Death in Disguise

by Caroline Graham

  ‘Hullo-o-o.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Up here.’

  ‘Hullo.’ He had smiled but you would never have known from his voice which was harsh, graceless and impersonal.

  The gown slithered and slipped again as Trixie leaned out a little further. ‘Isn’t anyone looking after you?’

  Janet opened the sweater drawer, saw the colours blur. She started to rummage furiously.

  Trixie said: ‘How d’you like this weather?’ nodding at the drooping flowers and limp-leaved shrubs. As she spoke she agitated the loose drawstring neck of her blouse revealing, then concealing, a creamy freckled upsurge of swelling delights.

  ‘Hot for me.’ There was a suggestion of an upturn on the final word. It could have been a question.

  Trixie laughed, husky, sassy. ‘I should think it is in that suit.’ She was standing on the terrace, a shade closer than normal civility required, her feet firmly on the ground and set slightly apart. The challenging stance of a principal boy.

  ‘A drink might help,’ continued Guy.

  ‘There’s some lemon-balm tea in the fridge.’

  ‘I meant a real drink. I’m just going to check in at my hotel. We could get something there.’

  ‘Ohhh…’ This is so sudden said the quickened breath and downswept baby-doll lashes. ‘I don’t know about that.’

  Trixie’s confusion, which Guy immediately labelled an attack of the cutes, was not entirely faked. Flinging on some clothes, running down to the terrace she had been driven by nothing more complicated than a childlike wish to gaze at someone rich and famous. But not long after introducing herself—and they had been talking for about ten minutes now, mainly about Suhami—she became aware of a not unfamiliar physical agitation. Her remark about money being a turn-on, made half in jest and half from a wish to irritate Janet, had proved to be compellingly accurate.

  Trixie had never heard the saying the rich are different from us only in that they have more money, and if she had would have profoundly disagreed. Guy seemed to her a most mysterious being. The personification of a character previously only encountered in power-packed soap operas. Wheeling and dealing, making and breaking lives, glittering at the top of a shining dynastic tree in sultanic splendour.

  They walked towards the car. Trixie stared at the diamond-hard mirror-bright perfection of the sweeping fuchsia chassis. At the huge headlamps, dazzling whitewall tyres and the hood that was like the furled sail of a yacht. It did not occur to her to pretend to be unawed. She said: ‘How absolutely beautiful. You must be very rich.’

  To which Guy replied simply, ‘I’m as rich as God.’

  Furneaux, seeing their approach, put down his Evening Standard, donned his peaked suede cap and jumped out to open the rear door. Trixie climbed in and perched on the edge of the seat with great delicacy as if it were made of spun glass. But once they had moved off she gradually edged back until, by the time they entered Causton, she was nestling in the corner, one arm lying casually over the side ready to wave should she, in fact or pretence, spot an acquaintance.

  Guy, working on his usual principle of never doing one thing when you could be doing half a dozen, was edging his hand ever closer to Trixie’s knee, looking into her eyes and questioning her further about the commune.

  ‘What’s he like then—this guiding light?’

  ‘The Master? All right. That is kind and…you know… well, good.’ It surprised Trixie, now that she was asked, to realise how little she could think of to say. Guy still looked expectant. She scraped around for another morsel. ‘He’s wonderful to talk to.’ Everyone said this so it must be true, though Trixie’s own occasional tête-à-tête with the magus had left her feeling exposed and nervous rather than comforted. ‘He spends a lot of time in meditation.’

  Guy snorted. He was deeply contemptuous of anyone not fully engaged in the chaotic cut-and-thrust of the working world. He himself, as he constantly pointed out, worked a forty-eight-hour day. Felicity said he made it sound as if he were breaking stones.

  Trixie was much more interested in hearing about Guy’s life than talking about her own, but before she could turn the conversation round he said: ‘You must know more about him than that.’

  ‘No, honestly.’

  ‘Come on—you’re an intelligent girl.’ Guy smiled into the slightly blank unfinished face. ‘For instance—does he own the place?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a committee runs things.’ His hand caressed her knee. ‘May, Arno. People who’ve been here a long time. Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’ The vulgar energetic pounce in his voice was almost unnerving. His powerful bulk gave off a multiplicity of scents: tobacco and liquor, hair oil, sharp lemony cologne inadequately masking male sweat. He closed the gap between them and whispered in her ear. Trixie gasped.

  ‘That’s an awful thing to say.’

  ‘I’m an awful man.’

  Guy’s hand ascended a little higher, exploratory, determined. He did not agree with the superstition often held by soldiers and athletes that linked sexual intercourse with a depletion of physical reserves. Sex left Guy clear-headed, drained of troublous humours and smartly on his toes. He would need to be all those things if the evening were to go as successfully as he had planned, and he regarded Trixie’s appearance as fortuitous in the extreme. He took her hand, turned it over and scratched the palm with his nail.

  When, with some difficulty, Trixie unglued her gaze from that of her libidinous companion, it came to rest on Furneaux’s back. Although the line of his body was slide-rule straight and his eyes, reflected in the driving mirror, fixed squarely on the road ahead, she got the strong impression he was laughing.

  Guy pressed his full, red, hot lips to Trixie’s ear, slipped the third finger of his right hand between the third and fourth fingers of her own and pushed it, more and more quickly, back and forth. Trixie tried, not too determinedly, to move away. She did not appreciate that it was only the fact and duration of the journey that caused her to be exposed to all these rousing preliminaries. Guy’s usual idea of foreplay was to check if the girl was awake.

  The car swung into the winding drive of Chartwell Grange and Trixie smoothed down her hair. Furneaux parked and unloaded the bags. The reception area was huge with many glazed-chintz sofas, deep armchairs and little tables holding magazines of a sporty or countrified nature. There were also two magnificent flower arrangements perched on Corinthian-style columns.

  If Guy had been the sort to apprehend other people’s sensitivities, he might have spotted a certain coolness behind the ‘Welcome’ sign at reception. Little Jill Meredith, who had taken the Gamelin reservation, had been most distressed at his secretary’s manner. When Jill politely inquired if both guests required a double en suite the girl had drawled: ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. Haven’t you got an annexe or something? Put the chauffeur in there.’

  There was no call, Jill’s boss had agreed whilst comforting his employee with an iced Malibu, to take that tone. Politeness cost nothing. Jill nodded and wished she’d thought of such a witty comeback at the time. Now she handed over the keys without a smile. A pageboy in a musical comedy get-up with white gloves under one epaulette went off with Guy’s case.

  ‘Now the drinks—hmm?’ Guy turned to his companion. Keeping his arm tightly round her waist.

  Trixie nodded, looking up at him with a thrilled, slightly nervous possessiveness. She was sure that everyone in the hotel must know who he was and consequently believed her own status to be elevated accordingly. But middle-aged businessmen bringing secretaries, personal assistants, girl Fridays or just companions of the night were regular features at the Grange. These youthful appendages were described by the staff as excess baggage and universally despised, not on any moral grounds but because they never tipped.

  ‘Some Scotch… Gin. Ice. Soda.’

  ‘When would you—’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Would that be in the Tally Ho lounge, sir?’ asked reception.

&n
bsp; ‘If you want it emptied in five seconds flat.’ Jill Meredith blushed. ‘Otherwise outside my door.’

  ‘All the ice’ll melt,’ giggled Trixie as they entered the lift, blissfully unaware that the lightning and brutal rapacity of Guy’s technique would hardly give a single cube as much as a chance to sweat.

  Hands up her skirt before the lift door closed, grandstanding crotch rubbed her thigh. Once inside the room he was on her like a wolf. Tearing, pinching, nibbling, biting. Non-stop obscenities poured from his mouth. Unzipped but fully dressed, he drove into her with effortful satisfaction. At the last, forcing her head towards his groin.

  ‘No,’ squealed Trixie. ‘I’m not doing that—’

  ‘Go down…’ Guy grasped her hair and she shrieked with pain. ‘Go down you obstinate bitch…’

  When he had finished Trixie ran into the bathroom, opened the complimentary brush and toothpaste kit and scrubbed her teeth and gums, her tongue, even her lips. Then she gargled, rinsed several times with mouthwash and drank a tumbler of water. But the taste of him remained.

  She stared at herself in the glass. At her bruised and bitten breasts and at the red weals on the stinging flesh of her arms. She walked stiffly back to the bedroom, picked up her torn pants and rag of a blouse and looked around for her skin.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, becoming conscious of an agonising cramp in the muscles of her back. Not wishing to look at Guy, she focused on a bowl of fruit. The card read: Having a wonderful time? Great. Tell your friends. If not tell us. Best wishes, Ian and Fiona.

  Guy had brought in the drinks and was mixing a large Scotch. He took a deep draught then removed a wallet from his inside pocket, extracted a note and dropped it on the bed saying, ‘There you go.’

  He always paid for casual sex. There was no come-back then. No one owed anyone a thing. No rubbish about meeting again and keeping in touch or giving each other a bell. And no dreary monologues about unhappy childhoods. In and out. That was it.

  Trixie stared at the money. Guy took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair and started tugging at his tie. He took another swig of Scotch and jerked a thumb at the tray: ‘Help yourself.’ Receiving no reply he said: ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The matter? The matter?’

  ‘Fifty’s all you’re getting if that’s what you’re yelping about.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’ Trixie crouched, hunched and shuddering. ‘I don’t want any of it.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ He grinned, stretching froggy lips. ‘“Free bonking for millionaires” week? Go on—take it. Buy yourself a new top. Not much of that one left.’

  ‘You’re…you are…’ She wrapped her bruised arms tight across her chest as if for protection. ‘Hateful…you’re hateful.’

  Guy stared at her, genuinely puzzled. ‘I don’t get any of this.’ He pulled off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. ‘But I’m already bored to death. Now you can help yourself to a drink and start behaving normally or fuck off. I’m indifferent either way.’

  He disappeared into the bathroom, turned on the shower and came back to remove his trousers and underpants. Trixie watched, sick with rage and self-loathing. How could she ever have let him as much as touch her? He was repulsive! Shiny with sweat, covered all over with flattened, long black hairs. Even his dong, she’d noted sourly, looked hairy; dark and sleek like a rat’s pelt. He was peeling off his socks.

  Trixie, outsmarted, outgunned closed her eyes and sought refuge in fantasy. She took the Scotch and smashed it down upon those closely sheared curls then rammed splinters of glass into his eyes and mouth. Possessed of superhuman strength she leapt upon him in the bath, seizing soapy, slimy shoulders, forcing his head under the water till the bubbles ceased. Then she had an inspiration and called across the room: ‘I forgot to tell you—I’ve got AIDS.’

  Guy looked at her briefly, sharply then laughed. ‘Dear, oh dear. I was telling better ones than that before I was born.’

  ‘It’s true.’ But they could both hear the weak, almost pleading undertow. Guy gave a slow contemptuous shake of the head.

  But then, her mind filled with yet more bloody scenes of annihilating splendour, Trixie came across a weapon of devastating accuracy. At the time this seemed accidental. Later she remembered their conversation on the terrace and the shadow on Guy’s face as he had talked about his daughter. She sat up.

  ‘Funny Suhami being at the Windhorse, isn’t it? With her background. And all that money… You’d think she’d have everything she’d want at home.’ The change in Guy’s expression frightened Trixie, but the longing to get even forced her on. ‘Of course she thinks the world of the Master. I suppose he’s a sort of father figure. A bit peculiar really. Not as if she hasn’t got one of her own.’

  Trixie faltered on the last words for Guy was walking towards her. She willed herself not to shrink back into the pillows. He shoved his face close to her own. She could see the open pores, the thready veins and spiny hairs in his nose.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower now. Wash the stink of the gutter off. When I come out I want you gone. Five minutes—OK?’ He spoke in a whisper but the whisper was so gorged with hatred that his breath scorched her skin.

  As the door to the bathroom closed, what there was of Trixie’s courage vanished. Legs trembling, she got up and stumbled over to the dressing table. In the mirror she saw that her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t realised she was crying. How was that possible? To weep and not to know. She released a moan of self-pity, immediately silenced although there was no way it could be overheard.

  She listened to him soaping and splashing. There were some tissues in a velvet-covered box. She took some and scrubbed at her face. She had far too much make-up on. The result of a frantic re-embellishment before running downstairs. Flinching at the recollection, Trixie attempted to moderate the damage that tears and perspiration had wrought. It wasn’t easy especially as she was without her handbag and consequently—it struck her for the first time—without money.

  How was she to get home? The thought of approaching the chauffeur, first having to ask at the desk for his whereabouts, brought the shakes on again. In any case he wouldn’t take her anywhere without Gamelin’s say-so. Trixie recalled her previous intuition—that the man had been laughing at her. He probably thought she was some sort of prostitute. Perhaps they all did! Trixie turned from her reflection, overcome by shame.

  She could still hear water but two minutes had already gone by. What would he do if he came back and found her there? Physically chuck her out that’s what. He couldn’t give a monkey’s about causing a scene. Money meant never having to say you’re sorry.

  She stared at the fifty-pound note lying on sheets still pungent with the reek of loveless copulation and was disgusted to find herself briefly, treacherously, inclined to take it. Not for the sex but as compensation for bruised breasts, painful back and tender aching limbs. Compulsively, perhaps needing to protect herself from this dishonourable rationale, she seized the note and tore it in half. Then into four and finally into as many tiny pieces as she could manage. About to toss these scornfully into the air she noticed a wallet protruding from his jacket pocket. She pulled it out and began stuffing the bits inside. This childish occupation ignited a brief flicker of satisfaction. She pictured him, perhaps in some smart restaurant, searching for his credit card and releasing a cloud of fiscal confetti.

  Replacing the wallet, Trixie felt something small and lump-like. She drew it out. A bottle, very thick brown glass. She unscrewed the foil-lined cap. Even without the label she would have recognised the contents. Glyceryl Trinitrate. Her father had carried just such tablets to keep the shadow of death at bay. He would never have left them in another room while taking a shower. Trixie tipped the tablets into her hand, replaced the top and returned the bottle to its original place. The water stopped running.

  She stood staring at the white painted door. Behind it a clatter, then a sharp rap. A coathanger bounc
ing against the wood. He was putting on a robe. He was going to come out and find her. Not gone in five minutes but standing there with his life-support system, a little ball of sweaty white gravel, in her hand. Then a loud buzz. A shaver. Reprieved, Trixie felt a quick rush of energy and simultaneously a terrible apprehension of the seriousness of what she had done. It could even be criminal. She must put them back. Indeed their very removal now seemed to her an act of absolute madness.

  But she had only taken a single step when the room was filled with the loud shrilling of the telephone. Guy switched off his razor. And Trixie fled away.

  In the beechwoods which bordered the fields at the rear of the house, Janet paced furiously back and forth, kicking at leaf mould, stamping on fallen twigs. The dark interior with its sombre canopy of light-excluding branches suited her mood entirely. Tears splashed on to her lace-up walking shoes and her breathing was harsh and jerky. Occasionally she gave vent to a peculiar hacking sound. Something between a cough and a groan.

  How Trixie had hurried agonised Janet. God—how she’d raced about! Rubbing on lipstick, squirting clouds of scent everywhere—even down her panties. Winking at Janet. Singing: ‘Monee makes the world go round…the world go round…the world…’ Swaying off with her seraglio walk.

  It had been horrible. Pitiable and degrading; like watching the poor scrabble for bread. Janet recognised the exaggeration but the principle was the same. I could have given her money. She’s welcome to all I have. Janet scrubbed at her cheeks with a wisp of stolen lace.

  He’d looked such a thug. She stopped in her tracks at the recollection and sat down on a fallen log. Built to do damage, Trixie had said. What sort of damage might he do? She was so vulnerable. Always trying to appear so…what was the word…streetwise? But really not much more than a child. Which was why Janet felt so protective.

  That, of course, was all she felt. She was absolutely not in any way at all in love with Trixie. Never in a million years. Because that would make her some sort of…well…lesbian. And Janet would have been distressed and horrified had she been so described. Because she would never actually do anything. Could not imagine doing anything under any circumstances whatsoever. In fact was utterly revolted at the thought. Defensively, she regarded her more emotional friendships (and weren’t all true friendships emotional?) as being similar to the idolatrous pashes so germane to the plots of old-fashioned school stories for girls. Maisie Saves The Day. Sukie Pulls It Off. That sort of thing.