The Silver Swan Page 20

  He stopped at No. 39 and stood with one foot on the lowest step, his hat tipped back and his jacket over his shoulder with a thumb hooked in the tag.

  "Hot day," he said.

  Billy lifted a hand to shade his eyes and squinted up at him. "Ah, Quirke, there you are. I said I'd buy you a drink."

  Quirke shook his head. "I told you, Billy, I don't drink."

  "Did you? I forget things all the time, these days. There's a permanent fog in my head. Anyway, you must drink something-tea? coffee? a bottle of minerals?"

  Quirke smiled. A-boddle-a-minerls. Billy would always be the boy from Waterford.

  They went round by the Peppercanister Church and crossed the road to the canal. They did not speak. The trees, hotly throbbing, hung their heads out over the unmoving water. A Swastika Laundry van, comically high and narrow, appeared on Huband Bridge, its electric engine purring. Billy Hunt was tall, Quirke had no more than an inch or two on him, and he walked with a sportsman's muscle-bound shamble. Percy Place was cloven down the middle, with glaring sunlight along one side and a wedge of shadow along the other. At the door of the 47 Quirke caught the familiar pub reek of alcohol and male sweat and ancient cigarette smoke that he used to savor so and that now made him feel nauseous. When they were at the bar Billy Hunt asked him what he would have and he asked for a soda water-by now he thought he might never again manage to drink another tomato juice-and Billy ordered it without comment, and a pint of stout for himself. Quirke watched him drink off the pint in two goes. He seemed to have no swallow mechanism, merely opened his mouth impossibly wide and tilted the heavy black liquid straight down his throat.

  "So," Quirke said, hearing how wary his own voice sounded, "how is it going?"

  Billy tucked his chin into his chest and belched.

  "I appreciate you doing that thing for me," he said. Quirke said nothing. Billy Hunt belched again, less loudly. "That detective called me in," he said. He was looking at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, above a shelf full of bottles. He rubbed a hand back and forth on his chin, making a rasping sound. "What's his name? Hackett."

  "Oh, yes?" Quirke said. Johnnie Walker, Dimple Haig, Jameson twelve-year-old. A tin sign assured him that PLAYERS PLEASE. "And?"

  "You may well ask." He put his empty glass on the bar and looked at the barman, who took the glass and produced a clean one and set it under the Guinness tap and pulled the club-shaped wooden handle. All three men watched the sallow gush of stout turning black in the bottom of the glass. "He talked about the weather," Billy said. "Wanted to know if Deirdre was able to swim. Asked me where I was the night she died." He turned suddenly and looked at Quirke with his ox's injured eyes. "He wasn't fooled."

  "Wasn't fooled about what?"

  Suddenly he saw, for the first time, really, just how angry Billy was. Anger, he realized, was his permanent condition now. And that would never change. Not only his wife, but the whole world had wronged him.

  "He knows it wasn't an accident," Billy said.

  "Knows? Knows for a fact, or is guessing?"

  Billy's new pint arrived. He considered it, turning the glass round and round on its base.

  "The coroner didn't believe it either, did he?" he said. "I could see it in his eye. And yet he let it go." Quirke said nothing, but Billy nodded, as if he had. "What did you say to him?"

  "You heard the evidence I gave."

  "And that was all?"

  "That was all."

  "You didn't have a word with him beforehand?" Once more Quirke chose not to answer, and Billy nodded again. "There wasn't anything in the papers," he said.

  "No."

  "Did you fix that, too?"

  "I haven't got that kind of influence, Billy."

  Billy chuckled. "I bet you have," he said. "I bet you have a cozy little arrangement going with the reporters. You're all the same, you crowd. A cozy gang."

  This time Billy sipped his pint instead of devouring it, pursing his mouth into a beak and dipping it delicately into the froth like a waterbird breaking the scummed surface of a rock pool. Then he wiped the back of a hand across his lips and frowned into the mirror before him, the surface of which had a faint, inexplicably pink-tinged sheen.

  "That's the thing I can't understand," he said. "She would never have wanted to make a show of herself like that. Being found on the rocks, with no clothes on her." He paused, thinking, remembering. "I never saw her naked, you know, when she was alive. She wouldn't let me."

  Quirke coughed. "Billy-"

  "No no, it's all right," Billy said, waving one of his great, square hands. He bent his face, waderlike again, over his pint, and drank, and again swabbed his lips with the back of his knuckles. "That's the way she was, that's all. So I can't understand it, her doing what she did." He looked at Quirke. "Can you?"

  Quirke was lighting a cigarette.

  "I didn't know your wife, Billy," he said. "I'm sure she was…"

  Billy was still looking at him. "What?"

  Quirke took a long breath. He had the strange and surely mistaken feeling that Billy was laughing at him. He drank his soda water. "It doesn't do, Billy," he said, "to keep going over things. The past is the past. Death is death. It doesn't give up its secrets."

  For a moment Billy did not respond; then he made a muffled, snuffling sound which after a moment Quirke realized was indeed laughter. "That's good," Billy said, "'Death is death and doesn't give up its secrets.' Did you rehearse that, now, or make it up on the spot?"

  Quirke felt himself flush. "I meant-" he began, but Billy interrupted him by lifting that meaty hand again and laying it with complacent heaviness on his shoulder. Quirke flinched. He did not like to be touched.

  "I know what you meant, Quirke," Billy said. Again he twirled his glass slowly on its base. The cork mat it stood on had a cartoon of a pelican with a yellow beak. GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU, yes, and PLAYERS PLEASE. What an agreeable place the world might be, with merely a little adjusting. "One of the things about being in my position," Billy said, in a now seemingly relaxed, conversational tone, "is the way people talk to you. Or I should say, the way they don't talk to you. You can see them watching every word they're saying, afraid they'll make some blunder and remind you of 'your loss,' as they call it, or 'your trouble,' then the next minute they'll suddenly blurt out some saying, or some proverb, you know-'she's in a better place,' or 'time is a great healer,' that sort of thing-which you're supposed to grateful for." He nodded again, amused and sardonic. "And the other thing is that you have to listen to all of them and pretend to be grateful, and not say anything back that might upset them. Because, of course, when someone has died on you, suddenly you must be the nicest, most forgiving, most understanding, most harmless person in the world." He gripped his glass where it stood on the bar, and Quirke could see his knuckles whiten. "But I'm not harmless, Quirke," he said, with almost a sort of grim gaiety. "I'm not harmless at all."

  They left shortly afterwards. Billy Hunt's mood had shifted again. A light had gone out in him and he had a hazed-over aspect. He looked, Quirke thought, sated, sated and-smug, was it?-as if he knew a thing that Quirke and everyone else did not. At the door of the pub they parted, and Billy shambled away in the direction of Baggot Street. Quirke crossed over the little stone bridge. The trees along the canal seemed to lean lower now, exhausted in the heat of the day, yet to Quirke the sunlight was dimmed, as if a fine dust had sifted into the air, thickening and sullying it.

  7

  DEIRDRE REALLY DID WISH SOMETIMES THAT LESLIE HAD NEVER SHOWN her those pictures. It was not that she was shocked by them-on the contrary, they fascinated her. And that was the trouble. It was the fascination that led her on to other things, things that she would not have thought herself capable of. For a start there were the letters that Leslie got her to write to him. Not that they were letters, really, more like those accounts of her dreams that she used to scribble down when she was a girl, because she had heard someone say that you could tell the future
from your dreams. Only no girl would write the kind of things that she wrote for Leslie. He said she was to put down any thought that came into her head, any thought at all, so long as it was dirty. At first she had laughed and said she would do no such thing, but he kept on at her and would not take no for an answer. What she should do, he said, was imagine that he was a prisoner and she was the prisoner's girlfriend and that she was writing to him to keep his spirits up-"And not only his spirits," he murmured, nuzzling her ear and softly laughing. In the end she said all right, that she would try, but that she was sure she would not be able to do it. It turned out that she was able, though, and more than able.

  And the things she wrote! She carried a pad of pale-blue Basildon Bond writing paper everywhere with her in her handbag-and envelopes, too, for Leslie insisted they should be like real letters-and whenever she got the chance would take it out and start scribbling with an indelible pencil, not thinking of what she was writing only letting it pour out of her, blushing half the time and biting her lip, hardly able to keep the lines straight, hunched over the page like she used to do in school when the girl she shared a desk with was trying to copy off her. She took terrible risks; she seemed to have no fear. She wrote at her dressing table in the bedroom while Billy was in the bathroom shaving, or at the desk in the cubbyhole behind the treatment room in the Silver Swan when she was between clients. She wrote on park benches, in cafés, on the bus if there was nobody beside her. Once even she slipped into Clarendon Street church and sat hunched over in a pew at the back with the pad on her knee, panting almost in the midst of that holy hush, the waxy smell of burning penny candles reminding her of other and very different smells, night smells, Leslie smells. As she wrote she grew more and more excited, and almost frightened. It made her think of that time when she was working at the pharmacy and she went to confession and told the priest a screed of made-up sins, about sucking Mr. Plunkett's thing and doing it with an Alsatian dog, just to shock the old boy behind the grille and hear what he would say.

  Were the things that she wrote down that day in the church filthier than usual, or did they only seem worse because of the surroundings? She got herself in such a state, her pencil flying over the page, that she had to stop writing and undo the button at the side of her skirt and put a hand inside her knickers, into the hot moistness there, and use her finger to make herself come. The pleasure was so intense she had to clench her teeth and shut her eyes tight to keep from crying out. Luckily it was morning and there was no one else in the place, except a bald and bent old sacristan in a rusty surplice who kept crossing back and forth in front of the altar, stopping always in the middle to genuflect before the Blessed Sacrament, and who did not even glance in her direction. When she was leaving, her knickers all wet between her thighs, she could feel the red beam of the sanctuary lamp boring into her back like an accusing eye. To think she had done those things in a church! She knew she should be ashamed, but she was not; she was exultant.

  All this delighted Leslie, of course. "Well well," he said to her, chuckling, "I'd no idea what a filthy mind you had." Although he pretended it was all just a bit of fun that he had thought up for his amusement, it was plain that he really was impressed by how much she wrote and how detailed it was. She could see he could hardly believe his luck in having found someone who was willing-who was, if she was to tell the truth, only too eager-to let him know all the darkest and most disgusting things that went on in her mind. They would lie twined together naked in the narrow bed in the room in Percy Place-that name always made Leslie laugh-and he would read aloud what she had written for him since she had seen him last. While he was reading she would bury her face in the hollow of his shoulder, flushing to the soles of her feet but making sure not to miss a word, hardly able to believe it was she who had written such things. She loved Leslie's voice, his accent like you would hear in the pictures, so that what he read out sounded different from how it had sounded in her head when she was writing it. In Leslie's mouth it seemed serious, somehow, and-and authoritative, that was the word; just like, in fact, it suddenly struck her, just like how the actor doing the voice-over in a film would sound, only not-she laughed to herself-not the kind of film that was ever likely to be shown in a picture house in this country.

  Leslie got as excited as she was by what he was reading out, and would stop in the middle of some really spicy bit and lie back against the pillow and twist a handful of her hair round his fist the way her brothers used to do and push her head into his lap. How silky he was there, how hard and hot and silky, when she pulled the skin back from the helmet-shaped head with the funny little slit in the top like an eye winking at her and put her lips delicately around it. She liked doing it that way, liked to make him writhe and groan, knowing that she was the one who was in charge, that she was the one with power.

  She would never have dreamt of doing it like that with Billy.

  Whenever the thought of Billy came into her mind now she would immediately hurry on and think of Leslie instead. Did that mean she really was in love with Leslie? A girl in school years ago had told her, and she had believed it, that when you thought of one fellow and then immediately of another it was the second one you really loved. But the fact was, she did not know what she felt for Leslie. She was not even sure that she liked him, which was strange-how could you be with someone as she was with Leslie if you did not like him? He was good-looking, of course, in a thinned-out sort of way. In bed, when he had not taken anything, he could keep going for ages. It was easy to tell he had been with a lot of women and knew what he was doing. And he was funny. He would do imitations of Dr. Kreutz and even, though she tried to stop him, of Billy-he had nicknames for him, such as Billy in the Bowl, or Billy the Kid, or the Old Boy-which made her scream with laughing. He would get her down on the floor and sit on her and tickle her, as if they were a pair of kids. Sometimes when he was about to go into her he would stop for a second and raise himself above her on his arms and inquire, putting on the fruity voice of that woman who had stopped them in the street one day to ask directions, "Is this Percy's Place?" Yet for all that it sometimes seemed to her-and this was really strange-that she would prefer him to be not real but a part of her fantasies. That way it would be so much easier. Billy, and their little house on St. Martin's Drive, and her work in the salon, and her mother, who was sick now, and her father she was still afraid of, and her brothers that she never saw-that was life, real life, and though none of it could compare in intensity with what she had here in this shabby little room below street level, with the net-curtained half window looking directly onto the pavement, and the worn lino and the lavatory down the hall and the cracked hand basin and the bed that sagged in the middle, still she valued that other life, the normal one, and wanted to keep it separate from all this with Leslie, separate, and uncontaminated.

  Nothing was simple, though Leslie tried to make her think otherwise. She did not believe they were just having a bit of fun together, a bit of a lark, as he said. Sometimes she was shocked by the mixed-up feelings she had for him. For instance, there was the time when he told her there was no danger of her getting into trouble because he and his missus had both been tested and it had been found that he could not make a child. He thought she should be relieved, and happy, even, and she supposed she should be, but she was not. She knew how unlikely it was that a time would come when they could have a baby together, yet the fact that it could never happen, not ever, gave her a sort of empty, hollow feeling in her stomach, as if a part of her had been removed.

  No, nothing was simple. And to make it all even more complicated, as well as their very private life together she and Leslie had a sort of a public one, too, in which she had to pretend to be nothing more than his business partner. The Silver Swan was doing well, better than she, or Leslie, either, she suspected, for all his confident talk, would have dared to hope. There were more rich, bored women in this city than she could have imagined. Nor could she have imagined how many of them would be
funnily inclined: hardly a week passed that she did not have to fend off the advances of some stark-faced viper with razor-sharp fingernails and eyes like bits of ice. In time she came to think of these women-they claimed to be women, though they were more like men than some men were-as hazards of the trade, and added a hefty premium to their bills.

  And how the money rolled in. It had been a surprise to discover what a shrewd head for business she turned out to have, but it was just as well she had, for Leslie, as she very soon discovered, was hopeless-charming, but hopeless. In fact, his sole asset was his charm, and there were many among her clients, she knew, though obviously not the icy-eyed ones, who came to her chiefly in the hope of cornering him for a cozy chat, at least, and no one did cozy chats better than Leslie. She made a point of not criticizing him for his incompetence or his laziness. Why should she complain? For the first time in her life she felt fulfilled. She had confidence, security, money in her purse, and a brand-new Baby Austin to drive, and next winter, if things continued as they were going, she would be able to buy herself a mink coat. In other words, she was no longer Deirdre Hunt-she had become Laura Swan. And she had Leslie, too, into the bargain.

  He showed her how to do things that, before she knew him, she would not have thought of even in her most secret fantasies. They were things that made her ashamed at first, which of course was a big part of the pleasure of them, but soon they became a source almost of pride to her. It was like learning a new skill, training herself to new levels of daring and endurance. She had always been shy of her body; she supposed it was because of being brought up in the Flats and having to sleep in her parents' room even when she was well past being a child, with no privacy anywhere, even in the lav, since her father would not fix the lock that had been broken for longer than anyone could remember. Now all that awkwardness had disappeared, Leslie had seen to that. There was only one worry she had, which was that Billy might notice the change in her. One night in bed she forgot herself and guided him into a place he had probably thought she would never allow him even to touch-she had been fantasizing that he was Leslie-and afterwards he had heaved himself off her and flopped down on his belly, panting, and asked in a muffled voice where she had learned that sort of thing. In a panic she said she had read about it in a magazine that someone had lent her, and he had snorted and said that was a nice kind of magazine for her to be reading. The next morning when she looked at herself in the mirror she saw for the first time something in her face, a new hardness, a sort of tinny sheen, and, worse than that, a look she had never noticed before: it was, though it shocked her to have to admit it, a look of her father.