by Simon Raven
But never mind all that now, he thought; I’ve done what I can. With the practised insouciance of his calling, he dismissed Isobel and Lewson altogether from his mind and turned to the next item on the agenda. In just two hours’ time he would be seeing Rupert Percival: how best to win his backing for Lloyd-James?
Max de Freville received a letter from Isobel.
“. . . Mark and I are writing this together, among other things to thank you for your part in bringing us together. We know it sounds silly, but if things come right, about money and so on, we’re going to be the happiest people that ever lived. Mark is so - super. I can’t say anything more about him because he is looking over my shoulder as I write and it makes me feel a fool. Proud, but a fool.
“You’ll have read about what happened at the wedding and drawn your own conclusions. Mark had been drinking -nerves, he said, and of course one doesn’t elope every day. But it was frightful - though we’d no idea, until we saw the papers, that that poor fireman had been killed. Rotten luck, really, for everyone: that road is usually empty for days at a time. Mark feels horrible about it; but we both agree that there’s no point in giving himself up at this stage. It wouldn’t help anyone and it might spoil everything for us. Jolly lucky that according to the papers no one who saw us driving off knew who he was. And more luck: it seems no one had time to take the number of that car, so they can’t trace us that way. But it’s the sort of car which shows up rather, so Mark sold it for cash - no questions asked or answered - to a little man he knew of near Warminster, and took an old Morris shooting brake in part exchange. Mark says the little man will repaint it and anyhow keep it out of the way until the fuss dies down. What it is to know one’s way around. But of course it might have been more sensible, for an elopement, to use a less prominent car in the first place. That’s one of the things I love about Mark: he’s awfully naive in so many ways, innocent almost.
“But whichever way you look at it, we shall have to lie low for some time. We can’t go abroad, though Mark seems to have lots of money with him, because Daddy keeps my passport locked in the safe and I couldn’t get at it. But Mark’s thinking up a plan for hiding, he’s superly clever at that. You must blend naturally with the surroundings, he says. Never hide under a table, sit down at it and start eating, and then no one will take a second look.
“And later on? Well, what we’re hoping is that Daddy will play along with us, that because of this peculiar letter he’ll let us get married and give us some more money - Mark’s won’t last for ever, he says, even if he has done quite well just lately. I don’t really see that Daddy can refuse, Mark knowing what he does and being able to prove it, and it’s a good sign that he hasn’t told the police who ‘the hit and run driver’ is, though he must know because of the note we left him. He daren’t risk trouble, Mark says. So it really looks as if there may be a happy ending. If only the police don’t find us. But of course it’s me they’re looking for, as they don’t know who else, so we’re going to be cunning about that - travelling separately and staying at different places, hardly meeting at all until Mark’s hit on the ideal place to hide. So if they do find me, they still haven’t found Mark, and what can they do then?
“We’re writing this in a wood outside a dear little village near a place called Blandford. I’m going to take a bus later on, and Mark will follow in the Morris - we’re not quite sure where, but that can be settled later. Because it is wonderful, being in this wood with Mark, on this beautiful summer day - hasn’t it been a marvellous summer? - only the two of us in all the world who know where we are, and only mattering to each other. And that brings us to the last thing we’ve got to tell you. Dear old Max, you’ve been so kind to us in your way. I’ve had such fun writing to you all this time, and Mark’s enjoyed it too, not only the money you’ve paid. But now, whatever happens, we’ve agreed it’s got to finish. You see, Mark and I are now private. Can you understand? Whatever we may do, we shall be doing it so closely together that to tell you would be, I don’t know . . . Mark says exhibiting ourselves, like a circus act, and from now on it’s not going to be like that any more. It was all right when we were separate, it would even be all right if we didn’t love each other, but as it is . . . We do hope you understand.
“Love from Isobel and Mark.”
“Will he understand?” Isobel had said to Mark when she finished writing.
“I don't know. He's been very odd lately. I think perhaps ... by the time he gets this ... it won't matter to him.”
“But we had to tell him,” she said.
“Yes, we owed him that. If only all our debts could be so easily paid.”
They both lay back. The mid-morning sun, penetrating a gap in the leaves, cast a small patch of light over Mark's eyes. He threw his arm across them, moaning slightly.
“You're still thinking of that man,” she said. “You shouldn't. He died at once, the papers say.”
She lifted his arm from his eyes and bent over him.
“But there must have been a moment, Isobel, a split second, when the pain . . . That shaft, driving through his body, smashing through the flesh and the tissue ... So delicate, you see, and that brutal shaft, that was me, driving through ....”
“It’s over now.”
First to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again, she kissed his eyes until the horror left them.
About the same time as Isobel was kissing Mark in Dorsetshire, Somerset Lloyd-James received a telephone call in Gower Street.
“It's me, dear,” said Maisie's voice, strained.
Although Maisie had instructions on no account to ring Somerset at his office, he did not waste time and make matters worse by reminding her of this. He simply said nothing, which conveyed his displeasure far more effectively.
“Can you hear me, dear?”
“Perfectly.”
“I'm sorry. I know that you - Look,” she said, and there was something desperate in her voice which pierced even Somerset's carapace of self-esteem. “You must come round. Please.”
‘‘This evening.”
“Now.”
Somerset had known Maisie for several years but he had never known her rattled or importunate. Now she was both. More; she was afraid and she was pleading. Trouble, thought Somerset: keep out of it. She’s only a public whore, let her settle her own affairs, she’s got no claim here: don’t get involved.
“Can you hear me, Somerset?”
“This evening, I said.”
“No, no, now.”
If he rang off, she would only, ring again. This was what came of being - well - distinguished. Sooner or later, however little you told them, people like Maisie saw your photograph in the paper, found out what you did, where you worked. You felt flattered, of course, but you told them not to take advantage, never to ring up, they agreed, and then - this. You should have changed your whore, he told himself, as soon as she found out who you were. Or had you yourself told her, late one night, boasting? He couldn’t remember, it made no difference anyway, because ...
“Somerset,” shrilled the telephone, “Somerset”
“I’m coming,” he said.
Oh God, he prayed, as he walked down Gower Street searching for a taxi, if this is something the other side’s thought up, some come back of Sir Edwin’s (who could have told him about Maisie? Tom? but did Tom know? perhaps), then make me strong in cunning.
“Curzon Street. Near the cinema.”
Presence of mind, O Lord, that’s what I need. God damn the woman - sorry, Lord. Of course one should have foregone such childish pleasures long ago, but the flesh is weak, the member unruly, one had to think (Lord) of one’s health. But if this turns out to be all right, a false alarm, just some bill she can’t pay, then I promise that from now on - I’ll get married, that’s the best way. Whom shall I marry? He thought with mounting distaste of the three or four girls whom his father had from time to time recommended, tipped the driver twopence (“Thanks for sod all, Guv�
��), rang Maisie’s bell, and lifted his brown bowler hat to Maisie.
“Please be brief,” he said as she closed the door behind him; “I’ve got a long morning’s work.”
She nodded, smiled nervously, led the way through to her sitting-room. He had never been in her flat during the morning before. It felt all wrong, cold and exposed. And yet the electric fire was burning, imitation log and all (Maisie knew he felt the cold, even in summer), the curtains were drawn, the corners of the room were in shadow, it might just as well have been afternoon or evening, so why this discomfiture? It was no longer irritation at being disturbed, not even curiosity, but a feeling of being out of place, worse, of being in an element wholly alien. Not a hostile element, exactly, because hostility he understood and this atmosphere was something which he could not understand, for all the cosy curtains, the familiar fire. No, this was worse than hostile: it was indifferent. It neither recognised him nor cared for him nor hated him nor understood him, any more than he understood it; but for some reason it had need of him. Was this how whores were when one did not bring money to pay for attention? Utterly indifferent, without sympathy or understanding of any kind? And yet, Maisie had always seemed a good-natured girl quite apart from the offices of her trade; and after all, it was she that had summoned him, apparently wanted his help, so she ought to make an effort to put him at ease, to dispel this . . . this fog of anonymity which flooded the room.
“Please be brief,” he repeated.
“Gladly,” said a man’s voice.
Maisie smiled - weakly, guiltily, rather affectionately - and left the room.
“Jude Holbrook,” the voice went on. “You remember me?”
“Yes.”
But the name did nothing to restore normality. Even when the squat, remembered figure moved out of the shadow and stood in front of the electric fire, there was still total indifference in the room, the same impossibility of communication.
“Not that it matters,” Holbrook was saying, “whether you remember me or not. What concerns us is . . . isolated. Nothing to do with past or the future. Just something that must happen . . . now.”
“The sooner the better,” said Somerset sincerely. “I’m a busy man.”
“I must have that letter,” Holbrook said, in a bored, courteous, reasonable voice.
“What letter?” said Somerset, bored, courteous, and reasonable in his turn.
“The one you bought from Lewson.”
Somerset looked carefully at Holbrook and did not bother with denials or evasions.
“It isn’t for sale,” he said equably.
“I didn’t suppose it was,” said Holbrook in equable exchange. “All the same I must have it.”
“What do you propose?”
“I propose that you hand it over to me. I don’t want any . . . childishness.”
“You’ve changed,” said Somerset. “You are altogether less crude.”
“The past is not at issue, as I’ve already told you. Such comparisons are irrelevant.”
“Interesting though ... if only one were at leisure. Good morning, Jude.”
But the door was locked.
“You mustn’t blame Maisie. I frightened her, you see.”
He took a small bottle from his pocket.
“A little of this in her face and she’d be out of business,” he said: “for good.”
“My livelihood,” said Somerset (Lord, give me strength), “is not so precarious.”
Holbrook stepped softly up to Somerset, whipped his glasses off his face with the speed of a conjuror, and placed them carefully on the sofa behind him.
“I don’t suppose you can see much now,” he said casually: “your livelihood is more precarious than you think.”
Somerset blinked and made a mild, deprecating movement with one hand.
“I suppose it’s just possible,” Holbrook was saying, “that a blind man might be elected to Parliament despite all the difficulties. But a blind editor. ...”
He unscrewed a stopper from the little bottle, then, keeping the bottle vertical with the most delicate attention, raised it until it was just under Somerset’s nose.
“How did you find out?” Somerset said.
“The usual way. I was given a strong scent and I used my nose to follow it. But let me repeat: we’re not, concerned with the past, only with what’s happening now.”
Now, Lord, now. Somerset lowered his head and butted. He felt a sickening pain in his bald scalp. He put both his hands over it, clasped them to make a helmet, butted again at nothing, and crashed to the floor.
“It will make a nasty blister on that pate of yours which will look very silly. And that was only a quick dab with the stopper. I did say I didn’t want any childishness.”
Somerset lay still.
“You can’t cope with this sort of behaviour,” said Holbrook affably. “You’re clever enough and crooked enough to cope with almost anything - provided you can take plenty of time and proceed in your own way. The intellectual’s way. But physical action . . . no. You don’t understand it. You’re not a coward - you’ve shown that. You’re just incompetent.”
He kicked Somerset carefully in the groin,
“That hurt,” said Holbrook, “but not much, and it’ll do no permanent damage. Any more than that blister on your bonce.” He bent down and talked straight into Somerset’s face. “It was much more difficult,” he said, “just to raise a blister than to blind you. But I could do it because I have a talent. You have a talent too. You’re as good at teasing, torturing, if necessary destroying, as I am - in your own abstract and cerebral way. But here, in this room, that way’s no good. Mine’s the way that counts.”
He kicked Somerset with gentle precision at the base of the spine. Somerset’s whole body stiffened as if in ecstasy. His hand shot out towards Holbrook’s ankle.
“No, no, no,” said Holbrook briskly.
He ground Somerset’s hand with his heel.
“This just isn’t your thing. As a rational man, you must see that.”
He held the bottle over Somerset’s face and began to tilt it. “Very well,” said Somerset, breathing heavily, “you shall have the letter. But I’d be interested to know what you want with it.”
“That is for those who employ me to decide.”
“If you say so. Pass me my glasses, if you would.”
“With pleasure. Tell me, where is it hidden?”
“In my office. In the Oxford Companion to Classical Literature. Not a volume people refer to these days.”
“Then let’s be off .... You needn’t be ashamed, you know,” said Holbrook, solicitously dusting down Somerset’s coat. “Only fanatics and morons are capable of resisting pain indefinitely, and if one’s going to give in anyway, one may as well do so at once and save a lot of trouble.”
They left together discussing this proposition in general terms. Some sort of relationship, after all, had been established by what had passed.
“Good of you to come,” said Rupert Percival.
“Good of you to see me,” smiled Sir Edwin, wearing his humility like an ill-fitting set of false teeth.
Percival led the way on to his terrace. As they sat down, the Minister hummed a few bars from Lilac Time, his favourite music when his spirits were low. For most of the time he kept them up very well without Novello’s assistance; but the events of the last two days had been somewhat lowering, and the interview now in prospect was going to be the more difficult as he had no lever with which to prise Percival in the desired direction. Sir Edwin liked to have leverage. He liked to be in a position to propose a deal, or, failing that, he had no objection to having a deal proposed to him. What he did not care for was occasions, like this one, on which there was no proper basis for negotiation. He would have to ask, and of all things he hated asking. If only there had been something which Percival wanted for himself . . . . But Percival, as Dixon had told him, wanted nothing - a piece of intelligence borne out by the placid gaze with
which he was now examining the Quantocks. He did not even seem curious to hear what Sir Edwin would say; at all events he made no effort to get him started.
“This election,” said the Minister with all the resolution he could muster.
“Yes?”
“I gather you’re not choosing your candidate until next month.”
“The selection committee meets on July the thirtieth,” Percival deposed. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” He took a toffee from his pocket, unwrapped it and hustled it into his mouth. “What does Dixon think about it?” he said.
“He thinks,” said Percival blandly, “that the committee will choose one of the five candidates on the short list.”
“Five? But surely - ?”
“ - Five.”
This was getting Sir Edwin nowhere. He had been told, of course, that theoretically there were five men for the Bishop’s Gross committee to choose from; but as he understood the case, everyone in the know acknowledged that in truth the choice lay between Lloyd-James and Morrison. To be treated as if he were not in the know was aggravating. He fumbled in his pocket for another toffee.
“I am going to take you into my confidence,” he said, seignorially unwrapping his sweet.
Percival inclined his head politely.
“We need more ability in the House. To be candid, we’re a bit low on intelligence just now.”
Once more, Percival inclined his head.
“When it comes to intelligence, of the applicants for the candidature here two stand out.”
“That had occurred to me,” Percival said.
“I,” said Edwin, sucking hard, “that is to say we, that is to say . . . well, no doubt you know who I mean?”