing they can do.'

  Patricia kissed him gaily on the lips.

  'Then keep your nose clean,' she said.

  Fielding and Nicos went for a walk along the shore of the Corinthian Gulf, between Itea and Galaxheidhi. For much of the way the olive trees came crowding down almost to the sea, leaving only a thin strand of beach. Since the afternoon was very hot, they walked mostly in the shade of the olive trees.

  'Why do you not ask me,' said Nicos. 'who I am, where I come from? Such questions should be asked between friends.'

  'I
'm not sure that I want to know the answers.'

  'Then I shall ask you. Who are you. Fielding Gray? Where do you come from?'

  'I am a writer of books, and I come from England.'

  'And you have business in Athens. You will not go there now, I think.'

  'I must go.'

  Nicos pursed his lips and moved on ahead, kicking at the ground with every third or fourth step.

  'But not yet,' said Fielding as he caught up with him. 'When?'

  'Need we talk of it?'

  'Yes. I wish to know.'

  'In two days' time.'

  'You must not go. Please. You must not leave Nicos. You must not leave ... Christopher.'

  He pronounced the name as if it had been Christopheros without the final syllable: Christopher.

  'Why cannot you wait for me while I go?'

  'I shall swim now,' Nicos said.

  'Take care.'

  'I am a good swimmer.'

  Nicos stripped down to his underpants, while Fielding settled himself on the ground, supporting his back against an olive trunk. From where he sat he had a clear view of the sea, and of Nicos as he bobbed and duck-dived some thirty yards out. Who is he? Fielding thought: where does he come from? But as he had told Nicos a few minutes before, he did not really want to know. It could make no difference. For on the one hand, Nicos was just a little pickup, who had been waiting for a tourist, any tourist, and nobody wanted to know who pick-ups were and where they came from: while on the other hand, he was the gift promised by some god in a sacred precinct, and of such it was forbidden to enquire the origin. Enough, either way, that he was Christopher come back again, just as if Christopher had been reborn, when he died nearly seventeen years ago, and had grown up as Nicos, in a different land. Nicos' age was right for that. Fielding thought. He was slightly under seventeen, to all appearance, and could well have been born during that summer of 1945, when Christopher had been betrayed and died. Would Nicos die too if he were betrayed ... if Fielding went to Athens? But why should this be betrayal?

  Fielding's head sunk forward on his chest. Eurydice, he thought. When she was taken for the second time (ceu fumus in auras, like smoke into the air, into thin air), Orpheus was forbidden ever to seek her out again. Nec portitor Orci Amplius objectam passus transire paludem; nor did the gatekeeper of hell suffer him any more to pass the barrier of the marsh. Eurydice, beyond the marsh in hell; Christopher, Nicos. beyond the marsh in hell. Or so he might be if Fielding left him to go to Athens. Like many that had been so beautiful. Tot milia formosarum ... formosarum ...

  When he awoke there was no sign of Nicos in the sea. 'Christopher,' he called at once; then 'Nicos ... Nicos.'

  Ceu fumus in auras.

  'Nicos ... Nicos.'

  He rose to his feet and ran across the beach. But his legs had been infected with his panic and would not carry him; he sprawled full length and lay shaking and desperate, until a wave licked at his face. Then he raised himself on one elbow.

  'NICOS,' he screamed.

  'Here I am.'

  There, at the edge of the olive grove. Quite naked now, legs crossed, leaning against a tree-trunk.

  'I thought ... I thought ...'

  'I was drying myself in the sun. You ran straight past me ... lying on the beach. I am sorry if you are upset.'

  'I'm all right, now. Oh. Nicos.'

  'Why do you look at me like that?'

  'You know why.'

  Nicos grinned and flaunted himself.

  'Come here,' he said: 'Then you can look as close as you please.'

  Tom Llewyllyn rang up Provost Constable at Lancaster College.

  'I've just had a letter from Gray,' Tom said; 'he is to have an interview with Grivas in two days' time from now.'

  'As to that.' said Constable, 'we shall see what we shall see. But there's something else I want to talk to you about. Can you spare a few minutes?'

  'Why not? The BBC's paying for the call.'

  'Ah,' said Constable: 'since what I have to say has nothing to do with your function there, it would be very wrong that the Corporation should be at charges. Kindly ring off at once, and then I will telephone you back.'

  Tom rang off at once and within a minute Constable rang him back.

  'Now,' said Constable, 'the nature of power. The other day, when you came to luncheon here, you expressed certain opinions as to the random nature of historical events. Presumably these opinions are of some relevance to your thinking on the subject of power?'

  'Certainly they are. Power too is a random affair. To begin with, It is almost impossible to see it as concentrated in any definite person or persons, if only because the world has long since become too complicated for even the most determined and intelligent individual to exert his will, except in very limited areas.'

  'Illustrate,' snapped Constable.

  This isn't a viva voce, Provost.'

  'Illustrate ... if you please.'

  'Very well,' said Tom. 'Power, in the simplest definition, is the ability to do or to act. You, as Provost of Lancaster, are supposedly the most powerful man in the College. Yet to what extent are you able to do or to act inside it? You can recommend, you can persuade, you can influence, you can intrigue. But when it comes to doing or acting, you cannot even dismiss one of the college servants without seeking ratification from the appropriate sub-committee.'

  'I should obtain their ratification if I sought in the right way.'

  That makes you a diplomat, not a man of outright power. It makes your authority purely personal ... the kind of authority that extends only as far as you yourself are seen. Since you can make yourself seen over most of Lancaster, we may assume that you keep pretty effective control in that very limited area ... not because you are powerful but because, for the time being, people like to please you. So you'd better watch out, my dear Provost. If your Fellows were to start turning sour on you, you could end your days with your rule confined to a small bed-sitting room at the back of your own Lodge.'

  Constable laughed grimly down the line.

  'Would you care to expand the thought?' he said. To translate it into terms of the national or international scene?'

  'Not on the telephone, no. The matter is too distressing. Telephones are only fit for making jokes.'

  'But if I were to invite you up here again—?'

  '—For lunch one day? With pleasure.'

  'Or perhaps a slightly longer visit this time,' Constable said: 'power is a very large subject'

  On the afternoon of the day before Fielding was due to return to Athens. Nicos said to him:

  'Let us go to the museum, please.'

  They drove to the museum, which was by the entrance to the temple site.

  'I have something to show you,' Nicos said.

  He led Fielding to the statue of the Charioteer. The face and figure were of bronze so worn and fragile that it must crumble, one would have thought, at a touch. The green skirts would disintegrate like sugar-icing, Fielding thought; and as for the sweet, calm face, one could surely push a finger through it as through a mask of papier-maché.

  'I have seen this before,' he said to Nicos, 'but I'm glad you thought of coming here now.'

  I'm glad, he thought, because this is a timely reminder: a reminder that the Charioteer, according to Plato, stands for the principle of reason, which reins in the twin horses of the soul. I was in danger, he thought, of giving the wilder horse its head. I was in danger of yielding to desire, infatuation, call it what you will or whatever Plato called it, in danger of letting the reins go and leaving the chariot to run on until it crashed. Not now. Despite what I have seen stretched on my bed or cavorting among the olive trees by the sea, I know that I am a man of reason, and I am keeping a firm hold on the traces. This statue will remind me of that and give me strength—the noble Charioteer of the soul.

  'Do you know the story of this man?' Nicos asked.

  'I know ... a kind of myth about him.'

  'I wonder whether it is th
e same as mine. In mine he is called Automedon, and he drove the chariot from which the warrior Achilles was fighting. One day, when they mounted the chariot, Automedon to drive it and Achilles just behind him, the horses spoke to Achilles and told him that the day of his death was drawing near. As for us, the horses said, we could run as swift as the West wind, which of all winds is the swiftest; yet even so we could not save you, for it is your fate to be slain in battle, by a god and by a mortal.'

  'I have heard that story,' said Fielding, 'but I cannot remember that Automedon had much to do with it, apart from just being there. The passage in Homer which describes it hardly mentions him at all.'

  'Automedon loved Achilles and wept for him.'

  'Homer says nothing about it.'

  'Automedon wept,' insisted Nicos. 'He wept so that he could hardly see to drive the chariot.'

  'Who told you this?'

  'I know that it was so. When Automedon heard from the horses that his friend was to be taken from him, he started to cry. His face in this statue is calm, because he was a soldier and must not give way, but all the time he was crying inside himself—just as I am crying now—and he could not stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks.'

  Fielding turned from the statue to look at Nicos. Two huge tears were rolling down the boy's face, which otherwise. like that of the statue, was quite calm.

  'Oh Nicos,' Fielding said; 'Oh Nicos, I must go to Athens.'

  He looked back at the statue.

  'It's not Automedon,' he said. 'It's a man. any man, driving a chariot.'

  'A man, any man,' said Nicos, 'crying to himself inside because his friend must go away, leaving him alone.'

  'I must say,' said Lord Canteloupe, 'Maisie really is quite something. She's made me feel positively young again.'

  'So you've taken up my introduction,' said Somerset Lloyd-James.

  They were sitting in the pavilion at Lord's, watching the first match of the season.

  'My dear fellow,' said Canteloupe, 'I'm hardly ever out of the place.'