What a Carve Up! (46 page)

He raised one of his eyebrows

He raised both of his eyebrows

He raised his right eyebrow provocatively

He raised his left eyebrow suggestively

Raising both of his eyebrows, one provocatively, the other suggestively, he pulled her gently in the rough direction of the bed

Perhaps this section was also best dispensed with. I could imagine exactly what Patrick’s criticism would be: I was dithering over these preliminary niceties so as to avoid getting down to the action.

She was wearing a

What was she wearing?

She was wearing a blouse

Yes?

She was wearing a thin muslin blouse

She was wearing a thin muslin blouse, through which her

Go on, write it.

through which her nipples stood out like

Like?

like two cherries

like two maraschino cherries

like two glace cherries

like two Fox’s Glacier Mints

like two peas in a pod

like three coins in a fountain

like Victoria plums

like Victoria Falls

like a sore thumb

Anyway, she had these nipples. That was fairly obvious. What about him, though? I didn’t want to be accused of sexism: I was obliged, as far as I could see, to present the male as a sexual object too. And so, for instance:

His tight black trousers could barely conceal

Or better still –

The bulge in his tight black trousers left her in no doubt as to

his excitement

his intentions

bis endowment

his policy

the nature of his endowment

the extent of his manhood

the length of his extension

the extent of his full, throbbing manhood

the full extent of his hot, throbbing member

I had to admit it, this wasn’t getting me anywhere. Besides, I could always come back later if I wanted to fine-tune these points of descriptive detail. If I didn’t get to the heart of the matter soon, the momentum would be gone.

He tore off her blouse

No, too aggressive.

He unbuttoned her blouse and peeled it off like a

like

like the skin on an overripe banana

I threw down my pen and sat back in disgust. What was the matter with me tonight? Maybe it was the wine, or just the fact that I was thoroughly out of practice at this sort of thing, but nothing seemed to be working. I was making all the wrong moves, falling at every fence, fumbling and groping and communicating nothing but my own inexperience.

He laid a tentative, questioning hand on her

soft, milky

warm, silky

yielding, heaving

rising, falling

swelling, bulging

big, bouncy

fleshy, bumpy, heavy, chunky, strapping, whopping, vast, enormous, massive, monstrous, prodigious, colossal, gigantic, mountainous, Gargantuan, Titanic, Herculean

her small, pert breasts

her perfectly proportioned breasts

her averagely proportioned yet somehow surprising breasts

her deformed breasts

All right. Forget that. More wine. Now think carefully. Imagine these two young, attractive people, alone in a room with only their own bodies for amusement. Picture them in your mind.

Now choose your words with confidence, and precision. Be fearless.

as he buried his face in her bountiful breasts, she pulled the shirt from his shapely shoulders

he sank to his knees and nuzzled her navel with his nose they fell on to the bed and he lay on top of her, their lips boring greedily into each other in a long, moist kiss

they fell on to the bed and she lay on top of him, their moist lips meeting hungrily in a long, boring kiss

Oh, to hell with it.

she was panting with desire

he was bursting from his pants

she was wet between the thighs

he was wet behind the ears

she was just about to come

he didn’t know whether he was coming or going

And it was at this climactic juncture, just as I had managed to work myself into a state of rather desperate excitement, that the telephone rang. I sat up in surprise and looked at the clock. It was two-thirty in the morning. Irrationally, I felt obliged to tidy up my desk and make sure that the sheets of paper were positioned face down before I went to answer. Then, when I picked up the receiver, I heard an unfamiliar voice.

‘Mr Owen?’ it said.

‘Speaking.’

‘I’m sorry to be disturbing you at this time of night. I hope I didn’t get you out of bed. Hanrahan’s the name. I’m ringing on behalf of one of my clients, a Mr Findlay Onyx, who claims to be an acquaintance of yours.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I’m his lawyer, you see. Findlay sends his apologies for not being able to speak to you directly, but he’s being held at Hornsey police station, and isn’t allowed to make any more phone calls. He is, however, very anxious to meet with you personally at the earliest opportunity. He asked me to say that you should come round to the station first thing tomorrow morning, if it’s at all possible.’

‘Well, it’s … difficult,’ I said, thinking of Fiona and her outpatients’ appointment. ‘I suppose if it’s absolutely necessary … I mean, what’s going on? Is he in trouble?’

‘I’m afraid so. I really think it would be best if you could make the effort.’

I gave him a tentative assurance and he said, ‘Good. Findlay can count on you, then,’ and hung up. The whole conversation had taken place so quickly that I scarcely knew what had happened. For a start I hadn’t even managed to ask him why Findlay was being held by the police – unless, of course (and suddenly this seemed the obvious, the only solution), he was the one who had broken into Mr McGanny’s house and stolen the documents relating to my book. I went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed and pondered the likelihood of this. Could they have caught up with him already, if the burglary had only taken place last night? It was possible. He was old and infirm, and might well have left a trail of careless evidence. But if that was the case, why the sudden urgency? Surely he would be let out on bail, and our meeting could have been deferred until he was back in the privacy of his flat. There was no way of knowing, anyway, and I spent the rest of the night mulling over this new development in an uneasy half-sleep which was broken after only a few hours by the first shafts of wintry sunlight.

2

It seemed to take most of the morning to get to the police station by bus. Fiona wouldn’t have that problem, at any rate: I’d booked a minicab for her before setting out. I’d done this to salve my conscience as much as anything else, because she’d looked so suddenly vulnerable when I left her: she’d put on her smartest work clothes, the way people do when gripped by that strange sense of propriety which insists that, if they are to meet their doom, they should at least be properly dressed. (But then again, I suppose, it gives them a kind of strength.) Having me with her wouldn’t have made a lot of difference, anyway. That’s what I tried to believe as the bus stopped and started on its throttled course across London, carrying me ever closer towards the next stage in a mystery from which I was, to tell the truth, beginning to feel more and more detached. It was a good feeling, too, this detachment: quite a relief, after all those years of puzzlement and struggle. It never occurred to me that I would have lost it by the time the morning was out.

I was kept waiting for only a few minutes by the desk sergeant, and then taken to a bright but grubby cell on the ground floor. Findlay was sitting rigidly on a bench, his raincoat again draped over his shoulders, his white hair turned to a halo by beams of light from one small window high up in the wall.

‘Michael,’ he said, taking my outstretched hand. ‘You do me an honour. I could only wish our second meeting had not been fated to take place amid such squalor and uncleanness. The fault, I’m afraid, is entirely my own.’

‘Entirely?’

‘Well, you can probably guess what has brought me here.’

‘I have – let’s say an inkling.’

‘Of course you have, Michael. A man of your discernment, your intuition. You know the frailties an old man is subject to, when his resolve is weak but his desires – alas – remain strong. Strong as they ever were.’ He sighed. ‘I think that I mentioned, the last time we met … the bender?’

I nodded uncertainly. To be honest, I had lost his drift.

‘Well, I’m in breach of it. That’s the sad fact of the matter, and I have only myself to blame.’

Light began to dawn. ‘You mean your suspended sentence?’

‘Quite. Once again I find myself flattened by the demands of a reckless libido. Once again the power of flesh over the spirit –’

‘So it wasn’t you who broke into McGanny’s house the other night?’

He looked up sharply, hissed me into silence and shot a warning glance towards the door. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Michael. Do you want to make things even worse for me?’ And then, in a whisper: ‘Why do you think I brought you here, if not to discuss that very matter?’

I sat down on the bench beside him and waited for enlightenment. After a while I realized that he was sulking.

‘I’m sorry,’ I prompted.

‘Apart from anything else,’ he said, ‘you impugn my professional competence, if you think that I’m incapable of carrying out such a routine little assignment without getting caught. I slipped in and out of that house, Michael, with the grace and the lithe energy of a jungle cat. The great Raffles himself might have stood back and gasped in envy.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘Sheer loss of control, Michael. Lack of will-power, and nothing else. I spent the whole of yesterday sifting through the documents which I had borrowed – borrowed, I repeat, for I have a scrupulous regard for property – and by the evening, I was quite satisfied that they provided everything I might have required to forge the missing links in the chain of this most perplexing investigation. Imagine my exhilaration, Michael. Imagine the surge of adrenalin and the rush of blood, coursing through my ancient veins in a torrent of pride and excitement. Suddenly I felt like a young man of thirty.’

‘And so?’

‘Naturally I went out to look for one. The pubs were shut, by now, but just a few streets away from my flat there is a public convenience which, thanks to an uncharacteristically enlightened decision on the part of our council leaders, provides a haven at all hours of the day and night for anyone seeking relief, in its various forms. I’d been trying to stay away from the place for weeks, ever since I was last hauled up in front of a judge and told that one more slip would land me behind bars – only for a couple of months, he said, but who knows what effect even a brief confinement might have on the constitution of a frail and feeble-hearted relic such as myself. Last night, however, the majesty of the law seemed to hold no terrors, and I found myself unable to resist an approach to this sink of delicious iniquity. I had been there for only a few seconds when a man (man! what am I saying! – an apparition, Michael, a perfectionist’s fantasy sprung to life: Adonis himself, in bomber jacket and sky-blue jeans) emerged from one of the cubicles.’ Findlay shook his head, rapture and regret seeming to vie for precedence in his thoughts. ‘Needless to say, he was to be my undoing. And vice versa.’

‘Vice versa?’

‘Precisely: I undid his shirt, I undid his trousers, I undid the buttons on his fly. I won’t offend your breeder’s sensibilities, Michael, with a detailed account – a blow-by-blow account, one might almost say – of the pleasantries which ensued. I ask you only to imagine my shock, my outrage, my sense of betrayal, when he suddenly introduced himself as a detective superintendent, no less, of the Metropolitan Police, clapped a pair of handcuffs on me, and whistled for the accomplice who had been waiting out by the doorway. It all happened so very quickly.’ He bowed his head and we both fell silent. I struggled for words of consolation but couldn’t find any; and when Findlay spoke at last, there was a new note of bitterness in his voice. ‘It’s the hypocrisy of these people I can’t stand, you know. The lies they tell themselves and the rest of the world. The little shit was enjoying himself every bit às much as I was.’