Talking to Strange Men

by Ruth Rendell

  MUNGO PATROLLED THE safe house while he waited for Graham O’Neill. It wasn’t very light in there but it was light enough to see by. The house was a warren of small, high-ceilinged, badly proportioned rooms in which the last owners had left behind a certain amount of furniture. Mungo walked about in those rooms sometimes when waiting for one of his agents, liking the solitude and the decay, the ruined evidence of a lost life, an ancient pink silk chaise longue propped up on bricks where it had lost a leg, a chest of drawers from which all but one of the drawers had gone, the curtains that were rags held together by dust, scored by the depredations of moths, windows across which a blind of cobwebs stretched. You scraped away the cobwebs and held nothing in your hand but a shred of dry greyness. Through the clouded glass you could see the river like a metal strip undulating slightly, treetops that were still bare but reddish with buds, the cathedral spires and the tower with the digital clock on it, green, winking, eternal: six forty-two and eleven degrees.

  A narrow, very steep, flight of stairs led up to the top, the third floor, where there were two or three attic bedrooms under the sloping roof. It was a bit like his own room at home up there, but empty and forlorn. You could get out on to that roof by means of a trapdoor and a pair of steps strung up to the ceiling on ropes. Several times he had unwound the rope from the cleat and lowered the steps and climbed out on to the roof, parts of which were flat with broken metal railings, but one day someone had seen him and pointed up and for a while after that he had been afraid the owners of the house would find out people were using it and seal it off impenetrably.

  It wouldn’t start getting dark for two hours. Mungo, sitting on a table in the kitchen, on the greasy oilcloth that covered it, wondered why Medusa or Dragon had taken away the list of agents’ aliases. He had wanted to add to it Cockatrice and Gryps, names for two new Lower Fourth recruits. Perhaps it was wiser to hold these things in one’s head.

  He wouldn’t hear Graham come. To make audible movements, footfalls that could be heard, would have been a cause of shame to any of the names on the list. The door would simply edge open. Like all the other basement doors in this block of houses, that of number 53 had been locked and further secured by two wooden crosspieces, only here one of the battens had started to come away. It was this which had made them fix on 53. They had removed both pieces of wood and Charles Mabledene had picked the lock, got it open with one of his credit card implements. Waiting, watching the door, Mungo asked himself why it was he didn’t much like Charles. Generally speaking, he wouldn’t have admitted to a dislike of people younger than himself but excused the propensities in them he objected to on the grounds that they were just kids still. Not that he could have said what it was, if anything, in Charles that he objected to. On the other hand, you wouldn’t ever think of describing Charles as ‘just a kid still’. He somehow gave the impression of never having been a kid, indeed of being about thirty now and having been born that way. There was something cold and remote about him, something not exactly condescending – Mungo sought for a word – calculating, perhaps. Graham O’Neill felt the same about him. He and Graham usually did have similar feelings about people and things, which was why they got on so well, had become friends. His father was still friends with men he had been at school with, and Mungo liked the idea of that, in which there was something secure and enduring.

  The O’Neills didn’t live in the city but somewhere in Norfolk. Graham and Keith were only here until tomorrow when they were off to join their parents, newly home from Saud. They had been staying with an aunt up at Hartlands. Graham might have difficulty in getting away, Mungo thought, he had no idea what the set-up was at this aunt’s.

  Silence prevailed. Distantly, sitting there in the dimness, he could hear the wail of a police car’s siren. The door opened and Graham came in, closed the door behind him. Graham was tall – not so tall as he but who was? – with dead black hair and a pale shiny face, long rather hooky nose and chin, gooseberry-coloured eyes like a cat’s. Both O’Neills looked like that, though there was no problem telling them apart. Another pleasure of the holidays was being able to wear jeans, denims, which weren’t allowed at Rossingham. You could wear anything you liked at Utting – well, more or less. Graham had jeans on that looked new and stiff because he seldom got the chance to wear them. In the middle of the front of his tee-shirt was printed an octopus with red and black writhing tentacles.

  ‘The nearest I could get to a jellyfish,’ Graham said. His alias was Medusa.

  Mungo grinned. ‘Are you going to be back here before term starts?’

  ‘No way. We’ve got to go to Guernsey for a week.’ Graham cast up his eyes. ‘No way will I be back.’

  ‘I’ll see you in Pitt on the tenth then.’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ Graham handed him a small piece of paper, a page torn off a lined notebook.

  ‘Minotaur to Medusa. Dragon advises planning permission granted. Definite repeat definite,’ it said. Minotaur’s family lived out in the country near Dragon’s family, which accounted for the roundabout route the message had followed.

  Mungo looked up from the paper, shaking his head the way one does when wondering in an admiring sort of way. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Search me.’ Graham produced from the pocket of his jeans a crushed dirty pack of cigarettes, offered them to Mungo.

  Mungo shook his head. ‘Do you have to smoke in the safe house?’

  ‘That’s all bullshit about passive smoking, you know. You wouldn’t get cancer from my cigarettes if we sat here with me smoking for the rest of our lives. You ought to smoke anyway. It might stop you growing. You’re always saying you wish you could stop growing.’

  ‘How d’you reckon Charles Mabledene did it?’

  ‘I told you I don’t know. No way can I guess. Why do we always call that guy Charles Mabledene instead of just Charles? Have you ever thought of that? Why do we?’

  ‘I don’t know but I know what you mean.’

  Graham snorted smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Have you got any money?’

  ‘Not what you’d call real money,’ said Mungo.

  ‘I don’t mean real money. I mean enough for fish and chips. I fancy fish and chips.’

  ‘OK. Anything to get away from your fags. You know what day it is, don’t you? It’s the thirty-first. New code starts tomorrow. The Bruce-Partington Plans.’ Graham’s face registered incomprehension. ‘Why are all my officers illiterate? I bet Stern doesn’t have this sort of thing to contend with.’

  They were young enough still to lash out at each other in play but too old to keep it up. A year ago they would have grappled and rolled on the ground. Graham took a final sideswipe at Mungo who ducked and pulled the door open.

  ‘Did you take the list off the wall?’

  ‘Not me. No way.’

  ‘It must have been Charles Mabledene then,’ said Mungo, and realizing he had done it again, they both laughed.

  The fish and chip shop they went to was on the eastern side and was in a side street in a block of shops between Randolph Bridge and the Shot Tower. Claims were made that it was the best in town. Another distinction of this shop was that you could eat there too if there was room. There were four small marble tables only, each with only two chairs. All the tables were full. At the one nearest to the door sat Guy Parker with a girl. They were eating scampi.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Mungo in a breezy tone.

  Guy Parker said hallo and gave one of his small grins, showing no teeth. The girl with him was rather plump and dark, olive-skinned and with black hair, the front of which was streaked with orange. At the counter Mungo gave their order, two portions of chips and two of skate, two pickled gherkins.

  ‘Who’s that with him?’ he said to Graham.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I did.’

  ‘It’s Rosie Whittaker. I heard he was giving her a whirl.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Mungo.

  He
thought he only liked beautiful women. Or he would only like them when he came to start thinking about going out with women. A tall thin blonde with a long neck and hair down to her waist and big green eyes, thought Mungo. Rosie Whittaker wasn’t his cup of tea. He and Graham took their parcels of fish and chips. A table at the farther end from Guy Parker and Rosie Whittaker became free as the couple sitting at it got up to leave.

  As they were sitting down Graham said quietly, ‘Dragon never speaks to them, you know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if he saw them like we did he wouldn’t have said anything, he’d have just walked by.’

  ‘Uncivilized,’ said Mungo.

  ‘There is something uncivilized about Charles Mabledene, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t have said so exactly. More that he’s just a weird guy.’ Mungo wanted to add something that he had felt about Charles Mabledene for some time, that he seemed to be without ordinary human feeling, but he did not care to say this to Graham. Nor how – illogically and quite unfairly, he knew – it got up his nose rather the way Charles Mabledene had betrayed Stern. No more deeply dyed traitor could be found. Kim Philby had nothing on Charles Mabledene, for Philby presumably had done what he did for an ideal of Communism while Charles Mabledene had betrayed Stern for nothing more than power and glory. Of course he, Mungo, had taken absolute advantage of Charles Mabledene’s betrayal and the West had profited by it. He was in no position to condemn the conduct of the agent who had taken the name of Dragon.

  ‘Best bit of skate they’ve had here for a long time,’ he said to Graham and Graham nodded his agreement.

  14

  FROM THE PICTURE window which seemed to occupy the whole of one wall Hartlands Gardens could be seen spread out below, its walks, lawns, copses, avenues, terraces and the great house itself, now a gallery and restaurant, that had once been the seat of the Douglas family. Mark Simms in returning to the city, John admitted to himself, had chosen well when he picked this flat. Fonthill Court stood on an eminence and all its balconies had wonderful views.

  Coming here at all had been unexpected. Mark, on the phone, had talked of meeting for a drink, had named a pub for the rendezvous. It was an invitation John would have refused if he could have thought of an excuse. He didn’t much care for going out in the evenings when he had to be at work next morning. The garden centre opened at nine and he liked to be there by eight-thirty. But he had said a reluctant yes to Mark, with the proviso that he mustn’t be late back. I sound like an old woman, he said to himself as he put the receiver down, and immediately he remembered how Jennifer had hated that expression, how she had said it was sexist.

  ‘Why not an old man? Why are old women supposed to be stupider than old men?’

  The phone rang again ten minutes afterwards. Mark again, this time to say why not come to his flat instead? They could go out later if tney felt like it. This was even less to John’s liking, for the address Mark gave him was a good four miles away and if he was going to be drinking he couldn’t go on the Honda.

  Why did Mark want to see him again so soon anyway? It was only on Monday that they had spent that evening together with Colin. Of course it might only be a return of hospitality. In the event he did go on the motorbike, making a resolution to drink no more than one beer or glass of wine or whatever was on offer, no great sacrifice for him, anyway. And at the last moment he put Jennifer’s jacket on. The evening was mild for the time of year but he still needed his leathers. The blue jacket was smart and comfortable and he reminded himself that he had felt shabby on Monday by contrast to Mark’s neat dressing and good taste.

  The road wound up round the perimeter of Hartlands Gardens to the crown of Fonthill Heights. Through the trees he could see great drifts of daffodils and white narcissi. The hedges in the park contained a lot of blackthorn or wild plum and this was in full bloom, not massy snowfalls of blossom as hawthorn might be or elder, but fine white nets of flowers hung on the black branches. In less than forty-eight hours now he would be meeting Jennifer there. He thought, I won’t get there first, I won’t get there at half-past two and have to pace about waiting. I’ll be strong and walk into the Gardens by the main gates at two minutes to three . . .

  Now in Mark’s flat in Fonthill Court no more had been said about their going out. They were seated by the window, looking out on to the gardens and the lights coming on in the city and a huge expanse of darkening sky, still reddish at the horizon from the setting sun. Under observation, John felt exposed there, though there was no one to see him except possible aircraft crews. Mark had produced beer in cans, so cold that John had feared it must actually be frozen solid. It was becoming clear to him why Mark had wanted to meet him again and what he wanted to talk about.

  ‘Have you ever done any encounter groups?’ he had begun.

  ‘Me? No, I haven’t. I only just about know what they are. Why would I have done them?’

  ‘Business people do. It’s supposed to enhance social interaction.’

  ‘Not my kind of business,’ said John.

  ‘I asked because they work on the principle that it’s good for you to talk about your feelings and hear other people’s frank views on you and that sort of thing.’

  At this stage John was mystified. The beer was headache cold. It brought on a niggling pain in one temple.

  ‘It’s just that I thought it might be good for us to talk about our feelings, it might help us. You and me, I mean. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Well, for years actually. Having – well, quite a lot in common really. I mean I thought it would do us both good to express our feelings about the other and our feelings in general really. It might bring a lot to the surface.’

  The lights on the by-pass were a double string of yellow, the motorway white, the through road that became Ruxeter Road an old-fashioned soft amber. The CitWest clock could just be seen winking away, a lime-green star too far off for John to read the time or the temperature. He turned to look at Mark. What things did they want to bring to the surface, what buried pain?

  ‘Have we got a lot in common?’ he asked and then feared he had been rude.

  ‘We’ve got Cherry,’ said Mark.

  John was aware that he was blushing. His face had grown hot. It wasn’t true that only shame or embarrassment made you blush. Any strong emotion could do it. He felt suddenly deeply moved. And he didn’t want this, he didn’t want this further complication in his life now, at this juncture.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to talk to me about Cherry?’ Mark was saying. ‘Haven’t you got things you’d like to get off your chest? I’m sure you must have. You mustn’t be inhibited about this, John. You can say anything to me.’

  How was it he realized then that Mark didn’t really mean him at all? Mark meant himself, he meant that he wanted to talk to John.

  ‘We’ve never talked about her, John. We buried it and then we pretended it hadn’t happened.’

  John wanted to say, speak for yourself, but he only nodded. He knew intuitively that little as he wanted to, he now only had to listen. In an hour or so he could make his escape. Mercifully, Mark seemed to have forgotten to replenish their glasses with more frozen beer. Not looking at John, leaning forward, his hands resting on the windowsill and staring out as if trying to identify some particular light down there, he began talking about Cherry. There was nothing new in it to John. He was well aware how Mark had felt, how he had loved Cherry, even – incredibly – thought her beautiful. Mark lay back in his chair, his face still turned aside, and talked about the first time he had taken Cherry out, the funny things she had said, about how six months later they had gone to buy the engagement ring and how she had wanted an opal. Opals were unlucky, even the shop assistant in the jeweller’s had been discouraging, but Cherry had wanted the opal and said superstition was rubbish. How could a stone bring misfortune? That ring was on her finger when they found her body . . .

  He fell silent. Then
he said, ‘Say something.’

  ‘It’s a long time ago, Mark. You’ve been married since then.’

  ‘A dismal failure. A relationship that never got off the ground.’

  ‘You’re quite young still. You’ll find someone else.’

  ‘What do you know about it? How can you know? I hate that sort of specious advice. Bloody counselling.’

  I’ve been married too, John wanted to say. I am married now. But Mark seemed to have forgotten this, to have forgotten indeed that John had a life of his own, was any more than a receiver or recording device. He talked on. He seemed to remember every word that Cherry had ever said to him. Of course this was impossible but he did have amazing recall. He even remembered her clothes and what she had worn on particular days. It all made John uneasy, for it seemed obsessive, it was all seventeen or eighteen years ago. He looked surreptitiously at his watch, but not surreptitiously enough.

  ‘You want to go. I’m boring you. You’re a very conventional person, aren’t you, John? Not to say routine-driven. You’d sacrifice real living to a principle of going to bed at the right time and getting up at the right time. Life will always pass you by because your petty rituals are more important to you than your own or other people’s pain or happiness. I’m being very frank. We agreed, didn’t we, that we were going to be quite open about our feelings for each other?’

  John didn’t think they had quite agreed to that. He tried not to be offended. It was nearly midnight and many of the lights that had come on down there were going out again.

  ‘Goodnight, Mark,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the beer.’ And he added, because Mark was obviously in a bad way, ‘We’ll meet again soon.’

  It was the last thing he wanted, he thought, driving home. St Stephen’s clock struck midnight. It’s April the first, John thought. It’s April Fools’ Day, and he recalled his and Cherry’s childhood when they had played mostly successful April Fool’s tricks on each other and how their mother had told them it was only April Fools’ Day up till noon and after that it became Tailpike Day. The idea was to pin a tail on some unsuspecting person. Cherry had pinned a tail on to their mother’s coat and she had gone to the shops like that and wondered why everyone in the grocer’s was staring. It had been a wonderful tail like a lion’s, made of yellow knitting wool and with a tuft on the end. The things you remember, John thought.