Until the Night (8 page)

This was true, as it happened.

“Should I come back another day?”

“I’ll tell you how I met Laura Lacroix. But I have to be sure you’re not wearing a wire between those tastefully freckled tits. Are you going to show me or not?”

“No.”

“We appear to be at a standoff, then, don’t we.”

Delorme reached for her briefcase. “I’ll just come back another—”

“Wait.” Priest grabbed her forearm and squeezed.

Delorme froze, looking at his hand until he let her go.

“I’ve thought of a way. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but first you have to ask if you can suck my cock.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She got up and went across the room for her coat.

“You won’t leave,” Priest said after her. “Laura’s been missing—what?—three days now? And you’re afraid of words? So repressed you’d screw up a case rather than say a few little words Sister Mary Tightarse wouldn’t approve of?”

Delorme took her coat from the hook and struggled into the sleeves.

“She could be tied up somewhere. Or lost in the bush. Freezing to death. But you can’t bring yourself to say a few little—”

Delorme came back, coat and all, and sat down opposite him, banging his knee hard. She grabbed hold of his turtleneck and pulled him closer and looked into those gleaming blue eyes. “Oh, please master, please master, please, mister British rock star master, won’t you please let me suck that huge cock of yours? Please? Please? Won’t you, huh? Huh? Oh my God, it’s so big. It’s so huge. How do you even get around? Really, something that size, you ought to get it fitted for a shoe. Maybe build it its own garage.” She pushed him away and sat back.

Priest frowned at her and half stood, twisting a little to see himself in the mirror. He fussed with the material of his turtleneck for a minute, then slid back down to his seat.

“Are you really that pathetic?” Delorme said. “Is that really what you need to hear?”

“As a matter of fact,” Priest said, “I think this is going very well.”

He signalled for more drinks, and when they arrived he began to talk.

Eleven months earlier. He said he remembered because he had just returned from Christmas vacation with the aged ones in London—Hampstead Garden Suburb, to be exact. Then to Algonquin Bay to get in a little skiing
and northern solitude before venturing back into the belly of the monster in Ottawa and Toronto.

“I was invited to dinner at a friend’s place. Fella named Brian I met at the squash club. I forget why Laura was there—they weren’t trying to set me up. I think she works with Brian’s wife up at the hospital. Pleasant evening, blah blah. Anyway, few days later I head back to Ottawa and—”

“Where do you live, exactly? Here? Ottawa? Toronto?”

“Ottawa. I’ve got my Swiss cottage here and a loft in Toronto, but the Toronto club runs itself at this point. It’s Ottawa I got to keep an eye on—thanks to your colleagues. Believe it or not, police investigations do tend to have a negative effect on the libido, as well as everything else.”

“Doesn’t seem to have affected you.”

“Yeah, but I’m exceptional.” He took a sip of his Guinness and contemplated the glass. “So I’m back in Ottawa a couple of weeks and I get a call from Laura. In town for some kind of conference. Wonders if I have time for a drink. Not dinner. Not coffee. Drink. I know what that means, and so do you. So, fine. We meet at the Shadow and we have a drink.”

“I’m sorry—the Shadow?”

“Yeah, the hotel. Shadow Laurier. Oh Christ, you’re not taking the piss about my accent, are you?”

“I thought you said Shadow. I thought it might be another club.”

“Non, c’est une plaisanterie. Que tu es snob! Tu penses que t’es tellement supérieure? La petite Pepsi avec son accent qui donne l’impression d’une chatte en chaleurs? C’est insupportable.”
His French was infuriatingly good.

“First point,” Delorme said, “you’ve never heard my accent. Second point, did you actually call me a Pepsi?” It was an age-old put-down of uncertain derivation for French Canadians, especially dizzy young girls.

“I did. And I notice you’re sticking to English. Bit self-conscious, are we? Let me give you some advice, darling—never get between an Englishman and his accent. We grow up with a hundred of ’em buzzing in our ears, each with its own little class marker—and believe me, every one of us learns to negotiate that minefield very quickly indeed. That’s why we produce the best fucking actors in the universe.”

“So why do you sound the way you do?”

“If I felt like it, I could sound like Bertie Fuckin Russell, but I prefer to sound like someone with a dick between his legs. Awright, sistah?”

“So you met for a drink.”

He nodded. “Laura’d already had a couple. She was fun in a small-town kind of way. Very innocent. Marriage was in trouble, told me that straight off. And she pretended to be concerned that she was feeling sexually restless. Sexually restless—I’d never heard it put quite that way before.

“So I take her back to the Lord Elgin, where the conference was, and I know this will shock you, Sister Delorme, but, well, I’m afraid we went to bed together. I cannot tell a lie. Would you like the details?”

“No.”

“I had the impression her nipples had been shamefully ignored. Very responsive, she was, in that area—quite electrified, really. And apparently no one of even average sexual IQ had addressed themselves to her clitoris. Amazing what women have to put up with. Men are terrible lovers, as I’m sure your own researches will confirm.”

“How can you make the comparison?”

Priest laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You’re saying you’ve been in bed with lots of men?”

“Correct!” He touched her hand, a brief pressure, then gone. “You are truly amazing. Have you ever even seen a penis?”

“Could you just stick to the story?”

“Week or so later, she looks me up here. Right here, same as you. Took the same seat at the bar, waiting for me to notice. So subtle. We have a bit of a chinwag and she casually mentions some married git she’s shagging. Didn’t stop her from coming on to me again. Only this time I wasn’t having any.”

“Why not?”

“Because I look at someone like Laura Lacroix, I see tears and phone calls and overdoses and lots of just plain not-worth-it. Very attractive woman, Laura—looked a bit like you, frankly—but unfortunately a bit clingy.”

“Did you see her again?”

“Yeah, I told you. Ottawa. When she showed up at Risqué and got fucked silly. You ought to try it sometime.”

“You’ve said in the past you like sex games. Tying people up. Role playing.”

“It’s called fun, sister. It’s not my sole occupation.”

“And you also like sex outdoors.”

“You’re taking a suspiciously deep interest.”

“So let’s say you were going to abduct a woman for sexual purposes. You’d—what?—take her to someone’s backyard and do it out by the garage?”

“I don’t abduct women. I’ve no interest in abducting women. Seducing women, yes. Allowing women to express their own sexual nature, yes. Abducting, no. Not my style.”

“What if it were your style?”

“It isn’t. But I can tell you a very nice place for it. You know the former Deep Forest Lodge?”

“It’s not former. It never opened.”

“On a moonlit night, I can tell you, there’s nothing like it. Like doing it in a haunted house, but outdoors at the same time.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Some women like horrible. Like to be tied up. Like to be scared.” He waggled long fingers at her and made a ghostly sound,
“Wooooo …”

“You think women like to be beaten and killed too?”

“I said
scared
. It’s called a
frisson
—or is that word not available in your FC
vocabulaire
? Must say, I thought at first you were just tightly wound, a little repressed, a little starved for it. But on closer acquaintance, I’m beginning to think you’re just dead fucking boring.”

Delorme stood up and slapped a twenty on the table. “This round’s on me, Romeo.”

“Oh, Christ—D.C. Delorme’s been watching cop TV.”

“It’s Detective Delorme, or Sergeant Delorme, when I’m on duty.”

“Well, promise me one thing, Sergeant. Promise me you won’t come back unless you really do want to suck my cock.”

Ronnie Babstock woke in the dark. Earlier, the moon had lit the room like a street lamp, but now it had moved on. He was in the old house, in town, the house he had shared with Evelyn. He had intended to sell it, had even bought the new place out on the lake, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to leave this place. He slept better in this house. Usually.

He rolled over and tilted the alarm clock on his bedside table. 3:22. Hiss of air from the heating vents. The house was not ancient, but all houses make noise, especially in the cold. Something metal was ticking at odd intervals.

Insomnia had troubled Babstock much during his younger years, but now, nearing sixty, he generally slept through the night. It wasn’t supposed to work that way, but he wasn’t complaining. So what had woken him at 3:22 on this particular night? He didn’t need the bathroom, and the house was not unduly cold even though he kept the thermostat pretty low for sleeping.

There were wakings that felt bad—a sudden yell in a dream that tears you from sleep, or the phone going off in the hollow of the night—and yet you could turn over and be right back to sleep. Other times, your eyes open for no reason at all but sleep is out of the question. He lay still, trying to take the measure of his own response.

After a while he got up and put on his bathrobe and went down the hall to the bathroom. He opened the cabinet and took out a prescription bottle, opened it and tapped out a single pill. He broke it in half and put one half back in the bottle, then poured a quarter of a glass of water and took the other half. As he was closing the cabinet door, he froze.

Please help me
.

It sounded like a young woman, a girl even. He spun around and leaned slightly to see around the bathroom door frame and down the hall. Night light glowing at the top of the stairs. That ticking sound again. He stood waiting.

It couldn’t be neighbours. Babstock’s property was large’ he had no neighbours. It must be the memory of a dream.

Oh, God, I’m so cold …

“Who’s there?” He had to clear his throat and repeat it. “Is there somebody there?”

He knew it wasn’t Evelyn, despite what he had said to Cardinal. Although which of us can say if the voice survives the trip across that threshold? He turned on the hall lights, upstairs and downstairs. A weapon of some sort seemed advisable, but he was not a hunter and owned no guns.

He went down the stairs and walked swiftly through all the rooms, one after another, switching on light after light. Nothing. No one. No furniture disarranged. Windows and doors secure.

I’m losing my mind, he told himself. The voice was in my dream and now my dream life is leaking into my real life.

The voice again.
I’m going to die. I know it
.

Not a dream. The voice was in the house. He went into the hall and opened an ornate wooden box that had been in the family forever. Then
the armoire. He opened the vestibule door and felt the wall of cold from outside.

He looked behind the couch. He climbed the back stairs and checked the other bedroom. Closets. No one.

The words had been so disconnected, so discontinuous, he could not even be sure of their direction.

Night terrors, he told himself. You haven’t had night terrors for fifteen years. Dementia, could be. I’m losing my mind.

He went downstairs and pulled a bottle of Highland Cream from the liquor cabinet. He reached to the top shelf for one of the really expensive crystal glasses—in times of stress he took comfort in material reminders of his wealth—and poured himself two fingers. He took a swallow. Another. The quivering in his knees began to subside.

He stood in the kitchen, glass in hand, listening. He turned forty-five degrees to the right. Nothing. Then to the left. Silence. Just that metallic ticking—irregular and, in normal circumstances, inaudible.