by Jan Needle
‘It’s easier not to talk about it,’ he said. ‘It’s safer. In any case, it’s against the law. For me to tell, or for you to even listen! What about your uncle, then? How d’you feel about him? He’ll have killed more men than me. That was a proper war.’
There was a pause.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Jane. ‘Perhaps it’s safer not to talk. It had never occurred to me that he might have killed. He’s a historian. A bit of an old poser, a lovely old lad. He’s broken hearts, that I do know. He still has students going ga-ga for him, students who are young enough to know better! I can’t imagine it. Can you?’
‘What? Edward in the sack? God, I’d rather not. What about Erica? Don’t tell me she’s still at it? I nearly collapsed when Edward said she was an expert. Please tell me it’s not true! That sweet old lady!’
They had reached Jane’s front gate. She unlatched it and they walked up the pathway. Bill sniffed the sweet scent of the garden while she opened the front door.
‘He probably meant on problems, not just sex,’ said Jane. ‘She’s a lesbian, or was. It was a funny marriage. My father was always scandalized, although Mum didn’t mind. Dad hated her. Politics as well as sex.’
Bill had been rocked.
‘It’s enough to make you say By Gum,’ he said. ‘That’s a quote from Arthur Ransome, if we’re into academic games. Why in hell’s name did they marry?’
Jane pulled off her short wool jacket. She was in a dress, blue with white spots. She favoured blue. It favoured her. She pushed fronds of hair out of her eyes.
‘Why does anyone? Marriages are a complete mystery to me. It wasn’t just the sex with Edward and Red Erica, either. They’ve fought a war on every front for as long as I can remember. A friendly war usually, maybe that’s the secret. Did you pick up on any of that about honours, at the end? That’s a rich vein for her.’
She walked into the living room, flicking on the light. She drew the curtains, threw cushions around a bit. Bill, in his bomber jacket, stood in the doorway. She hadn’t told him to go, she hadn’t said anything. Let it develop. He’d been drinking, but he’d presumably have to drive. He didn’t want to.
‘I half heard. What did it mean?’
‘Oh, Erica takes the piss unmercifully. She thinks he knows all sorts of dreadfully scurrilous things that any historian really worthy of the name would give his eye teeth to bring to light, and sits on them because he hasn’t had his knighthood yet. It’s true all the other boring old farts are sir-something this or lord-something the other, and lots of them worked with him, apparently. In the same line.’
‘It doesn’t sound exactly logical. What does he say?’
‘Well spotted. He says they’ve all had honours because they’ve agreed to keep their mouths shut and he won’t, on principle. He’s been approached, but he’s refused. That’s the system, actually, it’s crafty, isn’t it? If you’re approached and you say no, it all remains dead secret, you can’t make capital out of it.’
‘Except if you’re Aunt Erica.’
‘Oh yes. Aunt Erica can and does. That’s not a principle, she says, it’s a bloody good excuse. The odd thing is that she’s right in one way. As historians go, he’s very much Establishment, he’s never tried to rock the boat, whatever things he does know. He says the honours system is iniquitous, moral blackmail, buying off treacherous old dogs by throwing baubles, playing on their vanity, he’d rather die than take one. But he keeps his mouth shut. Viz Hess. Trust, he’ll talk about if pushed. And real honour, as opposed to honours.’
‘And Erica the Red just laughs. Poor sod!’
‘She cackles. You should hear her with her teeth out!’ Jane’s mood seemed to change. The humour left her face. ‘I don’t think she’s long for this world, really. She slips into senility from time to time. Forgetfulness. Falling over things. It’s very sad.’
She went into the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. She took the corkscrew from a sideboard drawer and handed it to Bill.
‘Aren’t you going to sit down? I suppose you’re staying for a drink? Or are my family secrets boring you? Edward’s still quite right-wing really, isn’t he? Although not like he used to be. He used to be really gung-ho British Empire when he was young, according to my mother. He only started backsliding when he met Erica, and that took years and years. She still calls him a blimp. God knows who’s right about the honours thing. Or who’s telling the truth.’
Bill pulled the cork. He poured two glasses. Jane took one and held it in salute.
‘What is truth?’ said Bill, ironically. ‘Your uncle doesn’t know! Here’s to it.’
Jane sipped, and made a face.
‘Christ. That’s the difference, isn’t it? How can a man who buys wine like Edward’s ever be a socialist? Sorry about this – it tastes like urine after his.’
They talked some more, and Bill sat in front of the sofa, his back resting against it, his legs stretched out in front of him. Jane switched on the electric fire and perched her bottom on the arm of an easy chair. She did not look easy, though. There was a growing tension faintly in the air. Bill could see the inside of one of her thighs.
‘Sit down with me,’ he said. ‘You look uncomfortable up there.’
‘No, I’d better not.’
‘Better? What do you mean?’
Jane stood, shaking her hair impatiently. She put her glass on the table.
‘I need a pee. Look, Bill, you’d better go in a minute. Are you all right to drive? Are you going back to Colin’s?’
‘But you’ve just given me a drink! How much do you academics earn, for God’s sake, to be so profligate? Look, go and have your pee. We ought to talk. I’ll sleep on the floor, the sofa bed, anywhere. I won’t bother you, I promise.’
Jane said no more, but went upstairs. Bill half sat, half lay among the cushions, staring at the wall, not seeing much. He had taken off his bomber jacket, it lay crumpled on a chair. The Browning was locked in the car boot. He was hollow, hungry, desperate.
Jane returned and perched back on the chair arm. For half a minute they looked at each other. She was breathing deeply.
‘Can I turn a somersault?’ she said.
‘What? What do you mean?’
She moved quickly, and came to his side among the beanbags.
She glanced at him, then away.
‘I meant this. Changing my mind. Sorry, I’m in a state.’
She was on her side, propped on one elbow, and the top of her dress was not tight to her chest. Her breasts were not very large.
Bill said: ‘Sorry. Jane, I can see your… It’s killing me.’
She moved, pulling at the dress-top. She rolled back slightly.
‘I like my tits,’ she said. ‘But they never were that well behaved.’
Bill lifted her a little, put his arm around behind her back.
‘I want to see you with no clothes on,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to make love, well I do, but I can live without it. But I want to see you naked. Christ, Jane.’
‘I can’t sleep with you, I can’t. I can’t go through all that again.’
‘No.’
He put his right hand to her neck, then lowered it to the top button of her dress. His fingers were clumsy, they would not work. She did not try to stop him, nor did she help, or speak.
Bill gave up. He touched her breast, on the outside of the cloth, then slid his hand between her chest and arm, around her back to meet his other hand. His face moved close to hers, and hers to his. Their lips remained apart, two inches, three. They breathed each other’s breath, sweet, winey. Jane moved her mouth forward and caught his, her lips only slightly parted. They kissed very gently.
She said: ‘Why do you want to see me naked, Bill? Why should I find that so erotic? Christ, what are you doing to me?’
‘Nothing!’ he said. ‘Honestly, nothing!’ It sounded like the truth to him, although that made him think of Edward. He put his mouth to Ja
ne’s, repeating the word. Their teeth clashed, then their lips softened, their mouths matched, clung.
‘I’ll go then,’ said Bill, when they drew apart. ‘I’ll bugger off to Colin’s if you want me to, I’ll never see you again, I’ll go back to the promise. Jane, Jane, I’ve dreamed of seeing you, I’ve dreamed of it.’
‘Oh,’ said Jane. She breathed it, rather, almost moaned it. ‘Oh Christ, that’s terrible, oh Bill.’
Suddenly she wriggled, extricated herself from his enfolding arms, moved sideways among the yielding beanbags. She was on her knees, then standing up in front of him, she was panting. So was Bill, still on his side, still on the floor, his mouth slightly open, breath hissing. Jane undid her top button, then caught the dress in both hands at the hips, and jerked it upwards, and wriggled once, convulsively. The dress rose over her hips, over her trunk, then, as she bent forward towards him, in a bundle over her shoulders, arms and head. She threw it sideways, missing the electric fire by an inch, and stood in front of him, wearing a pair of briefs in soft maroon, cotton, with a white lace edging at the top. Then she bent forward, went onto her knees, and leaned into his mouth. This time their mouths were wide, although still soft, and their tongues lay against each other, moving gently. Jane moved her legs and body sideways, lay down, and Bill disengaged, and slipped her pants off. She lay there, rolled onto her back, her legs slightly apart.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Bill. His voice was barely audible. ‘I remembered, but I’d forgotten. Oh Christ.’
Jane’s body was brown – not tanned, but brown – and lean and strong. It was not that of an athlete, not muscular or skinny, but lithe and soft at once. Her pubic hair was dark and massy, and – Bill remembered before even touching it – coarse in fibre, surprising, thick and rough. It spread widely on her rounded stomach, and, he knew but could not see, continued down and outward, onto the tops of her thighs, to make small, secret tufts. From her navel, a line of loose hair led down her belly to join the rest, a line he had loved to follow with his finger or his tongue. He was on his knees now, staring, while Jane had her eyes closed, luxuriating in the knowledge she was being watched.
Bill put his hand out until he touched the line of stomach hairs, which made her jump as if in shock. She neither spoke nor opened her eyes, however, so he moved the finger slowly on to touch the dark luxury of the tangled curls, which parted as he continued downward. The texture amazed him, not soft, not wiry, full bodied, each fibre making itself felt. He remembered what he would find next, the memories shaking him as they were reawakened. He felt the top of her clitoris, wet, glossy, large, the largest he had ever known, like a tiny finger, a baby’s finger he had once said. Bill used both hands to part the hair, his tongue between his lips, as hers had been the day before, sitting at her notes. He spread her vagina wider, using the sides of both hands to stroke, and watched a small pool of fluid form, a crystal pool, which overflowed, trickled downwards, sideways into the darker hair. As Bill stared and touched, Jane made a noise and arched her back and began to come. He held his breath in awe, touched her as she drew her knees apart, watched her stomach muscles clench, her head roll on one side, touched her gently until she made a muffled groan, of orgasm and instruction, that he should stop. As his hand moved off, she closed her thighs, put one across the other, trapping his hand, stopping it from touching her again, too delicate, too delicate. He was kneeling between her legs, one hand trapped, still fully clothed. She opened her eyes, lifted her head, there was sweat in her brows and on her nose.
‘Oh fuck,’ she said. ‘I want you now, what’s the use? You made me come by hardly touching me. I want you now, I want to come again, oh what’s the use?’
Bill, not clumsy any more, but almost bursting, withdrew his hand as she relaxed her thighs, and unbelted, unzipped, yanked his trousers and his pants down towards his knees. Jane spread her thighs and he dropped forward, lay on her, his penis probing blindly until her hand slipped down to guide him in. It was hot, and lustrous, indescribably hot and smooth. It was too late for much control, he had hardly time to feel his penis fuse into her flesh, melt. But as he began to come, Jane did as well; her wide-open mouth caught the corner of his jawbone and she yelled into his face. Her body arched and kept the arch, and they both felt his orgasm as a pump, as he emptied into her, pulsing, neither of them moving any other muscle. Then she sank down into the cushions and he sank onto her and they lay there, warmed down one side by the electric fire, bathed in facial sweat, and from him some tears, strangely. Neither of them spoke, but Bill Wiley thought: it is like coming home. Jane Heywood, had he asked her, could only have agreed.
After that they talked, wrapped round each other for a long while, Bill Wiley still only half undressed. They moved occasionally, to drink wine, and when the bottle was finished Bill got up and fetched another from the kitchen and they went to bed. They went under the duvet, nuzzling each other, occasionally emerging for a slurp, sometimes pulling back the quilt to look at one another, smiling quite a lot. Bill was on his back when the phone rang, his prick slowly unfolding as Jane’s breath played on it, warm, her head resting sideways on his lower stomach. They both jumped, as if stung. It was twenty-two minutes past three.
Jane picked it up and said tentatively: ‘Hallo.’ Bill saw her eyebrows lift, and heard, distorted, a woman’s voice. Jane said ‘Yes,’ and handed him the phone. Her face was not angry, or resentful, it took on a look that he remembered even through his own shock – a strangely hurt look, unable to understand why things should fail so frequently, that fate should play her such bad hands. To recognize Veronica’s voice, for Bill, was a terrific relief. But not for long.
‘Bill. I think you should come back. They’re doing something over here and I don’t know what it is. I’ve been trying to run you down for hours, I’ve lost you all your friends and mine. David’s flipped, there’s blood on every wall. I think you should come back.’
‘But they want me back,’ he said. ‘Verr, that’s what they want. What have they done, what’s happening?’
You lying twat, he thought viciously, of Silversmith. You lying, lying twat.
‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was weary, her throat sounded raw. ‘I went to see Liz this afternoon. It seemed a good idea, to keep an eye on her, to make things up. She was blitzed. She was practically a zombie. A woman two doors away said a doctor had been round, an Army doctor. She said before he came Liz seemed all right, quite normal. When I called she couldn’t really stand, she held on to the banister to open the front door. It was pitiful.’
Bill’s face had changed, and so had Jane’s. She watched him, concerned, and covered up his lower half and sat up straight, beside him. Bill closed his eyes, thinking furiously.
‘John—’ he started. Veronica cut him off.
‘Yes. The neighbour was going to meet him from school, warn him. She rang me later, it all worked out. I put Liz to bed and Sally – Kimber, is it? – she got hold of Johnnie and told him she was ill but it would be all right. He took it very well, she said, he’s used to…well, he’s used to Liz’s illnesses. She popped in and out, gave him his tea, gave Liz a wash and things. He’ll be all right.’
‘Until tomorrow,’ Bill said, bitterly. ‘And when I come back, they’ll grab me. Bastards.’
‘And if you don’t, what will they do to Liz? To Johnnie? They might put him into care. You know what’s going on, don’t you?’
Too well he did. Only too well. Bait and trap. If he went within five miles of them he was caught, and they knew he would not stay away.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I mean today. Will Johnnie go to school? How bad will Liz be?’
‘Sally Kimber rang at ten o’clock. She’s much better. My guess is John will go to school, and the doctor will call again and check the situation. My guess is they think you’ll soon hear, they know you’ll keep in touch. My guess is they’ll be expecting you. What do you think?’
Bill reached for his glass of wine, and Jane picked it off th
e bedside table and moved it to his hand. He moved his lips, a token smile. She nodded, grey eyes unhappy.
‘I think the same. I think we can screw them. You said you’d help, I know you’ll help, Christ, you’re helping! The key is Donegal, you know what I mean. Why am I being cagey, if your line’s not safe we’re done already, they’ll take him in the morning, now, in half an hour. Pray your line is safe. Meet him for me, please, Veronica. Pick him up from school, I’d say at lunchtime, catch them unawares. Tell him Liz has gone to hospital, I’m on my way. Remind him what I told him on his birthday, no more lies, so that he knows the message really comes from me. I’ll ring you at your house. In Donegal. I’ll be somewhere close, where you can pick me up.’
‘But they’ll be watching for you, surely? They’re not stupid, Bill. The planes and ferries will be under microscopes.’
He nodded, made a gesture.
‘Yeah, sure, leave that to me. Veronica, I’ll get there. You’ll do it for me, won’t you?’
‘Surely,’ said Veronica. ‘But the dear knows how you’ll bring it off. Bill? Who’s the lady?’
‘You know already, Verr. You tracked me down.’
‘I don’t. Your man was cagey. Colin Smart. It was like getting blood out of a stone.’
‘Good man,’ said Bill. He smiled across the receiver at Jane’s still, solemn face. Some of the weight had lifted from his heart. ‘Her name is Jane. She’s giving me a hand.’
Jane plainly heard the snort of laughter down the wires.
‘You always were a wanker, so you were! Tell her from me she’s crazy!’
Bill put the phone down.
‘She’s absolutely right,’ said Jane. ‘And who is this Veronica?’
He told her, some of it, while he dressed.
Thirteen
The BMW ate the miles, and as he drove, Bill thought. He knew where he was headed for – Whitehaven – and he tried to clear his mind of everything except the job in hand. He took the A43 out of Oxford, as being the fastest route towards a motorway that he knew, and joined the M1 a few miles north of Towcester. He had the Browning safely in its nest once more and felt better for it, which worried him. In any case, if he were stopped by traffic cops he was in trouble. He’d have blown a breath-test meter six feet in the air. He figured to make Whitehaven in about four hours, going fast.
