‘I suppose not –’ he began.
She gave him no chance to finish the sentence. She clamped her mouth on his mouth. The tears from her face ran on to his tongue. He tasted the salt. Her nose was pressed close to his. He breathed in her breath. Her tongue forced his lips apart and then pushed his tongue back, heading for his throat. Her hands pulled at his shirt front and the fastenings to his trousers.
That was the beginning. After that it was all so inevitable. She carried him with her on a roller coaster of sensations, a frantic night-long seeking for the heights of sexual pleasure. It was dangerous, he knew that. To Kelly it was almost depraved. He actually felt that, even as it was happening, but he couldn’t stop. Sometimes, he feared he would never be able to stop.
Kelly didn’t go home for two days. Neither did he go to work, even though he knew he was already skating on very thin ice as far as his job was concerned. Neither did he contact anyone in his office to attempt to explain his absence. Not even Phyllis. Neither did he contact Moira. For two whole days and two nights he existed only with Angel on a high of sex, booze and drugs.
He was still kidding himself that he could handle it, all of it, but one half of him knew that he was kidding himself.
And when he did go home he was aware that it was probably only because he couldn’t take any more.
None the less, the first thing he did was to play that tape again. Several times he watched it. And all he could ever see in Terry James’s eyes was cold fear.
Seventeen
Later that evening Kelly walked to the nearest off-licence to buy a bottle of Scotch. He hadn’t intended to do so, but he couldn’t stop himself. The phone rang as he returned to his house. He ran to check the display, to see if it was Angel. It wasn’t. It was Nick. Kelly couldn’t face his son. He knew he was letting Nick down yet again, and he couldn’t stop. It was the same as before. Once Kelly began drinking, drink took him over. That and Angel Silver. There was no room in his head for anyone else.
He ignored the phone, locked the front door and retreated to bed with the whisky. Again he kept watching the videotape. It was a kind of morbid fascination, another sort of obsession.
He set the video machine on auto play. When the tape reached its end it automatically rewound itself and started playing again, and would do so until he programmed it to stop. Each time he watched it he kept looking for some new clue to what had really happened, and, if he was truthful, some new way of vindicating Angel. That was all he really wanted to do.
He consumed the whisky steadily. Already he had started not to bother with a glass, instead drinking it straight from the bottle. Just like the old days, he had to admit, then dismissed the thought. It was not like the old days, he tried to reassure himself, it really wasn’t, and he’d never let it be. Not again. Then he took another deep drink.
At some stage he must have fallen asleep. Something woke him, he had no idea how much later. He felt terrible, physically and mentally, slightly nauseous and very uneasy. The video was still playing. On the TV screen before him Scott and Angel were indulging in their lurid sex games. She was kneeling on the edge of the bed. Scott was standing behind her, looking at her, holding his huge dick casually in one hand. Kelly knew exactly what was going to happen next. He had seen it often enough. And the truth was that he liked watching that part of the movie, liked it a lot, even though he also knew well enough the horror which came later.
Then suddenly he became aware of movement in the room. Startled, Kelly turned his attention away from the screen and looked round. Moira was standing in the doorway, an expression of disgust on her face, her eyes fixed on the TV. Suddenly she gave a little gasp of horror. Kelly turned back to look at the screen just in time to see Scott entering Angel in the way he knew so well.
Frantically he scrabbled among the bedclothes for the remote control. He couldn’t find the darned thing. Finally he hauled himself up from the bed, launched himself at the TV and fumbled for the off button. Eventually the images which he didn’t want Moira to see faded away. At least he had managed to switch the darned thing off before Terry James appeared on the scene.
But what she had seen seemed to have done an effective enough job of shocking Moira.
‘What kind of pervert are you turning into?’ she asked him, her voice incredulous.
‘I didn’t want you to see that,’ he replied lamely.
‘I’m bloody sure you didn’t, John,’ she said. ‘What else don’t you want me to see? Have you also got videos of yourself in bed with that bitch, as well as her and her dead husband? And what sort of filthy perverted things do you two do together?’
Kelly made no reply. He couldn’t look Moira in the eye. He really didn’t know what to say to her.
‘Maybe she brings out the real you, John,’ Moira continued, slightly sarcastic now, but not convincingly so. Not like bloody Angel, that was for sure, he thought. Angel was the mistress of sarcasm.
‘I’m off. I can’t compete with that.’ Moira cocked her thumb at the TV before continuing with some disdain: ‘And I wouldn’t want to either.’
Kelly felt cornered, put at a disadvantage. Unfairly so. This was nothing to do with Moira. She didn’t understand what the tape was about. She didn’t know what he was trying to do. Mind you, he wasn’t entirely sure that he knew himself. Still, he decided to go on the attack.
‘I didn’t ask you to come here,’ he told Moira nastily. ‘I haven’t invited you into my house. What are you doing in my house? And how did you get in?’
She looked hurt as well as angry.
‘I used the key you gave me in the days when you were still a decent human being,’ she snapped. ‘And I only came round because I was worried about you. Nick’s been trying to get hold of you – he’s been worried too, and they’re going mad at the paper. Joe Robertson phoned me. He’s been trying to get in touch with you for days. He wants to know if you’re ill. He said he’d been told you’d been seen hitting the booze in a pub. He wanted to know if it was true. That man stood by you, gave you a job when nobody else would touch you, John. Is this the way to reward him?’
Kelly shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the bed again. He didn’t have the energy for any of this, he really didn’t. He made no reply.
Moira came towards him, stood in front of him, put a hand on both his shoulders and, albeit quite gently, shook him.
‘John, John, I just don’t know what to say to you. You’re destroying yourself again, I can see it happening.’
He pushed her hands away.
‘Leave me alone, Moira. It’s none of your business.’
‘Isn’t it? I’ve shared my life with you for seven years, John. That’s a long time. We’ve been good together. We both had pasts we needed to get away from. We both needed to rebuild our lives, and we did it together. We worked things out, got something worthwhile going. I loved you. I still love you, damn it. And I thought you felt the same.’
Kelly shrugged again and looked away. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just couldn’t cope.
Moira stepped back then. He could feel the intensity of her stare. His eyes were drawn to hers. He saw pity and disappointment. She had the look of someone who reckoned she had done all she could, a look that said she was about ready to give up on him. And that, it seemed, was exactly what she planned to do.
Abruptly she tossed his front door key on to the bed beside him.
‘I’m not going to beg you, John. It’s your life,’ she said. ‘If you want to throw it away, then do so. You’re behaving like you’re out of control. You do know you’re making a complete fool of yourself in every possible way, don’t you?’
‘Just go away, Moira, just go away.’ Kelly’s voice was full of weariness. It wasn’t what he wanted, not really, only that he didn’t know what to say to her. She was right, of course, which made it worse. If he wasn’t quite out of control he was damned near it. And he couldn’t put a halt to it, not any of it. The suspicions he harboured about Angel just made his
behaviour all the crazier.
He reached for the whisky bottle, which was on the floor beside the bed. There was just a dribble left. No wonder he felt awful. He’d drunk damned near a whole bottle already without even really realising it. He unscrewed the cap and drained the last dregs from the bottle straight into his upturned mouth.
Moira was still watching him.
‘Just go away, please,’ he said again. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He had a sudden flashback inside his befuddled head of how it had been before when he’d been drinking seriously. If anybody had tried to help him he’d just kick them in the teeth.
‘I’m going, don’t worry,’ she said, the hurt and disappointment as clear in her voice as it was in her eyes.
He sensed her move to the door, heard the familiar creak of the loose floorboard in the bedroom doorway. Still he didn’t look up. But he knew somehow that she hadn’t stepped out on to the landing yet, that she was still there, staring at him.
‘What do you want me to tell Joe?’ she enquired.
‘Tell him what the fuck you like.’
There was no reply. The floorboard creaked again. Then he heard her footsteps on the stairs and the bang as she slammed the front door.
‘Damn,’ he muttered to himself through dry lips. ‘Damn and damn again.’
He’d resolved to stay away from Angel for a few days, to try to clear his head, although he had just about enough sense left to realise that there was little chance of that now that he’d started to drink again. He couldn’t stay away, though.
He picked up the phone to call her, to tell her he was coming round. Then he replaced the receiver. There was little point. In the first place she almost certainly wouldn’t answer the phone – she hardly ever did – and in the second place he was afraid of giving her even the chance of saying that she didn’t want to see him. He’d just go round unannounced. Surely they had reached the stage now where he could do that?
He pulled on his shoes, ran a hand over his stubbled chin, thought about shaving, then dismissed the idea. He held his hands in front of him. They were shaking quite violently. Whether that was as a result of the alcohol he had drunk or his nervous condition, he wasn’t sure. One thing was certain, if he tried to shave he’d probably cut himself to ribbons.
He knew darned well he shouldn’t be driving either. His head ached and he couldn’t focus his eyes properly. He didn’t know whether he was drunk exactly, didn’t really think that he was, in fact. He’d slept for some time since drinking the bulk of the whisky, but he knew enough about the effects of alcohol to be well aware that it would be hours before his system had disgorged the alcoholic content of a bottle of the stuff.
However, he seemed to be past caring about anything except Angel.
She came to the door before he rang the bell. She was wearing a dress made of something flimsy in an orangy colour with big blue flowers on it. There were lavish frills at the neck and on the short, slightly puffed sleeves. The hem to the skirt, several inches above her knees, was ruffed. Angel had to be the only forty-year-old woman in the world who could get away with a dress like that, he thought, as he so often did about her clothes. But get away with it she did, as always.
She smiled at him wanly, stretched upwards on barefooted toes and pecked him quickly on the cheek. The violet eyes looked tired. For once there was no sign of the unnatural brightness which he always suspected came primarily with the effects of the cocaine she was so fond of. Her hair was slightly ruffled and looked squeaky clean. He thought she might have just had a bath or a shower. She smelled of soap. She was wearing no makeup. There were, as usual, deep shadows beneath her eyes, black flaws in pure porcelain. God, he thought, she’s even paler than ever.
She stepped back to let him enter the house and shut the door behind him. Then she just stood there, very still, very fragile. And vulnerable. As always it was the vulnerability which got to him.
‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘I’ve been worried, John.’
‘Yes, so have I,’ he said.
Neither needed to spell out what they were worried about. Obliquely he was suddenly very aware of his unshaven state, of eyes that he knew were red and bleary, of his crumpled shirt and trousers. Compared to her he felt so big, so dirty, so clumsy. He was sweating too. It seemed very warm in the house. He removed his leather jacket and stood holding it awkwardly for a moment. She took it from him, folded it and put it on the chair behind the door. Her hands were trembling slightly, like his, he thought. Only his was more than a slight tremble. Her nails were painted the same vermilion shade as the lipstick she usually wore, and the varnish on at least a couple of them was chipped. Her hands were very white and very thin, like the rest of her. Her fingers were twiglike, so narrow it seemed they must break if she undertook even the simplest of tasks with them. He felt the usual urge to protect her, to keep her safe.
And yet he needed reassurance too. It was as if, and not for the first time, she was able to read his mind.
‘Look, John, I’ve told you everything, I’ve told you the truth. I just don’t know whether you believe me or not. And if you don’t, who else would? Please, John, I couldn’t face another trial. I couldn’t get through that, really I couldn’t. You’ve no idea what the last trial did to me. You have to remember I was brought up never to let the act drop. Just because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve doesn’t mean I didn’t suffer. I went through hell, John. Please don’t let that happen again.’
He could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
‘Hold on, Angel. Calm down, darling,’ he said. ‘It isn’t going to come to that.’
‘It could if the police ever get hold of that bloody video, you know it could.’ Her eyes were very wide. ‘John, I might go to prison. I’m begging you, John. What would happen to me in prison? That would be the end of me, wouldn’t it?’
She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks now, lips trembling. ‘That would be the end of everything.’
Yes it would, he thought. He would not be able to hold her close if she went to jail, he would not be able to spend all night with her in the big bed, he would lose her. He had no idea what the police would make of the video. He doubted that it would actually give them grounds to open another prosecution case, but it would certainly open a whole new can of worms.
‘I do love you, John Kelly, you know that, don’t you?’ Angel continued.
He didn’t. He loved her. And he’d told her so. She’d certainly never told him it before. And even as she said the words he still wasn’t convinced. But, by God, he liked the sound of it. He ached for the woman. In spite of all his doubts he felt himself wavering.
She pushed closer to him.
‘I really do, John, I really love you. I just do.’
He was lost. Totally lost. It was, of course, inevitable. Maybe he had only decided to come to her again in the way that he had because he wanted this to happen. He wanted to believe that she loved him, more, probably, than anything in the world. He was beguiled by her. He suppose he had always known that he could never betray her.
He reached out his arms for her and she half fell into them.
‘I won’t let that happen, Angel, I promise you, my darling,’ he whispered. His mouth was furry and tasted of stale whisky. The inside of his head felt much the same. It was throbbing dully, and even without struggling to deal with the after-effects of what he had drunk, he knew he had no chance of thinking straight when he was with this woman. Sometimes it was as if that was what he wanted to happen. He just didn’t want to think any more.
‘So will you give me back the tape? Will you, John? Will you? Nobody else must see it, you know that, don’t you?’
He was already lost. As always with her, he was totally lost.
‘Yes, Angel, I’ll give you back the tape. I’ll not do anything to hurt you, you know that.’
In some ways Kelly could hardly believe what he heard himself saying. He was certainly aware th
at he must sound quite pathetic. He was also aware of how much he was under Angel’s spell again, and that he was doing the wrong thing once more, going against all his best instincts. It didn’t matter. He was a lost soul.
She reached up and kissed him passionately on the lips, pushing her breasts against his shirt front. Desire welled up in him – in spite of his weariness, in spite of the booze.
‘Oh, John, oh, John, I knew you’d never let me down,’ she whispered, her voice husky as she started kissing him again. Then, abruptly, she drew away.
‘We must destroy the tape, that’s what we have to do. It’s the only way I’ll feel safe now,’ she said, and he knew she must be wishing that she’d done just that in the first place.
‘All right,’ he said, wanting only to keep her happy. ‘I’ll do it when I go home.’
‘No,’ she responded quickly, her voice sharp. Then more softly, she continued: ‘No, John, bring it here. Let’s do it together, then I’ll know it’s gone. Then I’ll know it’s not a threat any more. I’m so frightened.’
She pressed herself closer to him, stretching her face up towards his. He could feel her breath on his neck. It was almost like steam against his flesh.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ His attention had after all been most effectively diverted away from the videotape, as he’d probably always known that it would be.
‘No!’ Her voice was urgent and loud. ‘No, John! Let’s do it now. Go and get it now, and bring it back to me. I won’t be able to relax until it’s done.’
In the end he gave in to her demands. When did he not, he wondered wearily as he turned into his St Marychurch street. In the hallway of his house he paused for a moment. The place felt cold and empty, almost as if it too were disapproving of his behaviour. He shrugged such absurd thoughts out of his mind, although he still believed houses could talk to you if you bothered to listen. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, removed the videotape from under the mattress where he had stowed it in a vague attempt at some kind of security, and immediately left again, once more ignoring the telephone answering machine.
A Moment Of Madness Page 28
