Scorpius

by John Gardner

  That brought some hope. A marriage performed by Scorpius would be invalid anywhere outside the Society. He needed time. Maybe Wolkovsky’s people were already alerted. Time. But why should Scorpius give him time as he appeared to be doing? The whole idea was crazy.

  ‘When you say as soon as possible, how soon?’

  ‘Why not tonight?’

  Bond did not believe a word of it; the story of Harriett being Scorpius’s godchild; of promises to her father; of coincidence; of Scorpius showing concern for her future. He guessed the real answer might be to keep both Harriett and himself happy and out of the way, while the last stages of terror were played out. He did not even know if Harriett was Scorpius’s spy or not, though he suspected she had always told him the truth. He certainly did not believe in the tale about Trilby, and the state in which she had arrived at her parents’ home. He did not know what to believe about her being the wife of Vladimir Scorpius. Plainly, Bond now considered, he knew very little of the truth – who to trust; who to doubt; who to destroy, as he planned to destroy Scorpius himself.

  Vladimir Scorpius spoke again, the voice even lower than before. ‘Why not tonight?’

  Without looking at him, Bond replied, ‘Why not?’ Play for time. Maybe he would still find a way. Though, as he accepted Scorpius’s proposal, once more James Bond knew, deeply within him, that he was simply accepting his own death warrant. Nothing else made sense in Scorpius’s nightmare world.

  20

  THE PAST IS A BUCKET OF ASHES

  Everything seemed completely unreal. In many ways life had taken on a dream-like quality. There they were in the Prayer Hall, now decorated with flowers – Aretha Franklin, with Detroit’s New Bethel Baptist Church Choir, belting out ‘Walk In The Light’ through the hidden speakers, while Bond, with Pearly Pearlman as his best man, stood waiting near the steps to the platform where Vladimir Scorpius, gloriously arrayed in his ‘Papal’ robes, smiled unctuously.

  The moment Bond had agreed to the wedding that night, Scorpius’s hand had reached out for the telephone.

  ‘Wait!’ sharply from Bond. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘If the ceremony’s to be tonight there’s a great deal to be done.’

  ‘Well,’ Bond spoke quietly, ‘the arrangements will have to wait.’

  ‘You can’t back out now.’ There was alarm in Scorpius’s voice.

  ‘I’m not backing out. If I am to marry Harriett, I shall have to ask her first.’

  ‘There’s no need. She’ll marry you. I know she’ll marry you.’

  ‘I want to hear that from her.’

  ‘Trilby.’ Scorpius’s voice rose for the first time that evening. ‘Get the Horner girl and bring her here, this instant.’

  ‘No!’ Bond held up a hand. ‘I wish to see her in private. Back in the guest rooms. If not, the deal’s off, Scorpius. If you want me to go through with this, I have to see her alone. I must ask her, like any man would ask any woman. Also, she must understand what she is getting into.’

  Scorpius hesitated for a moment, then put the telephone down and nodded. ‘Very well. But she’ll marry you alright.’

  Bond thought he heard Trilby stifle some kind of choke in her throat. He looked towards her, and she had turned pale, you could see it even under the thick make-up. Again he thought, why? Why marriage? A whim of the mad Scorpius? Some subtle torture? Why, in heaven’s name was Scorpius so anxious to go through with such a farce?

  A knock on the door heralded the arrival of ‘Bodyguard Bob’, who was told to lead Bond back to the guest rooms and wait for him there.

  ‘You shouldn’t . . .’ Trilby’s voice trembled. ‘Really, you shouldn’t . . .’

  ‘I shouldn’t what?’ Bond asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Scorpius, harsh and menacing, ‘Yes, Trilby, what shouldn’t Mr James Bond do?’

  ‘You shouldn’t see her,’ Trilby almost sobbed. ‘It’s such bad luck to see the bride on her wedding day. The groom should never be allowed to see the bride on the day!’

  ‘I don’t think we need bother with superstition.’ Scorpius now sounded almost intolerably patronising.

  ‘I have to see her, Trilby. It would not be right if I did not propose to her.’

  Trilby gave a little nod, her eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Yes . . . It’s just . . . Well, I get so emotional about weddings.’

  Bond touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, and to his surprise she shrank away from him, as though he were a leper.

  Harriett was lying on her bed, wrapped in a towelling robe when Bond arrived back in the guest apartments. A logo on the pocket of the robe said Hilton Hotel Disney Village. It seemed appropriate to Bond.

  ‘James! You’ve been away for ever.’ She swung her legs over the side of the bed and dropped the book. He saw that she had been reading McCarry’s Tears of Autumn.

  Bond nodded towards the book. ‘You like him as well. Good. We have one thing in common.’ As he spoke he cupped a hand to his ear, looked up at the ceiling and made a circling motion with his index finger signifying that ceilings, walls, telephones, lamps and anything else in the room almost certainly had ears.

  She nodded, understanding him: she had already said they were stealing sound, though not, as far as she knew, secretly looking at them through one of the many devices that were available on the sophisticated market of electronics. In cases like this there was one way, and only one way, of dealing with matters. Bond – and many like him – had used it before.

  ‘Harriett, my dear,’ he began, taking her hand and leading her into the furthest corner of the room, where there was a large, comfortable-looking armchair. ‘This is damnably difficult, Harry. I’ve only done it once before.’ Under cover of speech, he had taken a silver Tiffany pencil and small leather note pad from his pocket. Now, he seated himself in the armchair, pulling Harriett onto his knees.

  ‘Only once, James?’ She gave him a sly smile. ‘A good-looking, well-made man like you?’ One arm snaked around his neck and she nuzzled her head close to him as he placed the note pad on her towelling-covered thigh and began to write.

  ‘I have talked for a long time with our host,’ he said aloud. ‘For reasons I won’t go into now, it would seem that our immediate futures are only secure if . . .’

  ‘Go on, James.’ She looked down at what he had written on the pad—

  When did Trilby Shrivenham marry Scorpius?

  She took the pencil from him as he continued to speak, ‘. . . if we get married.’

  I did not know they were married! she had written, but as he glanced at her, Bond saw fear in her face which had suddenly paled.

  Then she said aloud, ‘Married? I told you, James. I told you that was what he wanted. You believe me now?’ She shook her head, frowning, concerned, trying to tell him something else.

  ‘Yes . . .’ He took the pencil from her. ‘Yes, but I’m rather old-fashioned about these things. I am, naturally, fond of you. Very fond of you.’ Her close proximity, with only the towelling robe between him and her naked flesh began to make him uncomfortable.

  ‘So I see.’ She allowed a hand to trail into his lap. Leaning forward she read what he had written—

  You realise that, if we marry I shall do my best to escape, and take you with me as soon as possible.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Harry, is that if I did ask you, and if you accepted, it would be a marriage for our mutual salvation. Our mutual well-being.’ He wrote on the pad—

  For the present at least.

  She took the pencil again. ‘Of course, James.’ A long pause as she wrote—

  If you are going to escape you’d bloody well better take me with you.

  ‘James, what you’re saying is that you’re not in love with me, right?’

  ‘Right.’ On the pad he wrote—

  Scorpius is going to perform the ceremony tonight. You realise that it will be in no way legal o
r binding to either of us?

  ‘And?’ she queried, snatching the pencil from him and writing.

  ‘And, in spite of that, I’m asking you to go through with it. I’m asking you to marry me.’

  She had written—

  I do know that, but it is the only way. You should know that HE wanted to marry me!

  ‘Then I accept,’ she smiled at him, a brilliant illumination of her whole face – sun peeping for a second from behind dark clouds.

  ‘Thank you. Might I . . . ?’

  He had written—

  And you turned him down?

  ‘Can’t you wait until the ceremony is over?’ She looked down at his query and nodded violently – her face grave again behind the lightness of her words and voice. She took the pencil from him and scribbled—

  Yes, and landed us both in trouble. Tell all later. Let’s get on with it.

  ‘I was going to say, might I kiss you?’

  She plunged her lips down on his. Either Harriett Horner was an expert who had majored in kissing, or she had not kissed, or been kissed, in a long time.

  As he came up for air, Bond realised there could be two other explanations. Scorpius had detailed her to go through this whole business to keep him occupied – which had been a thought earlier – or she genuinely wanted him with an explosive passion.

  ‘Oh, James,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so glad it’s tonight. I really hadn’t anything better to do.’

  He gave her a withering, slightly cruel, smile and wrote on the pad—

  Tonight we plan our escape.

  Breathing heavily, to give any listeners the idea that they were once more clasped in an embrace, she wrote—

  Okay, but only after the consummation. We might as well get something out of this.

  James, you don’t know how much I’ve wanted this since we first met.’ She was almost convincing. Perhaps she means it, he considered. Then he wrote quickly—

  Yes. You are a splendid girl.

  Well, Bond thought, they would go through with it. Maybe this was a chance he had been waiting for; maybe Harriett’s turning down Scorpius was some kind of key to the constant question banging away in his mind – why a wedding? Why did this seem to matter so much to Scorpius? He still did not know a great deal about Harriett. Now that he had revealed an immediate plan to escape, her true intentions would be made clear very quickly. If she was in some way a double – part of Scorpius’s team – she would let their captors know, and certainly take steps to prevent herself becoming involved in any dangerous attempt to escape. On the other hand, if she was on the level and working for the US Government, he could rely on her sticking close to him, so that her assignment could be completed. One way or the other he would soon find out if she could be trusted.

  ‘Oh, damn,’ she said, getting up and creasing her brow. He had to admit that she was very desirable, the dark hair falling down over her eyes, so that she had to sweep it away with her hand.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely nothing to wear.’ She looked up and grinned again, though her eyes were deeply troubled behind the light-hearted front. ‘That doesn’t matter for later, but what can I wear for the ceremony?’

  ‘I’m certain Scorpius will think of something,’ Bond said.

  ‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘Yes, I would say you’re right – every damned thing, from the ceremony to the way we’re to die. There’s no way he’ll let us go on living, James. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Bond turned away, not wanting her to see the look in his eyes. ‘Then we’ll have to do something to prevent it,’ he said.

  Vladimir indeed appeared to have thought of everything. There was full grey morning dress for Bond and his best man, complete with silk cravats and buttonholes.

  And now, as they stood in the Prayer Hall, Bond saw that he had been conservative in his estimate of what Scorpius could provide.

  The tape of Aretha Franklin faded, and an organ blared out the bridal march. The lights dimmed, and spots slowly came up on the centre aisle.

  Bond had an odd sense of déjà vu as he saw his bride and her retinue. There had been a little over an hour to arrange matters, so reason told him that Scorpius must have already been well prepared – not a good omen.

  The smooth hoodlum, whom Bond had dubbed ‘Bodyguard Bob’, came down the aisle with Harriett on his arm – she in a gown of pure white silk, a wide skirt nipped in at the waist where it turned into a low-cut bodice decorated with embroidery and pearls. On her head was a full bridal veil which covered her face and fell around her shoulders, flowing down her back to half the length of the long train which she managed with splendid elegance. She shone and glimmered in the lights, a radiant white goddess slowly descending to be joined to her waiting groom.

  For a second, Bond could not stop the rise of emotion as his mind went back to the last time he stood waiting for a bride – his beloved Tracy, the wife who had so tragically been murdered while they travelled to their honeymoon. At this moment, her memory, like a wraith, seemed to cloud over Harriett so that she dissolved, her place taken by his dead wife. For a few seconds, Tracy was there again, coming towards him, her face serene. Then the reality snapped back, and he took a deep breath, clearing his head and remembering a cynical line he had once read: The past is a bucket of ashes.

  The trick of mental and emotional confusion gave Bond an odd feeling that Harriett and he were possibly committing some kind of blasphemy. Her procession was a stunning sight, as though lit and directed by some great theatrical talent – Harriett holding a demure bouquet of pink and white flowers; Trilby in cream silk, with a wreath of flowers on her head, as matron of honour; and three of the young female Meek Ones, including Pearlman’s daughter, Ruth, dressed in the same cream silk.

  The spell was broken by the thought that, as long as Harriett was what she claimed to be, there was no blasphemy, for they were both going through this mock ceremony to save lives – not just their own, but others who would have died in the future.

  By his side, Pearly Pearlman muttered, ‘Look at my Ruth. What would her grandmother say? A good Jewish girl like Ruth taking part in all this. It’s not right, and there’s that wimp of a husband of hers, look at him.’ He nodded towards a young man, pale, thin and bearded, sitting a couple of rows up the aisle. As Ruth passed him, the young man gazed at her with moist eyes. ‘She should have married someone with a proper profession. With a future.’

  Bond whispered back, ‘Your son-in-law, the astronaut? Or the skydiver?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Pearly said, a shade loudly.

  Harriett arrived beside Bond, handing her bouquet to Trilby and smiling through the veil as though he was the only man she could ever love or marry. Perhaps he was. The thought did not worry him, though their combined future did. From that moment onwards, he had to keep one thought in the forefront of his mind – This is not real, he told himself. Not legal, not anything.

  The odious Scorpius stepped forward and began to intone his own version of the marriage service—

  ‘Dearly beloved, those who are meek in mind, heart and body, we have assembled here to join these two persons – Harriett and James – in marriage, according to our faith, and our belief that only those who have embraced the Society of Meek Ones, shall attain true paradise . . .’

  It went on for about half an hour, a whole commixture of Christian, Jewish and other religions. Their hands were bound together by a silk scarf, similar to a stole; Bob, the bodyguard, acting as Harriett’s father, passed over a velvet purse containing fifty Kruger rands; they exchanged rings; each drank three times from the same silver cup; and Bond smashed a wineglass, placed under a cloth, with his foot. This last, Scorpius explained, was the shattering of all persons who stood between the true meek and the way to paradise. Bond knew well enough that this was plagiarised from the Jewish ceremony, which is symbolic of the destruction of the Temple, and reminds the couple that marriages must be well guarded or they also can be
broken.

  At last, Scorpius pronounced them man and wife. Harriett’s veil was thrown back, and Bond was allowed to kiss the bride.

  A small party took place in a large anteroom, where they were joined by all the Meek Ones present. There were toasts in champagne – a Pol Roger ’71, one of the great vintages – and good wishes, followed by short speeches. Harriett looked at Bond with admiration in her eyes, and he realised that, while he could never truly fall in love with this girl, he did care greatly for her. Certainly his sense of chivalry told him he must do everything in his power to see that she did not suffer.

  By now it was very late, almost two in the morning. Already, Bond had made up his mind that, though it could well cause more deaths in England, they would have to wait until the early hours of the following day before chancing the escape plan, now well formed in his mind. At least that would give him some daylight in which to look at the terrain outside the huge windows which made up almost the entire exterior walls of the guest rooms facing the sea.

  With much cheering, and many tasteless jokes, the couple were led to the guest chambers which they found almost too adequately prepared for them. The room Bond had already been allotted as his bedroom was sealed off, and the overnight briefcase had been brought into the main sitting room. There were flowers, more champagne and chocolates. One of the bodyguards had said they would not wake them early, while Scorpius made it plain that he did not expect to see them for two or three days at least.

  Bond was feeling the onset of fatigue, after the long day, coupled with time-change. He excused himself and went into the bathroom to wash and begin his nightly routine. His toilet bag had been unpacked, and its items placed on the glass shelf above double hand-basins. When he emerged, Harriett stood by the bed in her skimpy underwear. ‘Look, James,’ she gave him her most wicked grin, ‘I’ve got it all.’ She pointed to each item of clothing in turn. ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed and they’re all blue.’ She came towards him, wrapping her half-clad body around him, pulling him back to the bed. It would have taken a saint to resist her, and Bond would be the first to admit that sanctity was not his strong point.