by George Sims
Making slow progress, carrying the glasses high to prevent them being spilled, Selver reached a position two or three feet from Judy, but his way was barred by a wall of tightly packed bodies. He thought he heard her saying to another young, exotically dressed girl: ‘As useless as a spare prick.’ He was disconcerted by this but the next moment she seemed to give him a sincere smile as she took her drink, grinning attractively after the first sip. ‘Werry good wodka. Is not Russian wodka. Is not even Polish wodka. Is…’
‘Good evening, Miss Latimer.’ A tall, young man grinned down mockingly at Judy.
‘Good evening, Mr Crest.’ The mock formality of the exchange seemed in an odd way to hint at a close intimacy. Judy followed it up by saying, ‘Leo—this is Toby Crest. Toby—Leo Selver.’
Crest said, ‘Hello. What a crush! How does one get a drink here? Send up smoke signals? Damn! I could do with a pint.’
Selver said, ‘Then I’ll get it. I’m nearer. A pint of what?’
‘That’s very kind. Best bitter. Thank you.’
Selver welcomed the chance to move up to the bar again as he was interested to see what would develop between Judy and the young man. Crest was over six foot tall with the spare build of an athlete. He had long blond hair and a deeply tanned face. He wore a damson-coloured shirt with smoke-blue trousers. A silver bracelet dangled from one brown wrist. A square chin and a sharply cut mouth with a ruthless expression killed any hint of effeminacy. Crest’s long green eyes, fringed with dark lashes, scanned the bar quickly as if to see whether there were any better possibilities than Judy. There was the definite air of a Flashman character about him. Selver thought: How nice to be young and casual, with such an air of independence. He ordered a pint of bitter and another large vodka but deliberately made slow progress edging back, giving the young couple an opportunity to talk by themselves, thinking that this chance meeting with Toby Crest might provide a way out of an embarrassing situation.
Pushing round an eighteen-stone character who dominated a section of the bar-counter, Selver found that Judy and Toby were indeed engrossed in conversation though it did not appear to be of a flirtatious nature; they both looked serious and thoughtful. They stopped talking as he came close, and Judy reached out for her second vodka. Crest took the pint of beer while fumbling in his pocket, saying: ‘You’re sure I can’t pay for these?’
Selver shook his head, smiling. He felt very detached, even remote. Just for once he did not want to win the girl. Looking at Crest’s smooth brown skin and lustrous blond hair he mentally compared them with his own. Largely owing to Sidney Chard’s devious machinations he had gone without a summer holiday, and his own face was pale and lined. Obviously Judy would prefer to spend the night with Crest. He decided that he would aid any such possibility; he fancied the idea of turning right instead of left on leaving the pub, making his solitary way back to Welbeck Street, taking some aspirin, followed by a bath and bed.
Judy and Toby seemed to be in some competition as to how quickly they could dispose of their drinks. The pint of bitter vanished and Toby said, ‘Very good drop of beer that. But this place is famous for its bitter. Can I buy a round before I push off?’
Selver was surprised to see that Judy absorbed this information with an expression of indifference, swallowing down the last drop of vodka, then saying, ‘No thanks. We’re off too.’
When they had pushed their way through the crowd to the pub door Judy said, ‘Oh dear. Sorry, Leo. ’Fraid I’ve got to vanish again. Shan’t be a sec. ’Bye, Toby.’ She turned back into the crowd.
Toby Crest raised his eyebrows and shook his head with an amused expression, saying nothing. He opened the pub door and stretched out his hand. ‘We may all get a little damp I think. There’s a few spots of rain. Still, not much. Quite pleasant really. And a firework display too at no extra charge. Well, goodbye. Thanks again for the drink.’ He sauntered off to the left, hands in pockets. Selver watched him go, feeling frankly envious. That was how he wanted to be, young, happy-go-lucky and fancy-free.
Selver put on his jacket and stepped out into Gresse Street. Lightning forked across the sky above Birkbeck College like a gigantic vivid vein. The thunder was louder now, which meant the storm must be moving towards central London. He turned his face up to the rain with a feeling of gratitude for the refreshing sensation. He started as a hand caressed the back of his neck. Judy said, ‘Sorry! You weren’t expecting that. I really love lightning. It’s so exciting!’
The fitful glare of the flashes was having a strange effect on colours, making Judy’s eyes appear like the translucent green of grapes. She took Selver’s hand and put it round her waist, saying, ‘It’s just a short dash home. Hold on now—I’m a little bit sloshed.’
Just running along the wet streets, practically skidding round the corner, had a magically re-vitalizing effect on Selver. When they reached the only house left standing on one side of Stephen Street past the large block known as Gresse Buildings, he found that his headache had vanished. Standing on the stone steps close to Judy as she opened her white purse, he was excited by the feel of her warm bare flesh under his hand and the beginning curve of her breast. She turned to look at him with a strange, serious expression as if she was searching in his eyes for something. Her vivacity had deserted her. Their moods seemed to be linked by some strange see-saw apparatus. Now that she was not excited and provocative, Leo found himself in a state of sexual arousal.
‘Handsome young chap, your friend Crest.’
‘Oh, he looks all right. But it’s like talking to nothing. I mean, all the time you’re chatting away he’s thinking about Toby Crest. I prefer a bit of give-and-take myself.’ Judy opened the front door and switched on a feeble light to show a small hallway with torn brown lino on the floor and sombrely papered walls. She said, ‘Don’t look at any of this. Straight in here.’
She went through the first door on the right and fiddled with a bedside lamp. When it was lit a rather cosy-looking bedroom was disclosed, with a cream and gold colour scheme. There was a cream-coloured double bed, a cream and gilt wardrobe and a small dressing-table and stool. The room was bare of ornaments and photographs.
‘Give me your jacket, darling. I keep on confiscating it, don’t I? But you won’t need it here.’
Selver took off his jacket and Judy folded it neatly, putting it on the stool by the dressing-table. She moved towards the window. ‘Come over here. I want to watch the lightning.’ As he obeyed this order Selver realized that not only had his desire for her come back, but he was under her spell, going through the strange business that was always repeated when he fell for a woman, feeling like a youth again.
Standing by the silent girl looking into the street, Selver could see an odd fence in front of the demolished houses—it was made up of dozens of old doors nailed together in a row. This surrealistic image, illuminated by the on-and-off flicker of lightning, was like a scene in a nightmare: for just a moment Leo Selver stood paralysed by some strange, undefined fear.
The feeling left him as Judy pulled the curtains to with one hand and beckoned him with the other. She left one gap at the window through which she still stared out at the stormy sky. When he came to her side she turned immediately to kiss him. She threw her arms round his neck, holding him tightly, but her kiss was much less bold than the one with which their evening had commenced. Her mouth was closed and only yielded slightly at Leo’s insistence. It banished the memory of the other over-sweet kiss. Leo moved his hands slowly up and down the girl’s warm back beneath her jersey, slowly tracing every curve, lingering on the dimple-like depressions just above her trousers as if he was a blind man committing her body to memory. Judy stood still, saying nothing, breathing deeply. His hands trembled as he undid her brassière, then commenced the slow rhythmical stroking again. He was high on the heady stuff of desire: the strange evening with the girl, the storm, the night to come, were all as magical
and uncertain as life itself.
Judy pulled the curtain across the remaining gap. With a quick movement she tugged the brief jersey up over her head. Leo bent forward to kiss the tender skin below her armpit. Judy threw the jersey away and then pulled Leo’s face on to her breasts.
Chapter VII
X strode along the dark London side-streets at midnight with a measured pace that did not alter, as though he were a clockwork model. His white-cotton-gloved hands were plunged deep in his white macintosh pockets. In his left hand he held a brass candlestick which had to be further concealed by the macintosh sleeve; in the other pocket he had a Yale key, a Guy Fawkes mask of silver-coloured papier mâché, and a facsimile RM 109 Chief Special, an authentic model of one of his favourite revolvers, compact with a small grip, and a two-inch barrel but of .38 calibre.
Walking with his head down, apparently plunged in thought, X was in fact intensely aware of his surroundings. Turning into Stephen Street, he raised his head for a searching look a few moments before reaching the steps to No. 14. The street was empty and he ran lightly up the steps, looking about him once more before using the Yale key to open the door. Once inside he stood still for a few moments, straining to catch any sounds in the house, then scrupulously wiped his feet on the mat. He put on the silver mask, pocketed the key, then took out the Chief Special and held it in his right hand. He held the candlestick in his left. Slowly he opened the first door in the hall. The dark room smelt of garlic. He stood still again, checking that the curtains were pulled across the windows, then bent down to turn on the bedside lamp. The light revealed the room to be in some confusion, with underclothes, a blanket and a gold-coloured quilt mixed up in a pile on the floor and a pair of white trousers precariously over the mirror on the dressing-table. Selver and the Latimer girl were sleeping entwined, covered only by a single sheet. They woke together and both struggled up with puzzled exclamations.
X pointed the small revolver at them while calmly surveying the room. He noticed a small gap in the curtains and backed over to put them in place.
The girl exclaimed, ‘God! What’s that? What are you doing? You…’ Her expression became terrified as she noticed the candlestick. ‘You took that from here. Why’s that? What are you going to do?’
Selver tried to say something in a high panicky voice but the excited words came out jumbled and drowned in a bubbling sound as if liquid was flooding his throat. He slid out of bed and stood up, clenching his fists. X’s eyes glittered darkly and he moved his head slowly from side to side, conveying amusement at the puny threat.
Tugging the sheet off the bed the girl got up too; she held it in front of her as she stared at the candlestick, regarding it as an awesome object, even more frightening than the .38 revolver.
X said quietly, ‘Shtand shtill both of you. Don’t move.’ He took two steps towards the girl, who called out: ‘Oh God! What do you really want? You said…’ in a voice that faltered and failed. Her lips trembled and her eyes were wide with terror. She stood in a hunched position, shaking uncontrollably, with both hands holding the sheet up to her mouth as though it might protect her. As X approached her she called out: ‘Oh no! God no! Please don’t! You said…Oh please no!’ Then she dropped the sheet and covered her face with her hands.
X struck the girl with the candlestick while keeping Selver covered with the gun. The savage blow was aimed at her head but her flinching movement made it strike her on the neck. She shed some blood in flying gobbets, floating streamers that shone lingeringly in the air like spittle dropping into a dentist’s bowl. The second blow was just as hard and more accurate, hitting the back of her head with a sickening thud, sending her straight to the floor, twisted up with the sheet.
Selver had a bewildered expression; his mouth did not open but his throat kept working, as if he was continually swallowing. With a great effort, as though tackling a foreign language, he managed to get out some words. They were stretched out with dashes like conversation in a toddler’s comic: ‘Bast-ard. Ab-solute bast-ard.’ For a moment Selver looked as if he might burst into tears, then he ran round the bed, his fists flailing. X hit him with the hand that held the revolver—a carefully judged blow, dismissive but not hard enough to do real damage. Selver fell down at the end of the bed, tried to get up immediately by pulling on the stool in front of the dressing-table and turned it over.
X crouched down on his haunches by the girl and did nothing for a few moments but breathe deeply. A little blood was still trickling from the wound in her neck. X dropped the candlestick on to the sheet. He looked over towards Selver, raising his left forefinger in front of his mouth aperture to indicate that Selver should remain quiet, but saw that the admonition had been superfluous. Selver looked partly stunned, and was having difficulty in breathing and making strange gasping noises.
Judy Latimer’s eyes were glassily concentrated yet unfocused and unseeing. There was a good deal of blood on the sheet beneath her. X first held her unresisting wrist and then, after a movement of reluctance, put his gloved hand on her heart. He concentrated his attention on the girl’s corpse for a minute before turning to Selver and saying, ‘Now we’re going to have a little chat. Do you understand? Just a few words but they’d better make sense. You’ll tell me the truth. Everything I want to know. Otherwise…’ He pointed with the Chief Special first at the girl and then at Selver.
Selver was still on his knees at the end of the bed, gasping, with the palms of both hands flat on the carpet, apparently trying to get to his feet but unable to make it. Veins stood out in his puckered forehead though the lower part of his face was ashen and blank. He uttered a low moaning noise and opened his mouth wide as if going to scream, but no sound came. He made an odd movement like that of a badly deformed man with arms so small as to be useless, suddenly falling in an unprotected way. His jaw snapped shut as his chin hit the carpet. The pale skin of his face began to blotch with red. The fingers of his right hand moved feebly on the carpet, stroking the pile. He made a convulsive grabbing movement as if to get his balance, then lay still. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.
X pocketed the Chief Special and moved quickly towards Selver, saying vehemently ‘Oh shit’, tugging him up and supporting his head. X’s eyes moved wildly behind the mask. He took a pillow from the bed and put it under Selver’s head, then felt his pulse and began to massage his heart. The red flush had completely died away from Selver’s face leaving it as white as flour. His body was cold. After a few minutes of massaging X stopped and picked up a small mirror from the dressing-table, placing it in front of Selver’s slack mouth. X quietly said a string of obscenities when he saw there was no sign of breathing.
Repeating the word ‘Shit’ over and over again, X got up from the floor and picked up Selver’s jacket and trousers. He went through each pocket, carefully replacing some pound notes, a cheque-book, credit cards and a driving-licence. There were several scraps of paper in one jacket pocket and he took all of them. Then he dragged Selver’s body over to the girl’s and pushed Selver’s left hand into the blood-stained sheet, and folded the cold fingers of his right hand firmly round the candlestick.
Taking off the silver mask, X went and stood at the side of the room so that he could examine it carefully. He took some time over this, stooping once to replace the mirror on the dressing-table. He checked the contents of his pockets, making sure that he had the Yale key, the revolver and the mask, then went out of the room leaving the bedside lamp lit.
Chapter VIII
Turning the two hand-mirrors this way and that did not improve matters. At each different angle Beatrice Selver found that she was confronted by a depressing image of slack neck muscles and a double chin. There was a puffy look about her eyes and her skin was dry. From unexpected encounters with her image reflected in shop windows Beatrice knew that she was in the habit of tightening up her face muscles bef
ore studying herself in a mirror, but now even that piece of self-deception did not stop her from being confronted with the unpleasing picture of a fat lined face. It was not surprising that Leo wanted someone younger and more attractive. It was unfair that men so often kept their looks better than women as they got older.
Beatrice sighed, put down the mirrors, walked over to the hand-basin and splashed her face with cold water. Lying down during the day was a mistake and she blamed the puffiness partly on her nap, but after walking the entire length of the Marine Parade to Roedean and missing lunch she had felt unusually tired. No, weary was the only word to describe her sensation on returning to the small bedroom. It had been a stupid mistake to make a nostalgic anniversary trip to Brighton; to make it alone was an act of masochism and self-pity, mixed up with a sense of curiosity about how she would react to it. She had a different room from the one she had shared with Leo in August 1953, and the place had been altered slightly, but even entering the front door to the West Hotel in Oriental Place had subjected her to all sorts of odd memories and emotions. It had been a funny sort of holiday then, with so little money to spend, and Leo off much of the time visiting all the antique shops in The Lanes, and Dave Buchanan spending each morning playing bowls; but she and Edna Buchanan had been happy just sitting on the beach talking while the little boys played or watching them sail boats in the pool near the putting-green.
Standing at the window, craning her head in order to see the end of the West Pier, Beatrice remembered Leo’s joky reaction when they had been shown to their poky room at the back of the hotel in 1953; how he had stood on a chair and used his hands as pretend binoculars in order to obtain the advertised ‘sea view’. He had been a different person then, happy and content, always joking or singing. She remembered one evening after they had come back from a show on the pier, he had produced a bottle of sparkling white wine and two glasses borrowed from the dining-room, and they had gone down to sit on the beach by the Palace Pier in the moonlight, and he had sung ‘Isn’t it Romantic?’. Another evening it had rained and they had stayed in their room taking their turn to ‘baby-sit’ while Edna and Dave Buchanan had gone off to the pictures, and Leo produced a pack of cards and quoted some lines from a poem she had not heard previously:
