Dark Angel (67 page)

He could not begin. He had squared his shoulders but he could not begin. His mind blurred and muddled: This sentence, or that one? He took a sip of whisky. One of Stern’s well-shod feet tapped. At the back of his mind, in some recess that seemed never to clear, Boy heard the rush and reverberation of guns.

He set down the whisky glass with care. His hand shook somewhat, and he hoped Stern did not observe this. It was something that happened now, this shaking, and when it began, it was not always possible to control.

He eased his collar away from his neck. He was beginning to sweat. The room was too hot. It was too quiet. He was suddenly afraid that when he began to speak he would stammer. This happened, too; it had happened, once or twice in the past months, in front of his men—if he had missed sleep, if the events of the preceding day had been particularly terrible.

In France, when this happened, he had his sergeant to turn to: Sergeant Mackay, a Glaswegian, small, wiry, foulmouthed, and indestructible. Mackay could step in and interpret, if need be, when the words jammed on Boy’s tongue. Mackay could …

Except, no. Boy did not have Mackay anymore. Mackay had been at his side, right through, until—three weeks before—he took a rifle-grenade in the jugular, and proved to be destructible after all.

Blood in the air. Mud in the air. Boy waved his hand in front of his face, as if to clear the cigar smoke. Subdued conversation; guns boomed. Boy set down his cigar and waited. He waited for the present to reassert itself—as it always did in the end. He pulled at his ear. The guns receded. Stern looked at his watch. Boy leaned forward. Clear and concise: an officer and a gentleman.

“This marriage,” he said. His voice was too loud. He did not care. “This marriage,” he repeated. “I have come here to tell you. It will not take place.”

By then, Boy had been in England two days. He had shunted back and forth between London (where he saw Maud) and Winterscombe (where the marriage was to be celebrated). The phrase he used now to Stern—“This marriage will not take place”—was one he had already used, many times.

He had said it to his father, to his mother, to Maud, to Freddie, and to Steenie. Gwen wept. His father told him, brusquely, to mind his own business. Freddie said he could not help; he did not understand it either. Maud said that when Montague was fixed upon something, he was unswerving, and he was fixed upon this. Steenie had advised him to give in. “Stop this marriage?” He had raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Boy, you might as well try to stop an avalanche with a feather duster. Forget it, and forget it now.”

Boy had ignored these remarks. He set off in pursuit of Constance. Constance, he feared, was avoiding him, and he did not track her down until late that afternoon. She was walking by the lake.

A monochrome day, frost in the air, the grass crisp beneath his feet, a skim of ice on the lake. Out of the pallor of the air, Constance glittered.

She was wearing a new coat, which was pale and impossibly expensive—even Boy could see that. This coat had a loose hood trimmed with white fox fur. The fur had stiffened in the cold, so that when Constance turned to greet him, with a laugh and a cry of pleasure, he found her face framed in a crown of tiny spikes, a halo of fox and diamonds.

Black hair, eyes blacker than he remembered, a brilliant mouth, tiny puffs of warm air as she cried his name. She took his hand. She pressed it between soft kid gloves.

She reached up on tiptoe. “Francis! You’re here!”

She kissed his cheek. She danced toward him, danced away from him, displaying herself, displaying the small dog she had with her. A Pomeranian, snow-white, diminutive, absurd, and antagonistic. Boy could have killed it with one kick. The minute it saw him, the Pomeranian bared its teeth. Constance reprimanded the dog. She fastened its leash, which was scarlet leather attached to a rhinestone collar.

“My engagement present, from Montague!” Constance ruffled the little dog’s fur. “Did you ever see a more preposterous animal—or a more vulgar collar? I love them both.”

She danced toward him; she danced away from him. Boy had never felt larger or more slow. He pursued Constance, and dog, across the lawns. His feet plodded. They left large footprints in the frost. He explained (he was sure he had explained; he even felt quite certain that he had, as planned, proposed). Constance trickled through his hands; it was like trying to grasp water.

When he had pursued her as far as the terrace, she turned to him. She stood on tiptoe once more. She kissed his cheek once more.

“
Remember?
Darling Francis, of course I remember. I love you dearly too. I always have. I always will. You are my own special guardian and my brother. Oh, Francis, I’m so glad they gave you leave—I should hate to be married and you not there. I shall look for you in the church as I walk up the aisle. Do you remember the little ring you gave me once—the one with the blue stone? I shall be wearing that—something blue, you know, for luck. I want to be lucky. I shall wear it around my neck, so Montague may not be jealous—he can be
so
jealous sometimes.” She shivered. “Quickly—it’s cold, don’t you think? Walk with me, Francis. Take my arm. No—let’s run, shall we? I feel like running, and shouting and dancing. How good the air is! I’m so happy today.”

She ran with him. She ran away from him. A small deft figure, the ridiculous dog at her heels. After that, she had managed—Boy was sure of this—not to be alone with him.

Which left him, as he had feared from the first, with Stern. Constance, who was a woman, and a child, could not be expected to deal with Stern. He should have seen that from the first.

“Will not take place?” Stern’s face came back into focus. He was regarding Boy with a detached and urbane amusement. “The wedding is the day after tomorrow. My dear fellow, I leave for Winterscombe later tonight. I had thought we might travel down together. Is there some difficulty, Boy?”

“You are not a suitable husband for Constance.”

A terrible thing was about to happen: Boy had no premonition of it at all. The sentences were flowing now. An officer and a gentleman. He never stammered once.

“Leaving aside the question of your age, and your … friendship with my aunt …”

“Leaving them aside?” A faint smile. “Boy, you surprise me.”

“Leaving aside questions of your race, of the differences in background …”

On and on. The words were like one of the new tanks. He could see them churning up the mud, tilting, flattening. Boy approached his conclusion: He suggested Stern do the honorable thing and call off this marriage. He appealed to his instincts as a gentleman, while making it quite clear he did not consider Stern a gentleman and never would. Stern sipped his whisky. He drew on his cigar.

“Impossible, I’m afraid.”

That was all. There was no mention of love, no attempt at justification. The arrogance of this stung Boy. He began to feel very hot. One gun boomed, then another. For the first time Boy began to feel afraid. He scented failure, and because of this he launched himself upon his last assault, one he had hoped to keep in reserve.

He raised the topic of Hector Arlington. Boy did not understand finance as well as he might have liked but he felt he understood this saga well enough. His voice rose. He became excitable.

“Hector and I were in the same regiment. We were very old friends. He told me how you’d advised his mother. Before he died—”

“Ah, yes. A tragic thing. I was very sorry to hear of it.”

“You bled them white.” Boy banged down his whisky glass. “You hypocrite—you’ve made a fortune out of this war. You sit there and tell me you’re sorry—when it’s your fault the Arlingtons went under. Compound interest—you inveigled yourself in there—used my father—used his house and his introductions. If Hector had lived—”

“If Hector Arlington had lived, there would have been only one set of death duties to contend with. Which would have altered the situation considerably. Boy—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Boy was now scarlet in the face. His hands would not keep still. They waved about in the air. The guns were there again, louder than ever, so loud the Foreign Secretary looked up.

“It’s not just the Arlingtons in any case. There are others. I’ve heard. Your first partners—the ones who took you into their bank. What happened to them? One of them cut his throat—and why did he do that? Because you broke him; you set out to break him. Oh, I know what you’ll say. You’ll say those are old rumors—but some of those rumors just happen to be true. I’ve asked people. I’ve talked to Maud. I’ve put two and two together and—” Boy stopped. His eyes rounded. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve just realized. That’s why my father is allowing this to happen. He owes you money. Of course. Everyone owes you money. He owes you money, and this marriage is a way of paying you back.” Boy took a swallow of whisky to steady himself.

“Well,” he continued, beginning to feel proud of himself—this indeed was how his father should have spoken. “I suppose that makes it simpler in a way. We can treat it as what it is: a financial transaction. How much to buy you off, Stern? Obviously there’s a price. Name it.”

Stern took some time to reply. He did not appear offended, which disappointed Boy. He sipped his whisky before he spoke.

“Oddly enough …” Stern looked away, into the middle distance. He sounded ironic, still amused. “Oddly enough, despite the fact that I am a Jew, there is no price. I feel … disinclined to be bought off, as you put it.”

He glanced at his wristwatch as he said this, as if Boy no longer greatly interested him. Then he reached one of his narrow and elegant hands into the breast pocket of his jacket. He drew out an envelope. He rested that envelope on his knee, without comment. He looked back at Boy. He waited.

“I shall tell Constance,” Boy burst out, trying to ignore this envelope. “And not just Constance. I shall … speak out. I shall … make the truth known. I shall, I shall …” He cast around wildly for something decisive that he could do, something that would expose this man for what he was: a moneylender and a profiteer. Money and munitions—how much profit per shell, per bullet, when there were so many bullets, and so many shells?

“Boy.” Stern leaned forward. He regarded Boy with quiet eyes. “Boy, I think you are overwrought. No doubt there are reasons for that. You do not look well. Might it not be better if we forgot this conversation, and you left?”

“I won’t do that.” Boy’s face became mutinous and stubborn. He could see Constance dancing away from him on the crisp lawns, with her appalling little dog. “I won’t. You shan’t ruin Constance’s life. If I have to … stand up in that church and speak out, I’ll do it. Just cause. Just impediment. You were my aunt’s lover for years. You’re old enough to be Constance’s father. Constance does not care for you. She cannot—”

He stopped. Without a word, Stern had leaned across and placed the envelope on his lap.

Boy stared down at it. A small envelope, square, unaddressed and unsealed; there was something inside it, stiffer than a sheet of paper. Blood surged in Boy’s head. Slowly—and his hands had begun to shake again—he opened the flap.

A photograph. He had no need to remove it from the envelope completely; just one glance down sufficed, for it was familiar enough. One of his own photographs, one of the secrets of his life: a young girl, Constance as a young girl. Innocence and experience. Her dress was wet.

“Where did you get this?”

The sentence jammed; it stuck on the letter
g,
which would not be pronounced. Stern did not answer the question, merely gave a small and perhaps disdainful gesture of the hand. There was no need for an answer anyway. From Constance herself—Boy knew that. From Constance, to whom he had given so many little presents: the ring with the blue stone, a collar of lace, a shawl of bright silk, a necklace of amber beads—bright magpie things, the hopeless tokens of his devotion. And (when she asked for it, and she asked for so little) the small silver key that opened the chest in his room, that opened the drawer where he kept … these photographs.

“I never hurt her. I never touched her. I give you my word on that.” The pain was very great, but he had to justify himself, he found, even then, and even to Stern.

“I was looking for her. In my photographs. I wanted … to pin her down.”

He said this, the best explanation he could give for something he had always seen as a quest, never a perversion. An impossible quest—he saw that now. Constance was not a butterfly, to be pinned, identified, labeled. She resisted categories, just as she had resisted his photographs. The remark, which Boy regretted at once, seemed to make Stern pause.

“I understand. I believe you. Nevertheless …”

Something flickered in Stern’s eyes—a comprehension, possibly even a sympathy. Then his face became closed. He reached across, retrieved the envelope, replaced it in his pocket.

Boy stumbled to his feet. He felt the ground rock. The table holding his whisky glass tilted upon its tripod feet. No one looked up. Conversations continued. No one seemed to notice that Boy bled.

This confused him. He gave a small, inconclusive gesture of the hand. He turned, without addressing Stern, and navigated his way to the door. He weaved past tables and chairs, and might have been taken for drunk, for he was unsteady on his feet.

When Boy had left, Stern went out to the club’s telephones. From there, sitting in a small paneled cubicle, the door closed, he telephoned Constance at Winterscombe. He knew she was awaiting the call.

“Did you do it?”

Her voice came and went on the wires; it had an odd note in it which Stern could not define, which might have been excitement or fear or distress.

“Yes. It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

He gave her a brief account of the meeting, but Constance would not be content with a brief account; she must know the details. How had Boy looked? What had he said? Had he seemed hurt?

Stern cut these questions short.

“You would hardly have expected him to appear happy, I think.”

“Did he cry? He does cry, sometimes. I’ve made him cry … before. Oh, Montague—”