'Don’t be shy.’ he said.

  'I’m not really.’ she said. ‘I’m just not used to... being with a man.’

  And went on drying him.

  He ran his hand through her hair.

  'I like your hair.’ he said, and picked up his clothes. 'You’ve been marvellous. You’ve given me a real break. A real rest.’

  He started to dress.

  What are you doing?’

  'Getting dressed.’

  'Dressed? But you’re not going out?’

  'No?’

  'But you can’t go out.’ she said, saying the first thing that came into her mind. 'It’s . . . it’s raining.’

  He sat down on the edge of the bath and started to laugh’

  I’m too delicate to go out in the rain?'

  'But aren't you... going to stay here?’

  He stood up, put his hands on her shoulders. 'I'd like to. Of course I'd like to but..He sighed. 'Do you know what you might be letting yourself in for?’

  'No.’ she ‘said with a passion that surprised her, 'I don't know and I don't bloody care.’

  'If the DeparI’m ent were to find out... .’

  'How the hell could they? Unless I told them. And I'm hardly likely to do that, ami?'

  He waited a moment, watching her carefully.

  'Aren’t you? In the cold light of dawn - when you’ve had a chance to think things over ?'

  'Christ, don't you know?’

  •What?'

  'How I feel. Like I felt two years ago. Only worse. Or bet’ ter.’ She sniffed.

  Don’t cry.’

  'I’m not crying, I'm sniffing.’

  He felt constrained by the emotionalism he had aroused — and was exploiting.

  It’s all rights then, if I stay a couple of days?'

  'It’s all right with me if you stay for ever.’ Her hair had fallen across her face and she drew it back behind her ears. 'I know you think you’re exploiting me — because you can’t help it You’ve no choice. But I'm doing what I’m doing because I want to. And you don’t have to love me in return or anything. Or even pretend to. ... So you see, you're not exploiting me at all.’

  She believed instinctively that opportunities for happiness, however short-lived, should be taken. Anyway, it was in the nature of happiness to be short-lived.

  In bed later she said, 'Please keep still a moment. I want to try and remember this. I tried to once before but couldn’t’ She wanted to fix it in her mind forever: this one moment, the particular sensation, the smell of him, the feel of him, the sight of him hulking over her In the dark like a big black shadow but solid and alive and beautiful.

  'Christ, you're beautiful,' she said and moved against him. Kiss me,' she said. ‘With the kisses of your mouth.’

  She knew she'd never remember, but she didn't care any more.

  Frank Smith was dreaming. He had put Joan up in the spare room but now in his dream she was standing by his bed. Dreams are always crazy, of course. Then he woke up and found she was standing by his bed. It was ridiculous.

  'This is ridiculous,' he said.

  ‘What do you want for breakfast.’

  'I cook my own breakfast.’

  'Not while I'm here.’

  This is ridiculous,’ he said again. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  'Yes.'

  He told her.

  Thank you,' she said and climbed into bed beside him. 'What are you doing?’

  To hell with the spare room,' she said. 'I'm lonely.'

  'Well,’ he said, delighted but trying not to show it. 'Well....'

  He felt inadequate but she soon altered that

  The Controller was not sleeping but staring up into the darkness worrying.

  He had a great deal to worry about. He was the only one, apart from Frank Smith, who appreciated what he was up against

  He felt restless and kept changing his positions but did it slowly and surreptitiously for fear of disturbing his wife and setting off one of those kicking spasms. What a life for a cultured man.

  The Minister spent the evening at the theatre watching a sex- comedy he found as sexy as toothache and just about as funny.

  The black girl, who was in it, had been asking him to go for months and finally, having run out of excuses, he went. The only bits he liked were when she was posturing on stage and he was remembering the posturing they did together off stage.- ‘Great show,’ he told her afterwards. ‘Marvellous.’

  ’And how was I?’

  ’Terrific. What a range. Like a black Bernhardt.’

  ’Are you pulling my leg?’

  ’Of course not. I mean it Sincerely.’

  Then he took her back to the flat in Fulham. Afterwards, driving home in a satisfied day-dream, he carelessly drove past the Royal Marsden, which he normally avoided. It looked big and bleak rising up above the street-lights into darkness. And he had a vision of his wife, pale-faced and sweating, quietly dying by inches up there in that flower-filled room.

  He turned the car radio on loud.

  Later in the night when he was asleep Alice leaned on her elbow and looked down at him in the moonlight reflected from the white-painted wall outside her bedroom window.

  Very gently she pulled back the covers and even more gently rubbed her hand across his bare chest. It seemed more sensual and more loving than anything she had done before. He breathed deeply and regularly, his sleep undisturbed. She ; went on rubbing his chest and staring down at him or what : she could see of him in the reflected moonlight.

  13

  In the early hours of the morning Modibo Njala was packing - or rather, Arthur was packing and Njala moodily watching.

  He was without a woman for once and it put an edge on his already unstable temper. The intelligent Arthur was more self-effacing than ever.

  Njala wandered restlessly round the penthouse, the heaviness in his genitals irritating him like an itch, and out on to the terrace. He looked at Hyde Park in the moonlight and the midget figures of men and women in Park Lane climbing into cars and taxis. Once or twice he fancied he could hear their laughter and it teased his imagination. He got a pair of field-glasses to see the women better, but the angle and the height made it difficult to get more than a glimpse of curves undulating through a patch of light ‘I’ll l the darkness cheated him again.

  He went back inside.

  ‘That bloody country house. The idea appals me. Ring that man Smith and tell him I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.’

  'Yes, sir.’

  'No - I’ll phone him myself. What’s the time?’

  'Half-past two, sir.’

  'I hate women. Did you know that, Arthur? I hate them.’

  'No, sir,’ said Arthur, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  He went on packing. Njala wandered again, stopping by a pile of books.

  'Are these the ones we’re taking with us?’

  'If you approve, sir.’

  'Montaigne. Yes, I like him, he’s got a dirty mind. Yes, and Oblomov. We’re all lazy at heart.’

  He picked up another book. 'A Month in the Country?

  You’re not trying to be funny, I hope, Arthur? Anyway, we’ve got one Russian, and one Russian’s enough. . . . Strange, first they want to kill me, now they want to save me.’

  Arthur looked at him blankly.

  ’The English, Arthur, I’m talking about the English.’

  'You really believe they sent that man to kill you?’

  Njala shrugged. 'There’s no proof. But looking at all the circumstances I should think it’s highly likely.’

  ‘I didn’t know they went in for that kind of thing.’

  'Oh yes they do - if the price is right. They’re pirates. Always have been. It’s a tradition, like poetry. Their greatest gifts - piracy and poetry. Now in decline, of course, like everything else. But just because they’re no longer swarming up the rigging with a knife in their teeth doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how to kill.’

  He stared out of the window, lost in thought. It had started raining again.

  'I bet it’ll be draughty and damp. Or the heating’s off and no one knows how to turn it on.’

  With a violent movement that made Arthur jump he swept the pile of books off the table.

  'I want a woman,’ he said.

  Alice was awake early. She woke from a deep sleep, drowsy and warm and happy, feeling Abbott’s back against her. He was still asleep. She eased herself gently out of bed, careful not to wake him, looked at her naked reflection in a wall- mirror and smiled, yawned, brushed her hair and finally put on a dressing-gown.

  She went down to the front door to fetch the milk. It was going to be warm again. The sun was out but had not yet dried the overnight rain, and the streets were still damp and fresh. She took a deep breath and smiled at the milkman, who was delivering next door. She felt like smiling at everyone. She also felt she must be aware of every moment before it disappeared.

  She ran upstairs and put the kettle on, then uncovered Solomon.

  'Why don’t you sing, you stupid bird? That famous song. His left hand is under my head, his right hand caresseth me ‘

  Solomon stayed silent.

  She made tea and took a cup into the bedroom. As she put it on the bedside table she saw he was awake and looking at her.

  He sat up and opened the dressing-gown and started kissing her thighs and belly.

  'Richard.’ she said, her voice not quite steady. 'Richard, if you don’t stop I think I’ll melt.’

  He pulled her into bed.

  'The tea,’ she said. 'The tea’ll get cold.’

  Later, when they were having breakfast in the big living- room, sitting by the window in the early sunlight that always seems so yellow, talking idly over coffee and toast, she had a feeling of unreality that often comes with happiness.

  She tried to impress certain details on her mind as a mnemonic : a dam in the white tablecloth where his hand was resting, the button missing from his shirt, the careless way the sleeves were rolled up about his wrists, the way the veins stood out on the back of his hands, the dark stubble on his chin, the way one of his eyelids drooped slightly. . . . She thought that if she could recall the details she would be able to recall the whole scene and the feelings that went with it and warmed her like that yellow sun.

  'It’s nice here. A nice place. I remember...

  'What?’

  'We used to come back here for coffee after I’d taken you to dinner.’

  She nodded. 'Coffee at my place. Always my place. Untill the night you took me to your place.’

  'You still make jam? Is this yours?’ He pointed to a small pot on the table.

  'Yes.'

  'How is the office?’

  'Occupied with politics and fornication as usual.’

  'How’s old whatsisname? Chap who used to run Maintenance.’

  'Edwards? Retired. It’s Pilkington now.’

  ‘I know, the one that drinks. And what about the chap in Accounts with the funny name - Gimbel? Mean bastard. Never pass your expenses.’

  ‘Oh, he’s still around.’

  She stopped, looked at him.

  'What you want to know for? They weren’t your friends.'

  ‘I had dealings with them. And I just’ - he shrugged - ’wondered.’

  She was sharper than he thought. He decided to change the subject.

  'Are you going out this morning? Shopping or anything?’

  ‘I thought I’d get you some clothes. You’ve got to have a new jacket for a start. And I thought I’d get a couple of shirts, some socks and a pair of slacks. Oh, and a dressing-gown.’

  He looked at his torn and blood-stained jacket.

  'That’s had it, I suppose. But there’s no need to waste your money on anything else.’

  'I want to buy you something. It would give me pleasure.’ 'Want me to come with you?’

  'Why take the risk? We must have hundreds of people out looking for you.’

  'And you’re the one who’s found me.’

  'I’ve been looking the longest.... All my life.’

  'Alice,’ he said after a moment, 'you know I can’t stay long.’

  He didn’t want her to get ideas.

  'How long is long?’

  'I don’t know. Two days, three days….. ’

  'They say time’s not important, it’s what you do with it. But when time’s all you’ve got, when a few hours is all you’ve got to last you a lifetime maybe. . . . Anyway, it’s psychological, isn’t it?’

  'What?’

  'Time. It goes fast when you’re happy, slow when you’re

  sad. Everyone knows that. So I’m not going to be sad worrying about the future. When I don’t want to think about something I . . . just don’t think about it. I know it’s childish but that’s how I exist.’

  ’It’s how most people exist.’

  ’But not you.’

  'Me too.’

  'But that’s ducking reality, isn’t it?’

  She drew her hair back and curved it smoothly behind her ears in that characteristic gesture, revealing her earnest young face and the shadowy division of her breasts as the dressing- gown opened a little.

  'But then what is real? Whenever I feel happy I wonder if it’s real.’

  He slipped his hand in the opening of the gown and cupped one of her breasts, brushing the nipple gently with his thumb. 'That’s real,’ she said. 'Christ, that’s real all right.’

  She stayed still with the relaxed stillness of an animal and he went on gently caressing her. She had released a sensuality in him he didn’t know he possessed.

  'This is crazy,’ he said.

  'No, it isn’t,’ she said, 'it’s sane. The only sanity maybe.’

  Njala breakfasted alone as usual while the woman they had found for him at three o'clock in the morning slept on.

  He felt full of life and vigour as he worked his way through an enormous breakfast, glanced at the morning papers and read with care reports from his chief of police about suspected and even possible political opponents.

  Frank Smith had breakfast with Joan. It was an odd experience to have breakfast with someone, to have it cooked for him and be waited on.

  He wondered what to say.

  'You had no difficulty in, er, finding things then?’

  'Frank,’ she said, 'I’m not used to talking at breakfast either. So why, don’t you just carry on as usual and read your paper?’

  While he watched her dressing Abbott asked her if she knew anything about the precautions to safeguard Njala.

  ‘No,’ Alice said. 'And you could hardly expect me to tell you if I did.’

  She pulled on a pair of tights, smoothing them carefully over her thighs with both hands and making sure they fitted under the crotch.

  'They know you’ve found out about his hotel though. And they’d like to move him somewhere else. The last I heard he was being difficult.’

  She examined herself critically in the wall-mirror to see if the tights fitted properly. Then she put on a bra, blouse and skirt.

  I’m getting fat,’ she said after a final inspection.

  'You’re not.’

  She held her head sideways, put a clip in her mouth and started brushing her hair, which was long and brown and had coppery tints.

  'Shepherd,' she said indistinctly through her teeth, 'thinks you’re mad. So do I .’

  Shepherd. So that was the bastard breathing down Joan’s neck when he phoned. Yes, he remembered Shepherd and his methods of interrogation.

  He looked at his watch. 'I’m going out.’

  She wanted to argue, warn him, persuade him, but what was the point?

  'Do you want to take the car?’

  She pointed out of the window to a little Fiat 500 parked nearby.

  'Florence.’

  'Florence?’

  'Yes, it’s rather old-fashioned, but she’s a rather old-fashioned lady. Florence Fiat.’

  'Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need a car.’ ,

  'Will you be long ? ’

  'I shouldn’t think so. An hour perhaps.’

  'Please, Richard, take care, won’t you?’

  After he had gone she sat and stared at the phone. She had an overwhelming desire to phone Frank Smith and tell him everything. It would certainly save Njala’s life and probably Richard’s too - which was a lot more important.

  Though it was Saturday morning and not yet nine, traffic was heavy as Abbott walked up Park Lane. He stopped outside Njala’s hotel and pretended to light a cigarette while his eyes made a guarded search of the front and the foyer, which he could see through the glass doors.

  Outside, talking to a fat and uniformed commissionaire was a tall, broad-shouldered, flat-faced young man in a conservatively cut dark-blue suit. A few yards away, leaning against a pillar of the entrance porch was a remarkably similar young man. They could have been twins except that their faces were different and the second one was wearing a grey suit. Special Branch. Picked for the speed of draw and accuracy at firing from the hip (he remembered the gunnery instructor: 'Just point and fire. If you point your forefinger you’ll find it’s accurate. So imagine the gun is your forefinger’).

  And there were two more who looked like Special Branch men in the foyer, sitting neatly and self-consciously on one of those black buttoned leather sofas you see on TV, watching everyone who came in.

  Then someone came out. A girl came out, swaying, drunk (at nine in the morning? At nine in the morning).

  In an unmistakably Cockney accent she said to the fat commissionaire: 'Get us a taxi, cock.'

  It was a friendly enough request but the commissionaire, because of the presence of Special Branch, no doubt, was on his dignity. Besides, that sort should know enough to go out of the back entrance.

  'Get one yourself,’ he said. 'I’m talking to my friend.’

  Her voice rose one whole strident octave. 'Don’t you talk to me like that, you fat poof, or I’ll pull the skin of your arse over your eyes.’

 

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