by Iris Murdoch
After a moment Ducane said, “Why did you keep Radeechy’s confession?”
“Why? It may sound crazy, but I was afraid that if things began to come out I might be accused of having murdered him!”
“Quite, quite.” Ducane shuddered. He said, “And you’ve got Judy.”
Biranne took a number of deep breaths and then pulled the curtains back again. Still breathing with long sighs he came back to stand in the middle of the room facing Ducane. “I’ve got Judy in so far as anyone ever has.”
Ducane was silent, staring at Biranne’s long slightly twisted face. It was immobile, tired, serene, and lit with a faintly self-conscious nobility. Ducane thought, yes, you are a cold fish, you are a total bastard.
“What are you going to do with me?” said Biranne.
Ducane said slowly, beginning to fidget, move his feet about, pour more whisky into the two glasses, “You’ve put me in a difficult position.” He did not want Biranne to start play-acting. Also he was genuinely puzzled and indeed overwhelmed by the story he had just heard and the situation they were both now in.
“Go on.”
“When you came here tonight,” said Ducane, “did you intend to tell me all this?”
“Yes, no. I’m not sure. To be quite frank, I thought you knew a great deal more than you did. I thought you knew pretty well everything. I imagined you might have got it out of McGrath. I mean that he might have told you what he suspected or even said it to you as true. Or else Judy might have told you something. And of course I was never quite sure that Radeechy hadn’t planted another confession somewhere else. I somehow got it into my head that you knew it all and were playing with me for some reason of your own. I thought this especially after you came to my house, that time you found Judy there. It all began to get terribly on my nerves. I began to have dreams about you. I know it sounds ridiculous. But after a while I began to want to tell you. Anyway I wanted to tell somebody. I’ve been having dreams about Radeechy too. I know you think I’ve behaved badly, but I’ve been in pretty fair hell for it. Do you think you can keep this thing quiet, I mean in so far as it concerns me?”
“I’m not sure that I can,” said Ducane. “You witnessed a murder.”
Biranne drew an upright chair forward from the wall and sat down upon it. “I shall think tomorrow that I’ve been a damn fool,” he said. “You haven’t been anything like as clever as I imagined. I came here so sure that you knew the lot and so determined to confess to you, I just didn’t give myself time to make a new plan. I ought to have left after the first half hour. Only I was somehow—fascinated. If I hadn’t told you this you might very well never have found it out at all. Were you really intending to pass on your vague suspicions and your tiny clues to the police? There’s nothing they could have done with them. I could have talked my way out of it. And did you really intend to put the screw on McGrath and risk having your two girl friends in the papers?”
“I don’t know,” said Ducane. “I really don’t know. I hadn’t quite decided what to do. But I would certainly have talked to you before deciding. If you hadn’t come to me I would have come to you.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say, you were right to tell me. But did this make any sense? There was little point in saying it. Ducane was not a judge or a schoolmaster or a priest. What Biranne chiefly felt at the moment was the relief of a particular tension, the end of a speculative anxiety, together with the suspicion that he had committed an enormous blunder. The most merciful thing, and perhaps the only merciful thing, that Ducane could do for him was to remove, as far as possible, this latter regret. He said, “If you hadn’t told me it would certainly have come out somehow. McGrath would have talked. And given that the thing was still largely a puzzle I could hardly have made a final report on it without mentioning you.”
“Well, now that I’ve told you, are you going to mention me?”
Ducane realised that he was feeling very, very tired indeed. He wanted this interrogation to end. He wanted to be able to think about what he had learnt. He said, “I don’t think that I can conceal a murder. It’s a matter of one’s duty. It’s almost a technical point.”
“Damn your duty,” said Biranne. He got up, swinging the chair away from him in one hand. “Would I be accessory after the fact?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It would be the end of my career.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Biranne, I just don’t see how I can protect you. Quite apart from the fact that you saw a murder committed and have been in possession of the murderer’s confession, there’s the completeness of my own case to consider. I said I’d be prepared to conceal anything which was really irrelevant to what I’d been asked to find out. But this isn’t irrelevant. In particular this document, which I’ll keep if you don’t mind, isn’t irrelevant. My brief was to find out why Radeechy killed himself. This piece of paper is the complete answer to that question.”
“Isn’t it enough that you know the answer to the question? You can tell the powers that be with a clear conscience that you know there was no security point involved. Of course you won’t get so much kudos—”
“It’s not a matter of kudos,” said Ducane. “It’s a matter of doing one’s job properly. I’m sorry, Biranne, I don’t want to break you, but you must see—”
“Yes, yes, I see. Duty, one’s job. I suppose I ought to be cool about it. Or think I’m being suitably recompensed or something. But I don’t hold any theory of punishment. I’m a good civil servant and I want to go on being one. I don’t want to have to start my life again. In fact I haven’t behaved all that badly, I’ve just been unlucky. It all seemed pretty innocuous at the start.”
“Scarcely what I’d call innocuous,” said Ducane. “And I think you ought to stop seeing Judy McGrath.”
“Why? Do you want her?”
“Of course not. It’s just that someone in your position—”
“According to you I’m not going to have a position quite soon. And then presumably I can associate with whom I please. However, it’s yours to command. You’re the boss now. You can give me any orders, you can make me any conditions—until you’ve turned me in, that is.”
“Enough, enough, enough,” said Ducane. He felt that he was beginning to be confused. There was no good reason to mention Judy. He said, “Look, you’d better go now. We’re both too tired to think. I promise you I won’t make any move for two or three days, and I won’t make any move without seeing you again. And of course I won’t mention this yet to another soul. I’ll think about it carefully. Now please go.”
Ducane opened the drawing-room door and they both emerged into the hall.
“Did you have a coat?”
“No, it’s a warm night.”
“Well—thank you for coming.”
Biranne laughed shortly. Ducane opened the front door. They both stood still in the doorway.
Ducane felt the need to touch Biranne. He put a hand upon his shoulder for a moment in a gesture which was almost shy. Biranne moved away, and then turning held out his right hand. They shook hands hastily and Biranne disappeared into the street.
Ducane, turning from the closed door with a self-conscious gesture of exhaustion, noticed that he was standing upon a letter which lay on the mat. It must have been delivered by hand sometime since Fivey’s return. It was from McGrath.
With a feeling of deep gloom Ducane carried it into the drawing room. The room was still tense and sinister. He tore open McGrath’s letter destroying the envelope with angry fingers. The missive read as follows:
Dear Sir,
as you will no doubt have ascertained by this time I have sent off one of the articles in question to the person concerned. I still have the other one and will not send it off, subject to our arrangement, as I am sure you will agree, the figures being the same, or perhaps we could talk it over. I will take the liberty of telephone you tomorrow morning.
With all respects,
Yours truly,
P. McGrat
h
Which has he sent? thought Ducane. Kate was still away. Jessica had not replied to his postcard. It makes no difference, he thought. He will be sending the other one in the next few days. He hesitated, and then tore up McGrath’s letter. There was no point trying to build up a case against the man, and they both knew it. He could not possibly risk exposing Jessica and Kate. The only person exposed must be himself.
Radeechy’s confession still lay upon the side table. Ducane put it into his desk and locked it in without glancing at it again. His thought shied away from the image of Radeechy writing it, Radeechy full of murderous self-destructive hate. Ducane knew that he had not the present resources to pity Radeechy and there was no point in thinking about him. I feel sick, sick, he said to himself. He turned out the drawing-room lights and began to mount the stairs.
It was dark in his bedroom but there was a light on in the bathroom and he went straight in there without turning on any lamps. He undressed quickly, trying not to see himself in the mirror. The intense desire for sleep, for oblivion, came to him with a physical reminiscence of times of unhappiness in his childhood. What a mess, thought Ducane, what a Christ awful mess. But sleep now, sleep, sleep. He buttoned his pyjamas and emerged into his bedroom, switching the lights on. As he approached his bed he saw that there was already somebody in it.
“I thought you were never coming up!” said Judy McGrath.
Twenty-nine
“IT’S only little Judy.”
Judy McGrath had thrust the blankets back and reposed, propped up on one arm. She was naked. She moved over and patted the white surface of the bed invitingly. “You were such a long time, I dozed off.”
Ducane saw her body through a sort of haze. The lamps seemed to be giving very little light. Or perhaps he was just very tired. He took his black silk dressing gown off a chair and put it on. He said, “Did you come with Biranne?”
“What, Mr Honey?”
“Did you come with Biranne?”
“No, I just came with my own self. The back door was open and I walked in. I soon guessed which was your room. Don’t be cross with me, Mr Honey.”
It must be some sort of plot, thought Ducane. He said, “Where’s your husband with his little camera?” As he used the word ‘little’ he was aware that he was imitating not only Biranne’s words but even Biranne’s voice.
“I wouldn’t do anything like that to you, Mr Honey. This is for free. I love you.”
“I doubt if you know much about love, Judy.”
“You can’t say that to anybody, Mr Honey.”
She’s right, thought Ducane. He swayed a little and then sat down in a chair. He realised that he had drunk a lot of whisky. He realised that he wanted to drink some more.
“You’d better go, Judy. Come on, put your clothes on.”
“Why such a hurry, Mr H?”
“Because I’m dead tired and I want to go to bed and I can’t go to bed while you’re in it. Come on, Judy.”
“You could lie beside me, Mr Honey. I wouldn’t so much as touch you the whole night through.”
“Don’t be silly, girl.”
“Have a drink, Mr Honey. A little drinkie. I brought some with me. Just for good fellowship.”
Ducane saw that Judy had placed a leather flask and two glasses on the table beside the bed. He watched while she rolled over on her front and poured a little whisky into each glass. She rearranged herself, reclining on her side, and held out a glass towards him.
The movement disturbed Ducane intensely. Judy, seen in the haze of the room, which cast a sort of silver-gilt shadow over her long body, had seemed like something in a picture. Possibly she had actually reminded him of some picture by Goya or Velazquez. But that rolling movement with its awkwardness, its glimpse of buttocks, the grotesque bracing of her knees, momentarily wide apart, brought with it the pathetic ugliness of real flesh and also its attractiveness.
Ducane found that he had leaned forward and accepted the glass of whisky.
“That’s right, Mr Honeyman. Now we can talk. Just a little talk and then I promise I’ll go. We’re getting to know each other, aren’t we? Isn’t that nice?”
“I wouldn’t call it nice exactly,” said Ducane. “Whatever it is, nice is not the word.”
“Cheers, mister.”
“Cheers, Judy.”
“Now what shall we talk about? Let’s talk about us.” She stretched luxuriously, pointing her toes and lengthening out her mouth and eyes. Her shoulders twitched. Dappled shadows moved over her contracted stomach. Then she relaxed again.
“How did you get tied up with that devil McGrath?” asked Ducane. He was looking into his glass, but he could see the dark haze of her blue-black hair which seemed to move like a form upon golden waters.
“I was very young, Mr Honey. And he was somebody. I knew I could only marry a man who was somebody. He could make something of himself, Peter could. He’s bright.”
“Bright, yes. And he’s made something of himself all right. He’s made himself into a pretty promising crook, and he’s made you into one too.”
“Do you think I ought to leave him, Mr Honey?”
“No, of course not,” said Ducane with exasperation. He forced himself to look at her. He tried to concentrate upon those very clear North Sea eyes. He apprehended that her face was not really dark but radiant, almost pale, beneath its shadowy honey-golden surface colour. Her body extended in a long gilded blur. Goya, Velazquez, aid me, he prayed. “I think you ought to persuade him to mend his ways before he lands both of you in prison. You wouldn’t like it at all in prison, Judy.” Oh God, I want to hurt her, he thought. Let her go away, just let her go away.
“I’ve got to leave him, Mr Honeyman, there isn’t any other way. You know that. You know I can’t make Peter change. I’ve got to leave him, Mr Honeyman, and you’ve got to help me.” Her voice grew softer, coaxing.
Ducane stared into the supplicating blue eyes. Let me drown, he thought, so long as I see nothing else, feel nothing else. He said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Judy. I’ve given you my advice. And now—”
“You can help me. Only you can help me. Only you can really save me, Mr Honey.”
“Would you please stop calling me by that ridiculous name!” said Ducane. He turned his head stiffly, robot-like, and looked at the bathroom door.
“All right—dear—John.”
Ducane stood up. “Now would you kindly get out?” He turned his back to her.
“In a minute, John, in a minute. Don’t be cross with me. I know I’ve done wrong things and it wasn’t all Peter’s fault. Even before I met Peter I was—you know—with men. It just seemed natural. But I feel so different since I met you. You’re the first man who—you’re so different and good. You could save me, Mr John, and no one else could do it. I wouldn’t ask anything except to know you and see you now and then, and you’d talk to me of things. You could make a difference to my whole life. And I’d do anything you liked, I’d learn something, anything. I’d become a, I don’t know, a nurse—”
Ducane uttered a sound which might have been a laugh or might have been an exclamation of disgust. He was not sure himself which it was.
“Save me, John, sweetheart, help me. It’s such a little thing for you, and such a big thing for me. You said yourself that if I stayed with Peter I’d end up in prison.”
“I didn’t actually,” said Ducane. “But never mind. Put your clothes on.”
“In a little minute, honey, John. John, you don’t know what it’s like for a woman to be in despair. I’m afraid of Peter. I’ve no one to turn to. I haven’t any friends and I only know men who are bad. People like you are safe. You’re grand and everyone respects you and you have real friends. You can’t sort of fall out of the bottom of the world. I’ll have to leave Peter, I’ve just got to, and what will become of me then? Won’t you be a friend to me, John, that’s all I ask. Say you’ll look after me a little, say you’ll see me again, please say you’ll see
me again, just that little thing, please.”
There was a whining edge to her voice. I mustn’t pity her, thought Ducane. She thinks she’s serious but she isn’t. She would do me harm. I would do her harm. Do I see her as damned then? What does it matter what I see her as? I can do nothing for her. “I can do nothing for you,” he said in a dull voice.
There was a silence. Judy said, “I’m so tired. I’ll go soon.” She gave a little groan and turned over on her face.
Ducane moved slowly round and regarded her. She lay prone, her face plunged into the pillow. With a sudden intensity of concentration he looked at her body, giving it the attention which he might have given, in some picture gallery far from home, to a masterpiece which he might never see again. Only this was not the gaze of contemplation.
Ducane allowed himself to realise his strong directed excitement. In fantasy he laid his hand down, very gently, upon the golden neck, beneath the dry crisp pile of dark hair, upon that particular hillock of the spine, and drew it very slowly downward, over the velvety hump of the shoulder, into the hollow of the back, which would move and shudder a little, along the glossy curve of the hip and then, more slowly still, over the firm strokeable rise of the buttock and on to the back of the thigh, which Ducane saw, as he moved now noiselessly closer to the bed, to be covered with a fleece of golden hair.
Suppose I were to fuck her? Ducane said to himself. This was a word which he never normally used, even in his thoughts, and its sudden occurrence now excited and shocked him. The word came again with the voice of Richard Biranne. Biranne had used the word, he felt sure, some time in their discussion. Well, suppose he were to? Ducane put his glass down very silently upon the bedside table. The girl was lying quite still, her face invisible, her breathing just perceptible in the faintest regular pressure upon the white sheet beneath her shadowed side. She might be asleep. Ducane’s fantasy fingers stroked her body with a feathery creative touch, the light light touch of passion which conjures forth, to the last caressed detail, a presence of flesh. He leaned over her.
