The Damnation Game (15 page)

“—I just didn’t expect you—” she was saying, closing the machine and loading powder into it. “I was sure you’d call first. And look at me; I look like a wet rag. God, it would be today, I’ve got so much to do—” She finished with the machine, pushed the sleeves of her sweater back up, said: “Coffee?” and turned to the kettle to make some without waiting for an answer. “You look well, Marty, you really do.”

How did she know? She’d scarcely taken two glances at him in her whirlwind of activity. Whereas he, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He sat watching her at the sink, wringing out a cloth to swab down the counter, and nothing had changed in six years-not really-just a few lines on their faces. He had a feeling in him that was like panic; something to be held down for fear it make a fool of him.

She made him coffee; talked about the way the neighborhood had changed; about Terry and the saga of choosing the paint for the front of the house; about how much it cost on the subway from Mile End to Wandsworth; about how well he looked—“You really do, Marty, I’m not just saying that”-she talked about everything but something. It wasn’t Charmaine talking, and that hurt. Hurt her too, he knew. She was marking time with him, that was all it was, filling the minutes with vacuous chat until he gave up in despair and left.

“Look,” she said. “I really must change.”

“Going out?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“—if you’d said, Marty, I would have cleared a space. Why didn’t you ring me?”

“Maybe we could go out for a meal sometime?” he suggested.

“Maybe.”

She was viciously noncommittal.

“—things are a bit hectic just at the moment.”

“I’d like a chance to talk. You know, properly.”

She was getting edgy: he knew the signs well, and she was aware of his scrutiny. She picked up the coffee mugs and took them to the sink.

“I really must dash,” she said. “Make yourself some more coffee if you want. Stuff’s in the—well, you know where it is. There’s a lot of things of yours here, you know. Motorcycle magazines and stuff. I’ll sort them out for you. Excuse me. I have to change.”

She hurried—positively raced, he thought—into the hallway, and went upstairs. He heard her moving about heavily; she was never light-footed.

Water was running in the bathroom. The toilet flushed. He wandered through from the kitchen into the back room. It smelled of old cigarettes, and the ashtray balanced on the arm of the new sofa was brimming. He stood in the doorway and stared at the objects in the room rather as he had at the dirty washing, searching for something familiar. There was very little. The clock on the wall was a wedding present, and still in the same place. The stereo in the corner was new, a flashy model that Terry had probably acquired for her. Judging by the dust on the lid it was seldom used, and the collection of records haphazardly stacked alongside was as small as ever. Among those records was there still a copy of Buddy Holly singing “True Love Ways”?

They’d played that so often it must have been worn thin; they’d danced to it together in this very room—not danced exactly, but used the music as an excuse to hold each other, as if excuses were needed. It was one of those love songs that made him feel romantic and unhappy simultaneously—as though every phrase of it was charged with loss of the very love it celebrated.

Those were the best kind of love songs, and the truest.

Unable to bear the room any longer, he went upstairs.

She was still in the bathroom. There was no lock on the door; she’d been locked in a bathroom as a small child, and had such a terror of the same thing happening again she’d always insisted there be no locks on any of the internal doors in the house. You had to whistle on the toilet if you wanted to stop people walking in on you. He pushed the door open. She was dressed only in her panties; arm raised, shaving her armpit. She caught his eye in the mirror, then went back to what she was doing.

“I didn’t want any more coffee,” he said lamely.

“Got used to the expensive stuff, have you?” she said.

Her body was a few feet from him, and he felt the pull of it. He knew every mole on her back, knew the places a touch would make her laugh.

Such familiarity was a kind of ownership, he felt; she owned him for the same reasons if she would just exercise her right. He crossed to her and put his fingertips on her lower back, and ran them up her spine.

“Charmaine.”

She looked at him in the mirror again—the first unswerving look she’d granted him since he’d arrived at the house—and he knew that any hope of physicality between them was a lost cause.

“I’m not available, Marty,” she said plainly.

“We’re still married.”

“I don’t want you to stay. I’m sorry.”

That’s how she’d begun this meeting: with “I’m sorry.” Now she wanted to finish it in the same way; no genuine apology intended, just a polite brush-off.

“I’ve thought about this so often,” he said.

“So have I,” she replied. “But I stopped thinking about it five years ago. It won’t do any good; you know that as well as I do.”

His fingers were now on her shoulder. He was sure there was a charge in their contact, a buzz of excitement exchanged between her flesh and his. Her nipples had hardened; perhaps the draft from the landing, perhaps his touch.

“I’d like you to go,” she said very quietly, looking down into the sink. There was a tremor in her voice that could easily become tears. He wanted tears from her, shameful as it was. If she wept he’d kiss her to console her, and his consolation would harden as she softened, and they’d finish up in bed; he knew it. That was why she was fighting so hard to show nothing, knowing the scenario as well as he did, and determined not to leave herself open to his affection.

“Please,” she said again, with indisputable finality. His hand dropped from her shoulder. There was no spark between them; it was all in his mind. All ancient history.

“Maybe some other time.” He muttered the cliché as if it were poisoned.

“Yes,” she said, pleased to sound a note of conciliation, however lame. “Ring me first though.”

“I’ll let myself out.”

Chapter 23

H
e wandered around for an hour, dodging hordes of schoolchildren returning home, picking fights and noses as they went. There were signs of spring, even here. Nature could scarcely be bountiful in such restraining circumstances, but it did its best. In tiny front gardens, and in window boxes, flowers blossomed; the few saplings that had survived vandalism showed sweet green leaves. If they survived a few more seasons of frost and malice they might grow large enough for birds to nest in. Nothing exotic: brawling starlings at best, probably. But they’d offer shade in high summer, and places for the moon to sit if you looked out your bedroom window one night. He found himself full of such inappropriate thoughts—moon and starlings—like an adolescent first in love. Coming back here had been a mistake; it had been a self-inflicted cruelty that had hurt Charmaine too.

Useless to go back and apologize, that would only make matters messier.

He’d ring her, as she’d suggested, and ask her out to one farewell dinner.

Then he’d tell her, whether it was true or not, that he was ready for them to part permanently, and he hoped he’d see her once in a while, and they’d say goodbye in a civilized fashion, without enmity, and she’d go back to whatever life she was making for herself, and he’d go to his. To Whitehead, to Carys. Yes, to Carys.

And suddenly tears were on him like a fury, tearing him to pieces, and he was standing in the middle of some street he didn’t recognize, blinded by them. Schoolchildren buffeted him as they ran past, some turning, some seeing his anguish and yelling obscenities at him as they went. This is ridiculous, he told himself, but no amount of name-calling would halt the flow. So he wandered, hand to face, into an alley, and stayed there till the bout passed. Part of him felt quite removed from this burst of emotion. It looked down, this untouched part, on his sobbing self, and shook its head in contempt for his weakness and confusion. He hated to see men cry, it embarrassed him; but there was no gainsaying it. He was lost; that was all there was to it, lost and afraid. That was worth crying for.

When the flow stopped he felt better, but shaky. He wiped his face, and stayed in the backwater of the alley until he’d regained his composure.

It was four-forty. He’d already been to Holborn and picked up the strawberries; that was his first duty when he drove into town. Now, with that done, and Charmaine seen, the rest of the night sprawled in front of him, waiting to be pleasured. But he’d lost a lot of his enthusiasm for a night of adventure. In a while the pubs would open, and he could get a couple of whiskies inside him. That would help rid him of the twitches in his stomach. Maybe it would also whet his appetite again, but he doubted it.

To occupy the time before opening, he wandered down to the shopping precinct. It had been opened two years before he was put inside, a soulless warren of white tiles, plastic palms, and flashy, up-market shops. Now, almost a decade after it was built, it looked about ready for demolition.

It was scarred with graffiti, its tunnels and stairways filthy, many of its shops closed up, others so bereft of charm or custom surely the only option open to the owners was to fire them one of these nights, collect the insurance and run for the hills. He found a small newsstand manned by a forlorn Pakistani, bought a packet of cigarettes and retraced his steps to The Eclipse.

It was just past opening time, and the pub was almost deserted. A couple of skinheads were playing darts; in the lounge bar somebody was celebrating: an off-key chorus of “Happy Birthday, Dear Maureen,” drifted through. The television had been turned up for the early-evening news, but he couldn’t catch much of it over the noise of the celebrants, and wasn’t that interested anyway. Collecting a whisky from the bar he went to sit down, and began to smoke his way through the pack of cigarettes he’d bought. He felt drained. The liquor, instead of putting some spark into him, only made his limbs more leaden.

His thoughts drifted. Free association of ideas brought images into peculiar communion. Carys, and him, and Buddy Holly. That song, “True Love Ways,” playing in the dovecote, while he danced with the girl in the chilly air.

When he shook the pictures from his head there were new customers at the bar; a group of young men making enough noise, braying laughter mostly, to blank out both the sound of the television and the birthday party. One of them was clearly the hub of the entertainment, a lanky, rubber-jointed individual with a smile wide enough to play Chopin on. It took Marty several seconds to register that he knew this clown: it was Flynn. Of all the people he’d thought he might run into on this turf, Flynn was just about the last. Marty half-stood, as Flynn’s glance—an almost magical coincidence—roved the room and fell on him. Marty froze, like an actor who’d forgotten his next move, unable to advance or retreat. He wasn’t sure he was ready for a dose of Flynn. Then the comedian’s face lit up with recognition, and it was too late for retreat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Flynn. The grin faded, to be replaced, momentarily, with a look of total bewilderment, before returning-more radiant than ever. “Look who’s here, will you?” and now he was coming toward Marty, arms outspread in welcome, the loudest shirt man had ever created revealed beneath the well-cut jacket.

“Fucking hell. Marty! Marty!”

They half-embraced, half-shook hands. It was a difficult reunion, but Flynn blustered over the cracks with a salesman’s efficiency.

“What do you know? Of all people. Of all people!”

“Hello, Flynn.”

Marty felt like a dowdy cousin in front of this instant joy machine, all quips and color. Flynn’s smile was immovably in place now, and he was escorting Marty across to the bar, introducing the circle of his audience (Marty caught half of the names, and could put faces to none of them), then it was a double brandy for everyone to celebrate Marty’s homecoming.

“Didn’t know you were out so soon,” Flynn said, toasting his victim. “Here’s to time off for good behavior.”

The rest of the party made no attempt to interrupt the master’s flow, and took instead to talking among themselves, leaving Marty at Flynn’s mercy. He’d changed very little. The style of the clothes, of course, that was different: he was dressed, as ever, as last year’s fashions demanded; he was losing hair too, receding at quite a rate; but apart from that he was the same wisecracking faker he’d always been, laying out a sparkling collection of fabrications for Marty to inspect. His involvement with the music business, his contacts in L.A., his plans to open a recording studio in the neighborhood. “Done a lot of thinking about you,” he said. “Wondered how you were getting on. Meant to visit; but I didn’t think you’d thank me for it.” He was right. “Besides, I’m never here, you know? So tell me, old son, what are you doing back?”

“I came to see Charmaine.”

“Oh.” He seemed almost to have forgotten who she was. “She OK?”

“So-so. You sound as if you’re doing well.”

“I’ve had my hassles, you know, but then who hasn’t? I’m all right though, you know.” He lowered his voice to the barely audible. “The big money’s in dope these days. Not grass, the hard stuff. I handle cocaine mostly; occasionally the big H. I don’t like to touch it … but I’ve got expensive tastes.” He pulled a “what a world this is” face, turned to the bar to order more drinks, then talked on, a seamless train of self-inflation and off-color remarks. After some initial resistance Marty found himself succumbing to him. His tide of invention was as irresistible as ever. Only occasionally did he pause to ask a question of his audience, which was fine by Marty. He had little he wanted to tell. It had always been that way. Flynn the rude boy, fast and smooth; Marty the quiet one, the one with all the doubts. Like alter egos. Simply being with Flynn again Marty could feel himself flung into sharper relief.

The evening passed very quickly. People joined Flynn, drank with him, and wandered off again, having been entertained by the court jester for a while. There were some individuals Marty knew among the traffic of drinkers, and a few uncomfortable encounters, but it was all easier than he’d expected, smoothed on its way by Flynn’s bonhomie. About ten-fifteen he ducked out for a quarter of an hour—“Just got to sort out a little business” —and came back with a wad of money in his inside pocket, which he immediately began to spend.