Bloody Passage (v5) (2 page)

I turned and toasted her. "You can cook, too. The meal was enormous."

She said gravely, "I'll get you another drink," and went behind the bar in the corner.

"That sounds like a good idea." I sat on one of the high cane stools and pushed my glass across.

She took down the gin bottle. "I didn't even know there was such a thing as Irish gin until I met you."

"As I remember, that was quite an evening."

"The understatement of this or any other year," she said lightly as she spooned ice into my glass.

Fair comment
I'd met her at a party in Almeria thrown by some Italian producer who was making a Western or unreasonable facsimile, up in the Sierra Madre. I was strictly uninvited, pulled in by a scriptwriter I'd met in a waterfront bar, someone I knew barely well enough to exchange drinks with.

The party was a creepy sort of affair. Most of the men were middle-aged and for some reason found it necessary to wear sunglasses even at that time of night. The girls were mainly dolly birds, eager to comply with any and every demand that might lead along the golden path to stardom.

My scriptwriter friend left me alone and belligerent. I didn't like the atmosphere or the company and I was already half-cut, a dangerous combination. I pushed my way across to the bar which was being serviced by a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and a suit of purest white. His face looked vaguely familiar. The kind of cross between male and female that seems so popular these days. Anything from a manly aftershave advertisement to a second-rate movie and instantly forgettable.

"Gin and tonic," I said. "Irish."

"You've got to be joking, old stick," he said loudly in a phony English public school voice, and appealed to the half-dozen or so girls who were hanging on his every word at the end of the bar. "I mean, who ever heard of Irish gin?"

"It may not be in your vocabulary, sweetness," I told him, "but it certainly figures in mine."

There was what might be termed a rather frigid silence and he stopped smiling. A finger prodded me painfully in the shoulder and a hoarse American voice said, "Listen, friend, if Mr. Langley says there's no such thing as Irish gin, then there's no such thing."

I glanced over my shoulder. God knows where they'd found him. A latter-day Primo Carnera with a face that went with around fifty or so professional fights, too many of which had probably ended on the canvas.

"I bet you went over big, back there in Madison Square Gardens," I said. "Selling programs."

There was a second of shocked surprise, just long enough for the fact that I didn't give a damn to sink in, and then his fist came up.

A rather pleasant French voice said, "Oh, there you are, cheri. I've been looking everywhere for you."

A hand on my sleeve pulled me round. I was aware of the dark wide eyes above the cheekbones, the generous mouth. She smiled brightly and said to Langley, "I'm sorry, Justin. Can't let him out of my sight for a moment."

"That's okay, honey," Langley told her, but he wasn't smiling and neither was his large friend as she pushed me away through the crowd.

We fetched up in a quiet corner by the terrace. She reached for a glass from a tray carried by a passing waiter and put it into my hand.

"What were you trying to do, commit suicide? That was Mike Gatano you were arguing with back there. He was once heavyweight boxing champion of Italy."

"Christ, but they must have been having a bad year." I tried the drink she'd handed me. It burned all the way down. "What in the hell is this? Spanish whiskey? And who's the fruit, anyway?"

"Justin Langley. He's a film actor."

"Or something."

She leaned against the wall, arms folded, a slight frown on her face, a pleasing enough picture in a black silk dress, dark stockings and gold high-heeled shoes.

"You're just looking for it tonight, aren't you?"

"Gatano?" I shrugged. "All he is is big. What are you trying to do anyway, save my immortal soul?"

Her face went a little bleak, she started to turn away and I grabbed her arm. "All right, so I'm a pig. What's your name?"

"Simone Delmas."

"Oliver Grant." I reached for another glass as a waiter went past. "You want to know something, Simone Delmas? You're like a flower on the proverbial dung heap." I gestured around the room. "Don't tell me you're in the movies."

"Sometimes I do a little design work, just for the money. When I do what I prefer, I paint water colors."

"And who needs them in this world of today?"

"Exactly. It's really very sad. And you--what do you do?"

"Well, that's a matter of opinion. Write, I think. Yes, I suppose you could say I was a writer."

Langley's voice was raised behind as he moved into another public performance. "Surely we're all agreed that Vietnam was the most obscene episode of the century?"

I turned and found him in the center of an eager group of girls. They all nodded enthusiastically. He smiled, then noticed me watching. "Don't you agree, old stick?" he demanded and there was a challenge in his voice.

I was a fool to respond, I suppose, but the last two drinks were like fire in my belly. I didn't like him and I didn't like his friends and I wasn't too bothered about letting the whole world know.

"Well now," I said, "if you mean was it a dirty, stinking, rotten business, I agree, but then most wars are. On the other hand as a participant I tend to have rather personal views."

There was genuine shock on his face. "You mean you actually served in Vietnam?" he said. "My God, how dare you. How dare you come to my party."

I was aware of Gatano moving in behind me and Simone Delmas tugged at my sleeve. "Let's go!"

"Oh, no," Langley told her sharply. "He doesn't get off that easily. I know he didn't come with you, sweetie." He moved closer. "Who brought you?"

"Richard Burton," I said and kicked him under the right kneecap.

He went down hard, but without making much of a fuss about it which surprised me, but I had other things on my mind. Gatano grabbed my shoulder and I gave him a reverse elbow strike that must have splintered three of his ribs.

I wasn't too sure what happened after that. There was a great deal of noise and confusion and then I surfaced to find myself leaning against the wall in an alley at the side of the house. It was raining slightly and Simone was pulling my coat collar up about my neck.

"So there you are." She smiled. "Do you do this kind of thing often?"

"Only on Fridays," I said. "My religion forbids me to eat meat."

"Have you got a car?"

"A white Alfa. It should be around here somewhere."

"Where do you live?" I told her and she frowned. "That's forty miles away. You can't possibly drive that far in the state you're in."

"You could." I fished the keys from my pocket and held them out. "Nice night for a drive. You can stay over if you like. Plenty of room and bolts on all the bedroom doors."

I followed this up by starting to slide down the wall and she caught me quickly. "All right, you win, only don't pass out on me."

I leaned heavily on her all the way to the car and only passed out when she'd got me into the passenger seat.

When I woke up the following day it was almost noon and she was painting on the terrace using some old oil paints she'd found in a cupboard in the living room. It seemed she liked the view as much as I did. She was still there at sunset. And after that....

Two months
--probably the happiest I'd known in years, I told myself as I sipped the drink she pushed across the bar to me.

"Is it all right?" she said.

"Perfect."

She folded her arms and leaned on the bar. "What do I know about you, Oliver? Really know?"

I raised my glass. "Well, for a start, I drink Irish gin."

"You write," she said, "or at least you once showed me a detective novel under another name and claimed it as yours."

"Come on, angel," I said. "If I'd been lying I'd have chosen something good."

"You have a scar on your right shoulder and another under the shoulder blade that suggests something went straight through."

"A birthmark," I said lightly. "Would you like me to describe yours? Strawberry and shaped like a primula. Back of the thigh just under the left buttock."

She carried straight on in the same calm, rather dead voice. "An American who could just as easily pass as an Englishman. A soldier because you did let slip at Justin's party that night in Almeria that you'd been in Vietnam, although you've never mentioned it since. An officer, I suppose."

"And gentleman?"

"Who can half kill a professional heavyweight boxer twice his size in two seconds flat."

"Poor old Gatano," I said. "He shouldn't have joined."

She seemed genuinely angry now. "Can't you ever be serious about anything?"

She moved to the end of the bar as if to put distance between us, took a cigarette from an ivory box and lit it with shaking fingers. She inhaled deeply once then stubbed it out in the ashtray.

There was a direct challenge now as she turned to confront me. "All right, Oliver. This afternoon. What was it all about?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," I told her with perfect truth.

For a moment I thought she might make a frontal assault. Instead she hammered on the bar with a clenched fist in fury. "I'm frightened, Oliver! Scared to death!"

I moved to take her hand. "No need to be, I promise you. Not as long as I'm here."

She gazed at me, eyes wide for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head slightly, and moved across to the window. She stood looking out into the night, arms folded in that inimitable way of hers, rain drifting across the terrace.

"Rain, rain, go to Spain, never come my way again," she said in a lost little-girl voice.

I moved in behind her and slid my arms around her waist. "Come to bed."

"Do you know what's the most frightening thing of all?" she said without looking round.

"No, tell me."

"That man out there in the marsh. He was a professional, you said so yourself, and yet he didn't stand a chance, did he?"

She half-turned, looking up at me. I kissed her gently on the mouth. "Come to bed," I said again and took her hand and led her out of the room.

I came awake from a dreamless sleep to find her gone. The windows to the terrace stood open and the white nylon curtains rose and fell in the gray light of dawn. I reached for my watch. Six-thirty.

I got out of bed, found a bathrobe and went into the living room. There was no sign of her there either, but somewhere a car door banged. I went out on the terrace and looked down to the drive.

The Alfa stood outside the garage. Simone was standing beside it dressed in slacks and sweater. A black leather suitcase was on the ground at her feet and she was stowing another behind the driver's seat.

"Good morning," I called cheerfully.

She looked up at me. Her face was very pale and there were faint shadows under each eye as if she had not slept too well.

She hesitated and for a moment I thought she was going to get into the car, but she didn't. Instead, she put the second suitcase inside and came toward the outside steps, her feet crunching in the gravel.

I returned to the living room, went behind the bar and poured myself a large gin and tonic. A bit early in the day, even for me, but I had a feeling I was going to need it.

She paused at the window, looking in. I raised my glass and smiled brightly. "Join me for breakfast?"

But she didn't smile. Not then or later. I don't think it was in her anymore.

"I'm sorry, Oliver," she said. "I'd hoped you wouldn't waken."

"What, not even a note?"

Her voice was full of pain, ragged and unsteady. "I can't take it--not any of it. What happened yesterday afternoon especially."

She shuddered visibly. I said, "Where are you going to go?"

"I don't know. It doesn't really matter. Paris maybe. Do you mind if I take the Alfa?"

I wasn't angry. There wouldn't have been any point. I said, "You were going to anyway."

"I'll leave it in Almeria. At the station."

"How are you for money?"

"I'll get by."

I dropped to one knee behind the bar and prised up one of the ceramic tiles. Underneath was a black tin cash box containing my mad money, just in case of emergencies. An old habit. I counted out ten one hundred-dollar bills and put them on top of the bar.

She didn't argue, simply walked across and picked them up. She looked around the room for a long moment and there was an infinite sadness in her voice when she said, "I was happy here. For the first time in years I was truly happy."

I said, "One thing before you go. That night after Langley's party when I passed out on you. Well, I didn't. I just wanted you to know that."

She said bitterly, "Damn you, Oliver! Damn you to hell!"