The Players And The Game (3 page)

Saw
Eyes Without a Face, Les Yeux Sans Visage
is the proper French title. All about a doctor who takes skin grafts off people to put on to his daughter’s disfigured face. Didn’t like it, not interesting. Bonnie didn’t come, quite right too. These new films are not like the old ones. Though I liked
Psycho,
that was good. The shower cabinet, the blood running away. And there is one called
Peeping Tom,
which sounds as if it should be good.

There is something that doesn’t satisfy me about the Game. What do I mean? I’ll try to explain. Take this notebook, who am I writing it for? Myself I suppose, perhaps for Bonnie too, though I’m not
especially
anxious that she should read it. Perhaps I’ll let her one day. Nobody else. In a way that’s right, I don’t want them to, because this is my secret. But in another way I want everybody to know about Behaviour as Games, I want them to understand there are no limits to fantasy fun. I want to know the kind of fantasy fun they’re having too.

Explained all this to Bonnie, that the two of us were very lucky to be able to tell our fantasies. Not sure she understood, in some ways she’s stupid. I believe she thought I was asking her to have sex. Rubbish. I’ve said it before, but now I shall write it out in capitals. DRACULA DOES NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH BONNIE. She wouldn’t like it if he did. But anyway, she doesn’t attract him.

Seriously, seriously Bonnie, that would spoil the whole Game. What Dracula does want is this, to let somebody else into the Game. Talked to Bonnie about this, and she was doubtful. I believe when I’m not with her she feels quite differently. She told me she used to go to church every week when she was small. Her father beat her while her mother watched, when she did anything wrong. Asked if the tortures of the martyrs excited her, lent her one or two of my books about the rack, etc. She liked it while I was telling her, I could see that, but I don’t know what she felt afterwards.

Asked her if she’d ever tortured an animal, told her about a cat I’d seen when I was little. Some boys hung it upside down and shaved off its fur. Did this happen? And if it happened, did I take part? Don’t know, I get confused. But Bonnie didn’t answer, got upset when I asked again if she’d ever done things to animals. I believe she has.

I have told Bonnie what I believe. The important thing in life is Power. Most people are stupid, they don’t possess Power, not even in their fantasies. Everything is petty now. I gave her my test, quoted the great master Nietzsche to her. ‘Whatever is of the effeminate type, whatever springeth from the servile type, and especially the mobmishmash: –
that
wisheth now to be master of all human destiny – O disgust! Disgust! Disgust!’

She seemed to be impressed. Bonnie is in awe of me, recognises her superior. That is right.

A third person in the Game is vital. There is something sacred about one – ‘one is one and all alone’ – and about a triangle. Two is not the same. That has been my trouble in the past. What is the relationship between Sex and Power?

Later. Have made a contact with a Third. Very promising, although I have been careful. I said nothing of Bonnie. I long for the moment when the three of us meet, when we talk to each other as Bonnie and Dracula have done, secure in the freedom of fantasy.

Have bought a tape machine in preparation. What will it record and repeat?

Anne Marie had every evening free, but it was understood that she would let Penelope know in advance if she was to be home later than eleven o’clock. On the night of 27 May she went out at eight o’clock. Penelope noticed, or remembered afterwards, that she looked flushed and excited. She said that she would probably not be back until about midnight.

At two in the morning Penelope went to bed. At breakfast time Anne Marie had not returned. Penelope and Dick talked about whether they should sack her when she came back. On the following day, Sunday, they got in touch with the police.

On the morning of Wednesday, I June, Mr Darling visited Rawley police station. He saw Sergeant Saunders, who knew him quite well by sight as one of the town’s half-dozen estate agents. Mr Darling asked rather hesitantly whether they had heard anything about a secretary-typist named Joan Brown who worked for him. She had not come in on Monday morning, and when he went round to her room to inquire if she was ill, it seemed that she had packed her things and left.

‘I see, sir. Had you any hint of this? I mean, did she seem fed up with the job, give you any idea she might be going?’

‘None whatever. I was quite satisfied with her work.’ He made it sound like a testimonial. ‘It’s surprising. And annoying. She was reliable, which is unusual nowadays. If she’s coming back I don’t want to engage anybody else.’

‘Been with you long, had she?’

‘Not long, no. About three months.’

‘Any trouble at home as far as you know, anything – like that?’

‘Home.’ Mr Darling, neatly dressed and wearing a spotted bow-tie, considered the word. ‘I don’t actually know where her home is, we never discussed it. She just had a room here. I suppose she came from London.’ He leaned on the counter. ‘I expect you think I’m fussing about this, Sergeant, but I don’t understand why she left without saying a word to me or sending a letter. It seems out of character.’

The sergeant, who did think that Mr Darling was fussing, said that inquiries would be made. The details of the two disappearances made their way on to the desk of Sergeant Plender of Rawley CID. He talked about them to the head of Rawley Sub-Division, Detective-Inspector Hurley.

It was a hot day, with the threat of thunder in the air. Hurley’s office was uncomfortably warm. He was not a man who sought out work. ‘I don’t see what you’re on about, Harry.’

‘Two disappearances, sir, two in four days.’

‘You can’t say this girl Brown’s disappeared. From the report she simply upped and went. Took all her gear, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, but according to Mrs Ransom, that’s her landlady, she was in a fair old state, had been for a couple of days. And she never said she was going, that surprised Mrs Ransom just like it surprised her employer, Darling.’

‘The estate agent, isn’t it? I know him by sight.’ Hurley picked his teeth. ‘What sort of girl was she, one for the bright lights?’

‘No, sir. Rather shy and reserved.’

‘How’d she go, find that out?’

‘No. I’ve inquired at the station and bus depot, but they don’t remember. Not that they’d be likely to. We haven’t got a picture.’

‘Anyway she left under her own steam, not much doubt about that.’

‘I suppose not. If it weren’t for the other case–’

‘The au pair girl.’

‘That’s right. Anne Marie Dupont. Worked as au pair for a Mr and Mrs Service. I gather she may have been a bit flighty, but nothing serious. She’s left her suitcase behind, clothes, shoes, everything.’

The inspector looked at the photograph with Plender’s report. ‘Nice bit of stuff. You might say she was flighty and now she’s flown.’ Plender did not laugh. ‘So she’s left her duds behind. It doesn’t mean much. Ten to one she’s working in a strip club now where she doesn’t need ’em. You know what a lot of these au pairs are, on the game only they like to pretend they’re amateurs.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see you don’t think I’m right. Well, all you have to do to convince me is show some connection between Miss Brown the secretary-typist and Miss Dupont the au pair. You can’t do that?’

‘Not at present.’

‘What about their families?’

‘The Services have written to Anne Marie’s people in France. I gather her mother’s dead, she lived with her father and an elder sister. Haven’t traced the Brown woman’s family so far.’

‘Right.
At present
then, we go through the usual motions. And I think you’ll find, Harry, that within a week or two one or both of ’em will turn up.’ Hurley wiped his forehead.

On the first of June the Vanes moved in to Bay Trees. A company car called every morning for Bob Lowson and took him up to the office, but Bob worked on papers and dictated letters while he was being driven, and Paul was not offered a place in the car. He and Jennifer drove or walked to Rawley Station and took the train. The journey lasted forty minutes, during which Paul read the
Financial Times
and
The Times,
and Jennifer turned the pages of a woman’s magazine. Alice was left alone in the house. She made curtains, stained floors, opened accounts with local tradesmen. She was asked to a couple of coffee parties, but mistook the time of the first and arrived when people were leaving, and sat through the local gossip at the second without saying more than a dozen words. She disliked gossip. After returning home she thought, I shan’t ever go there again.

She spent part of the afternoon of that day looking through a box of old photographs which she found in the pile of stuff stacked in a spare bedroom. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the pictures spread out around her, Jennifer as a baby crawling over the lawn of a flat they had had near Croydon when Paul was working as a salesman, Jennifer as an angel in a school play, Paul and herself at the firm’s annual dance just after he had joined Timbals twelve years ago. Sir Geoffrey Pilling, managing director before finance became shaky and Bob Lowson was brought in to reorganise, had danced twice with her. He had said to Paul, ‘I congratulate you, Vane, on having such a beautiful young wife. You make a fine couple.’

Beauty, she thought, beauty. The word rang like a bell down the years. As she remembered it, that had been the best time of her life, a time when she had recovered from Anthony’s death and had been entranced by Paul’s good looks, when she herself had been beautiful and perfectly happy. Her parents had disapproved of Paul, who as her mother had put it was far from being out of the top drawer, but Alice had not cared about that. It was a long time, though, since they had made a fine couple. ‘I am beautiful,’ she said, and went on muttering it like an incantation until she had reached the bathroom, and the glass there gave her the lie. This strained pale creature, still with fine bones and delicate features, but with wild greying hair and something strained about the eyes, was certainly not beautiful. She tore up the photograph at the dance into four pieces, wept a little, carefully stuck the pieces together again with a postcard backing. With these concessions made to sentiment she became again her practical self. She did her face, put on a dress that was rather too smart, and went out shopping.

In the High Street she met Penelope Service, who told her about the puzzle of the missing Anne Marie. ‘She’s really a bit odd,’ Penelope said to Dick that evening. ‘Do you know what she said when I told her about Anne Marie? She said–’ Penelope gave a giggle sharp as a hiccup – ‘“I wonder if my husband’s seduced her? He doesn’t like me much now, but he’s fond of young girls.”’

Dick nodded. As a psychologist he was professionally unsurprised by anything.

‘And
then
she said. “Don’t take any notice, I’ve been having an afternoon in the past, do you ever do that?” I felt rather – sorry for her, she seemed quite–’ Penelope’s sentence faded into total extinction. ‘So I asked her back to tea, and she’s going to join the – bridge club.’

‘Fine. What are we going to do about that damned girl?’

‘I don’t think I want to have another au pair. They’re more trouble than–’ Another sentence faded.

‘I suppose we’d better send her things back to her family.’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘The police seemed pretty sure she was having it off with some fellow in London. She didn’t seem to me quite that type, I must say.’

Penelope Service had heard enough about Anne Marie. ‘I don’t know, darling, and frankly I don’t care. All I know is that she was a rotten au pair, and I’m – glad she’s gone.’

‘It would be funny if Vane really had got her tucked away in a love-nest somewhere. Rather a dish, isn’t he?’

‘Not my type. I don’t like men his age pretending to be teenagers. He looks as if he might dye his hair.’

The office door said
Paul Vane
in gold lettering, and
Director of Personnel
beneath it in black. The position had at one time been called Personnel Manager, but the word Director was thought to add prestige. It did not carry with it a position on the Board, but Paul was entitled to use the wash-room and luncheon-room which were used also by Board members. Such marks of distinction were important. They showed how far he had come since joining the firm as a junior member of the Personnel Department.

A week after the move to Rawley he found a memo on his desk. It said that next week a small luncheon-room was to be opened on the top floor for the use of directors, selected senior staff and their guests. The room would be used only when guests of importance were present. Appended below was a list of those entitled to use the new luncheon-room, after giving prior notice of the guests who were being entertained. His name was not on it.

He read the list of names a second time. It was headed by the Chairman, Sir George Rose, and included all the directors. Apart from these there were two names on it, those of Blaney the home marketing manager, and O’Rourke, who was concerned with exports. Obviously Paul Vane should have been on it too. The memo came from Hartford’s office, and Paul rang his secretary.

The girl who answered said that Miss Popkin was away ill. ‘I’m her assistant, Joy Lindley.’ He explained what he wanted. She said, ‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr Vane. I’m afraid it was my fault.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The memo. It was sent to you by mistake. I really don’t know how it happened.’

‘What do you mean, Miss–’ For a moment he could not remember her name – ‘Lindley. I rang to tell you that my name should be put on, that’s all.’

It was only when she said doubtfully, ‘Yes, I see,’ that he realised his name had been left off by intention. He covered up by saying that he would have a word with Mr Hartford. She sounded relieved as she said that that would perhaps be best.

When he put down the receiver he felt a gust of anger. This was clear confirmation of what he had said to Alice about Hartford gunning for him. Blaney and O’Rourke were departmental heads on his own level, and to leave his name off a list that included theirs was a deliberate insult. Five minutes later he felt composed enough to speak to Hartford.

In the outer office he saw the girl. She was young, with fluffy pale golden hair. She gave him a nervous smile.

You’re Joy Lindley.’

‘That’s right. Mr Vane, about that memo. It was all my fault.’

‘Never mind.’ Below the desk top stretched slimly attractive legs. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Three months.’

‘Like it?’

‘Oh yes, very much.’

‘I’m just going in to have a word with Mr Hartford. Don’t worry, Joy, I shan’t bring you into it. That’s not necessary at all.’

‘Thank you very much.’

You’ve made a friend, Paul, he said to himself as he passed on.

Hartford looked small behind a big desk. A steel and glass inkstand in the shape of a pair of gear wheels stood on it, together with a chromium photograph frame containing the picture of a woman, and a letter-opener. It seemed that the letter-opener got little use for the desk was now, as always, almost completely clear of correspondence. Hartford was known to believe that only an inefficient man had a cluttered desk, a disturbing conclusion for somebody like Paul, who always had a pile of papers which could not be dealt with immediately, but equally could not possibly be shut away in a file.

The senior figures at Timbals used first names to each other, but Paul felt uncomfortable in doing so with Hartford. His manner was more boyishly naïve than usual.

‘Brian, I understand the new luncheon-room is going to be opened next week, is that right?’

‘Quite right.’

‘Fine. I may have a couple of people I’d like to bring along next Thursday. Not sure yet, but I thought I’d check the opening date with you.’

Hartford’s voice was like the first frost of winter. ‘I’ve sent memos to everybody eligible to use the new luncheon-room. You’ve not had one.’ It was a statement, not a question. When he said no, Hartford said nothing more.

‘You mean the room is for the exclusive use of directors.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Well, then?’

Hartford’s tongue came out and briefly touched his lips in what was undoubtedly a gesture of pleasure. ‘I should have thought the conclusion was obvious.’

Paul felt a flush rising in his neck. He kept his voice quiet. ‘You mean I’m not to use the room.’

‘The names of those eligible to use it were on the memo.’

‘It’s not confined to directors. Blaney and O’Rourke’s names are on it.’ He stared across the desk. Hartford huddled on the other side, immobile as a lizard. Paul was pleased that his own voice was still quiet. ‘You’re discriminating against me. If it’s good for one departmental head it should be good for others. I shan’t let this rest, Brian, I shall take it further.’

Hartford nodded.

In the outer office Joy Lindley looked at him anxiously. He smiled, patted her on the shoulder, went out.

Bob Lowson spent most of the morning in a huddle with the Timbals accountants and the director of a merchant bank. They talked about financial prospects. In the past five years Timbals had diversified their interests, buying up half a dozen small firms and using them as outlets for new plastics products. Everybody agreed that in the long term this was the right thing to do, but in the short term the return on capital was low, and left them possibly vulnerable to a takeover attempt by their American rivals Primal Products. The purpose of the huddle was to assess the group’s state of health if such a takeover attempt were made. It seemed to Lowson premature to call in Sir George Rose and Hartford to this meeting, which like many similar discussions turned out to be entirely inconclusive. There were rumours, but it was after all very likely that no takeover attempt would be made by Primal. Nevertheless it was a trying three hours, and after it Lowson turned down the merchant banker’s suggestion that they should lunch together. He ordered a rare roast beef sandwich, and made a telephone call on his private line. He felt in need of relaxation.

The street led off Wimpole Street, and the names on the bells were those of doctors. He pressed one that said Dr L Winstanley. The buzzer sounded and the door opened. He took the lift to the second floor and went in the door that said Reception. A nurse in a white uniform confronted him.

‘I have an appointment with Dr Winstanley.’

She consulted a book. ‘She has no appointment at this time.’

‘But I telephoned half an hour ago.’

‘I’m sorry. She cannot see anybody.’

Lowson whimpered slightly. ‘Please, nurse.’

‘Is it really urgent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. Just a moment.’ She went into another room, returned. ‘Dr Winstanley will see you.’ When Lowson got up she barred the entrance to the inner room. ‘On your knees.’ He dropped clumsily to his knees. ‘Kiss my shoe. Now the other one.’

There was a delicious smell of dirt and shoe polish blended. ‘Pathetic, you’re pathetic,’ the nurse said. She bent down, lifted him by one ear, pushed him into the room so that he stumbled.

Louise Winstanley nodded from behind her desk. Her features were regular and handsome. The comers of her thin mouth were turned down in an expression of permanent disapproval. ‘Sit down. What is your trouble?’

‘Incontinence, Doctor.’

‘Yes, of course. And what has your behaviour been like since I saw you last?’

‘Bad, I’m afraid. I just can’t help myself.’

‘Then we must try to help you. Stand up.’ She came round to stand beside him. Her head came up to Lowson’s shoulder. ‘Take your clothes off. I must examine them to see if they are soiled.’

He took off his jacket, then gave another whimper. ‘I don’t like to, Doctor. Not in front of a woman.’

‘Hold out your hands.’ He did so. She took a pair of handcuffs out of a cupboard and fitted them on his wrists. ‘You are disobedient, stupid and filthy,’ she said, and smacked each side of his face hard. ‘I think Agnes had better come in to help me deal with you, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered. When the nurse appeared in the doorway he thought he would faint with pleasure.

An hour and a half later and twenty pounds poorer he was back in his office, relaxed and mellow. He contemplated Paul Vane, and listened to what he was saying, with the amused languor of a well-fed cat. He liked Paul, and thought of grooming him for some position which would involve his joining the Board. It was to keep Paul under his eye, as much as for the convenience of having him living near to the works, that he had mentioned the possibility of moving to Rawley. Looking now at the subdued anxiety of Paul’s expression, he wondered whether promotion was after all a good idea.

‘This is really Brian’s pigeon, you know that. You’ve spoken to him?’

‘Yes. He just said my name wasn’t on the list. If Blaney and O’Rourke can use the luncheon-room I should be allowed to use it too.’

Childish and petty, Lowson thought, and stupid to run to him for protection. It showed a lack of adroitness. There were other ways of handling this kind of thing. He said that he would have a word with Brian. He looked speculatively at Paul’s slender figure, thin but longish hair and fashionably colourful tie. Perhaps Val’s doubts were right, perhaps he was a bit too much of a good thing.

‘How’s life in Rawley? Settling down?’

Paul said it was terrific, marvellous to be out of London, with that note of enthusiasm which managed to sound at the same time both sincere and unconvincing. Alice was finding shopping a bit different but, yes, she was enjoying it too.

From the depth of sensual repletion Lowson considered him. There
was
something odd about Paul. What was he like? An actor playing several parts, not quite at home in any of them? ‘And your daughter, Jean?’