Scornful Moon

by Gee, Maurice

  James made no word — made a twitch of annoyance, which he disguised.

  ‘If she’s in bed it’s better not to disturb her. I’ll call tomorrow. It’s nothing new, I hope?’

  ‘She’s just over-tired. We’ll keep her here a few days, if that’s all right. That will give Charlie a rest too.’

  ‘Where’s she?’

  ‘Coming soon. She’s saying goodnight.’

  James sat down. ‘When she’s ready,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Tinling,’ Siers began, but I shepherded him away: ‘Not now.’ I wanted him out of the house — everyone out.

  He saw my mood and went for his coat. I walked down the path with him.

  ‘Extraordinary. What’s wrong with the man?’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Siers.’

  He stumped away as James’s car came along the street and stopped at my gate. I heard laughter from inside: heard the driver’s door open and saw a face rise above the hood, illumined by the street lamp. Fag in mouth, hat pushed back, teeth a-grin.

  ‘Gidday,’ he said.

  It was a surprise too many. My world tilted, throwing me sideways.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘My new job. I’m a shoffer.’ It was the boy/man Lennie, Oliver Joll’s messenger.

  ‘You work for Joll.’

  ‘Not any more. I quit. It’s better wages. And a motor of me own’. A sentence broken cleverly: toff the first part, street-corner lout the second.

  Taylor, climbing out the passenger door, laughed.

  ‘Do you know this person?’ I demanded.

  ‘Just met him,’ Taylor said. ‘What’s wrong, Unc?’

  ‘He works for Joll. Does Mr Tinling know?’ I said to Lennie.

  ‘I left Joll’s.’

  ‘But I bet you report back to him.’

  Owen Moody had climbed from the back seat. ‘I don’t think you can accuse him without any evidence.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Like Taylor, we just met.’

  ‘I’d smoked all my fags so I cadged one,’ Lennie said.

  ‘What’s your second name?’

  ‘Ferrabee. Len Ferrabee. I showed him references, all that.’

  ‘One from Joll?’

  ‘Never got one. I walked out. Couldn’t take any more of that big boss stuff.’

  ‘Give him a break, Uncle. He’ll lose his job if you tell on him,’ Taylor said.

  The coincidence was too great. I was sure the fellow was a spy — yet a careless one, to let himself be discovered so easily.

  Owen Moody said, ‘This would make a good bit for our novel. Conspiracies, eh?’

  ‘If Joll and James are after the same seat,’ I began — but these were not the people I should be talking to.

  I started for the house. Charlie and James came on to the porch.

  ‘James, your driver used to work for Joll,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ James said, adjusting his scarf, ‘he told me. He doesn’t like the fellow any more than I do. Goodnight, Sam.’

  Lennie Ferrabee grinned from the street and raised his hat. Taylor laughed, while Moody hid a smile. Charlie kissed me.

  ‘He drives nice and slow. You’ve got to for Da.’ She seemed relaxed, perhaps from talking with a fellow artist; would not know of James’s refusal yet, had probably not known that Siers would ask or she’d have stopped him.

  Owen Moody held the car door open. Ferrabee flicked his cigarette butt over the hood on to my lawn. He climbed in, engaged the gears, drove smoothly away. Owen and Taylor came back to the house for their coats. I did not want to speak to them, so crossed the lawn and ground out Ferrabee’s butt with my heel. What was going on? James knew the man had worked for Joll. Was it James who was running a spy? Impossible. The whole thing had to be a coincidence. Except that Ferrabee was the smart-alec type James would never employ.

  All my remaining guests were on the path: Eric and May, Elsie and Freddie, Taylor and Moody.

  ‘Skulking, Sam?’ Eric said.

  ‘Hooligans,’ I said, picking up the cigarette butt and throwing it into the street.

  I saw them off and went inside.

  ‘How long is she staying?’ I said to Rose. I felt a desperate need for simplicity. I wanted to be alone with my wife.

  ‘Don’t start, Sam. It’s not her fault.’

  ‘She chose her life.’

  ‘Not now, please. I’ll have to sit with her for a while. Do you want to go in and say goodnight?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Go and get some sleep then. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  I went to my study instead and poured another drink. Soon I began to feel ashamed. I could look in to where Rose sat and say I was sorry, but that might mean speaking with Vi as well; so I fetched a tray from the kitchen and cleared away the dirty dishes and uneaten food.

  Rose opened the door and whispered, ‘Thanks,’ as I went to bed.

  • • •

  Vi would have stayed all winter, but Rose and May between them persuaded her that better care and comfort lay at home. James had said he might hire a nurse. Charlie came to fetch her in the car with Ferrabee. She promised she would stop James putting Vi on show again — but James, I’m sure, had made that decision for himself.

  I went inside, breathed deeply. The woman was gone. My house felt spacious and clean aired. I resolved to stay put, and when I went out to keep my eyes front and not engage with things that did not concern me. Rose sat beside me on the sofa. I put my arm around her and we stayed quiet and still. She was grieving for her sister’s broken life and I allowed myself to feel a little sadness too.

  We worked in the garden in the afternoon. How still the day was, how sufficient this place and company.

  Then events began to move again, and people reached out and put their hands on me.

  Chapter Six

  The selection meeting. I was not there but see it in my mind’s eye like an ill-shot movie, jumping gaps from frame to frame. Here’s Joll, here’s James, speaking, smiling, raising dramatic palm, then facing each other with made-up faces, white and still. Each will be the hero. Only one can be. It is Joll. His face grows dark with triumph and his smile expands. He flickers suddenly as things speed up — faces the hundred faces, raising his arms over his head like a boxer, while James, wearing a thin smile, nods his head once and steps up and shakes Joll firmly by the hand. Joll wants to hang on, make it matey, but James disengages and his black-coated back goes out the door. His white gloves flash. His top hat gleams. He is gone. Joll stands alone with his victory.

  Top hat? Gloves? What stuff I make up — yet it’s not invented, it’s what I see. And I see James reach home and sit in his study in the dark as the hall clock strikes one, two, three. He smokes a cigarette and stares between heavy folds of curtain at the night.

  I did not travel out to the Hutt Valley but called him on the telephone to commiserate — and found him spry voiced, talkative. I thought, Well, the obsession’s gone, the weight has lifted. James can be a free man again. No more sleepless nights, no more looking into the dark.

  ‘I see why they chose him. They’re wrong of course,’ he said. ‘But as you pointed out, Sam, there are tides that flow in politics and it does no good opposing them. The better man lost, but that’s no unusual event. How are you and Rose? Oh, and thank you for looking after Violet so well. I think she’ll turn the corner soon. Charlotte says she’s eating more.’

  I risked re-introducing Joll.

  James made a sound of contempt. ‘At least he’ll beat the Labour fellow. I suppose that’s to the good. Whether he’s got the intelligence … It’s noise isn’t it, most of the time, and striking poses? Well, this is the age of the vulgarian. Let’s not talk about him. Do you see where Lawrence of Arabia’s dead? What a sad thing. These motorcycles. We must make sure that Taylor rides carefully —’ and so on. John Buchan — more importantly, Baron Tweedsmuir — appointed Governor-General of Canada. ‘We could
do with that sort of chap out here.’

  I hung up with relief — and was relieved for him.

  Eric had the same conversation. In spite of the chatter, it made him think that James had suddenly grown old. We agreed that life might be easier now — James pottering in his roses and taking up bowls instead of tennis. The court would make a good croquet green.

  ‘I’d like to try that game,’ Eric said wistfully. He took me to the wrestling instead, where Lofty Blomfield used his Indian Death Lock on Ken Kenneth.

  The next night our novel-writing group met to hear Owen Moody read his chapter. Nine of our original twelve were left. Marcus Waller was gone, Tom Gow was gone — his letter was pompous and ill phrased; I was pleased to be rid of him — and, sadly, Roy Kember had sunk almost overnight into a slough of despond and feebleness. All his lost ambition, wasted chances, dragged him down. It is not part of my story, his despair and dotage, so I’ll leave it.

  Roy was my friend.

  ‘I’ll write an extra chapter if you like. I’ll do Tom Gow’s. Put in some pleats,’ Owen Moody said.

  This boy is hard of heart, I thought. He’s a je m’en fiche-ist. ‘You’re still on probation. Let’s hear your own chapter,’ I said.

  We were in my study, crammed in, wreathed in smoke and, I supposed, mellowed by our first glasses of beer.

  ‘Point of order,’ Euan Poynter said. ‘I’d like to think that just because we’re dabbling in murder we don’t have to let our standards drop. No criticism intended, but there seems to be a falling away. We all like our pint, and no one takes too much, but — hmm, nothing personal — anyone looking in might think we’re a bit of a rabble. Not quite the clean potato, don’t you think?’

  I told him I did not follow.

  Owen Moody gave a laugh, almost a shout. ‘He means me. My cravat. I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Is that it, Euan? You think he should wear a tie?’

  ‘It’s just, well, how we feel about our status. Senior writers and all that. I know we have to let some young ones in, and move over gracefully, so to speak, but nevertheless, standards, you know. I’ll say no more.’

  ‘Does anyone agree with Euan?’ I asked. No one did. ‘Then we’ll get on.’

  But I saw the tightness in Euan Poynter’s face. He had expected to win his point by seniority, urbanity and what he thought of as his common touch. Another one lost, I thought. We’re falling apart.

  ‘I’ve got some flasher ones than this,’ Owen Moody said, flicking his cravat free from his jacket. ‘I’ll wear one next time.’

  ‘Let’s leave it,’ I said, ‘leave it alone. More beer, anyone? Top up your glasses. All right, Owen. Read what you’ve got. Just remember where we are —’ I looked around. ‘Jennifer Woodley has been kidnapped. And our journalist hero, Rufus Worthington — is there anyone here like me who doesn’t think that name’s quite right? No? We’ll discuss it later. Rufus has found the house by the Basin Reserve. He’s investigating, creeping up the stairs, when someone on the landing whacks him on the head with a blackjack. Lights out. Carry on, Owen.’

  ‘ “Chapter eight”,’ Owen read, his voice changing in a way that startled us: authority. ‘ “He could not tell if sound or movement caused his agony. A thin whining cut him like a knife — a blade sliding into his eye socket, into the space where memory of who and why and where must lie. With it came a vibration, and a backward pressure that meant — his first coherent thought — forward motion. The jolt of a pot-hole, a sideways tilt, a lurch of gears: he was in a car, blindfolded, hands and feet tied. A voice above and forward of him grunted, ‘How’s our pretty boy in the back?’

  ‘ “In spite of his pain and fear, Rufus was instantly alert. He knew who he was and where he was, but not who with, or why, and knew himself to be in mortal danger …” ’

  Owen read on. The thug in the passenger seat, his eyebrows meeting (Owen’s joke: he would take it out, he told us later — and anyway, how would Rufus see if he was blindfolded?) — the thug reaches back and slaps Rufus casually on the mouth. ‘Leave him,’ the driver says, in an educated voice.

  I have a copy with me as I write — need it for quotation, but not for impact, which can never be repeated. I remember thinking: This boy is the goods.

  The car climbs a hill, changing down, coughing in its throat. A gate squeaks open, a garage door groans. The educated voice says, ‘Bring him.’

  Inside a house he is forced on to his knees. ‘Tell us how you found us.’ They slap and punch him, then burn him with a cigarette. (‘No!’ Euan Poynter exclaimed. No one else agreed.) Rufus howls inside himself but does not say a word. They untie his hands to break his fingers. (‘No!’: Euan Poynter.) But Rufus cries, ‘Where’s Jennifer? What have you done with her?’ The educated man laughs: ‘I think we’ve caught the boyfriend. Leave his fingers, Morry. He’s in enough pain from love already.’ He tells Rufus that Jennifer is ‘trussed up like a chicken’ in the house by the Basin Reserve. ‘If you’d opened one more door you would have found her. Hard luck.’ He tells the thugs Rufus has been acting alone. ‘Lock him in the shed. You can take him out and dump him in the morning.’

  Rufus tries to see beneath the bottom of his blindfold. There are three pairs of shoes, one of them Italian. The educated man says, ‘You can dream of her tonight, Algernon. That’s as close as you’re going to get.’ The thugs guffaw. They tie his hands, drag him outside, throw him on a dirt floor in a shed.

  Owen took a sip of beer. He smiled at us. Was there something contemptuous in it? Then he read on: brisk, clipped, fast, personal. I kept on thinking: He knows, he knows.

  Rufus is a match for the thugs. He has read Houdini’s autobiography and knows the trick of swelling his wrist muscles while the ropes are being tied. He has perhaps half an inch of play. Coolly, yet desperately for there will be no second chance, he sets to work, wondering all the time if he will be a match for the man with the educated voice.

  I’ll skip the rope bits — they are too long. He frees his hands, takes off his blindfold. When his eyes can see, he makes out high walls, a high window, a half-attic for storage at the back of the shed. The moon shines in. He unties his feet, gets his circulation back. Rufus explores. The door is barred on the outside. There is no way out.

  Owen wrote with sinew and blood: I mean, you knew this was a man saving himself by courage, dexterity and physical strength. Our detective story had turned to action and was alive. I think we all knew — even Eric, although he was grinning with interest — that we had been pushed aside, or rather, stood down, and had no part in our book any more.

  He (Rufus) uses a plank of wood to climb to the attic. He walks on beams like a tightrope walker to the high window over the door, forces it open, wriggles through, drops to the ground. He crouches, working out what to do next. Steal the car? No, they will be on to him before he can get those groaning doors open and the engine started. He looks out to sea, where Kapiti Island rolls its whaleback on the horizon. A motor boat is anchored a hundred yards off shore. He understands ‘dump him’. They will tie something heavy on him and take him out and drop him over the side. For a moment he is paralysed with fear. Then fear for Jennifer galvanises him. He must get back to the house by the Basin Reserve and rescue her before these killers find out he is gone.

  He runs for the beach, crouching low.

  The house door opens. A man comes out, a slighter man than the muscular thugs. He stands on the veranda, looking out to sea. Rufus lies on his stomach, peering through a bush. The man walks down the steps and starts for the beach. Rufus crouches on the sand, under a crumbling overhang. Soft footsteps sound. The man stops at the top of the bank and looks out over the ruffled sea. The moon lights his face and Rufus, peering through a fringe of grass, sees that he is young, scarcely more than a boy, with a high shining forehead and black hair, hooded eyes catching glints of light, a nose like a blade, a bitter mouth with a silver scar turning up one corner like a smile. For a moment he thinks it is a woman dress
ed as a man. He knows he has seen her before.

  The man speaks. The spell breaks. ‘I will,’ he says.

  We sat breathless, our pipes going cold, our forgotten glasses in our hands. Owen smiled — broke his own spell. ‘Not too much?’ he inquired.

  ‘No, no. Go on.’

  ‘ “The words cut like diamonds, in that English voice, and Rufus, under the bank, on hands and knees, knew that this man would out-think him, out-fight him. “I will.” A terrible will, reducing other lives to dead matchsticks, garden slugs. He lowered his eyes from the bright face.

  ‘ “How long he crouched there he did not know. The man had only to lower his eyes to discover him. He was imperious and beautiful and deadly, standing unseen yet printed forever on Rufus’s memory.” ’

  Too much, I thought; and Owen frowned, thinking so too. He coughed, read on.

  The villain, the educated boy/man, woman/man, takes out a cigarette, strikes a match. He stands smoking. The breeze from the sea drops for a moment. Smoke curls down and Rufus, alert again, fighting back, identifies the Turkish smell of the cigarettes John Woodley had favoured.

  After smoking for a moment, the man drops his cigarette on the sand, where it burns half an inch from Rufus’s palm. He turns and walks back to the house; sees the half-open window in the shed; runs to the door, flings it open. He turns to the house and screams like a eunuch, ‘Morry, Bluey, he’s got away. Let the dogs loose.’

  Cool again, thinking again, Rufus picks up the cigarette. He grinds out the burning tip in the sand, puts the butt in his pocket: evidence. He heads for the water in a crouching run.

  I won’t do all the action: Rufus swimming, bullets pocking the water by his head, two huge hounds going crazy at the water-line, a dinghy launched from the boathouse; the motorboat engine that won’t start and the anchor that won’t free; more bullets smashing into the hull; then the roar of the motor, the bow wave swamping the dinghy, sending Morry and Bluey into the sea; and last of all, as Rufus roars away down the moonlit coast, the villain, moonlit too, standing on the beach, his voice raised in a howl, his white scar gleaming.