The censor, p.6
The Censor, page 6
There were only eight people in the bar. A young couple oblivious to everything but each other and the glasses on the table between them; four men, loud, and likely to get louder, squashed together in a nervous camaraderie which they would all regret by dawn; an elderly grey man, alone and immersed in the evening paper; and the man at the next table.
She had seen him the moment she had walked in. He would probably admit to forty, a dark suit, slightly crumpled, brown hair, once curly, now beginning to recede, bright eyes and a thin moustache. He had looked at her, hopefully she thought, as she stood in the doorway.
Dorothy was always careful and she had instinctively singled this one out as a possible. He had the lost look of a man away from home for forty-eight hours, lonely and with an evening on his hands.
A waiter bowed over her. She ordered bacardi and coke. There was something about the waiter’s manner. He had come to her without any bidding. No lift of the hand or eyebrows. This was the moment Dorothy enjoyed. In Humphrey’s company she always felt just out of focus. Waiters came because of his authority. People were naturally pulled into his orbit because of his power, his charm. On her own, at times like this, she tasted, revelled in, her particular power. The power that is unique to woman. The power of her sex, her body, the way in which she moved, the instant reaction she seemed to trigger. Men looked, desired, wanted to please, wanted her lips, breasts and the small subtle area of pleasure which tingled now between her thighs. The power was the great prize she treasured. If nothing else happened tonight it was enough to experience that power.
The drink arrived. Dorothy again looked at her watch, then at the door. She moved the chair, embarrassed, unsettled. She knew he was looking at her. Little quick glances between sips of his drink. Hoping? Play him, she thought. Play him as though you were holding him by the genitals.
She let five minutes go by. The four men ordered another round of drinks, making too much fuss about it. Ten minutes. She tried to look annoyed. The young couple left the bar.
She finished her drink, set the glass on the table in front of her, took out a packet of cigarettes and began to rout through her handbag for a light.
It worked first time.
‘Excuse me.’ He leaned over, the flame of his lighter quivering six inches from his mouth. She looked up quickly, meeting his eyes, then down again. He had beaten the waiter by about four paces.
‘Thank you.’ She inhaled on the cigarette and allowed the smoke to dribble from parted lips. She held it a second, looked at her watch again, then — ‘Have you got the right time? I’m not sure about mine.’
He was wearing a serviceable watch. Leather strap, utilitarian, durable.
‘Just half-past-seven.’
She bit her lip. ‘This is the only bar down here isn’t it?’
‘Yes. There’s the grill of course. The grill. But this is the only bar. Somebody late?’
She caught the slight Scottish inflection, waiting for a second before answering.
‘I was supposed to meet my sister here. Half-an-hour ago. I was a little late myself.’
He had a strong smile. Good teeth. ‘Shouldn’t worry. It’s a wretched night. She’s probably been held up.’
‘Yes.’ She tried to sound unconvinced.
‘Would you care for another drink?’ He looked almost bashful as he spoke. ‘I don’t mean to be ... But ... If you’d like ...’
‘Yes. Yes I would. Thank you.’ She stared full at him and returned the smile.
He joined her at the table. The waiter smirked as he took the order, walking to the bar, mincing steps. He said something to the barman who looked in their direction and grinned lasciviously.
‘You’re staying here?’ Dorothy asked, returning her attention to him.
‘Yes. Usually do. It’s cheap and comfortable. I save a bit on the old expense allowance. You here?’
She nodded. He was a Scot and liked saving on the expense allowance. Maybe her intuition was wrong.
‘Just for the night,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ The conversation was becoming circular. Silence. Then they both started to talk at the same moment.
Dorothy laughed. ‘Look, would it be terribly rude of me? I think I’d better telephone my sister. She’s usually such a punctual person. I think I’d better …’
‘If you think it’s best. Sure. Go ahead. I’ll watch the drinks.’
She felt the tingle again as she walked away. Low down and deep inside her loins. He was younger than her. A well-built man. Probably well made down there as well. A real man. You’re man mad. That’s what her father used to say. God, more than twenty years ago. Twenty years and she still felt the same when she needed it. Twenty years and it had not made any difference. It did not matter who the man was. Tonight she had to. With someone. Anyone. She should have put those pants on. She was damp and it was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Dorothy waited for ten minutes and then went back into the bar. He looked relieved when she came in alone.
‘Any luck? You get her?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice dejected. ‘She’s been trying to get hold of me. Her husband arrived home with ‘flu.’
‘She’s not coming?’
‘She’s not coming.’ She fiddled with her handbag. ‘If only she’d been able to let me know earlier. I could have arranged to go to a show or something.’ She counted ten.
‘Look. This may seem a bit ... Well ... I’m on my own ... At a loose end. I’d be most grateful if you’d have dinner with me.’ Pause. ‘A bit cheeky I suppose, but London can be depressing on your own.’
‘Well. Well I don’t know ...’ Six, seven, eight. ‘Oh yes. All right. Yes I’d love to. Thank you.’
His name was Russell Cook. Not a Scottish name, but he came from Perth. One of the many immigrants, he said. He had been in Birmingham for seven years, partner in a small industrial printing firm. Dorothy tried to sound interested and ask the right questions.
They had three more drinks in the hotel, then he waited for her downstairs while she got her coat from the room. He did not get a taxi, but gently led her up Shaftesbury Avenue and into Rupert Street. ‘A nice little Indian place I know. You like Indian food? If not they do English as well.’
‘I adore Indian. If it’s not too hot.’ She gripped his arm and they ploughed through the drizzle which had soured the day. She loathed the idea of having to eat English food at an Indian restaurant.
The restaurant was long, narrow and almost empty. There was a heady smell of spices, warmth and a sense of intimacy.
Over the chicken pilau they talked. Russell about his wife and the marriage which was inevitably failing. Dorothy about a fictitious past and an imaginary present.
Finally, Russell got off the drab, commonplace subject of his dreary marriage and they began to edge closer, the verbal fencing towards the final object. He had three more whiskies, his eyes getting brighter and his face more flushed. Dorothy managed a second gin and tonic. It was nearly eleven when they got back to the hotel, neither of them in any doubt about what was to be done next.
‘I’d better see the lady back to her room,’ he leered. For a moment she felt sick of the whole situation. The more sordid aspects slid to the surface of her mind. She pushed them down among the sludge again as her bodily need swamped common sense. He had begun to behave with standard lechery. In the bedroom it became almost automatic. He held her against the door, kissing her, his hand on the inside of her skirt. As he pulled away he wiped his hand down her thigh.
Stripped, he had quite a good figure though the stomach had begun to swell into a paunch.
‘Five months gone my wife always says.’ He patted the straining skin. He did not even have the sense to keep his wife out of it at this stage. ‘Come on then me wee hen.’ He lapsed into a broad stage Scottish.
Dorothy hesitated, stepping out of her dress, but she was too far gone with need for the long stiff phallus which rose like a small lever from his thighs.
She let her slip drop to the floor and slid onto the bed beside him, closing her eyes and reaching down to handle him. He wrenched away the brassiere fastening, pulling it roughly to bare her breasts, sucking the right nipple fast between his teeth.
She moaned and lay back, legs straddling wide, giving a little cry as she was impaled on him riding her, throbbing, thrusting the ache away.
She felt her nails dig hard into him as she whispered. ‘Please. Please. As much as you like. Fuck.’
‘God, you know how to make a man feel ...’ He was panting too much to speak.
She felt his chest heaving, his breath on her face and the beat of him in her. She moved now with greater urgency, frightened that she would not meet him at the climatic apogee. They sped nearer to the moment, then, at the upsurge of a vast lunge, she felt him falter. It made her open her eyes. There was a choking noise and his hand clutched at her shoulder. He was straining upwards, head arched back, eyes screwed tight as though in pain, a nauseating retching noise coming from his throat. She was conscious, like background music, of his ejaculation spurting fast and warm inside her. His face was a furious red. Crimson. A hand clawing in the air. Then with an immense, frightened sigh he fell forward, heavy and unmoving across her.
‘Russell?’ Her hand on his back, but the back had ceased to rise and fall. ‘Russell?’ A higher pitch as her mind tried to reject the fact.
She pushed and he slid from her, a lump, silent on the bed, his hair soaking with sweat, eyes open and dull.
‘Russell.’ Nearly a scream. She had seen her father choking and clawing like that, in the drawing room on the day of that last fatal heart attack. Until now, her father was the only man she had ever seen dead. Until now. Until poor Russell from Perth and Birmingham. Quietly, she began to cry.
The shape of the corpse was blurred by her tears. She turned and caught her reflection in the mirror. Pathetic. Revolting. The traces of his last act dribbled on her thighs.
Nausea. The bathroom. Retching. Vomiting. Waves. The nice model house blue wash basin. More tears, brought to her eyes by the discomforting stomach reflexes. At last Dorothy washed her face and returned to the bedroom.
It was still there. In the bathroom there had been some childish hope that it was all a nightmare and the thing would have gone. But he was lying face upwards where he had rolled. One fist clenched to the pillow drawn half across him.
Dorothy stood, timeless, at the bottom of the bed, indecision leaping in her brain. Call Humphrey? Call the management? Call Humphrey’s solicitor? Get out? Call? Get out? The clothes scattered. Her suitcase. The panties neatly folded by the chambermaid who had turned down the bed. Gradually she thought straight. Whatever happened she had to tell Humphrey. Nausea again at the thought. The answer was to get out and see Humphrey as quickly as possible.
Bracing herself, she picked up the telephone and called reception. It was Mrs Castle and she had just received a message which meant checking out immediately. Would they have her bill ready?
She slung everything into the case. Cleaned up her face. The hands shaking, shivers going through her whole body.
Half way down in the elevator the thought hit her that the night chambermaid might be ordered to clean the room straight away and that Russell’s body would be discovered before she even left the hotel. But nothing happened. The porter whistled up the street for one of the three cabs that stood at the stand, the drivers leaning against the first vehicle in line, smoking and waiting the early morning hours out in idle chat.
The driver grunted a nod when she asked for Liverpool Street Station. Liverpool Street had been modernised and was reasonably open. There were usually police about as well. It was unlikely that she would be molested. The thought of police triggered off another reaction. She could see the body plainly, and the maid finding it. The scream. The eruption of tragedy. The police.
At Liverpool Street she called the car hire firm they used regularly, giving her real name. She had arrived at this unearthly hour and needed a car to take her straight back to North Oxley. Yes Lady Carmichael. Of course. They would have a car and a driver she knew with her in fifteen minutes.
It came half-an-hour later, with a driver she knew but did not trust. He always looked at her oddly. A small man. Crafty eyes.
The journey took nearly two hours and she hardly spoke just sitting in the back looking out into the, blackness, occasionally catching sight of her own reflection in the window, her mind trying to settle on a starting point for her inescapable conversation with Humphrey. In the end she stopped even trying to think or be frightened of what he was going to say or how he would react. The blackness outside the window merged with the blackness of her mind.
She had her own key. Once inside the hallway she realised that in the two weeks at the nature farm the smell of the house had left her memory. Polish. Wax. The permanent pleasant scent which gave the illusion of safety.
Leaving her case in the hall, Dorothy went straight upstairs.
Humphrey sat up quickly, startled as she switched on the light.
‘Dorothy? What the . .?’ Then, as he took in her face and appearance. ‘What on earth’s the matter? What’s wrong.’
She went over and sat on the bottom of the bed, panic beginning to break up her mind so that she could not choose the words. Could not begin.
‘I ... I’ve ...’
‘Come on Dorothy. Come on. Out with it.’ A gruffness which she dreaded.
‘I’m in terrible trouble. I need help.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
Slowly it started to be revealed.
‘The times when I’ve told you that I’ve been with Maggie.’ Maggie was her sister. The cover, the excuse used about once a fortnight.
‘You haven’t been with her?’
She shook her head, looking down at the pattern on the eiderdown, gold squirts against royal blue.
‘With a man I suppose?’
‘Not just a man.’
‘You’ve …?’
‘Any man. A different man. Always different. I stayed at the Palace.’
‘That brothel.’
‘Any man I could pick up.’
‘You fool.’
It was so quiet. A placid, calculated exchange of words.
‘Any man. I called myself Dorothy Castle. In the register. The hotel knows me as Dorothy Castle.’
He was sitting bolt upright in bed. Hands together. ‘And now someone’s found out and you’re being blackmailed.’
Her laugh pierced high, the squeal of an animal trapped and in pain. A night noise.
‘No. No blackmail. I can’t even say I’m sorry.’ Another laugh. ‘In some ways the situation’s quite funny. Tonight. Tonight I did it again and the poor bastard died on me.’
‘What do you mean? Died on you?’
‘Literally died on me. How do I put it, Humphrey? How do I put it in your language? While he was pleasuring me? While he was possessing me? While we were conjoined? Having sexual intercourse? That’s it though. He was having me and he died. On top of me.’
‘How?’
‘How what? How was he having me? The only way you know as far as I can remember. In the most common position.’
‘How did he die?’
‘A heart attack I think. A heart attack. His bloody heart just gave out.’ Deterioration. Sobbing. Uncontrollable heaving and shaking. Humphrey talking quietly into the telephone. ‘I’m sorry George, very sorry, but this is vital. Critical. Yes. Not on the phone. I would be most grateful. As soon as you can. Thank you yes. Thank you.’
He recradled the instrument, swept back the bedclothes and put his feet onto the carpet.
‘George Militant is on his way over.’
Militant and Militant had been the Carmichael solicitors when Humphrey’s grandfather built The Hall.
Dorothy’s sobbing switched off as another fear swept down on her.
‘I can’t tell George. I can’t.’
‘I’ll tell him. But make up your mind, Dorothy, you’re going to have to talk to quite a lot of people.’
He was in his dressing gown. A good dependable wool. Brownchecked. Like small boys in prep school.
‘Dorothy, I wish to heaven you’d thought.’
She heard the words but made no comment, knowing what he meant. In the next sentence he said it outright.
‘What this will do to me, God only knows. How on earth did it start?’
How indeed Humphrey? Charming Humphrey. Cool calculating Humphrey, where indeed did it start? Long before you came on the scene.
All they want to do is put their things into you.
How?
You know. How you start babies.
Incense pervading every room in the convent school. The hushed purity of the walls. The hushed dirty whispering of little girls.
What, up between your legs?
Of course.
But they can only do that if you’re married to them.
Don’t be a wet. They can do it any time. You’re only supposed to do it when you’re married but they want to do it all the time. Angela Morris in the sixth did it with a friend of her brother’s last Christmas.
Mary she didn’t. Not Angela.
She did and she told Sellina all about it. Sellina told me. She had a ripping time.
She liked doing it?
Said it was yummy.
I don’t believe you. She didn’t do it. People don’t until they’re married.
Dorothy, what a little prude you were then. When did it start? Sixteen years old and the tennis club. Hot dry afternoon with the ball plopping off your racket as the sun dropped and you drank long John Collins’ with the boy. Forgotten his name now. He probably died in some impossible part of the World. You’d find his name on a roll of honour or a memorial somewhere.
No name in the memory but you can still smell the new cut grass in the dark and feel the turf under your back and his eager fingers playing with you. The urgent ascent. The quick pain and swelling inside. You never forget the first and that was memorable. Everything but his face and name.
