by Ruth Rendell
Still he said nothing. She leant over him and laid her cheek against his hair. 'I haven't upset you, have I? I'm not going to try and stop you eating them. I did taste one and I thought it was rather nice. I said a habit like this can be quite quickly got over but it doesn't have to be. Of course I don't know how many you're eating, but if it's a lot, like ten a day or something like that, it might be sensible to cut down. After all they are "sugar-free" and that means aspartame or one of those sweeteners, so it's not a good idea to overload your system with the stuff.' She moved away from him, stood back. 'Gene? Are you all right?'
'Yes, of course,' he said, his voice thin and shocked. He tried to clear his throat. 'I think I'll go out for a bit.'
'Gene, look at me. What's wrong? Is it what I said?'
'I'm just going out for a walk.'
'It's pouring with rain!'
She moved a little towards him again. Her face was contorted with concern and dismay. 'You can't go out now. We have to talk. We can't just leave it. I'd no idea when I spoke to you that you were going to take it like this.'
'I haven't taken it like anything,' he said. 'I'm tired and I need fresh air.'
'Well, when you come back we'll talk about how you got into this and how you're going to handle it, it'll be a lot easier for you now I know. Remember it's not crack cocaine, it's not even cigarettes. You'll be over it in a week.'
A lot easier now she knows… This was in such conflict with what was actually the case that he could almost have laughed. Except that he felt he would never laugh again. Without saying any more to her, he went out into the hall and put on his coat. The pockets were weighed down with Chocorange and Oranchoco packs. For the first time in his life Eugene experienced the emotion that is a combination of desire and loathing, and is usually called a love-hate relationship. He pulled all the packs but one out of his pockets and threw them on to the floor of the cupboard. It no longer mattered if she saw them. It was too late.
But he waited until he was outside the door before splitting open the pack. With a Chocorange in his mouth, its flavour not at all diminished by the scene just past in the drawing room, he put up his umbrella and began to walk along Chepstow Villas towards the Pembridge Villas turn-off. The sweet was soon finished and he immediately craved another.
What was he going to do? Not go home again. He turned round, walked back the way he had come and towards the Portobello Road, passing his own house but keeping his head turned away. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle and stopped. He put down his umbrella. The Portobello was just the same, only rather more crowded, ablaze with lights, alive with music and laughter and shouting. He went into the Earl of Lonsdale and bought himself a glass of white wine. A Chocorange substitute. Pubs had never really been his thing and, since knowing Ella, he had only once been in one. The wine was sour and sharp but he drank it, unable to find a seat and standing up at the bar. This was how it felt when a carefully guarded secret was discovered. It had been the same with the drink when a friend caught him in the men's room, swigging covertly from a hip flask. The same? No, this was far, far worse.
Going home was impossible. He considered finding a hotel. But Londoners know nothing about hotels in their own city and besides, he had no change of clothes with him. He put another Chocorange into his mouth and wandered across the street among the crowds to the Electric Cinema. There he went up to buy a ticket and astonished the woman who asked which number theatre he wanted by saying he didn't care, it didn't matter, and he would take whatever she chose to give him.
It really didn't matter; he fell asleep as soon as he was in one of the red leather armchairs that had replaced the old seating. Someone further along the row woke him by pushing past his knees when the lights came up. It was close on midnight but the streets were still crowded. Not when he reached Denbigh Road, though. He thought, I am a homeless person now, obliged to be a street sleeper, and then he thought how Ella would have reproved him for his callous insensitivity when he was healthy and rich and successful with a home in one of the most sought-after districts of any city in the world. Fool, he told himself, and he went home at last to a dark and silent house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Twice in the past weeks she had tried to phone him but got no reply. Eventually, his mother had phoned her, speaking in a bright gushing voice, to tell her that her son was 'enormously better', thanks to taking Miss Crane's pills 'religiously', and really there was no reason for her to see him again.The implication was that the therapist had succeeded where Ella had failed. Ella wondered if she was being paranoid in thinking this way or if she was simply feeling rather low. No wonder if she was, after what had happened with Eugene.
She had lain awake for much of the night, waiting for him to come to bed, unsure whether he had come home. She had gone downstairs to look for him but when she tried the study door, found it locked against her. It must have been against her – who else? That door was still locked in the morning and calling to him to let her in had no effect. She went to work but phoned him before seeing her first patient. Her relief when he answered was enormous.
'I'm fine,' he said. 'Just off to the gallery.'
'Gene, where were you? What happened last night?'
'I'll tell you later.'
She had never before, not even when they first knew each other, heard that remote tone addressed to her. It was the way he spoke to someone delivering a package – no, cooler than that, less polite than he would be to the postman. Halfway through the morning she phoned the gallery to be told by Dorinda that Eugene was with a client but would call her back. No call came. She had no appetite for lunch. It was her afternoon for calls, three of them to be made to elderly bed-bound patients, the fourth to Joel. But this one she made for something to do, for a way of passing the time, such a new departure for her that she couldn't recall experiencing the feeling before. His mother had told her she wasn't needed. Wendy Stemmer wasn't his guardian. However strange he might be, however ill he had been, he was in charge of his own life.
It was a view she quickly had to modify. As soon as Rita let her into the flat she could see there had been radical changes. It was a sunny day and the place was flooded with light. Whoever had done this must have seen that taking down the blinds and replacing the heavy velvet drapes with thin curtains revealed the shabbiness of the furnishings, so much of this had been replaced with Ikea tables while the sombre upholstery of the chairs was hidden under stretch covers. The Caesars were gone and the ornate mirrors that reflected them.
Rejuvenation had been done on the cheap. A lot of house plants stood about, the kind that come from supermarkets rather than garden centres. Ella found Joel in a room she had never been in before, only seen dimly from its doorway. He sat at the old dining table on one of the old dining chairs, holding a ballpoint pen above a sheet of paper resting on a table mat.
'Hello,' he said, looking up, and she could tell at once from the tone of his voice that the drug he was taking had deadened his personality.
'How are you, Joel?'
'I'm fine.'
'Is Rita with you all the time now?'
'Only in the day,' he said in the same monotonous voice. 'Bridget comes at night. They don't leave me alone.' There are two ways in which that last phrase may be interpreted: they don't let me be isolated or they never stop harassing me. 'Ma comes. She doesn't like it but she comes.'
'Did your mother get the new furniture?'
A profound boredom dulled his features. 'I suppose. Someone did. They took away those men's faces, said they were bad for me, made me brood.' He gave a little staccato laugh. 'I'm not in the dark any more.' It was impossible to tell if he meant that literally or metaphorically. She expected him to mention Mithras but he didn't. 'I'm writing my memoirs.' The sheet of paper was blank. 'It's hard to start. I get an idea for a way to start but then I get tired and I have to sleep.' An empty smile stretched his mouth. 'It doesn't matter, does it?'
She thought she should do something, b
ut what? He was well, he was calm, he seemed content. Wasn't this better than when he was haunted by an imaginary phantom, the voice of a god? She watched him lower his head, put the pen to the paper, but on the right-hand side of the sheet. With real horror she saw his hand move the pen in linked circles and loops towards the left, a pattern rather than writing, as his lips moved with a fishlike opening and closing.
'I'll see you soon, Joel.'
She got up. The woman called Rita was hovering in the hall, waiting for her to leave. As Joel's doctor, she thought she could ask about his situation. Out of his earshot, she asked, low-lowvoiced, if Mr Stemmer came to see his son.
'Only her,' Rita said. 'Only his mum.'
On her way home Ella tried to think of how she had first met Joel. It had been when he was in hospital having his heart surgery and she had brought him the money Eugene had found in the street. He was a sick man then, or at least a recovering man, but his ills seemed all physical. In those five months his mind had grown sick and strange, and now it was as if he had been hollowed out and only a shell of that man in the hospital remained. There was nothing she could do, there never had been much. Her attention now must be given to Eugene whom she was due to marry in ten days' time.
She expected him to be at home by now. The house was empty. She realised she had eaten nothing since breakfast and breakfast had been only a slice of toast. The fridge was full of food, the fruit bowl laden with oranges, bananas and the ripe figs that were just appearing in the shops. Carli had left a new spelt loaf on the bread board and beside it, in the cheese dish, a slice of fresh Cheddar. She turned away from it all, went into the drawing room where she stood at the window, gazing down the street in the direction from which he would come. The phone rang and she ran to answer it but the caller's was an ingratiating voice enquiring if she wanted a new kitchen fitted. As she put the receiver down she heard Eugene's key in the lock, the door close and his footsteps move along the hall in a slow reluctant way quite unlike his usual brisk pace.
Gemma was the loveliest thing ever to have been seen in that grim room with its ranked tables, each with a chair on either side of it, each chair occupied by a woman Lance set down as deeply unattractive. A bunch of dogs, he described them to Gemma who reproved him for his cruelty. She, he told her with unusual flights of imagination, looked like a flower on a landfill site. Had they dared, the other men would have whistled at her as she came to take her seat opposite him in her pale-pink miniskirt, high black boots and white fur jacket.
'It's not real,' she confided in him. 'I wouldn't wear real fur, not when you know what they do to them poor little animals. How've you been, lover?'
'I'm good,' said Lance, not because he felt well or happy but because this was what he always said when asked this question. 'That Fize know you're here?'
'You must be joking. He'd kill me or get that Ian to do it.'
'Like that, is it? Now, listen, Gemma. I never done that fire.'
'I know that, sweetheart.'
Lance lowered his voice to a whisper. 'I was over in Pembridge Villas in a house.' Now it came to confessing it he found himself increasingly reluctant to state baldly what he had been doing. 'I was – well, I mean, you know, I broke a window and I, you know, got in. I'd been in before, had a look around and ate a chocolate cake.'
Gemma started laughing. 'You what?'
'I ate a chocolate cake and some soup. The old woman what lives there was away on her holidays, I mean the second time. I took some stuff, jewels and stuff, you know, whatever. I come back with the stuff in my backpack and there'd been that fire, only it was all over and her next door and him too was outside, and they said about Uncle Gib was OK and Dorian being dead and they thought it was me…'
'Wait a minute, Lance. You've lost me. You mean, you was breaking into this old lady's place on Pembridge, so you wasn't burning Uncle Gib's house down? Is that what you're saying?'
'Yes,' said Lance simply.
'You'd better tell the fuzz, then.'
'They won't believe me.'
'They will. The lady'll have told them there'd been someone in there and said what was missing and all. Look, lover, you have to tell them. You want to get sent down for murder?'
'I don't know,' said Lance.
'I do. You could go inside for life and that's fifteen years. Maybe the judge'd say -' Gemma put on an accent she would have defined as 'posh' – 'I recommend this evil person serve at least twenty-five years on account of he burnt a house down as well as murdered a poor harmless visitor to our shores. He could, Lance, I'm not kidding.'
'You reckon?'
'Look, if you won't tell them, I will. OK? I'll write them a letter. Now you tell me the number of this house you broke into and the lady's name and the time, right? Maybe I'll tell them about the chocolate cake too. It'll sort of prove it was you.'
* * *
She went up to him, holding out her hands. He took a step backwards, shaking his head. His face seemed to have accumulated enough lines to age him ten years.
'What is it, Gene? What's the matter? Are you ill?'
Again he shook his head. He made a movement with his hand, indicating that she should sit down, the kind of gesture a man might make to a female stranger, courteous, remote. She hesitated, then sat down rather heavily. They faced each other but his gaze faltered and he lowered his head.
'Please say something, Gene.'
'There's only one thing I can say.' There was an undercurrent of despair in his voice. 'I wish things were different but they're not.' He seemed to be searching for words. 'We can't be married,' he said at last. 'I can't marry you, Ella.'
She stared at him, slowly clenching her hands. Her voice came at last, as hoarse as his had been. 'I'm not hearing this.'
He shrugged, his expression hopeless. 'I can't marry you,' he said again.
'I said, I can't believe I'm hearing this.'
'I mean it. I can't marry you.'
'But why?' The two words came out like a cry from the heart.
He avoided answering. 'You can stay here. I mean, you can stay indefinitely, for ever if you like. I'll go to an hotel. I'll do the cancelling of all the – the arrangements. I'll tell everyone what's happened. I'll try to make it as easy for you as I can.'
'You'll try to make the breaking of our engagement easy for me?'
'What else can I say, Ella? I can't marry you, that's all.'
'Don't you love me? You loved me yesterday, you loved me last week.' She put her head in her hands but almost immediately looked up, staring at him. 'Why? Why?' Events of the evening before came back to her. 'It isn't – it can't be – it's not because of those – those things I found?'
The deep flush had returned to his face. He lowered his eyes. She saw a tremor start in his hands.
'It is. It's because I found those sweets. No, this is mad. It's not possible. Is it possible?' His attitude of humility, of a meek yielding to the inevitable, told her that it was. She jumped up, cried out, 'But it doesn't matter, darling. It doesn't matter. I can forget all about it. I'll never mention them again. You can eat the wretched things to your heart's content. I don't care.'
'But I do.' He spoke with quiet finality.
'You can't destroy both our lives because I found out you'd got a harmless habit. For God's sake, it's not as if it was looking at pornography online or stalking women or – oh, I don't know. You can't split us up for that. We love each other.'
'I'm leaving now, Ella. As I said, I'll see to everything.'
He was shaking so much she thought he would fall. She went up to him, trying to touch him.
'Ella, please don't. I have to go.'
She followed him out into the hall. It was as if she felt that so long as she stayed with him, shadowed him, kept close, he would be unable to carry out his threat. Yet she was afraid to touch him. He kept his back turned to her. She walked round to face him again but he turned away once more, took his overcoat out of the cupboard, felt in the pockets, put the coa
t on. He picked up his briefcase. She put out both hands and clung to his arm but he loosened her grip with his free hand, finger by finger.
'You are making things worse for yourself and for me,' he said in a remote voice.
Opening the front door, he stepped outside without looking back. She followed him down the path but when he let himself out of the gate, stopped and turned away. The front door was swinging in the wind and she had no key with her. She ran back, grabbed her bag with her key in it, and without attempting to find a coat, ran down once more to the gate and the pavement outside. Eugene had disappeared from view.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Until now, his journalistic experience had been confined to answering readers' letters; and when no letters from people with emotional and sexual problems came, to inventing suitably lurid substitutes. But now Uncle Gib was confronting a new challenge, the composition of Reuben Perkins's obituary. He sat in Maybelle's former dining room, now allotted him as a study, at work on the computer the Children of Zebulun had bought him. Its ivory-white keys were already dyed pale yellow from his cigarette smoke and stubs mounted in the pottery fruit dish Maybelle had provided as an ashtray. A life of selfless service and generosity to the community, he had typed, unparalelled single-minded devotion to one and all, regardless of age, sex or creed, when Maybelle came into the room with a cup of tea for him and a black pudding and cheese sandwich.
'How d'you spell "unparalleled"?' he asked her.
'I don't know, Gilbert. I'm not intellectual like you.' She scrutinised the screen. 'Like you've done it. That looks right.'
Uncle Gib thought it looked wrong. The trouble was he didn't know how. Maybe he'd put 'unrivalled' instead. 'You going out?'
'I can do,' said Maybelle eagerly.
'Get me forty fags, then, will you?'
Maybelle said she would, smiling at him fondly. Uncle Gib lit a cigarette and set down a few episodes in Reuben Perkins's life, which bore no likeness to reality. He ended with words he calculated would get him into even greater favour with Reuben's wife: Cut off in his prime, he leaves a widow, the lovely Maybelle, some twenty years younger than himself.