Bleeding Heart Square (10 page)

When Rory arrived, he found Fenella washing up in the kitchen. She wore an overlarge pinafore apron and looked like a child playing at being grown-up. He took a tea towel and dried a knife.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked.

"There hasn't been time."

"Perhaps we can have something together, later."

She put a saucepan down on the wooden draining board with unnecessary violence and didn't reply.

"What's up?" Rory said.

"Just a gas bill. It's rather more than I'd budgeted for."

"If you let me, I'll help."

She threw him a smile. "I knew you'd say that. You're very kind."

"That sounds like an epitaph," Rory said. "May I?"

"No."

He knew she was refusing more than money. "Where does the cutlery go?"

"Still the same place. Left-hand drawer of the dresser. What have you been up to?"

Rory ignored the fact that he had spent the morning traipsing across London, looking at the former home of Lydia Langstone and feeling angry with wealthy people flirting with poverty. "Looking for a job. Nothing new's come up but I've got a couple of irons in the fire."

"It's not much fun, is it?"

"What isn't?"

"All this grubbing for money." Fenella threw the mop into the sudsy water. "I hate being poor. I need a fairy godmother."

As though in an answer to prayer, there came the ring of a bell.

"Perhaps that's her," Rory said. "I'll go." He gave her a wry smile, trying to turn the whole thing into a joke. "Are you at home?"

"I'm always at home," she said.

Rory went into the hall and opened the door. A man was standing on the doorstep with his hat in his hand. He smiled at Rory with the easy charm of someone used to being liked. It was that fellow Dawlish. Rory pretended not to recognize him.

"Good evening. Is Miss Kensley in?"

"Yes. Would you like to come in? I'll fetch her. Who shall I say it is?"

"Julian Dawlish. Thanks."

Rory showed him into the drawing room and left him standing on the hearthrug in front of the dying fire. He was not the sort of chap you would take into the kitchen.

Fenella blushed when he told her who was waiting for her. She pulled off the apron and asked Rory to tell Dawlish that she would be with them in a moment.

In the drawing room he and Dawlish talked about the weather and skirted rather uneasily around the subject of the Spanish strikes and Catalonia's abortive attempt to declare its independence from the rest of the country. Fenella's footsteps hurried to and fro across her bedroom overhead. At last she came in and the men sprang to their feet. She had changed her dress and combed her hair. Rory thought she had probably done something to her face as well.

Dawlish loped toward her, flannel trousers flapping around his legs. "I hope I haven't called at an inconvenient time, Miss Kensley," he said in his soft, expensive drawl. "You were kind enough to say I could drop in if I were passing but casual callers can be a frightful nuisance, can't they?"

She gave him her hand and smiled. "Not in this case. I hope Mr. Wentwood's been looking after you."

Dawlish smiled benevolently at the space between Fenella and Rory. "Absolutely," he murmured.

They sat down and lit cigarettes from Mr. Dawlish's case.

"What have you been up to?" he asked Fenella.

"I re-papered most of the lodger's bedroom today."

"I just don't know how you do it all." Dawlish looked admiringly at her. "Running this place and so on. She's never idle, is she, Wentwood?"

Rory muttered in agreement.

"Have you eaten, by the way?" Dawlish went on, his eyes on Fenella. "I haven't had anything since breakfast in fact, and I'm starving. I wonder whether you'd like a bite to eat. There's quite a pleasant little Italian place in Hampstead." He hesitated, only for a fraction of a second but it was enough. "We could all go, of course," he added, turning to Rory.

"I've eaten already, thanks," Rory said.

"Oh. Never mind."

"It would be lovely," Fenella said. "But are you sure that--"

"Of course I'm sure. I wanted to ask your advice in any case, so we can mix business with pleasure."

"Advice?" Fenella asked. "What about?"

"I'm writing a pamphlet. Actually, it might even be a talk on the wireless. I know a chap at the BBC. It's about the role of women--how they can make a difference in the class struggle and so on. Whether women are naturally against Fascism."

"Are they?" Rory said, determined to be contrary.

Dawlish grinned at him, refusing to take umbrage. "That's what we want to find out. But I'm sure Miss Kensley has a better idea of how to do it than I do."

It had been neatly contrived, Rory thought bitterly, as he walked back to Bleeding Heart Square. There had been no reason for him to stay, since he claimed to have eaten already, which he hadn't. Dawlish, ever the perfect little gent, had offered him a lift to the nearest Tube station, which Rory equally politely had declined. He walked partly to save money and partly because it fed a masochistic appetite within himself to feel even more miserable than he already was.

There was, he accepted, no one he could reasonably blame for this state of affairs except himself. Fenella had given him fair warning that their engagement was suspended, probably over: she was quite within her rights to change her mind and prefer someone else to him. He himself was hardly much of a catch. But Fenella had been a central feature of his emotional landscape for so long that her absence from it was hard to envisage.

He plodded home. In a side street off the Clerkenwell Road he stopped for a pint in a pub that sold only beer. The place chimed perfectly with his mood. It had grimy sawdust on the floor and smelled of cats' urine. Surly men played shove-ha'penny and dominoes, and stared at him with surreptitious hostility until he left.

The shops of Hatton Garden were dark and shuttered. In Charleston Street the windows of the Crozier were blazing with light. Someone was thumping the keys of a piano inside the saloon bar and producing a sound that was just recognizable as "The Teddy Bears' Picnic." He turned into the alley leading to the square and hesitated. He wanted whisky, he thought, he wanted a whole bloody bottle of the stuff.

The music from the pub was gathering in volume, and people were singing. He didn't want to get drunk among all that cheerfulness. Besides, Ingleby-Lewis would probably be there, and perhaps Fimberry or even Serridge. He still had nearly half a bottle of gin in his flat. Drinking alone was far more appealing than that dreadful jollity inside the pub. It would be cheaper too.

He left the alley and passed into the relative gloom of Bleeding Heart Square. It was very quiet after the din of the pub. Suddenly the silence was broken by running footsteps. He had time to register that they were behind him, that they belonged to more than one person, and that they were coming toward him. He turned toward the sound.

But he was much too late. A heavy blow landed on his upper left arm, just below the shoulder. In a tiny instant of lucidity he realized that if he hadn't started to turn, it would have been his collarbone. Someone cannoned into him, sending him sprawling across wet cobbles, jarring his body with the violence of the fall.

He writhed on the ground, struggling to get up, and grabbed a man's arm, as unyielding as an iron bar. Heavy breathing filled his ears. He sensed shadowy figures surrounding him.

A boot hammered into his ribs. He cried out. He grabbed the man's wrist and pulled, trying to haul himself up. His nose exploded in pain and his head jerked back. He fell back on the cobbles. The boot went into his ribs again. He was lying on his back now with someone holding his shoulders down and somebody else trying to pull apart his legs. He twisted away but they were too strong for him.

Someone punched the inside of his thigh.
Christ, they're going for my balls
. He lost his grip on the wrist. His hands curled into fists. He lashed out and was rewarded with a grunt. Then a blow--a kick?--landed in his crotch and he screamed, a high, inhuman sound.

"Listen to me, you bastard," a voice snarled very close to his ear, penetrating the white curtain of pain. "I'll say this only once. And if you don't take notice I'm going to cut your prick off and shove it down your mouth."

A door opened somewhere. The music was suddenly louder as if the teddy bears were pouring into Bleeding Heart Square itself. Rory's shoulders and legs were free. He rolled onto his side, curling into a protective huddle. He heard voices and running footsteps.

"Hey, I say!" a slurred male voice said. "Mind where you're going, old man. What's the rush?"

The footsteps receded. Now there were other footsteps, much slower and less regular.

"I say," the voice said again. "You all right, old chap? Bit squiffy, eh?"

Another door opened, and another wedge of light spilled into the square. Rory forced open his eyes but the pain made it hard to focus. He recognized the voice rather than the dark shape looming over him. He tried to speak but there was blood on his face and some of it had got inside his mouth and made him cough.

"I don't think those fellows liked the cut of your jib," Captain Ingleby-Lewis continued.

There were more footsteps, lighter and faster than the others.

"Father, what's happening?"

"Hello, my dear. I think someone's had a bit of an accident."

Rory struggled into a sitting position. Lydia Langstone was on one side of him and her father was on the other.

"Mr. Wentwood--what on earth is going on?"

"Someone..." He stopped trying to get up as a twinge of pain made him groan. "Someone attacked me."

"Can you stand?" Lydia asked.

"It's a damned disgrace," Captain Ingleby-Lewis said. "This wouldn't have happened before the war, you know."

"What--what wouldn't?" Rory asked.

"This sort of barefaced robbery. What can you expect with these Bolsheviks everywhere? It makes Jack think he's as good as his master. I'd hang the lot of them if I had my way. It's the only answer."

Rory groggily maneuvered himself onto his hands and knees.

"Father," Lydia said, "help Mr. Wentwood up."

"Eh? Oh yes. Of course."

Ingleby-Lewis hooked an arm under Rory's, the one that had taken the blow, and pulled. Rory squealed with pain. Ingleby-Lewis started back and nearly sat down.

"Let me help," Lydia said.

Together they pulled Rory to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, supported by Lydia and Ingleby-Lewis on either side. "The Teddy Bears' Picnic" tinkled and thumped across the square. He had not realized before how damned sinister the tune was.

"Damn," he said. "I hope I'm not bleeding on you."

"Don't worry," Lydia said. "We'd better get you back to the house. Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"We need to find a policeman. What did they steal?"

"I don't think they stole anything."

"I arrived just in time," said Ingleby-Lewis with a note of congratulation in his voice. "They're yellow at heart, you know, scum like that."

"How many were there?"

"Two," Ingleby-Lewis said. "Or was it three? Great big chaps, in any case. Cowardly devils. As soon as they saw me, they--"

"Let's take Mr. Wentwood back to the house. Then perhaps you could find a police officer."

"Not much point, my dear."

"But Mr. Wentwood has been attacked."

"It does happen, I'm afraid. Especially around here. Friday night and all that. Nothing was stolen. I'm not sure the police would be very sympathetic and frankly it's a waste of time. They're not going to catch the blackguards, after all. Much better to get Mr. Wentwood cleaned up."

Lydia stooped and picked up something that glinted in the light. "Is this yours?"

Rory blinked at her.

"This cufflink," she said with a touch of impatience.

"I don't know." It was hard enough to stand, let alone talk. "Probably."

She held it out to him. Rory swayed, wondering if he would be sick. She pushed the cufflink into the pocket of his raincoat and took his arm. "Hold up," she said. "We'll get you inside."

The first step made him howl with agony, but as the three of them moved slowly toward the door of the house, the pain receded a little. Captain Ingleby-Lewis was less than steady on his feet. Rory wasn't sure who was supporting whom. Once they reached the hallway, Rory let go of Lydia's arm and took firm hold of the newel post.

"Can you manage the stairs?" she asked.

"I think so. I'm sorry to be such a bore."

"It's not your fault. Come up to our flat and I'll get some hot water."

"Brandy," Ingleby-Lewis said behind them with the air of a man who says
Eureka!
"That's what one needs in a situation like this. I'll see if the Crozier can provide some, shall I?"

Lydia took Rory into the sitting room she shared with her father, and made him sit down at the table. Ingleby-Lewis set off to the Crozier on his errand of mercy. Lydia went away for a moment.

Rory thought that the room seemed tidier and cleaner than before. Indeed, it looked almost cheerful. There was a book lying open with its spine upward, as though Lydia had put it down in a hurry on the table when she heard the commotion outside. He craned to see the title, and the movement made him wince. Virginia Woolf's
A Room of One's Own
. How odd. He would have expected an Agatha Christie novel or even a well-thumbed copy of
Horse & Hound
. A snapshot protruded from the pages, a marker no doubt. He made out the top half of a rather pretty girl in a bathing costume, surrounded by several grinning young men with little moustaches. He heard footsteps and turned away.

Lydia came into the room with a basin of hot water, a towel and a cloth. She soaked the cloth in the water, wrung it out and advised him to wipe his face. He obeyed her. Afterward he looked up at her.

"How do I look?"

"Not too bad. The nosebleed's stopped. Are your teeth all right?"

He ran his tongue over them. "I think they're all there. One of them's chipped."