The Book of Evidence (12 page)

Y o u have seen the picture in the papers, you know what she looks like. A youngish woman in a black dress with a broad white collar, standing with her hands folded in front of her, one gloved, the other hidden except for the fingers, which are flexed, ringless. She is wearing something on her head, a cap or clasp of some sort, which holds her hair drawn tightly back from her brow. Her prominent black eyes have a faintly oriental slant. The nose is large, the lips full. She is not beautiful. In her right hand she holds a folded fan, or it might be a book. She is standing in what I take to be the lighted doorway of a room. Part of a couch can be seen, or maybe a bed, with a brocade cover. The darkness behind her is dense and yet mysteriously weightless. Her gaze is calm, inexpectant, though there is a trace of challenge, of hostility, even, in the set of her mouth. She does not want to be here, and yet cannot be elsewhere. T h e gold brooch that secures the wings of her wide collar is expensive and ugly. All this you have seen, all this you know. Yet I put it to you, gentle connoisseurs of the jury, that even knowing all this you still know 78

nothing, n e x t t o n o t h i n g . Y o u d o not k n o w the fortitude and pathos o f her presence. Y o u h a v e not c o m e u p o n her suddenly in a g o l d e n r o o m on a s u m m e r eve, as I have.

Y o u h a v e n o t held her in y o u r a r m s , y o u h a v e not seen her asprawl in a ditch. Y o u h a v e not — ah no! — y o u h a v e not killed for her.

I s t o o d there, staring, for w h a t s e e m e d a l o n g time, and gradually a kind of e m b a r r a s s m e n t t o o k hold of m e , a hot, s h a m e f a c e d awareness of myself, as if s o m e h o w I, this soiled sack o f flesh, w e r e the o n e w h o w a s b e i n g scrutinised, w i t h careful, cold attention. It w a s not j u s t the w o m a n ' s painted stare that w a t c h e d m e . E v e r y t h i n g in the picture, that b r o o c h , those g l o v e s , the flocculent darkness at her b a c k , e v e r y spot on the canvas w a s an eye fixed on me u n b l i n k m g i y . I retreated a pace, faintly aghast. T h e silence w a s f r a y i n g at the edges. I heard c o w s l o w i n g , a car starting u p . I r e m e m b e r e d the taxi, and turned to g o . A m a i d w a s standing i n the o p e n french w i n d o w . S h e m u s t h a v e c o m e in j u s t then and seen me there and started b a c k in a l a r m . H e r eyes w e r e w i d e , and o n e knee w a s flexed and o n e hand lifted, as if to w a r d o f f a b l o w . For a m o m e n t neither of us stirred. B e h i n d her a sudden breeze burnished the grassy slope. W e did not speak. T h e n slowly, with her h a n d still raised, she stepped b a c k w a r d s carefully t h r o u g h the w i n d o w , teetering a little as her heels blindly s o u g h t the level of the p a v e d p a t h w a y outside. I felt an inexplicable, brief rush of a n n o y a n c e — a presentiment, perhaps, a stray z e p h y r sent ahead of the s t o r m that w a s to c o m e . A telephone w a s r i n g i n g s o m e w h e r e . I turned q u i c k l y and left the r o o m .

T h e r e w a s n o o n e i n the hall. T h e telephone r a n g and rang, w i t h peevish insistence. I c o u l d still hear it g o i n g as I descended the front steps. T h e taxi had left, of course. 1

s w o r e , and set o f f d o w n the drive, h o b b l i n g o v e r the stony 7 9

ground in my thin-soled Spanish shoes. T h e low sun glared in my face. When I looked back at the house the windows were ablaze, and seemed to be laughing fatly in derision. I began to perspire, and that brought on the midges. I asked myself again what had possessed me to c o m e to Whitewater. I knew the answer, of course. It was the smell of m o n e y that had attracted me, as the smell of sweat was attracting these damned flies. I saw myself, as if from one of those sunstruck windows, skulking along here in the dust, hot, disgruntled, overweight, head b o w e d and fat back bent, my white suit rucked at the armpits and sagging in the arse, a figure of fun, the punchline of a bad joke, and at once I was awash with self-pity. Christ! was there no one w h o would help me? I halted, and cast a troubled glance around me, as if there might be a benefactor lurking a m o n g the trees. T h e silence had a sense of muffled gloating. I plunged on again, and heard the sound of engines, and presently an enormous black limousine came around the bend, followed by a sleek red sportscar. They, were going at a stately pace, the limousine bouncing gently on its springs, and for a second I thought it was a funeral. I stepped on to the grass verge but kept on walking. T h e driver of the limousine, a large, crop-headed man, sat erect and vigilant, his hands lightly cupped on the rim of the steering-wheel, as if it were a projectile he might pluck from its moorings and throw with deadly aim. Beside him there was a stooped, shrunken figure, as the car swished past I glimpsed a dark eye and a liver-spotted skull, and huge hands resting one upon the other on the crook of a stick. A blonde w o m a n wearing dark glasses was driving the sportscar. We gazed at each other with blank interest, like strangers, as she went by. I recognised her, of course.

Ten minutes later I was trudging along the road with 80

my t h u m b stuck out when I heard her pull up behind me.

I knew it w o u l d be she. I stopped, turned. She remained
in
the car, her wrists folded before her on the steering-wheel.

There was a brief, wordless tussle to see which one of us would m a k e the first m o v e . We compromised. I walked back to the car and she got out to meet me. I
thought
it was you, she said. We smiled, and were silent. She w o r e a cream suit and a white blouse. There was blood on her shoes. Her hair was yellower than I remembered, I wondered if she was dyeing it n o w . I told her she looked marvellous. I meant it, but the w o r d s sounded hollow, and I blushed. Anna, I said. I remembered, with a soft shock, h o w one day long a g o I stole the envelope of one of her letters to Daphne, and took it into the lavatory and prised open the flap, my heart pounding, so that I might lick the g u m where she had licked. T h e thought came to me: I loved her! and I gave a sort of wild, astonished laugh. She took o f f her sunglasses and looked at me quizzically. My hands were trembling. C o m e and see father, she said, he needs cheering up.

She drove very fast, w o r k i n g the controls probingly, as if she were trying to locate a pattern, a secret formula, hidden in this mesh of small, deft actions. I was impressed, even a little c o w e d . She was full of the impatient assurance of the rich. We did not speak. In a m o m e n t we were at the house, and pulled up in a spray of gravel. She opened her door, then paused and looked at me for a m o m e n t in silence and shook her head. Freddie M o n t g o m e r y , she said.

Well!

As we went up the steps to the front door she linked her arm lightly in mine. I was surprised. W h e n I knew her, all those years ago, she was not one for easy intimacies —

intimacies, yes, but not easy ones. She laughed and said, G o d , I'm a little drunk, I think. She had been to the s i

hospital in the city — Behrens had suffered s o m e sort of mild attack. T h e hospital was in an uproar. A b o m b had g o n e o f f
in
a car in a c r o w d e d shopping street, quite a small device, apparently, but r e m a r k a b l y effective. She had wandered unchallenged into the casualty ward. T h e r e were bodies lying everywhere. She w a l k e d a m o n g the dead and d y i n g , feeling like a survivor herself. G o o d G o d , Anna, I said. She g a v e a tense little laugh. W h a t an experience, she said — luckily Flynn keeps a flask of something in the g l o v e c o m p a r t m e n t . She had taken a f e w g o o d swigs, and was beginning to regret it n o w .

W e went into the house. T h e u n i f o r m e d d o o r m a n was n o w h e r e to be seen. I told A n n a h o w he had g o n e o f f and left me to w a n d e r at will about the place. She shrugged.

She supposed everyone had been downstairs watching the news of the b o m b i n g on television. All the same, I said, anyone could have g o t in. W h y , she asked, do y o u think s o m e o n e m i g h t c o m e and plant a b o m b here? A n d she looked at me with a peculiar, bitter smile.

She led the w a y into the g o l d salon. T h e french w i n d o w was still open. T h e r e was no sign of the maid. A sort of shyness m a d e me keep my eyes averted f r o m the other end of the r o o m , w h e r e the picture leaned out a little f r o m the wall, as if listening intently. I sat d o w n gingerly on one of the Louis Q u i n z e chairs while A n n a opened the carved and curlicued sideboard and poured out t w o w h o p p i n g measures of gin. T h e r e was no ice, and the tonic was flat, but I didn't care, I needed a drink. I was still breathless with the notion of having been in love with her. I felt excited and b e m u s e d , and ridiculously pleased, like a child w h o has been given something precious to play with. I said it to m y s e l f again —
I loved her! —
trying it out for the sound of it. T h e thought, lofty, grand, and slightly m a d , fitted well with the surroundings. She w a s pacing between me 82

and the w i n d o w , clutching her glass tightly in both hands.

T h e gauze curtain bellied lazily at the edge of my vision.

Something in the air itself seemed to be shaking. Suddenly the telephone on the low table beside me sprang to life with a crashing noise. Anna snatched it up and cried yes, yes, what? She laughed. It's s o m e taximan, she said to me, looking for his fare. I took the phone and spoke harshly to the fellow. She watched me intently, with a kind of avid amusement. When I put d o w n the receiver she said gaily, O h , Freddie, you've got so p o m p o u s ! I frowned. I was not sure h o w to respond. Her laughter, her glazed stare, were tinged with hysteria. B u t then, I too was less than calm.

L o o k at that, she said. She was peering in annoyance at her bloodstained shoes. She clicked her tongue, and putting d o w n her glass she quickly left the r o o m . I waited. All this had happened before. I went s^rad stood in the open w i n d o w , a hand in my pocket, swigging my gin.

P o m p o u s , indeed — what did she mean? T h e sun was almost down, the light was gathering in bundles above the river. I stepped out on to the terrace. A balm of soft air breathed on my face. I thought h o w strange it was to be here like this, glass in hand, in the silence and calm of a s u m m e r evening, while there was so much darkness in my heart. I turned and looked up at the house. It seemed to be flying swiftly against the sky. I wanted my share of this richness, this gilded ease. F r o m the depths of the r o o m a pair of eyes looked out, dark, calm, unseeing.

Flynn, the crop-headed chauffeur, approached me from the side of the house with an air of tight-lipped politeness which was s o m e h o w menacing, rolling on the balls of his disproportionately dainty feet. He sported a bandit's drooping blue-black moustache, trimmed close and squared o f f at the ends, so that it looked as if it had been painted on to his large, pasty face. I do not like 83

moustaches, have I mentioned that? There is something lewd about them which repels me. 1 have no doubt the prison shrink could explain what such an aversion signifies

~~ and F v e no doubt, too, that in my case he would be wrong. Flynn's was a particularly offensive specimen. T h e sight of it gave me heart suddenly, cheered me up, I don't k n o w why. 1 followed him eagerly into the house. T h e dining-room was a great dim cavern full of the glint and gleam of precious things. Behrens came in leaning on Anna's arm, a tall, delicate figure in rich tweeds and a bow-tie. He m o v e d slowly, measuring his steps. His head, trembling a little, was smooth and steeply domed, like a marvellous, desiccated egg. It must have been twenty years since I had seen him last. I confess I was greatly taken with him n o w . He had the fine high patina of something lovingly crafted, like one of those exquisite and temptingly pocket-sized jade figurines which I had been eyeing only a m o m e n t ago on the mantelpiece. He took my hand and squeezed it slowly in his strangler's grip, looking deep into my eyes as if he were trying to catch a glimpse of someone else in there. Frederick, he said, in his breathy voice. So like your mother.

We dined at a rickety table in the bay of a tall w i n d o w overlooking the garden. T h e cutlery was cheap, the plates mismatched. It was something I remembered about Whitewater, the makeshift w a y that life was lived in odd comers, at the edge of things. T h e house was not meant for people, all that magnificence would not tolerate their shoddy doings in its midst. 1 watched Behrens cutting up a piece of bleeding meat. Those enormous hands fascinated me. I was always convinced that at some time in the past he had killed someone. I tried to imagine him young, in flannels and a blazer, carrying a tennis racquet —
Oh look9

here's Binkie! —
but it was impossible. He talked about the 84

bombing. Five dead — or was it six by n o w ? — from a mere two pounds of explosive! He sighed and shook his head.

He seemed m o r e impressed than shocked. Anna hardly spoke. She was pale, and looked tired and distracted. I noticed for the first time h o w she had aged. T h e w o m a n I knew fifteen years ago was still there, but fixed inside a coarser outline, like one of Klimt's gem-encrusted lovers. I looked out into the luminous grey twilight, aghast and in an obscure w a y proud at the thought of what I had lost, of what might have been. Piled clouds, a last, bright strip of sky. A blackbird whistled suddenly. S o m e d a y I would lose all this too, I would die, and it would all be gone, this m o m e n t at this w i n d o w , in summer, on the tender brink of night. It was amazing, and yet it was true, it would happen. Anna struck a match and lighted a candle on the table between us, and for a m o m e n t there was a sense of hovering, of swaying, in the soft, dark air.

My mother, I said to Behrens, and had to stop and clear my throat — my mother gave you some pictures, I believe.