The Green Flash

by Winston Graham

  ‘1966.’

  ‘Fourteen years. Well, after ten years it is a breach of the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act to cite or speak of or publish details of any crimes committed by a person before that time.’

  ‘Or even to bear them in mind?’

  ‘That may be too much to ask. But I assure you you’re quite in the clear, Sir David, so far as we are concerned.’

  ‘And you would not have mentioned it if I hadn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I took out my car keys and weighed them in my hand. ‘ But I take it it was no friend of mine who brought this little incident to your notice.’

  ‘I’m really not at liberty to say.’

  I listened to the rumble of the traffic. Going to be late for Erica’s dinner. ‘ D’you think I could ask your secretary to ring my wife, tell her I’m on my way.’

  ‘Of course. And thank you again for your help.’

  I stood up, stretching, suddenly feeling the long night, the short day.

  ‘A pity we can’t pin something on Roger Manpole.’

  ‘I haven’t given up hope,’ said Chalmers.

  IV

  When I finally got home there was a single light burning in the hall and a note saying: ‘Gone ahead to be John the Baptist. We sit down to eat at eight thirty. Do not be late.’

  It was eight o’clock then and I was tired and sweaty. I took a quick shower and while not yet dry pulled out a dinner jacket and black tie, found shoes; no socks (red socks, they would do); began dressing. I’d left the car at Owen’s with instructions for it to be serviced, and reckoning anyway that it was easier to get a taxi from here. I could thumb a lift home with Erica at the end of the function. But when I went out all the taxis were busy. Eventually I found one and bundled in, clutching the thing I’d bought Erica in Edinburgh. It’s all hell buying a present for a rich wife; she has everything except what you can’t afford; in the end I’d found her a French bracelet with a few diamonds and sapphires. I knew she specially liked sapphires, but for £600 these obviously couldn’t be top class. All the same it was pretty and was a gesture of goodwill, and she couldn’t throw it out as a trinket.

  Park Lane was full of slow-moving stuff, and I reckoned I could have made it quicker jogging across the Park. As I went up the steps of the hotel it was twenty minutes to nine. ‘Lady Abden’s party? Oh, yes, sir, in the Belvedere Room on the seventh floor.’ ‘Thank you, I know my way.’

  Up in the lift, silently along the plush corridors; a waiter almost indistinguishable from the guests let me in. Laughter, talk, a bit high-pitched, they were already at supper, gilt mirrors reflecting endlessly the black coats and the sleek heads. Erica at the head in a brilliant sapphire-blue off-the-shoulder dress, blue gloves to above the elbow, £20,000 diamond brooch at her breast; fine earrings too. Hair drawn up in the high, backcombed style showing elegant neck and shoulders.

  They were laughing as the waiter brought me in, and she was the first to see me.

  ‘Hi, David, come in, come in; we’re only just through the caviar.’ To the waiter: ‘Bring some for my husband, while we pause for breath.’

  I was being offered a seat at the other end of the table. I sat down. My next-door neighbour was Derek Jones. On my left was a chap called Palmer who was a successful theatrical agent, good-looking but gaunt. Caviar and toast. Taittinger 1970. I picked up a knife and held it a few seconds unused.

  This was a male gathering. Not a woman in sight except my own young wife at the other end. We reflected and multiplied through many mirrors, but still there wasn’t a female to be seen.

  I said to myself: am I mad or is it true? This is the Belvedere Room on the seventh floor of the Dorchester Hotel, London, West One, on Tuesday the 16th of September, 1980. It is happening. It will be recorded in the books of the hotel that on that evening Lady Abden gave a party for eighteen people; the menu was … the wines served were … the cost was … A cheque in settlement was received the following week. Nobody will ever record, no one will ever remember that, except for the hostess – and just possibly the host – the entire party consisted of pansies.

  As I began to eat I looked down the table and recognized many of them, men I’d met here and there, at parties, at dinner parties, at Erica’s dinners. But never together before. Never all in one great bunch. Separately you’d hardly have noticed, but together they made strange sibilant sounds, whispers and titters and sighs. On either side of Erica were Steve and Tony, the two who got up my nose. Next to them was Lord Alfred Dugan (popularly known as Lord Alfred Douglas), with his latest boyfriend. Opposite him an elderly distinguished actor with his young Yugoslav companion. A top ballet dancer; the owner of a big restaurant; a couple of youngish ‘hons’ recently out of the Guards. Some of these chaps I actually liked in isolation. Together they were a fist of talons shaken in my face.

  ‘Take it easy, dear,’ said Derek, patting my arm. ‘ Relax the old blood pressure. It’ll all come out in the wash.’

  At the other end of the table Erica was in passionate conversation with Tony; catching my look she smiled politely and flapped four fingers in salutation.

  My plate was taken away and another course was served: some sort of chicken; never knew what. Wafts of talk up and down the table.

  ‘I told the silly little cow she wasn’t to touch it. But she got a dreadful thing about it, thought it was going to explode or something …’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a rosy rapture, my dear. But, you know, his hand resting casually on my thigh …’

  ‘The bathroom didn’t really suit us at all until Denis suggested a dash of surprise pink to take the cold out of the walls …’

  ‘Well, you know what it’s like when someone wants to play the Tragedy Queen at every opportunity …’

  Everything was terribly black. Sixteen black coats like sixteen black crows all hissing and whispering on their branches in their desperate pansy jargon, and all multiplied by trick mirrors. This was a dream, it couldn’t be true.

  The chap Palmer was trying to interest me in an account of some play he’d just got put on at the Royal Court, about a man who raped his daughter and the resultant child had spina bifida.

  In between times Derek asked me about Scotland.

  I said: ‘I could murder that woman.’

  ‘Hush, dear, don’t holler so. It’s just her little joke … By the by, I suppose you know both Vince and Gerry are still in the clink. Police have opposed bail all along. Same with Laval. Quite a holocaust.’

  ‘So you’re not in it.’

  ‘Would you suppose it! Nanny always insisted I should keep my nose clean and my feet dry.’

  ‘The point is,’ Palmer was saying, ‘the daughter, Marietta, comes to dominate over her father and the child over both. It’s a three-tier drama with very poignant symbolism. Do make an effort to see it while you can. Kevin Smithson is quite superb as the child. First night there was hardly a dry eye.’

  I don’t know if time passed or whether it happened next, but sometime a bit later the clown Tony got up and began to make a speech.

  The words washed over me. ‘Well, dear hearts, we are here to wish our dear little scrub a happy, happy birthday. In this gay mad world there really aren’t many like her. Unique, my dears. Erica the unique. She sits among us but metaphorically she is atop a pedestal, and not one of us would dare to stretch out a finger to bring her down to the level of us unfortunate males.’ (Laughter, as they say.) ‘David down there is married to her – yes, married to her, would you believe – lucky sweep! No wonder he looks like a cat that’s been at the cream.’ (More laughter. Or perhaps I should say titters.)

  This went on for a bit. I didn’t even know if I was smiling at him or scowling, as if the cream had turned sour. Then he turned to Erica, drips of excited champagne spilling from his glass. ‘ It’s your very own birthday, darling, and we wish you just everything a girl could wish for: health, wealth, wine, song, and connubial bliss, all gift-w
rapped for the rest of your natural …’

  We were standing on our feet, drinking champagne. We were sitting down. Erica had got up, to high-pitched squeals of applause.

  She said – or I think she said: ‘ Tony and all. Thank you for the presents you brought. I won’t say you shouldn’t have bothered, because you should.’ (Titters.) ‘All these divine things. Even though my husband – that dark man glowering at the end of the table, who’s not even wished me a happy birthday yet – even though he works – intermittently – for a perfumery firm, he keeps me very short on home products; so I shall have the loveliest time bathing in all these delicious essences you’ve given me from all the rival establishments.’ (Titters.)

  This also went on for a bit. The champagne was working in her, and she was being quite bright and witty. She always had been witty, from the moment I first met her. Her father was a dull man, her mother a dull woman. But somehow the genes had blended to produce this razor-sharp – rapier-sharp – female with the lightness of foot and quickness of intellect to be one of our champion fencers and, when she felt like it, one of our champion bitches. What was this in aid of? Was it all calculated as a great slap in the face for me? Or had she already invited this scrum before she even knew I was going to be here? Trying to provoke a reaction? She’d certainly done that! I wanted to strangle someone.

  She was ending. ‘This modest little get-together of some of my oldest – and dare I say oddest? – friends …’ (Another titter) ‘… is just to celebrate my first quarter-century plus one. Drink your drinks and finish your cheeses and then maybe we’ll have a dance. Eh?’ She looked directly down the table at me, eyes glittering. ‘Eh? Let’s clear the table and have a dance. Perhaps not the Gay Gordons. That would be too rowdy. A more delicate, intricate dance, which we might call – which we might call – the Gay Abdens!’

  A laugh, but this time it was a half-hearted one. Beady eyes were on me from all down the table. Crow’s eyes. Weasel’s eyes. Cobra’s eyes. Assessing. Wondering. This really was something to gossip about at the Jacuzzi tomorrow. Poor, dear David. One wondered. Hadn’t he really been up to it? There were rumours, of course. And he’d been with Derek at one time.

  I got up. ‘Thank you, dear,’ I said. ‘Message received.’ I dropped my champagne glass on the floor. ‘Oh, sorry. Look what I’ve done. Careless, careless.’ I picked up another and dropped that too. ‘You’ll notice. Not even house-trained.’ A waiter made a movement but I stopped him. ‘That’s all. Just a little frolic. Happy birthday, dear. After all, a quarter of a century plus one is rather a long time to be alive. Many happy returns.’

  I put my hand on Derek’s shoulder as he began to get up. ‘Sit down. It is all over. Uncle David is going to bed. All by himself. It makes a welcome change.’

  I went out. A waiter anxiously followed me. ‘ Did you leave a coat, sir?’ I shook my head. ‘No, and I’m not going to steal any. Go back and see to your guests.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I

  The lift was a long time coming. Some damned fool seemed to be working his way up and down. Outside it was a fine night but cool after that overheated room. I walked down Park Lane and then crossed into the Park. I sat on a seat for a bit; there were a couple of people at the other end smoking pot; the smell drifted across. I went on. I got back to the flat. No idea of the time. Maybe I looked at the clocks without taking in what was on them. Coffee seemed a good idea to break the fumes of the champagne. But something much stronger was really needed. Not alcoholic; a barbiturate or maybe an old-fashioned leech to drain off some of the overheated blood. The bad blood.

  I kept taking deep breaths. That was supposed to steady you. Only, if you took too many, you passed out. That wouldn’t do yet awhile. Not until I had got right away from here. I went into my bedroom. The case I’d brought from Scotland was still packed. That would do. I pulled a second case out of the wardrobe and began to stuff a few personal things in it.

  The telephone rang. I went into the living-room and picked up a few books that belonged to me, went to a drawer and fished out some papers. Really, most of the things were hers; I’d no interest in them. Even in Red Place my own personal possessions had been minimal. The telephone stopped.

  The kettle was boiling and I made strong coffee. Into her bedroom and to her medicine cupboard, swallow a couple of aspirin, the hot-coffee scalding. At the nightmare party I’d just left a fair amount of champagne had gone down. I am not by choice a champagne drinker, claret and burgundy and hock being preferred. Erica had always been the one for champagne.

  The suitcase was nearly full and I would have to take a second one. (Third, counting the one that had come back from Scotland.) Not worth getting the car out again tonight. A taxi would take me to Claridge’s, where they’d probably try to squeeze me in.

  The telephone rang again. Francis wanting to talk to Erica about her lessons? One of Erica’s non-pansy female friends ringing up for a chat? Mrs Whatsit who came in tomorrow couldn’t come because her little girl was off school with a chill? Burr-burr, burr-burr. Some people wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or Chalmers had some last-minute question he’d forgotten to ask me? There’s nothing so tyrannical as a bloody telephone. Yak-yak, yak-yak. I went in and snatched the thing off its hook.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘David? This is Shona. I thought you were returning today. Have I caught you at an inconvenient moment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I am sorry to bother you on your first night home. But there is a meeting tomorrow at Moorgate. Our stockbrokers, with accountants and two men from Morgan Grenfell. I have had to make a number of decisions about the flotation without your help.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  ‘David, I am sure this is not the proper moment to discuss what your future with the firm will be; but I should value your advice on matters of detail. The notice will be in the papers next week. I am told the shares will be heavily oversubscribed, but the wording of the announcement does not please me. It is something we have to decide tomorrow. That and other things we need to talk of. Can you come?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning at ten thirty. 91 Moorgate. I have ordered a car for myself, so if you came to my flat by nine forty-five we could go together.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  She waited. ‘Well, do you think you could come?’

  I said: ‘ I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you all right, David?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You sound strained.’

  ‘I am strained.’

  ‘Is Erica with you?’

  ‘She’s giving a party at the Dorchester.’

  ‘Why are you not there?’

  ‘I just left.’

  I was waiting to thump down the receiver.

  She said: ‘Perhaps I could ring you in the morning. About eight. Would that do?’

  ‘I shan’t be here.’

  ‘Where will you be, then?’

  ‘Some hotel.’

  ‘What has happened? Have you quarrelled with Erica again?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What has she done this time?’

  ‘It’s too boring to tell you. But I’m getting out once again.’

  ‘Of the flat?’

  ‘Of her life.’

  ‘David, she has not been happy while you have been away. She has been very strange. You need to have patience.’

  ‘Long past time, Shona,’ I said. ‘The ship’s on the rocks. Running repairs are out of date.’

  I banged down the telephone. Shona bored me. Erica bored me. Maybe all women bored me. Careful! Not Alison too! That certainly can’t be true. I was tired, and fed up. Just tired and fed up with life.

  The second case had a defective clasp. Too pathetic that a potentially well-to-do baronet with a rich wife should have to pack his things in a tatty old case with a broken clasp. (In fact it wasn’t tatty or old, having been bought in New Y
ork and of fine white pigskin; but what the hell was the use of a handsome case with a broken catch? Who the hell ever repaired broken catches these days? Once a small thing broke on a suitcase you might as well stuff it in the dustbin.)

  Better take my extra things from the bathroom: spare razor, toothpaste, a few other odds and ends. In the living-room books on fencing. Crosnier. Unlikely I’d ever use these again. Never mind, they were mine, I grabbed them up.

  Some of the clothes I could send for; no point in arriving at Claridge’s or wherever looking like a refugee from a fire. I suddenly saw myself in the mirror in black tie and dinner suit. Must be pretty crazy; these I could leave behind.

  As I changed trousers, flung them over a chair, I heard the front door bang. I pulled off my shirt, tearing the armhole, put on a blue striped one, tucked it into the waistband of a pair of slacks, found a blue tie.

  Footstep. Door open. Erica there.

  She was wearing a white mink coat over her blue dress. Her race was hard, the smile lines turned down.

  ‘Where are you off now?’ she said.

  I began to knot my tie.

  ‘Going home to Mother?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re back soon,’ I said. ‘Did your friends need their beauty sleep?’

  She watched me. The tie had got stuck, and I carefully took it off, knotted it again. I hung my dinner suit in the wardrobe, put on a tweed jacket.

  ‘As a matter of tact,’ she said, ‘I thought it was a good joke. Everybody did except you.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘you know what it is: Scottish lack of humour.’

  ‘Lack of something. Could it be conviction?’

  I began to transfer my wallet and other things from one jacket to the other. ‘Conviction of what?’