Текст книги "Brond"

Автор книги: Frederic Lindsay

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

‘My God,’ the girl said, ‘she’s going to give him more.’

It should have been marvellous to feel unafraid of Brond for the first time. It should have been marvellous to catch her smell mingled with my own like the sharp tang of citrus fruit; it should have been marvellous to think how healthy we were and how natural as we stood there watching.

At last she laid the prod against him and his body did jerk and shudder but his instinctive movement was so immediate that it must hardly have touched him. That seemed to anger her and she tugged him by the hair to his feet and set him with his face against the wall.

‘He won’t be able to get away from it there,’ the girl beside me said. ‘Christ, she’s giving it more. If she gives it full power, she’ll destroy him.’

Brond stood with his arms at his sides so that his forehead and the palms of his hands were against the wall. He opened his legs and the tip of the prod went into his body in the passage between his buttocks. His hands flew up in clenched fists and his spine arched impossibly and then he crashed to the floor; his heavy body writhed like a cut worm and with a final shuddering of the legs lay still. Too still. The woman backed away with both hands over her mouth. There was no way for us to know what kind of noises she might be making.

‘Oh, God,’ the girl whispered. ‘Look.’

The head of the corpse was slowly raised from the floor. Then Brond stood up. He was naked and in those ridiculous shoes with the black stockings wrinkled round his ankles; and he looked as terrible and as frightening as on the first day I had seen him. He gathered up his clothes and began to put them on and he must have said something to the woman for, as he was dressing, she stripped. She was not a young woman and her flesh sagged and hung on her like strips of soiled dough. Her face was half crazed. When he picked up the prod from where she had dropped it, she stood with her face against the wall but he must have told her to turn round. The hair between her legs was grey and he put the prod there and she bent with the pain of its entry. Although the woman’s body winced in expectation, nothing happened. As the prod slid free and nudged the nipple of each breast in turn, her head hung watching in helpless confusion.

‘It’s a fake,’ the girl said. ‘There’s no charge in it at all.’

He slapped the woman as if angered and her head flew back and struck the wall, and at that he seemed to lose all control. As he caught her by the throat, she might have been screaming. Before his shoulder hid her, I saw her tongue stretched forward and the spittle fly out of her open mouth. The girl’s hand rubbed at the base of my spine.

‘He’ll kill her,’ I sobbed. ‘He’s killing her.’

I saw her die. With his hands about her throat he laid her down on the floor and then put out the lights one by one. At the door, he looked back at her lying by the wall and then he had put up the last switch and it was dark.

‘Kiss me!’

The voice whispered at me.

‘Where’s the light? The light. We need the light.’

I tried to push her away. She pressed against me and then I felt her tongue lick my face.

‘Get away!’

I lurched from her and fell against the bed. When I found the lamp and lit it, she was gone.

In the empty corridor I stood listening. It was a very quiet house. The carpet was thick under my feet although it was dirty and unswept. On the wall between two doors there was a brass gong, figured with elephants and a procession of Indians dancing. I put out a finger and touched the tiny ecstatic figures as if to make sure that something in this world was real.

‘Birds in their little nests agree,’ Brond chanted almost in my ear, he had approached so silently.

My heart thundered in fright.

‘I saw you.’

He sketched surprise.

‘I’ve seen you kill twice now.’

‘Yes?’

‘On the bridge.’ I was full of hatred for him. What a fool he must think I was! ‘And the woman just now.’

‘Mrs Kennedy? She seemed well enough when I had a look at her.’

‘Jackie? What’s Jackie to do– Don’t despise me. I despise you. I saw you—’ it was surprisingly hard to put into words to a man like him, ‘begging and being– and being– I don’t know how you could do that.’

He made a little humming noise; incredibly he seemed pleased.

‘It really did seem extraordinary to you? Not the impression I make at all . . .’

‘I think you must be mad.’

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

‘Oh, come now. It’s not so bad as that. I imagine the country’s full of clergymen and retired lieutenant-colonels and bus conductors all doing or daydreaming along roughly similar lines.’

‘You killed her.’

I became conscious that he was speaking normally while I was furiously whispering as if the fear of discovery were mine alone.

‘We’ve a busy night ahead of us,’ he said, ‘but let’s spare a moment. Come along!’

He crooked his finger and I followed him like a schoolboy. The big front room had people in it now, two or three groups of them, and a piano was being played softly and some of the girls were handing out drinks. It might have been the party at the University earlier. The only differences at a first glance were that the girls were younger, the men rather older and looking conspicuously more successful.

‘Recognise anyone?’ Brond asked.

Before I could answer, we were approached by the bouncy silver-haired little man who had come with us into the house; smaller than Brond, he did not come up to my shoulder.

‘She let you stay then,’ he said jocularly.

‘Thanks to your good influence,’ Brond said.

‘Ah, influence.’ He seemed to be at the stage of drink where one mood passed easily into its opposite for now he became solemn. ‘I suppose we’re both exerting as much of that as we can – not that anything seems able to help much. Dear old William Roughhead’s world of Pritchard and Slater and Jessie McLachlan is very small beer now. Endless vandalism. Crimes against the person . . . There’s a rot in the body social. What? Oh, it’s you.’

One of the girls had brushed her fingers, decorously, along the back of his neck and he followed, head bobbing like a lecherous sparrow.

‘I doubt if a reporter,’ Brond said watching him go, ‘or a blackmailer would last long if he interfered with these nice people.’

And he smiled benevolently on the room like a widdershins archbishop.

‘Why did you say that Jackie– that Mrs Kennedy was here?’

‘Did I?’

‘Is she here?’

He turned his head from the crowd and looked at me; his lips still smiled.

‘Perhaps. That murderous animal her husband certainly is.’

‘He’s not the only murderer – and his murders were long ago.’

‘You have an odd sense of humour,’ Brond said contemptuously. ‘Who do you imagine killed Peter Kilpatrick?’

But before I could answer, the silver-haired man rejoined us. He was shadowed by a gaunt anxious man whose shoulders were spotted with scruffs of white dandruff.

‘Alex here tells me,’ the silver-haired man gestured towards his companion, ‘that E.M. Forster used to worry because his bum was full of hair.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Brond said. ‘It’s one of those evenings where everybody learns something new.’

‘It certainly gives “only connect” a new connotation,’ the silver-haired man reflected.

‘You already made that joke.’ The anxious man was not amused.

‘I know – that’s why I came over here to get a chance to repeat it.’

‘It’s a joke in bad taste,’ his friend said. ‘I believe in the virtues of liberalism. I’m even willing to believe that Forster was a thoroughly nice man.’

‘Nice people.’ The voice was high and uncontrolled. It didn’t sound like me at all. ‘Dachau must have been surrounded by nice people.’

The two men stared, lingering on the edge of being offended with me until Brond took up the idea smoothly: ‘Nice farmers, nice schoolteachers, nice lawyers too, taking the children on nice family picnics – chorusing with Brunnhilde, “O Heil der Mutter, die dich gebar!” – and never one to notice there was a stench of burning flesh on the air. But then a defective sense of smell is a medical condition not a moral one.’

‘You’re young,’ the anxious man said to me. ‘You have a lot to learn. You’ll learn.’

The silver-haired man affected a transition to the combative. ‘That’s not an argument, Alex. The matter has still to be taken to avizandum. Just you suppose some wretched dictator builds and fills a camp at Swanston – and you wake up one morning with a smell greasing the air – “Wer ist der Held, der mich erweckt?” eh, Brond? – What on earth could you do, Alex?’

The anxious man hesitated. ‘We-ell . . . I shouldn’t stay there. I should certainly move. I’d even be willing to take a loss on the house.’

And suddenly not looking at all anxious, he began to giggle and they moved off together, well pleased with one another.

‘No question of it,’ Brond went on as if there had been no interruption, ‘Kilpatrick had been sleeping with that charming married woman you call Jackie. That was something no one had foreseen. You see how I resist the temptation to impress you with my omniscience? I didn’t foresee it. I might claim to have improvised rather well once it did happen.’

‘Improvisation,’ I said, ‘– the mark of the artist.’ The words weren’t mine. It was a favourite phrase of Donald Baxter’s. Brond blinked at me. It may have been the only thing I ever said which surprised him.

‘No matter how wonderful our policemen are,’ he said, ‘a woman of that sort always offers a temptation. I shouldn’t imagine she put up much resistance, and Kilpatrick seems to have had a weakness for women. We all have our weaknesses.’

‘You want me to believe that Kennedy killed him for sleeping with his wife?’

‘He killed him twice over – and why not for that? Kennedy isn’t a citizen of the permissive society. A violent man – jealous of that neat little wife of his. That gun you delivered to me was Kennedy’s and it was Kennedy who used it.’

Not Kennedy. Not that sanctimonious keeper of a lodging house. Michael Dart had killed poor loud-mouthed Kilpatrick. And despite anything Brond said or thought about Jackie Kennedy, I didn’t believe she had ever betrayed her husband before she met Kilpatrick. Poor Jackie had forgotten to be afraid of the man she married; and he had hidden all there was of him to love.

‘Twice over,’ I said stupidly. ‘How could he kill him twice over?’

‘According to the helpful Mr Muldoon, they traced him to where the Briody girl had hidden him. It was inevitable after the stupid girl chose you as her saviour and brought the gun back to Kennedy’s own house. That was a joke, but an unfortunate one for the amorous Kilpatrick. While the girl was fetching you, he was tied up and carried outside to that dirty shed to die of exposure. Muldoon helped with that. I’m afraid Kennedy was a touch vicious there; being cuckolded does that to a man. The slowest way to die is the hardest way.’

It was possible that Kennedy-Dart had done that; but Brond had known where to find the body. And the old politician who had been beaten to death in the Riggs Lodge hotel (‘of ancient Scottish family’ – ‘a man of honour’ – ‘much loved’: the newspapers said so; how else would my father know what to believe?) he had died that same night while I shared a narrow bed with Margaret Briody. But before he died he had been tied up with a piece cut from the same cord that had bound Kilpatrick. Whether it was Kennedy or Brond himself who had carried Kilpatrick out and hidden him under the sacks to die, I had no way of knowing. The only evidence from my own five unsure senses was a hotel door wrecked by a strength like Primo’s.

The silver-haired man wandered through the idle groups to confront us again.

‘Remembered a funny story,’ he said. ‘Maisie had heard it.’

He was perceptibly less sober.

‘Excellent,’ Brond said. ‘My friend here loves a good story. He’s amused me a number of times.’

And he caught my arm and turned me so that I blocked the way for a woman who was moving past us out of the room. I knew her. Some kind of social apologetic foolishness came to my lips. I knew her—

It was the prostitute I had watched Brond strangle to death. The look on my face alarmed her and she stepped back, directing beyond me a conciliatory grimace.

‘So simple.’ Brond patted my arm. ‘It’s all so simple. Why did you think people came here if it wasn’t to buy illusions?’

He followed her out, but when I started after him the little man took me by the sleeve, a full handful with his weight behind it.

‘Don’t be a boor. I’ve to tell you this story.’

‘Let go!’ I gave a jerk that tore my sleeve free, but he snatched again.

‘Listen!’ he shouted.

There was silence and then people hurried back into talk. Side glances policed us. The room was too full of portly, prosperous, guilty men. I stood still and fixed a smile on the little man.

‘It’s about this chap who’s on the bench for the first time. It’s his first time – local government kind of chap. Knows nothing about the law. First case – drunk and disorderly. Ten a penny sort of thing. Thirty shillings or thirty days’ imprisonment – usual sort of nonsense.’

Shillings? He must have retold his joke on years of occasions like this.

‘Chap listens to the evidence. Then – worst case in my experience; this kind of thing will not be tolerated; I was born and bred in this town; stamp it out – fourteen years’ penal servitude. Consternation in court! All gather round him – psst psst psst. Whisper whisper whisper. Chap clears his throat – hum – heh – hum. On further consideration, I will commute that sentence to thirty shillings or thirty days. Bring in the next criminal.’

Bring in the next criminal.

‘It’s supposed to be funny.’ He released my sleeve. ‘No one tonight has any blasted sense of humour.’

In the hall, Primo was near the front door. He had a glass in his hand, but standing there alone it looked like a disguise, something put there to pretend it was only by accident that he could watch anyone coming in or trying to leave. Brond was nowhere in sight, but the woman was in front of a mirror tidying her hair.

‘The gentleman says you’ve to see him in the room up the stair.’

She had a broad Glasgow accent nothing like my golden girl’s. She smelled of stale sweat; her cheeks were scarred with acne pits; on a corner of Bath Street she would have been in place any wintry Saturday night.

‘What gentleman? The gentleman you were performing with up– the stair?’

She dangled her disgusting udders at me, belching bad air and bewilderment.

‘You were seen. I was watching – and I wasn’t the only one. We were watching you earn your money.’

I hated her bovine corruption.

‘Ah didnae know.’ She was not resentful. She wanted to explain ‘He wis angry wi me. He had tae keep tellan me what to do. Every damnt thing, he said he’d to tell me. But ah’ve been hurt masel. One morning ah tried tae get oot o bed and ah was stuck. Ah had weeks o pain after that, doctors an jags an operations. Since then ah don’t know why people would want to be hurtit. Ah know ah wis wrang. Ah didnae mean tae make him angry. It just slipped out – ah tellt him – ah’ve been hurt masel. And that’s when he lost the rag. But, ken, it was just that ah’ve been hurt masel.’

In the upstairs corridor, the Hindu faithful still danced on the rim of the brass gong. I looked in the room where I had stopped being a virgin, but it was empty. I ran from one room into another and found Jackie Kennedy sitting on the bed. She stared at me in horror.

‘In the Name of God!’ she cried, like an Ulster cleric preaching of Hell, ‘where did you come from?’

‘Get up! We’ve got to get out of here. Get up!’ I reached out as if to pull her up from the bed. ‘Don’t you know the kind of place this is?’

‘Get away from me!’ She pushed at the air between us. ‘It’s you that shouldn’t be here. The young fellow didn’t say anything about you.’

‘Tell me when we’re out of here. I don’t—’

‘Listen to me!’ she cried. ‘He came to the house. Just a young fellow, well dressed and nicely spoken. Listen! It was him I came here with. Somebody has to listen! He said terrible things to me.’

She was wearing her best coat, brown cloth with some kind of fur at the collar that I had seen her put on to go visiting on a Sunday. I had a picture of one of Brond’s smooth young men talking quietly at her as she sat beside him in a car, very upright in her best coat for visiting. I wondered what smooth words he had found for telling her that in their eyes she was Kilpatrick’s whore and that her husband had killed him for it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Please!’ and I held out my hand to her again.

‘Why didn’t he trust me?’ she asked, and I didn’t know whether she was talking of her lover or her husband.

‘Please, come!’ Stinging tears of frustration; I pitied her and I was afraid. ‘It’ll be all right if you come. I won’t let them hurt you.’

‘You’re only a boy,’ she said. ‘What could you do? I have to wait here. He’s going away tonight – out of the country. Oh, God, I’m so frightened.’ She swung her head from side to side. I had seen a fox caught in a trap doing that. ‘I feel he’s watching me.’

If the lie Kennedy had lived for so long was unimaginable to me, how strange a judgement she must feel he had passed on her. Yet this play-actor had killed for her.

‘I don’t know how he would come to know a place like this,’ Jackie said so quietly I had to strain to hear. ‘I won’t believe that he sleeps with that woman. I don’t know why they tell me such terrible things. She put me here and told me to wait.’

I sat beside her on the bed and put my arm around her shoulders.

‘Her name’s Maisie,’ I said. ‘An older woman with an Irish accent.’ And trying to help, ‘Maybe it’s just that he knew her a long time ago – in Ireland. She’ll be a friend.’

Jackie shook her head.

‘No. She was young. Just a girl. And very nicely spoken.’

My golden girl. I had lain with her on the bed in the next room. In an hotel room, I had sat on a bed – and they had yelled at me that a man had died in it – too suddenly for me to evade it, Kilpatrick’s poor dirtied corpse lolled out from under the sacks.

‘I’m so frightened,’ Jackie said. ‘I’m supposed to go away with him tonight.’

‘You don’t have to go anywhere with him. If we can just get out of here, I’ll look after you.’

I meant it. Sitting on the whore’s bed, I could have been in love with her. I touched her cheek with my lips and she did not move away.

Above her head, I saw the bed and squalid room reflected in the mirror, and her in my arms. I feel he’s watching me, she had said. Kennedy was watching us. Gently I put her away from me, and getting up went to the mirror, close against it – so close my own face blurred into eyes. The cold glass touched my skin.

‘Don’t be upset.’ In the mirror, she held out a hand to me. ‘There’s not anything you can do.’

A dark line drawn behind her on the bed turned into the stick I had been given by Brond. I had not brought it into that room. There was no time to warn her, perhaps there was no need, as the door came open. Like children, we stared at the shining weight of the gun in Kennedy’s hand.

‘Oh, you impossible bitch,’ he said. It was a voice full of love and rage and hopelessness.

‘I’ll go with you,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to hurt him.’

I went towards her. Even now I believe it was because I misunderstood which of us needed protecting.

‘You cowardly bastard!’ he shouted and I realised he could not fire because I was too close to her. I think he called me a coward again, but all my fear had left me. I picked up Brond’s unlucky stick and a turn shook free the blade.

He was coming towards me, trying, I suppose, to get some safe angle from which he could fire but Jackie kept turning with him. I even had time – I was in such control – to realise what Brond had brought about in giving me the stick; by death or guilt both Kennedy and myself were to be silenced. He knew my fatal temper and he had given me a weapon with which I could kill or get myself killed, but I would laugh in his face. He knew my temper but not the speed of my mind or the athlete’s strength in my body. I was young and nothing was impossible to me, and as Kennedy came forward I took him with the sword point on the wrist. He was to be disarmed and no great harm done. That was a thing impossibly exact, but I was mad with confidence and the gun fell out of his hand.

Brilliantly coloured blood came out of him in gusts as he tried to kill me with his hands. The heart, that tough muscle, becomes its own murderer when an artery is cut. Untended or if there were no natural defences, it would empty the body. He came at me and I did not understand what had happened. I even had a moment of terror that the blood was mine. I had nothing to defend myself for as he went for me a shock went up my arm and the stick was snatched out of my grasp. The bed took me behind the knees and I went back with him on top. He might have strangled me but it was my fortune that the nerve in his wrist had been cut so that the four fingers of his right hand would not close. I rolled and carried both of us off the end of the bed. As we landed I came down on him with all my weight and it seemed to stun him. With each heartbeat blood spurted from his outflung wrist. All I wanted was to save him. I knew that a tourniquet above the elbow might stop the blood but that the arm would at once begin to die. I did not lack knowledge. As he lay still, I pulled down the wadded sheet and pressed with all my strength on his wrist. The sheet soaked and I gathered more and pressed. The curtain of blood over my eyes put a drench of scarlet over walls, roof, bed, everywhere. The only bloodless thing in the room was his face, like a white parcel emptied and thrown aside. I thought I had saved him until I heard a whisper under the mingled thunder of our breath. On the white front of his shirt there was a small unremarkable shape like the lips of a child opening on a sigh.

At last I had to look up at Jackie. In the mirror of her eyes – not Jackie but Val, Michael Dart’s wife – I saw a man of blood on his knees beside a corpse.