The Whispering Gallery (17 page)

“So how long have you been murophobic?” asked the cub reporter as they crossed Fleet Street.

“What?”

“Afraid of rats – and mice.”

“I'm not, really – they have more reason to be afraid of me. However, I am thanatophobic. Afraid of dying – especially in a slow and painful way.”

“Thirteen letters,” said Tanfield.

The man in the wide-brimmed hat crossed the deep-pile red carpet of the Angel Picture Theatre. Its magnificent chandelier cast his face in deep shadow. The entrance below the tower that provided Islington with one of its most famous landmarks was for circle patrons only. Those wanting to sit in the stalls had to use the entrance in White Lion Street round the corner. Hundreds of movie-goers – corralled by brass handrails – would often stand in line waiting patiently to buy tickets – but not on a sultry evening such as this.

He didn't normally venture out on Saturday nights – not before midnight, anyway – but time was of the essence. One more week and – assuming everything went according to plan – he would be in self-imposed exile. However, there was much to do before then. Just the thought of having Steadman at his mercy made his balls tingle.

The octopoid organist started to play the “Love Waltz” by Karl Horschna from
Madame Sherry
. The audience, so ready to be pleased by simple things, applauded enthusiastically.

In the event the orchestral performance was better than the main feature:
Night Must Fall
. On Thursday Graham Greene, in
Night and Day
, had written:
Emlyn Williams's pretentious little murder play has made a long dim film.
Robert Montgomery as the psychopathic pageboy with his hatbox of trophies was rather good though. The audience watched spellbound as he continued to hide his delight in decapitation beneath a veneer both meek and mild.

The man gazed down at the rows of heads in front of him. Now which one should he separate from its shoulders?

Sunday, 11th July, 8.55 a.m.

Johnny woke to feel a man's arm across his chest. He turned his head to see Matt, out cold, lying on his naked stomach. His blond hair, usually so neatly combed, was tousled: it made him look younger. Matt had known him longer than any other person alive or dead. The faintest of crow's feet were beginning to develop at the corners of his eyes. Stubble, the colour of corn, covered his cheeks and chin. His broad forehead was damp.

Johnny had never felt safer. Let the postcard killer come and get him now. He vaguely remembered Matt turning in, well after midnight. Exhausted after the events of Friday evening, he had come to bed at ten. He drifted off back to sleep.

They had spent the whole day playing by the Regent's Canal in Islington. Even then Matt was in the habit of looking out for him. They were so involved in their game of submarines they did not see the gypsies coming. The brown-skinned, sulky-eyed boys had already picked up their discarded clothes by the time Matt noticed them. He got out of the water and, without any hesitation, confronted them. Johnny followed his example.

The thieves, who must have been ten or eleven, had a couple of years on them. They made no attempt to flee. Matt was not afraid.

“Give them back.”

“Make me.” The taller of the two winked at his brother. The blow caught him completely unawares and almost knocked him off his feet. He flung down the pilfered shorts and T-shirts and lunged at Matt. The other one went for Johnny. The head-butt got him right in the stomach and knocked him to the ground. His grinning assailant jumped on him but Johnny caught him on the chin and managed to roll over so that he was now on top. The vicious urchin tried to bite as well as bash him.

Matt, meanwhile, was straddling the older boy and punching him in the face with alternate fists. The boy wrapped his hands around Matt's neck and squeezed as hard as he could. Matt grabbed his wrists and tried to break the iron grip that was throttling him. The boy beneath him let go and, with a thrust of his pelvis, threw Matt off on to the towpath. Before he could stand up and catch his breath, the gypsy booted him in the stomach again and again. Matt tried to dodge the kicks but fell backwards into the canal.

Johnny and his attacker were now rolling around on the towpath. Sharp stones dug into Johnny's bare back. The older boy, in search of further entertainment, grabbed hold of his soggy drawers, ripped them off, tore them in two and tossed them into the canal. Johnny, now stark naked, got to his feet and, breathing heavily, quivering with shock, covered his embarrassment. The brothers stood there jeering. He was no match for the two of them. He was at their mercy. What were they going to do to him?

A hand grabbed the younger boy round an ankle and yanked hard. He fell to the ground smashing his face on the edge of the canal as he plunged into the water. He wasn't laughing now. Matt, his face already swelling, heaved himself back on to the towpath.

“He can't swim!” said the gypsy in a panic. “And I can't neither.” His brother disappeared below the surface.

“Better get help then, hadn't you?” said Matt. He looked at Johnny's skinny, white body then retrieved their clothes.

When he woke again Matt was still in dreamland. He hadn't even moved. Johnny studied his friend's face, paying particular attention to his lips. They were neither thick nor thin and slightly parted.

He almost jumped when Matt opened his eyes. For a second they were unfocused then their blueness deepened. Another snatch of schoolboy Donne, from “The Extasie”, came unbidden to Johnny's mind:

“Morning.” Matt removed his arm and turned on to his back. “Christ, I feel like shit.”

“You stink of beer.”

“You sound just like Lizzie.” He yawned. “Well, shift your arse. Get the kettle on.”

“In a second. I want to tell you something.” Matt turned to face him.

“Don't say it, Johnny.”

“You don't know what I'm going to say!”

“I've a pretty good idea. Please don't say it.”

“I don't want to die leaving it unsaid.”

“You're not going to die and you don't need to say it. I've sort of known for years.”

“That's more than I have.”

“Really?” He yawned again, still not bothering to put a hand over his mouth. “Go on, I'm gasping.”

Johnny got up and went down to the kitchen. He realised that he was shaking. A cup of tea would solve nothing. If there had been any whisky in the house he would have drunk it.

Matt made a point of giving him a hug before he left for work.

“Keep your wits about you. You can always come and stay with me and Lizzie if you want. Think of your break-up with Stella as a lucky escape. At least she betrayed you before the wedding and not after.”

“Every silver lining has a cloud. Thanks for the invitation but, as you say – you've got enough on your plate at the moment.”

It was another hot, tiresome, blue-skied day. At noon Johnny wandered up to the newsagent's on Essex Road to buy all the papers. As he was about to put his key in the front door he heard someone moving about inside. He dumped the papers on the step and retrieved the cosh. He slid the key into the lock, turned it and rushed into to the hall with his arm raised.

Stella screamed and clutched her chest. For a second Johnny thought of clubbing her anyway. “I thought you'd be out.”

“Well, you were right.”

“I came to return your key – and this.” The typescript of
Friends and Lovers
lay on the table.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Not really. Proved I'd made the right decision though.”

“What decision is that?”

“To stop seeing you.”

“Why?” She stamped her foot. Johnny waited for the broomstick. There it was: the witch downstairs never failed. Stella stamped her foot again. The rapping stopped.

“Don't play the innocent with me. You're still in love with Lizzie and, God help you, half in love with Matt as well.”

Johnny sighed. “It's only a novel, Stella. Nothing's been going on.”

“Not in the real world, perhaps. There's always been too much going on in your head though.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“If you're making one.” She pulled out a bentwood chair and sat down.

“I've missed you.”

“You'll get over it. How's that little minx of a nurse? Always with a different man, she is.”

“Did your father tell you?”

“No, I saw you walking her back to her place. Very chummy you were too.”

“I'd been drowning my sorrows. Millie was just a bit of company. She looked after me when I was in Bart's. Were you jealous?”

“No. Just surprised how quickly you'd overcome your so-called heartbreak. Or rather semi-heartbreak. It seems our romance was always half-hearted. You can't love two or even three people at the same time Johnny. It's got to be all or nothing.”

“I told you nothing happened!”

“That's not what Louis said.”

“Oh. I was wondering when we were going to get round to that Eyetie.”

“We've been seeing each other for some time.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You're not the only one who can't make their mind up.”

“I wouldn't trust a man who betrays his colleagues.”

“All's fair in love and war.”

“He's dark though, isn't he? And black-hearted. Has he told you he loves you?”

“Not in so many words. He told me what you wouldn't though.”

“Such as?”

“What happened in December.”

Johnny, like Matt, had always refused to discuss the events at Snow Hill.

“How does he know?”

“You're a newspaperman. You know better than anyone how people talk. The assault must have unleashed something, let out the queer inside you.”

“If that's meant to be a joke, it isn't funny.”

It was usually men who made light of homosexuality. They hid their fear of the taboo – Was it contagious? Did it make you queer if a man made a pass at you? – behind a barrage of tasteless wisecracks. Women, on the other hand, seemed to take it far more seriously – as if it were a personal insult.

“Louis simply pointed out that he was all man, but if I was happy with a chap who didn't know which way to turn then he'd back off.”

“When was this?”

“Some time in May.”

“After I'd introduced you to him in the Tipperary?”

“Yes.” Johnny sat down, ignoring the boiling kettle. Stella, rolling her eyes, got up and made the tea. “Louis is a good guy. He's stood by me.”

“What are you talking about? The heat must have addled your brain. Don't you get it? I love you. If you hadn't fucked off to Brighton we could have been engaged by now. I was going to ask you to marry me.”

“I wasn't in Brighton. I was in Notting Hill.”

“I don't understand. Why lie about it?”

“I was pregnant.”

Just thinking of the smell of the carbolic soap and disinfectant, the Higginson syringe worming its way inside her, made her nauseous. It hadn't worked, either – which is why she had been subsequently forced to resort to more drastic measures: an ice-cold speculum spreading her wide open, another instrument of torture wrenching the tiny life out of her womb; the bleeding that had seemed it would never stop.

“Was?”

“Louis took care of it.”

“How?”

“I'm sure it's not the first time he's got a girl in the family way. He paid for the, er, procedure.”

“How d'you know he was the father?”

“I didn't. That's why I couldn't take the risk.” She started to cry.

“What risk? Surely what you did was far more risky? Not to say illegal.”

“How could I marry you when it might have been his child?”

“I wouldn't have cared!” Was that entirely true? Could he have stood by and watched his putative son slowly turn into the spitting image of Dimeo? He was pretty sure he would have come to love the child just the same. “We could have had another baby. How many times do I have to tell you? I love you, Stella. I'd have done anything for you – including bring up another man's child.”

He put his head in his hands. If not being a husband was bad enough, not being a father – and having your first child murdered – was even worse. It was as if wanting something with all your heart – Lizzie, Stella, a son – immediately made it impossible.

“I'm sorry,” sobbed Stella. “I didn't know what to do.”

Johnny put his arms round her gingerly. When she didn't shake him off, he started stroking her hair.

“You should have told me. I would never have betrayed you.” Could they get back together? Could he forget what she'd done? No: on both sides the trust had gone. Perhaps she was better off without him. He pecked her on the cheek. “I hope you'll be very happy as Mrs Dimeo, but with his track record I wouldn't bet on it.”

“I've gone off the whole idea of marriage.” She pulled a tiny handkerchief out of her handbag and blew her nose. “I'd been waiting weeks for you to pluck up the courage to ask, but at the same time a part of me was also dreading the moment. I was the one in trouble. It was my life in jeopardy, my reputation at stake. The fact that you or Louis could just ride off into the sunset made my blood boil.”

“But I wouldn't have done – and Louis didn't.”

“How could I have known that?”

If she had truly known him like he knew her – or rather thought he'd known her – she would have come to him straightaway.

“Would you have said yes if I had gone down on bended knee?”

“If I could have been sure the baby was yours, then yes – but only to spare my parents the embarrassment.”

“Do they know about the abortion?”

She winced at the word. “No.”

“Don't worry, I won't tell them.” He took her hand and held it in both of his. “Have you ever loved me?”

“You made me laugh. I loved your adoration of me.”

“So that's a no then.”

“You don't know how to relax. At first I liked your nervous energy, but in the end I found it exhausting. I never wanted to hurt you, Johnny.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Of course not. Carrying on with another bloke behind my back was bound to fill me with bliss. Your timing could not have been worse. At least promise me you'll come to the funeral if I die before the end of the month. I'm sure my replacement would be only too happy to dance on my grave.”

“He doesn't blame you in the slightest. Says he deserved it. Apparently you pack one hell of a punch.”

Johnny gave a sardonic smile. “If Matt has taught me anything, it's how to fight.”

“You should show that side of yourself more often.”

“Why? Violence is never the answer – and neither is ripping a baby out of the womb.”

“I don't have to listen to this.” She flung the key at him and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

So was that how it ended? Would he ever see her again?

Johnny picked up the typescript and riffled through the pages to check they were all there. Apparently so. He returned it to its place in the drawer. He felt like smashing up the kitchen. His whole life was falling apart. Frustration, fury, disappointment and despair bubbled inside him. He wanted to scream.

However, before he could do so, someone else did. The quiet enjoyment of a dozen Sunday lunches was shattered by a blood-curdling shriek.