Paper Money (27 page)

our lifestyle."

"When does it become final?"

"It already has. I shan't go back to the office, ever." He looked away

from her, out through the French windows across the lawn. "I resigned at

twelve noon, and I haven't felt the ulcer since.

Isn't that marvelous?"

"Yes." She followed his gaze, and saw the sun shining redly through the

branches of her favorite tree, the Scots pine. "Have you made any

plans?"

"I thought we could do that together." He smiled directly at her. "But I

shall get up late; and eat three small meals a day, always at the same

times; and watch television; and see whether I can remember how to

paint."

She nodded. She felt awkward; they both did.

Suddenly there was a new relationship between them, and they were

feeling their way, unsure what to say or how to behave. For him, the

situation was simple: he had made the sacrifice she asked, given her his

soul; and now he wanted her to acknowledge it, to accept the gift with

some gesture. But for her, that gesture would mean letting Felix go out

of her life. I can't do it, she thought; and the words rang in her head

like the echoing syllables of a curse.

He said: "What would you like us to do?"

It was as if he knew of her dilemma, and wanted to force her hand, to

make her talk about the two of them as a unit.

"I would like us to take a long time deciding," she said.

"Good idea." He got to his feet. "I'm going to change my clothes."

"I'll come up with you." She picked up her drink and followed him. He

looked surprised, and in truth she too was a little shocked: it was

thirty years since they had been in the habit of watching one another

undress.

They went through the hall and climbed the main staircase together. He

panted with the effort, and said: "In six months' time I shall be

running up here." He was looking to the future with so much pleasure;

she with so much dread.

For him, life was beginning again. if only he had done this before she

met Felix!

He held the bedroom door open for her, and her heart missed a beat.

This had once been a ritual; a sign between them; a lovers' code. It had

started when they were young. She had noticed that he became almost

embarrassingly courteous to her when he felt lustful, and she said as a

joke:

"YOU only open doors for me when you want to make love." Then, of

course, they thought of sex every time he opened a door for her, and it

became his way of letting her know he wanted it.

One felt the need of such signals in those days: nowadays she felt quite

happy about saying to Felix: "Let's do it on the floor."

Did Derek remember? Was he now telling her that this was the

acknowledgment he wanted? It had been years; and he was so gross. Was it

possible?

He went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. She sat at her

dressing table and brushed her hair. In the mirror she watched him come

out of the bathroom and begin to take off his clothes.

He still did it the same way: first shoes, then trousers, then jacket.

He had told her, once, that this was the way it had to be; for the

trousers went on the hanger before the jacket, and the shoes had to come

off before the trousers would.

She had told him how peculiar a man looked in his shirt, tie, and socks.

They had both laughed.

He removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar with a sigh of

relief. Collars always bothered him. Perhaps he need not wear them

buttoned anymore.

He took off his shirt, then his socks, then his vest, and finally his

underwear shorts. Then he caught her eye in the mirror. There was

something close to defiance in his gaze, as if he were saying: "This is

what an old man looks like, so you'd better get used to it." She met his

eyes for a moment, then looked away. He went into the bathroom, and she

heard the surge of the water as he climbed into the bath.

Now that he was out of sight she felt freer to think, as if before he

might have overheard her thoughts. Her dilemma had been posed in the

most brutal way: could she, or could she not, face the thought of sex

with Derek? A few months ago she might have--no, not "might," but

"would," and eagerly--but since then she had touched the firm, muscular

body of Felix, and rediscovered her own body in the sheer physicality of

their relationship.

She forced herself to visualize Derek's naked body: the thick neck, the

fatty breasts with tufts of gray-white hair at the nipples, the huge

belly with its arrow of hair widening to the groin, and there--well, at

least he and Felix were much the same there.

She imagined herself in bed with Derek, and thought of how he would

touch her, and kiss her, and what she would do to him--and suddenly she

realized she could do it, and take pleasure in it, because of what it

meant: Felix's fingers might be skillful and knowing, but Derek's were

the hands she had held for years; she might scratch Felix's shoulders in

passion, but she knew she could lean on Derek's; Felix had dashing good

looks, but in Derek's face there were years of kindness and comfort, of

compassion and understanding.

Perhaps she loved Derek. And perhaps she was just too old to change.

She heard him stand up in the bath, and she panicked. She had not had

enough time; she was not yet ready to make an irrevocable decision. She

could not, right here and now, accept the thought of never having Felix

inside her again. It was too soon.

She must talk to Derek. She must change the subject; break his mood and

hers. What could she say? He stepped out of the bath: now he would be

toweling himself, and in a moment he would be here.

She called out: "Who bought the company?"

His reply was inaudible; and at that moment, the phone rang.

As she crossed the room to pick it up, she repeated: "Who bought the

company?" She lifted the receiver.

Derek shouted: "A man called Felix Laski. You've met him. Remember?"

She stood frozen, with the phone to her ear, not speaking. It was too

much to take in: the implications, the irony, the treachery.

The Voice from the telephone said in her ear:

"Hello, hello?"

It was Felix.

She whispered: "Oh, God, no." "Ellen?" he said. "Is that you?"

"Yes."

"I've a lot I want to talk to you about. Can we meet?"

She stammered: "I-I don't think so."

"Don't be like that." His deep, Shakespearean voice was like the music

from a cello. "I want you to marry me."

"Oh, God!"

"Ellen, speak to me. Will you marry me?"

Suddenly she knew what she wanted, and with the realization came the

beginning of calm. She took a deep breath. "No, I most certainly will

not," she said.

She hung up the phone, and stood staring at it for several moments.

Slowly and deliberately, she took off all her clothes and placed them in

a neat pile on a chair.

Then she got into bed and lay waiting for her husband.

TONY COX was a happy man. He played the radio as he drove slowly home

through the streets of East London in the Rolls. He was thinking how

well everything had gone, and he was forgetting what had happened to

Deaf Willie. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to a

pop song with a bouncy beat. It was cooler now. The sun was low, and

there were streamers of high white cloud in the blue sky. The traffic

was getting heavier as the rush hour approached, but Tony had all the

patience in the world this evening.

It had gone well, in the end. The boys had had their shares, and Tony

had explained how the rest of the money had been hidden in a bank, and

why. He had promised them another payout in a couple of months' time,

and they had been happy.

Laski had accepted the stolen money more readily than Tony expected.

Maybe the crafty sod thought he could embezzle some of it: just let him

try. The two of them would have to cook up some scheme for concealing

the true nature of any withdrawals Tony made from the funds. That

couldn't be difficult.

Tonight, nothing could be difficult. He wondered what to do with the

evening. Perhaps he would go to a gay bar and pick up a friend for the

night. He would dress up, put on some fancy jewelry, and stuff a roll of

tenners into his pocket He would find a boy a couple of years younger

than himself, and shower him with kindness: a wonderful meal, a show,

champagne--then back to the Barbican flat. He would knock the boy about

a bit, just to soften him up, and then ... It would be a good night. In

the morning the boy would go away with his pockets full of money,

bruised but happy. Tony enjoyed making people happy.

On impulse, he pulled up outside a corner shop and went in. It was a

news agent's, with bright modern decor and new racking along the walls

for magazines and books. Tony asked for the biggest box of chocolates in

the shop.

The young girl behind the counter was fat, spotty, and cheeky. She

reached up for the chocolates, letting her nylon overalls ride up almost

to her bottom. Tony looked away. the lucky lady, then?" the girl asked

him.

"My mum."

"Pull the other one."

Tony paid and got out fast. There was nothing more revolting than a

revolting woman.

As he drove away he thought: really, with a million pounds I should do

something more than just going out for a night on the town. But there

was nothing else he wanted. He could buy a house in Spain, but he got

too hot out there. He had enough cars; world cruises bored him; he did

not want a mansion in the country; there was nothing he collected. It

made him laugh when he thought of it this way: he had become a

millionaire in a day, and the only thing he could think of to buy was a

three-pound box of chocolates.

The money was security, though. If he went through a bad patch--even if,

God forbid, he did a stretch--he could look after the boys more or less

indefinitely. Running the firm could be expensive at times. There were

about twenty blokes in all, and each of them looked to him for a few

quid every Friday, whether they had had a tickle or not. He sighed. Yes,

his responsibilities would weigh less heavily now. It was worth it for

that.

He pulled up outside his mother's house. The dashboard clock said four

thirty-five. Ma would. have tea ready soon: perhaps a bit of cheese on

toast, or a plate of baked beans; then some fruit cake or Battenberg;

and canned pears with Ideal milk to finish off. Or she might have got

him his favorite-crumpets and jam. He would eat again later tonight. He

had always had a good appetite.

He entered the house and closed the front door behind him. The hall was

untidy. The vacuum cleaner stood unattended halfway up the stairs, a

raincoat had fallen from the hall stand onto the tiled floor, and there

was some kind of mess by the kitchen door. It looked as if Ma had been

called away suddenly: he hoped there wasn't bad news.

He picked up the raincoat and hung it on a hook. The dog was out, too;

there was no welcoming bark.

He went into the kitchen, and stopped with one foot still in the hall.

The mess was awful. At first he could not figure out what it was. Then

he smelled the blood.

It was everywhere: walls, floor, ceiling; all over the fridge, the

cooker, and the draining board.

The stench of the abattoir filled his nostrils, and he felt sick. But

where had it all come from? What had caused it? He looked around wildly

for some clue, but there was nothing; just the blood.

He crossed the kitchen in two big, squelching strides and flung open the

back door.

Then he understood.

His dog lay on her back in the middle of the little concrete yard. The

knife was still in her-the same knife he had sharpened too much this

morning. Tony knelt beside the mutilated corpse. The body looked

shrunken, like a balloon with a leak

A string of soft, blasphemous curses came from Tony's lips. He stared at

the multiple cuts, and the bits of cloth between the dog's bared teeth

and whispered: "You put up a fight, girl."

He went to the garden gate and looked out, as if the killer might still

be there. All he could see was a large pink wad of chewed bubblegum on