A Man Lies Dreaming (32 page)

The boy reached for her with clumsy hands. She pushed him away, laughing. ‘Not here, love,’ she said. She could tell he loved her accent. His eyes were so feverish-bright. She shivered.

‘Where?’

‘There’s a hotel not far from here,’ Dominique said. The boy shook his head. ‘No. I have a place.’ He took her by the hand, almost gently, and pulled her away. The other girls were no longer interested; they had new marks to entice, burly men who had spilled out onto the street from some nearby pub – dock workers or labourers.

‘It’s my friend’s place,’ he said. He was so tense. His whole body seemed to vibrate, like a single note, a single string holding mad music inside. The door was right there.

‘I don’t know,’ Dominique said, doubtfully. The boy stood there and looked at her. She thought of all the money he’d given her. He opened the door. She stared into the darkness beyond.

*    *    *

How Wolf made the transition, how he had crossed the threshold, entered from the lit world of the house into the dark one of the conservatory, he didn’t, afterwards, know. He remembered no conscious step, no movement. One moment he was standing before the door; in the next, the door was behind him. It shut noiselessly. He stood still and breathed in the rank odour of the air. It was very hot, very humid. The conservatory had once been the back garden of this London townhouse. It had since been roofed over with glass and now provided a tropical atmosphere. Dim red lights provided the only illumination. Wolf heard the drip-drip-drip of water and the buzzing of insects and the thrum of a water pump. He felt nauseated from the smell of the flowers.

‘Orchids,’ a voice said. Wolf started; he had half-fallen asleep on his feet. ‘Did you know there are thousands of different orchid species? They’re beautiful, don’t you think?’

‘They smell disgusting,’ Wolf said, and the other chuckled.

‘I didn’t have you pegged as a gardening enthusiast,’ Wolf said. There was movement ahead and then he saw him, approaching: Julius Rubinstein, banker, gangster, loving father. Hatred swamped Wolf. He blinked sweat from his eyes. It was on his lips. It tasted of salt and blood.

‘You have a lot of nerve coming into my house,’ Julius Rubinstein said. He spoke without haste or seeming anger. It was more of an observation. His body was open, his arms at his side, his face exhibiting nothing but a sort of puzzled curiosity. It was this that offended Wolf’s sensibilities most of all, perhaps. The man had not even taken notice of him, had mutilated him and then dismissed him as though he were of no consequence at all.

It was a cold ruthlessness Wolf could almost admire.

‘I have unfinished business with your daughter.’

‘You have
no
business with my daughter!’ With this, the genial look disappeared from Rubinstein’s eyes. For a moment he seemed grotesque, demonic, a great shadow towering over Wolf. Then the impression subsided and Wolf saw him more clearly: a man no longer young, and for all his presence small, almost slight, with greying hair and tired eyes. ‘What will it take?’ Rubinstein asked. ‘What will it take to make you leave my daughter alone?’

He turned his back on Wolf and walked deeper into the dark jungle of the conservatory. Wolf followed him, unbidden. Though the distance between them was small it seemed huge to Wolf; it seemed to him that he walked miles and yet the shadow before him never grew closer or farther away but always remained at the same distance, never turning, and that he could dawdle or hurry but the shadow would always be there, awaiting him; and that sooner or later it would consume him.

But really it was merely a few steps. And Wolf saw that, in the middle of the conservatory, Rubinstein had built himself a makeshift office. He had a wide oak desk and a comfortable chair and a makeshift bar. He reached for a bottle of scotch and two glasses and put them on the desk and then poured. Wolf said, ‘I don’t drink.’

‘You’ll drink.’

He handed Wolf the glass and Wolf accepted it. He didn’t know why the Jew had this power over him. He put his lips to the glass. The rank smell of the alcohol nearly choked him.

‘I said drink!’

Wolf sipped. The alcohol burned his lips, his throat. He coughed and Rubinstein smiled. Wolf said, ‘I am still on the case.’

‘The case!’ Rubinstein laughed, an angry or bemused bark. ‘Who do you think you are?’ he said. His hand fluttered up and down, taking in Wolf from his beat-up old fedora down to his scuffed shoes. ‘What
is
this? At least I knew what you were before. I have no idea what you are now.’

Wolf’s composure abandoned him; packed up its suitcases and left. ‘I’m a private detective!’ he shouted. ‘A shamus, a gumshoe, a flatfoot, a peeper, a snoop, a sleuth, a, a …’ words abandoned him momentarily. ‘A dick!’ He waved his finger threateningly in Rubinstein’s face. ‘This is all I have
left
!’

The silence left was like a vacuum; it demanded to be filled. Rubinstein laughed again. He laughed and laughed, holding his belly in, his entire body convulsing, shaking. ‘You … you …!’ he couldn’t speak. Wolf watched him, hatred burning. He smashed the glass with the scotch against the desk. It broke into pieces and the rank stench of the alcohol filled the air, worse than the orchids. Wolf attacked the still-laughing Rubinstein. He caught the man by surprise, pushed him to the ground before Rubinstein could act. He landed one good kick in the Jew’s ribs. It felt so good, so right! But Rubinstein only grunted in pain and then pushed himself up, easily. He stood on the balls of his feet like some street-brawling, bare-knuckle pugilist. Wolf launched a fist but Rubinstein deflected it easily. Then he slapped Wolf.

It was a slap the way you would administer a slap to a woman or a child. The way Wolf sometimes had to keep Geli in check. ‘Punch me!’ Wolf screamed. Rubinstein slapped him again, and the sound of the slap was swallowed into the foliage of the conservatory. Rubinstein reached for a desk drawer. Wolf tensed, expecting a gun. But all Rubinstein came out with was a wad of crumpled money. He threw the money in Wolf’s face. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take it. I said take it!’ He slapped Wolf again, grabbed him by the neck, forced him to bend and catch the falling notes. His face was close to Wolf’s own, breathing alcohol in Wolf’s face.

‘She’s mine, not yours,’ Rubinstein said. ‘She has always been mine.’ He said it gently; almost sadly.

He pushed Wolf away and stood there watching him, until Wolf left.

He walked away wordlessly; with each step he felt lighter and lighter. The maid waited for him outside the conservatory. She escorted him to the door. He passed the pile of suitcases. He thought he saw a figure standing at the top of the grand stairs, watching him. When he raised his eyes he thought he caught momentary sight of a pale beautiful face, heard the rustle of a summer dress, but then it was gone, perhaps had never been. A mocking final laugh, trailing into nothing. Outside it was dark and the clouds were amassed low on the horizon. The driver was still cleaning the car. He seemed to have been at it for hours. ‘Noticed the bags in the hallway,’ Wolf said. ‘Going someplace?’

‘Airport, mate,’ the driver said.

‘Flying?’

‘Makes sense.’

‘You know where?’

‘What’s it to you?’

Wolf sighed. ‘Nothing,’ he said, tiredly. ‘It’s nothing to me.’

‘California,’ the driver said, unexpectedly. He spat on the ground. ‘Jews, right. Know it’s over for them here. Whereas me, I got to find another job. Didn’t tell the missus yet. What would I tell her? Got a small one at home, a lad. Still got to drive them to the airport tonight, don’t I. Who did you vote for?’

‘I didn’t vote.’

‘You should have.’ He smiled, exposing his teeth. ‘I voted for Mosley. Got to do what’s right. Not a Jew, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you look a bit Jewish, mate. No offence.’

Wolf glared at him. He’d had enough.

‘Well, have a nice life and all,’ the driver said.

‘Yes … you too,’ Wolf said. He walked away. Behind him, the curtain on the second-storey bedroom window might have twitched as she maybe watched him go. But he never turned to check.

Wolf’s Diary, 22nd November 1939 –
contd.

I was out of work. I was out of luck. I had two cases and I lost them both and I hadn’t been too happy about either to begin with. Like the Rubinsteins’ driver, I needed another job. Things bothered me, things I couldn’t quite put my finger on: who my old comrades were working for, for instance. Hess had only been a link in the chain. Goebbels was another, higher up. But someone was above them all, in the place I had once occupied. Someone had pulled the strings to put me in hospital.

But who?

And where was Judith Rubinstein now?

I felt light-headed from the alcohol, but still, almost supremely, in control. My anger was hot, coiled inside me. I walked for a while. There wasn’t much rain. The air felt expectant. It was quiet in Belgravia but in the distance I could hear shouts, chanting. I found an open garage.

‘My car,’ I said apologetically. ‘It stalled. I think I ran out of petrol.’

‘No problem, mate.’ The mechanic wiped his hands with a dirty cloth and filled a bottle. The wireless was on and the BBC was reporting live from Trafalgar Square, where Mosley was speaking to an audience of thousands. When the mechanic wandered off to put the money away I stole the cloth. I daresay he wouldn’t have missed it. I also swiped a half-empty box of Swan Vestas. They were matches you could trust.

I felt very calm. I retraced my steps. Townhouses towered over me each way. It was very quiet: in this neighbourhood there were special employees just to walk the dogs. The Rubinsteins’ house was dark. I didn’t see the driver though the car was still parked outside. I uncapped the bottle of petrol and twisted the mechanic’s cloth and soaked it in some of the petrol and then jammed it into the mouth of the bottle. I stared at the house. A light came on, on the second floor. I wondered what she was wearing. I struck a match and applied it, carefully, to the soaked cloth. It flamed brightly and for a moment I saw myself standing on the street, holding the makeshift bomb, reflected in the black gloss of the Rolls-Royce.

The bottle arced through the air.

It hit the window and smashed through into the house, flaming petrol exploding in a wide pattern over furniture and carpet, paintings and wall.

A whoop of flame billowed out of the broken windows.

Wolf heard a scream. Heard a man swearing. The flames climbed higher. He hid in the shadows and watched them come tumbling out from the house, smashing open the door in their haste to escape. The maid was wobbling and the driver was cursing and swearing to quit and damn them all to hell, he was going home, and then came Julius Rubinstein with a shotgun in his hand and finally Isabella.

She wore a sheer silk nightgown and her feet were bare. She looked young and scared. Wolf almost wanted to reach for her, in some perverse way he couldn’t quite define she reminded him of Geli. Then Julius Rubinstein fired the shotgun into the air and Wolf jumped. Isabella laughed, a high-pitched, crazy sound that filled the night. Wolf saw her father’s hand come to rest on her shoulder, pulling her close to him. Julius pulled open the passenger-side door of the car. He pushed Isabella in and shut the door on her and got in himself on the other side. Wolf couldn’t see them inside the car. The house burned and the flames were reflected on the car’s hood and there were sirens in the distance. The Rolls-Royce growled to life, then accelerated away. Wolf tracked it with his eyes. It moved fast, took a corner with a screeching of tyres, and was gone. In front of the burning house only the maid remained, too shocked to move. The box of Swan Vestas rattled between Wolf’s fingers. He let them drop to the ground as he walked away from the flames.

Herr Wolf—

She was waiting, as though she always knew I would come. She would have haggled over the price but I gave her money to silence her. It was a lot of money for a whore. I led her by the hand to the door – your door. The bakery was shut, and it was but the work of a moment to unlock the door in the dark, when no one was watching. I don’t know, she kept saying, I don’t know. We stole up the stairs. I broke into your office. Here? she said. To me the place was enchanted. In the darkness there was the presence of you, in everything I touched there was magic. To her it might have seemed a blight, a place of decay, but she did not understand what you and I have.

Get on your knees, she said. She pushed me down. Her hand reached into her bag and came out with a black whip. It whistled through the air. I said stay down! She slapped me, rocking my head back. Is this what you want? she whispered. Is this what you want?

Yes, yes. Everything was a fog. Take off your shirt, she said. I threw it in a corner, and shivered as cold air touched my exposed skin. Have you been a bad boy. Yes, yes! She lashed me, once, twice, and I cried out.

Is that what it feels like for you, too?

I knelt before her. But I needed, wanted, more. When she lashed at me next I raised my hand and grabbed hold of the whip and wrapped the leather around my wrist and pulled. I caught her off-balance and she stumbled and I caught her, rising. My cockerel was on her skin, rubbing in an agony of pleasure. I wrapped my arm round her neck. She smelled so sweet. Listen, bitch, if you struggle it will go worse for you, I said.