Two flights beneath Viola’s flat, Edwin Hardley was suffering a perfectly horrible evening. He tried to convince himself that in his favourite chair with an article on the Prosperine hawkmoth in his hand, his thoughts could be deflected. But no such miracle occurred.
Three things were troubling him. The first — and this was the merest graze of anxiety on a skin thickened by available women — was that a nubile young painter was waiting for him in her flat for dinner, and she had no telephone. She would have to accept a note of apology next day.
Second, the man who Viola was apparently expecting, and of whom she had made no mention, had looked extremely undesirable. Well, the light in the hall had been very dim, fair enough — it would have been impossible to observe in detail. But Edwin had received a strong impression of squatness, ill-bred thickness, and unusual ugliness. Edwin himself, for instance, would not have been happy about meeting such a chap alone in an alleyway on a moonless night. An instinctive fear, on Viola’s behalf, had fretted at his stomach. With no forethought he had told the lie about returning for a book. Now, on reflection, he knew he had made that decision with good reason.
The third worry was a nameless one. That is, pressed, Edwin could have put a name to it: but that would have been an ungentlemanly thought, an undignified confession even to himself. Especially, it seemed quite clear for the moment, as Viola and he were merely affectionate friends. All the same, fighting against the very suggestion that he could be … taken that way, made Edwin restless. He put down the dull book. Paced the room a while.
When the library clock struck eleven — which meant Viola’s visitor had been with her an hour — and he had not been called upon for help or company, Edwin decided it was time to go. This thought was quickly replaced by another one: that would be a most cowardly act. Villains struck at midnight — how could he ever forgive himself if he fled an hour before Viola needed him? No. He must stay, her protection.
The fearful novelty of the evening had put all thoughts of food from Edwin’s mind. A drink, however, was another matter. As pictures of rape and violence upstairs multiplied in his mind, the thought of a drink became imperative. Edwin went quietly to the drawing room, fetched whisky and a glass, and returned to the comfort of his armchair. There, one ankle twirling, he drank three glasses of whisky with unnatural speed for so cautious and moderate a drinker. By the time the alcohol had reached the third or fourth stages of benign effect, and he was beginning to think there would be no harm in having a short nap, the library clock struck twelve.
At that very moment, as he had known he would, Edwin heard a muffled scream from upstairs. He leapt to his feet, ran a wild hand through his greasy hair. Courage, engendered by the whisky, so rampant within him only a moment before, now abandoned him with distressing speed. More screams, distinct this time. Edwin gave a small jump, muttering ‘dearie me’, clinging to the wing-back of the chair for support. His head was a bright haze. Then, merciful silence.
As Edwin looked about him, he perceived the library furniture and the hundreds of books in their shelves had taken on an unnerving life of their own. They floated hither and thither through Edwin’s confused vision. He tried to anchor them back into their old positions with no success. They spun and danced about him, so that he was forced to hesitate a long time before taking a single step. But despite the disadvantages Edwin suffered, a firm and noble part of his mind deliberated with great determination: rescue Viola he must. Bold bodyguard, he. He thumped his own chest, a gesture he could not recall ever having made before in his life, and made himself smile.
After some time Edwin made his uncertain way to the door, bending and swaying to miss the objects that seemed to be hurling their way towards him. At last he reached the vast door, pulled it ajar, leaned heavily against it. Now he could hear, with sickening clarity, moans, screams, and the violent thuds of objects landing angrily. ‘Dearie me,’ Edwin whispered to himself once again, and recognized with extraordinary cool wisdom, considering the havoc of his head, the fact that he would never be able to leap upstairs and rescue poor Viola unless he allowed himself a short rest.
Somehow, he found his way back to the chair, sank into it. There, he urged himself to listen to the good reason which was pressing its way into his wretched head: a man should not interfere. That was definitely it. Interference could lead to terrible confusion and misunderstanding. After all, it was possible Viola was enjoying herself. Some girls, he had heard, liked a rowdy time, a bit of horseplay. Who was he to …?
At which point the whisky obliterated the reason, and Edwin Hardley fell into a deep sleep.
The library clock woke him at four. Confused, stiff, with aching head and dry mouth, he looked at the empty bottle of whisky beside him. Then he fingered the empty glass, longing for water. After a while, the events of the night, and his own behaviour, came back to him. He moaned gently, protecting his eyes from the gash of grey in the sky, with a shaking hand. Remorse is powerful at dawn.
Edwin mustered all his strength. He stood, smoothing his rumpled hair and clothes, small tongues of anxiety lapping within him. Once more he went to the door — a less precarious journey this time — opened it, listened. Silence. He made his way to the kitchen, drank two glasses of water. Then, forcing back thoughts of what he might find, he crept upstairs to Viola’s flat.
Its door was shut, but not locked. First, he went to the sitting-room. At the sight of the devastation — for a moment he thought the red paint to be blood — he gave an anguished cry and ran to Viola’s bedroom. He found her, in a dressinggown that seemed to have been pulled on carelessly, lying on the bed. Flinging himself down beside her, Edwin opened her folded arms and pressed his head to her heart. It was beating firmly. Weak with relief, he stared down at her pale profile — head on one side, the other side buried in the pillow. She seemed, thank God, not to be harmed. Gently, he made to return her arms to their former position. But they resisted, then rose up: Viola’s hands were on his shoulders. Her visible eye opened.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t look too good, do I?’ She spoke thickly, like one emerging from an anaesthetic.
‘What nonsense you talk,’ whispered Edwin. Suddenly he cared no more about the violent activities Viola and her lover had been engaged in. In the dim light she did not appear ravaged, but beautiful. And now she was alone, warm: it was his turn. After all, he needed her to assuage the terrible night she had caused him. He pulled up the blankets.
Viola, shifting through pain and sleep, recognized a pallid light in the window, the soft voice of Hardly There. Some time later she felt a new warmth, of blankets, limbs, flesh. She was dimly aware of a faint struggle with clothes, a soft hand on her hair, and on her brow, the friendly voice saying ‘There, there,’ over and over again. She was just conscious of a slight, surprising sensation, not altogether disagreeable: the merest hovering above her, it seemed, before the weight rolled away.
Then, never having been fully woken by the fluttering of Edwin Hardley, Viola returned to a dreamless sleep.
When Harry Antlers emerged from the house in Holland Park, the warmth of the night was gentle upon him, evaporating the last of the mingled sweat and tears on his face. He felt calm, sane, exhilarated. Despite the exertions of the last few hours he was full of energy, and knew that sleep would be impossible.
He drove to a telephone kiosk, found Annie Light’s number in his diary. The process of telephoning her was an awkward one, conducted with one hand, while the other secured his trousers. She took a long time to answer. Then, her voice was confused with sleep.
‘This is Harry Antlers. You know, Harry Antlers. I’m coming round to see you.’
Annie gave a small squeak of gratitude and told him her address. She was in bed, she explained.
‘Stay there,’ ordered Harry. ‘That’s just where I want you.’
Ten minutes later, clutching his trousers with both hands, Harry barged up the scurvy path that led to an uncared for terraced house similar to the one which he was shortly to leave. He found the front door ajar, pushed it open. Annie was waiting behind it in her nightdress. There were no lights. The hall smelt of wet cat and boiled fish, familiar smells. Annie, a dim blade of whiteness in the dark, put a trembling hand on Harry’s arm.
‘Good thing me mum’s working nights, this week,’ she whispered. ‘Dad won’t hear a thing. He’s out cold, as usual.’
Harry was in no mood for conversation. This was not the time for explanations, or the nicety of preliminaries.
‘Upstairs,’ he grunted.
Because Annie refused to put on the light, Harry was spared details of her room. The darkness also concealed the rumpus of his shirt and trousers, and sight of her greasy hair and ratty face. He was aware of a hard, narrow bed that smelt of cheap scent. Annie, in his arms, was rigid with some imbecile love for him, muttering how she’d thought of him day and night, idiotic declarations of passion straight from the pages of a romantic novel. Briefly amazed that he had had so powerful an effect in such a short meeting, Harry told her to shut up: he wanted to get on with it. She eagerly complied.
Harry crashed through Annie, thinking only of Viola, her shut and swollen eye, bemused face, scarlet blood on white jersey, arms outstretched against the London sky. Annie’s stupid moans of ecstasy spurred him to put on his jacket very quickly once it was all over. (The sweaty shirt he had not bothered to remove.) Her pleas for him to remain a while were of no avail. His business finished, Harry’s only thought was to leave as soon as possible. The activities of the night had made him ravenous.
‘I’ll be in touch, one day,’ he snarled, and left the ravaged girl to make sense of things in the dark.
Harry’s next stop was at an all-night cafe in Shepherds Bush. There, he ordered three eggs on toast, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, several cups of tea. The food acted as a quick restorative, filling aching caverns that had made a honeycomb of his body. By four o’clock, dawn sky silvering pearls of condensation on the cafe window, revenge was sweet within him. To celebrate his new idea, Harry ordered a fourth cup of tea and two currant buns.
Viola woke at midday. Getting up was a slow and painful business. Having confronted the horrible sight of her face in the bathroom mirror, and dabbed her bruises with witch hazel, she forced herself to assess the havoc of the sitting room. There, she knelt on the floor slashed with scarlet paint, fingering the contorted shapes of her books. She did not think of returning them to their shelves. Then she picked up the smashed picture of her parents. The glass was a web of cracks — she traced a finger over them — but the photograph itself was little damaged. She replaced it on the floor. Later, she would set about putting the room in order. For the moment, she had no energy.
Viola left the brightness of her flat for the duskier regions of her uncle’s quarters. Grateful she had somewhere with no memories of the night to go, she made herself a cup of black coffee in his kitchen, took it to the soothing browns and greys of the drawing room. She ensconced herself in the depths of a velvet chair by the window, the telephone on a small table beside her. In a moment she would ring the police. In the meantime, she concentrated on the pattern of sycamore leaves outside the window, dull green against a dull sky. An hour or so went by. She ached against the cushions. She may have dozed.
Then Edwin Hardley was beside her: he must have crept so quietly over the carpets she had not heard him enter. His face was stricken, a look Viola recognized when he spoke of the ladies who hunted him. He was crouched on the floor beside her, clutching her hand. He seemed to be in a state of much anguish.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Matter?’ he cried. ‘Dear God, what’s the matter with you?’
Viola fingered her closed eyes. She essayed a small smile.
‘Slight disagreement with a hunter,’ she said.
‘But, last night — well, I suppose it was more like dawn this morning, I came up to you, found you asleep … Didn’t you hear me?’
Viola frowned: dim memory of some vague visitation. Edwin, troubled, had blushed.
‘You were on your side,’ he went on. ‘I can only have seen the unharmed side. Oh my God. Let me ring a doctor.’
It was then Viola remembered she would be seeing a doctor tonight: Richard was coming to take her out. She gave a small moan.
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘No need for a doctor. It’s only bruises and a headache. I’m filled with aspirin and I’ve bathed the eye. Sorry I look so awful. Perhaps you could buy me an eye patch when you next go out?’
‘Oh Christ. This is unbelievable. Of course, an eye patch … I’ll go in a moment, and get us something for lunch. But please let me call a doctor.’
‘No.’
‘The police, then.’
‘I’ll call the police this afternoon.’
In truth, Viola knew it was unlikely she would do so. The thought of being questioned, of involving the law, and the publicity of a traumatic court case were more than she could bear to think about.
‘What happened?’ Edwin was on the window seat now, legs crossed, an ankle twirling. Viola shrugged.
‘It’s quite hard to remember, at this moment, exactly what did happen. Some form of dispute got out of hand, obviously. But what gave you the idea of visiting me at dawn?’
‘We-ll. I met this … man on the doorstep. He looked a bit menacing.’
‘That’s how he got in.’
‘He said you were expecting him, so who was I to detain him?’
‘Quite.’
‘Anyhow, at the risk of interfering, I had some funny instinct I should stay. I didn’t like the thought of you being alone in the house with him. So I returned to the library for the evening.’
‘That was very kind.’
‘Not of much use, in the event. Sleep, unfortunately, overtook me.’
Viola smiled. ‘You didn’t hear anything?’
‘Well, I’m bound to say I did. A few thumps and cries. But then I thought perhaps … well, you know. You might have been enjoying yourselves. People have their different tastes, don’t they?’ Edwin had blushed again. ‘I was about to go home when I heard the front door slam. So I crept up, just to make sure you were all right. I’m sorry if I … I had no idea. I mean, your bruises were turned away from me. It was scarcely light.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you.’
‘You hardly did.’
They both smiled at the joke, looking at each other for a long time. Viola was struggling to remember. Then Edwin leapt up, patted her hair. In the grey summery light, muted further by the shadows of the room, he looked exhausted.
‘Now, you just stay there,’ he said. ‘I’m off to buy lotions and potions and eye patches and lunch. We’re going to have a picnic lunch, right here.’ Again he patted her hair, kissed her very gently on the nose. ‘And then you might find yourself doing a little explaining. I think there are probably some things that will have to be sorted out. We can’t have any more such … carryings on, can we?’
‘You’re very kind,’ Viola said again. She was grateful and tired, glad of Edwin’s protection.
‘I hope you’ll forgive …’ he added quietly.
‘For what?’ murmured Viola, fighting against sleep.
Later, Edwin woke her with a tray of lunch. They ate smoked trout and ice cream, and drank a bottle of iced white wine. Sitting on the floor, Edwin told funny stories about the gathering of moth men he had attended last week. Viola found herself laughing. Dear Edwin: spindly on the carpet, the mildest of gladiators, the most charming of companions when safe from pursuit by desperate women. She liked him. She was glad he was there.
Lulled by the wine, Viola dozed most of the afternoon in the warmth of the armchair. Her only struggle was to keep at bay pictures of the evening before. At five she was woken by the telephone. It was Gideon in New York.
‘Violetta? You all right?’
Viola paused, decided a transatlantic telephone call was no place for explanations. Besides, he sounded exuberant.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Good news. I’m coming home. The return here hasn’t worked out too well. I’ve just got to wind up a few business things, then I’ll be with you.’
‘Absolutely. I’m afraid we reached a crisis point. I had to tell Hannah I no longer —’
‘Good.’
‘Quite. Hope you’ll be able to spare a few days in Norfolk while I sort myself out?’
‘Of course. In fact I’m going there for a few days next week, when the flat is finished,’ said Viola, making up the plan as she went along. ‘Catch a few more days of summer before I get a job.’
‘You might look up Maisie,’ said Gideon. ‘She’d like to see you.’
‘I will. I’ll tell her the good news.’
Gideon’s turn to pause. ‘She already knows, matter of fact,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
Viola sat up in surprise. But there was no time for further questions. Elated by her brother’s news — something to look forward to once Richard’s visit was over — she returned to her flat, for once not regretting the lost day. She began to prepare herself as best she could for the evening.
Heavy from his enormous breakfast, still clutching at his trousers, Harry Antlers left the cafe at six in the morning. The ebullience of a few hours earlier had left him. A profound wretchedness seeped through the cushion of food in his stomach. He no longer cared, as he shuffled ungainly down the street to his car, how foolish he must look.
An early sun, sharp-edged, rose in the sky above the buildings of Shepherds Bush. Still the watery colour of a moon, it hurt Harry’s eyes. He cursed summer, light mornings, the general brightness of the world. To add to his pains, city sparrows, perky little bastards, were tweaking about the place as if auditioning for a Disney film. Their ghastly cheerfulness and piercing squawks damaged Harry’s ears. He longed for silence, dark, the oblivion of sleep. But sleep, he knew, even now, would not be forthcoming.
When eventually he opened his front door, he was greeted with a smell so vile that he was forced to bury his nose in his handkerchief. It occurred to him, on his melancholy way upstairs, the innards destined for the cat that he had cast upon the floor had never been removed. The smell had insinuated itself into his flat, too: quite definite, today, whereas yesterday it had been a mere hint of the stench to come. Unwelcoming though this homecoming was, therefore, the idea of clearing up putrefied lights after such a terrible night turned the lump of Harry’s breakfast into an alarming swill. He felt tears returning, his trousers falling again. Locking himself into the bathroom, he lit the Ascot heater, whose whistling gas flame was the only friendly sound he had heard in the last twentyfour hours. Next, in something of a frenzy, he dabbed his bottle of Jungle Man Aftershave on every available soft surface: towel, bathmat, candlewick lavatory seat cover, and simulated silk dressing-gown that hung on the back of the door. He then relieved himself of the offending shirt and trousers, plummeted into the steaming bath. Rotten meat smell at last quite overpowered by Jungle Man, Harry was able to breathe deeply in relief. Gradually, the nausea subsided.
Some two hours later he was eating a second breakfast in an unsalubrious cafe off Oxford Street. He wondered if that vilest of bitches, his beloved Viola, was suffering due remorse. If she was tormented by imaginings of Harry hanging dead from his knotted socks, that was the least she deserved. More likely, in her accustomed and unfeeling way, she was sound asleep. Well, her luck was running out. Harry decided to reflect further upon those matters when his head was clearer: though God knows how he could be expected to get a good night’s sleep among the smells of rotten meat and, he presumed, rotting peonies.
He spent the day with his film editor in a small, dark and airless room watching beautiful girls degrade themselves in indecent positions and he remembered, briefly, his skirmish with Annie Light. At least she loved him, poor wretch. Might be someone to fall back on, one day, if all else failed. As long as she never turned on the light he could probably keep fancying her in a purely salacious way.
Harry’s unappealing film also reminded him of the money that had made it worthwhile: he decided to take a further look at his penthouse flat, later, and put in an offer. He could not abide his present quarters much longer. A sudden longing to be an admired man again came upon him. Fame had had its sweetness once: he longed for its return. He would work with his old energy, repeat his early success, earn a new fortune and give it all to Viola. The penthouse would be the first step towards his happy new life of riches and power. Soon, once more he would be a man so irresistible that even the obdurate Viola would be bound to succumb.
Harry was pleased by the second viewing of the flat. It seemed to have great potential.
‘By the time I’ve painted the sitting room a fiery red,’ he told the agent, ‘every glossy magazine in the country will be clamouring to photograph it.’
‘Why, I’m sure they will,’ the agent agreed, impressed by so much confidence. With some excitement, Harry made his offer. By 5.30 it seemed reasonably sure the flat would be his.
That matter dealt with, next loomed the imminent problem of the long evening ahead. Very tired by now, Harry wanted only two things: a hamburger, and to be near Viola. He would like to catch a glimpse of her, make sure that her eye was not seriously damaged. He would like to ask her forgiveness once again: beg for one last chance.
Too weary to think with any clarity, Harry drove to Holland Park, stopped his car fifty yards from her house. He wrote her a short note, but the humble, loving tone he strove for was inexplicably lost in the writing. Having slipped it through the letter box, Harry decided he would sit in the car for a couple of hours, watching. Just in case. Just to be near her. Then, he would eat.
When Viola fell asleep after her second glass of wine, Edwin returned to the library. It was his intention to make up for the lack of morning’s work, but he found himself beaten. Too many things conspired against him.
He sat at the round table, piled with books for comfort, and tried to take stock of the disparate matters jostling his weary brain. First — the only clear part — he was infinitely glad the assault upon Viola had not been more serious. Had she appeared worse, he would have insisted on sending for a doctor, whatever she said. As it was, her cuts and bruises were plainly superficial, though she would definitely have a black eye.
Next, the unknown assailant. The outrage Edwin felt about this mysterious man he had tried hard to disguise from Viola. It was not up to him to pass judgement on her friends and, strangely, Viola had conveyed no hard feelings against him. Perhaps she had been too shocked and tired. Edwin had tried to press her a little for some sort of explanation, but with no success. She had repeated she did not want to think about any of it for the moment, and naturally he had respected her wish. He had urged her, though, very strongly, to summon the police. You could not let such an assault go unreported, he said: for her future safety she must prosecute so dangerous a man. But again he had met resistance. In time, she had said, with a weariness of spirit he could well understand: in time.
It occurred to Edwin that he felt more fear on Viola’s behalf than she felt for herself. The idea of the violent thug pursuing her further chilled his flesh. He himself lacked qualifications as a bodyguard. Besides, he could not spend night after night in this library, a sort of volunteer coastguard waiting for danger signals. When Viola was stronger, therefore, he would have to press her further to organize some sort of protection for herself and, indeed, for him.
The third worry was a great billowing mist that almost obscured all other thoughts, important though they were. It was a matter so delicate that Edwin strove not to put it into words. Yet, cruelly, the words pounded at him, tormenting.
Did Viola know, or not? Should he tell her? And if he did, how would she feel?
The unanswerable questions made him shake like a man beyond his years, while the stuffy, summer air of the library was cold on his hands. Worse, the particular questions led to more general ones, dragged from the darkest corners of his soul, a place he was never anxious to frequent. Could it be that, as the most conscientious and overworked lover in London, he might also be the most unremembered? Could it be that he was so much in demand simply because, due to his lightness of touch, as it were, girls, scarcely aware of his impact, asked him to return to make sure of his existence? Oh God, the thought. He cradled his head in his arms. The unfairness of the Creator: it was intolerable. For within him, he had always known, crouched the most robust of lovers. But this inner man was a most cowardly chap. Faced with reality, his inspiration would flee with cruel speed, leaving Edwin to his own feeble devices. These, he also knew, were no more than a kind of disappointed, disappointing hovering. Immemorable.
Always frightened of his own inadequacy, Edwin had begun his amorous pursuits at a late age. What he had lacked in quality of performance, he had made up for in quantity. Girls, girls, girls. Streaming through his life, shouting their love, so that many times he had almost convinced himself that he was that heroic inner man who had struggled to the surface. But he knew this was not true. He knew it would never be true, and that always he would have to go on searching, for ever finding disappointment. On this black afternoon, hating himself, the whole bleak state of the truth set before him, Edwin Hardley quietly wept.
He was disturbed at 6.30 by the front door bell. Instantly alert, he leapt up, scorning himself for the wasted afternoon. Viola had said nothing about an expected visitor this evening. She was upstairs, presumably asleep. Well, here was her bodyguard’s chance. Tonight he would comport himself in more heroic manner : go down and deal swiftly with the violent maniac. For self-protection, he armed himself with a small brass poker.
On his way downstairs, Edwin was conscious of his thumping heart. He hurried, trying to ignore it. In the hall, he found a card on the doormat. Picking it up, he strained his eyes in the perennial dim light to read:
Beloved Viola, Forgive me if you can and think of me when I am no more. Ever yours. H.A.
That, thought Edwin, was the sort of melodramatic rubbish Viola was certainly not going to be allowed to see. He tore up the card, shoved it in his pocket. The bell rang again, making him jump. He clutched the poker, quite prepared to slug the brute across the face at the first glimmer of menace. Slowly, he opened the door.
A very agreeable looking man stood there, eager face, slight smile, but worried lines round bright green eyes. Edwin let the poker drop by his side. The man, plainly wellmannered, pretended he had not observed Edwin’s curious weapon.
‘Am I at the right house for Viola Windrush?’ he asked.
‘Oh my goodness, you certainly are,’ answered Edwin, very confused, and strangely nervous considering the gentleness of this new visitor. His mind snapped into a flashback of the evening before: the whole performance of the Entry of the Unknown Visitor once again, except that the nature of the visitor was very different.
‘Do come in,’ he heard himself saying. ‘And go on up to the top floor. That’s Viola’s flat.’
‘Thank you so much.’
When the stranger had climbed the first flight of stairs, Edwin, making a great effort, followed him, then made his way back to the library. It had been his intention to take out the young painter whom he had let down last night. But such weariness, such sickness of spirit came over him as he sank into an armchair, that he knew he would have to disappoint her once again. Strangely enfeebled, now that his intended valour had been thwarted, Edwin only wanted time in which to think. Viola would need no protection from this man, that was clear. But perhaps it would be wise to stay nearby, just for a while. He was puzzled she had said nothing about going out tonight, but then she was never one for revealing her plans. Unlike ninety per cent of the girls he knew, Viola was reticent in talking about herself. Dear, funny Viola. So pale …
Edwin himself felt considerably pale, too. He needed music to restore his tranquillity. He chose a record of a Schubert quartet, let the familiar sounds sponge over him, smoothing away all thought, leaving him a tired and empty husk, splayed out in the chair near his books. Thus began his second night of vigil.
Viola heard Richard running fast up the stairs. She met him in the passage, dark enough to conceal the shock of her face.
‘Richard! Richard, listen. I warn you. I look a bit of a mess.’
Richard had kissed her on her unharmed cheek. His eyes had now grown accustomed to the dim light. He saw the eye patch, pushed Viola almost roughly from him, pulled it off.
‘What on earth has been happening? What have you done? Quick: let’s go to the light.’
They hurried to the sitting room, still strewn with collapsed books, upset tins of paint. At the window, severely professional, Richard observed the swollen eye. He touched it gently.
‘Violetta …’ Frowning, his eyes danced round the room. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to get my things. That eye needs bathing. I’ve something in the car that’ll help till we get to a chemist.’
He was gone. Viola touched her own face with cautious fingers. She thought about how this first evening in London with Richard should have been: herself waiting prettily for him, drinks ready, flat in some order if things had gone to plan, hours of pleasure ahead. As it was, she felt suddenly weak, shaky. She would have to muster all her strength to sit through Hamlet and dinner: a poor companion for the one for whom she most wanted to be otherwise.
Harry Antlers, from his concealed position, had seen a car with a doctor’s sign draw up at Viola’s house. He had watched the doctor, a well-dressed looking bastard, obviously one of those millionaires from Harley Street, ring the bell. There had been a long pause, and then another ring, before the door opened. Presumably Viola had taken some time coming downstairs. That meant, at least, she was not confined to bed. Harry had strained to see her as the door opened, but caught no glimpse. He decided to wait till the doctor left, in case he could catch sight of her then.
A short time after the doctor’s entry, Harry observed him scurrying back down the steps very fast, leaving the front door open behind him. He had the look of a very worried man. It was also a fierce look, as far as Harry could tell from such a distance, as if the doctor had some cause to be angry as well as concerned. He snatched a medical bag from his car and hurried back up the front steps, slamming the door impatiently behind him.
It was then the truth came blindingly to Harry. Viola was gravely ill. Although it was all her fault, he, Harry, was responsible.
He started the engine. There was no point in sitting here any longer. The only thing he could do now was to go back to his vile flat and carry out the idle threat he had written on the card. He had a large supply of sleeping pills. If he did not stop to think, it should not be too difficult a process.
Dreading the smell that would greet him more than the act he was almost determined to commit, Harry let himself into his deceased landlady’s house once again. It took him some moments to take in the magical transformation that had taken place in his absence.
For a start, there was no more smell. Harry sniffed several times, to make quite sure. Rather, there was a smell, but a new one: disinfectant. Curious, incredulous, Harry went to Marjorie Wittle’s kitchen, peeped in. It was in a state he had never seen it before: pristine, with shining surfaces and polished floor. No sign of meat or flowers.
Wonderfully confused, but also fearing that this was some mad hallucination brought on by lack of sleep, Harry made his way upstairs. He noticed the thick drifts of dust, lodged for so many months on the scrawny carpet, had disappeared. His bathroom and kitchen were both equally clean and tidy, though there was still a faint trace of Jungle Man in the air. Shaking with disbelief — this surely was some trick of the mind sent to punish him — Harry went finally to his sitting room. Again, a room transformed. And there, on the table in the window, was a plastic cup holding three wallflowers. Propped up beside it was a note. Harry snatched it up, read wildly.
Dear Harry, My mum gave me Aunt Marjorie’s key and sent me round to tidy up a bit. She said the agents wouldn’t like it all dusty. Was it in a mess! I did my best. I hope the smell has gone. I took the liberty of doing your rooms too. Hope you don’t mind. Thank you for the most wonderful night of my life. Please let there be others. I love you. Annie Light.
Harry read the note several times. As he did so, the shadow of death seemed to evaporate. Some stubborn new hope descended upon him: this had been an act of God, physically carried out by a girl, showing him the way. After a large dinner and a good night’s sleep in a sweet-smelling room, Harry would go forth with new heart. In the end — he knew not how, precisely, at this moment — he would win his Viola, and they would spend the rest of their days in peace. Meantime, he would choose himself an expensive French restaurant …
Harry let the pleasure of such plans for himself sink in for a while, then his thoughts turned perfunctorily to Annie Light. In a way, he supposed, it could be said she had saved his life. He had to be grateful for that. And there was no doubt she loved him. Poor lady: even if Viola had not existed, he could never return that love. A ratty girl with silly hopes. Still, he would not abandon her completely, just yet. Annie Light, he felt, might one day have her uses.
Richard bathed Viola’s eye, insisted she swallow a pill. Viola did not enquire what it was. But on the way to the theatre she felt her limbs begin to relax, though her head still throbbed. After the play they had a simple, one-course dinner at the Savoy Grill. Feeling stronger, Viola found herself telling the whole story of Harry Antlers’ pursuit, and the climax last night. She also told him of Gideon’s plan to return home for good, of which Richard approved strongly. He judged it not the time to make any comment on her predicament. When her tale was over he talked lightly of their week in Norfolk, which already felt long past, and told amusing stories of one of his oldest patients who refused to die.
When they returned to the flat, well before midnight, Richard insisted Viola should go straight to bed. While she did so, he said, he would clear up her books, replace them in the shelves. Otherwise their spines would be damaged beyond repair.
Viola obeyed quite readily. Once in bed, propped up among the pillows, she felt much better. She called Richard. He appeared with a glass of whisky for himself, water for Viola. He gave her two more pills.
‘They’ll help you sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave some more, too, for the next few nights.’
‘Thank you.’
Once again, Viola obeyed without protest, swallowing the pills with a gulp of water. She would have done anything in the world Richard wanted. She wondered if he had any notion of her compliancy.
Richard sat on the bed. His look was grave.
‘It’s now my duty, Violetta,’ he said, ‘to give you some professional advice. Something has got to be done about the activities of this maniac before he does any worse damage. What are your plans?’
‘None, just at the moment. I did intend to ring the police this afternoon, but somehow I hadn’t the energy … all it would involve.’
‘Dear, silly girl, you should have rung them the moment he went last night. Having left it so late, they won’t be much interested. They won’t regard it as a very serious matter if you let so much time elapse before reporting it.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘You must get on to your solicitor in the morning, go and see him. You must get an injunction taken out against Mr Antlers. He must never be allowed near you again.’
‘All right.’
‘Are you taking in what I’m saying?’
‘I think so.’
‘Because it’s very important. You must understand, you’re the victim of a man’s obsession: a man whose mind is severely disturbed. I’ve known several similar cases. In each one, the victim has always tried to be rational, relied on the aggressor’s reason prevailing in the end. But you see, that’s not how it works. Do you understand? Common sense, logic, rational dealings, are not the answer for one whose mind is disturbed. Heavens, I of all people ought to know, oughtn’t I? No, they need help. And meanwhile, it’s imperative you have some form of protection, Violetta. I don’t like the idea of your being here all alone, vulnerable. A man obsessed overcomes all barriers. He could easily get in. I think you should come home for a while, till your eye has recovered. Besides, you’re probably suffering from shock, you know. You need a few quiet days.’ He paused. ‘You need to feel utterly safe. Alfred would, of course, guard you well. If you liked, I could move in for a few days, too. Make sure you were all right.’
For the first time since her attack, Viola was near to tears. She felt her mouth twitching in her fight for control.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But let me think about it. My plan was to finish everything here — just a matter of a few days, despite the setback in the sitting-room — then I was going to go home and get things ready for Gideon, anyway.’
‘Why don’t you let me drive you back tomorrow?’
Viola shook her head. ‘I can’t, really. It’s very sweet of you. But I’ll come soon, I promise.’
‘You’re being dreadfully stubborn.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please
‘No. I refuse to allow him to interrupt my plans.’
‘Then you must make me one promise.’ Richard sighed. ‘If this bastard ever threatens you again, in any way whatsoever, you must let me know at once. I shall come immediately, and deal with him myself.’
‘I promise. Absolutely.’
‘Wish I wasn’t so far away.’
‘Wish you weren’t, too.’
There was a very long silence between them. Richard finished his drink. Then he took Viola’s hand.
‘Violetta, let me ask you one more thing, impertinent though it may be. Are you, in any way at all, attracted to this man?’
Viola’s visible eye, beginning to droop with the sleepiness that was descending, widened in shock at the suggestion. She managed to smile.
‘Are you mad? You should see him. He’s totally abhorrent. He fills me with a deep revulsion I’ve never felt for anyone in my life before.’
‘Has he no charm, no endearing ways, whatsoever?’
Viola thought hard.
‘I suppose he might have for some. His bulldozing ways, his wild passion and energy. But not for me.’
‘And you’ve never done anything to encourage him?’
‘Not knowingly. In the very beginning, in New York, I agreed to help him with his play. I was flattered he should ask, I suppose, and foolishly agreed without really thinking. Later, I retracted my offer, of course. He considered that my first betrayal. Since then, I’ve done nothing, nothing, but beg him to leave me alone and try to convince him his feelings are totally unreciprocated. He seems to think it’s only a matter of time, till I come round to realizing the truth — which is: did I but know it, I love him as much as he loves me. In that way,’ Viola went on, ‘he’s very good at making me feel as if I’m the one who’s mad. Last night, for instance, at one point I began to doubt my own sanity. Perhaps I was deluding myself, after all, I thought. Perhaps he knew something I didn’t, and I was being very dim, not seeing it. But then, watching him slobbering about the floor on all fours, I thought, No: he’s the one out of his mind. Surely. But it was an unnerving moment.’
‘The great art of the expert bully is to make his victim feel guilty of madness,’ said Richard. ‘I’ve seen it often.’
‘I have to admit,’ went on Viola, feeling the relief of being able to tell Richard everything, and wanting to say just a little more before she fell asleep, ‘I don’t attack him back. I try to be calm, polite. Perhaps you could call that encouragement. I did scream in fear when he first turned up last night, but then I controlled myself. I’ve no doubt he’s able to see how frightened he makes me. Perhaps that urges him on.’
‘The coward’s spur,’ said Richard. He was still holding her hand.
‘Well, he’s caused me to live in daily fear. Isn’t that silly? I never imagined a time would come when I would wake up every day dreading the hours ahead. Nothing can ever quite put that fear out of my mind, not even that lovely, protected week in Norfolk.’
‘So I observed.’
‘Did you? I imagined I looked very happy and cheerful.’
‘You did, in a way.’
‘Well, now, you know what? Now more than anything in the world I long for peace. I long to wake up in the morning unafraid of the day. Unthreatened peace would be the greatest luxury I can think of. I wouldn’t even mind a boring life so long as I was unafraid.’ She sniffed. ‘Oh, heavens, Richard. I’ve gone on and on. I’m so sorry. And I can’t say any more. I’m falling asleep.’
‘Good. I’m going to leave you now. I’ll ring you tomorrow evening, make sure you’re all right.’
‘Thank you. And for this evening. I’m sorry I wasn’t …’
‘Goodnight, my love.’
Richard kissed her good cheek. He stood up, looked down upon her until he was quite sure she slept. Then he left the room, closing the door, and began the long descent downstairs.
Edwin Hardley, strangely restless despite the hours of music, heard Viola and her friend returning. An hour later, he heard the friend depart. Relief, exhaustion.
Slumped in the armchair, the fact was Edwin had had a most exhausting evening. He had not even dared to revive himself with a drink, for fear of repeating last night’s shameful performance. While he had managed to put the searing thoughts of the afternoon aside — other, more local speculations had come upon him in their droves.
Viola, it seemed, was their cause. Imagining her dining in some superior restaurant (by heavens, he would take her somewhere better next time) with her well-dressed friend, the question had suddenly struck him: do I love her? Or if I do not love, is this not an uncommon devotion, or affection, that might well be confused with love?
Love had been an elusive thing in Edwin’s life, always one woman away. Never having experienced its sureties, he could not be quite sure how to gauge its tricks. There had been moments when he had liked to think this was it, here he was, feeling heady as millions of others. But no sooner than he had analysed any such delight, slippery as a worm the conviction slipped from him, leaving him alone with his broken vision. What’s more, he had on occasions felt the faintest twinklings of unease — nothing greater than that — at the thought of others dallying with his girls: but last night was certainly the first time in his life he had felt … Even to himself he could not spell out the loathsome word. So maybe Viola had touched some part of his psyche previously undiscovered.
Edwin shuddered at the thought. For all about him those who pledged their hearts were forced to change their selfish single lives, and that was usually a disaster. Edwin tried hard to imagine changing his own life for Viola. Sharing a small flat with her, for instance. Having to move some of his books out of her way. Meeting her friends. Being forced to accompany her occasionally to forlorn parts of the countryside, that seemed to mean so much to her. Agree to children … God forbid. No: it was all a preposterous idea, brought about by lack of sleep. And yet, what was this unaccustomed restlessness, that even music and his beloved moths could not seem to calm?
When Edwin heard Viola’s friend depart, he decided it was time for him, too, to go home, try to catch up on all the lost sleep. He was confused to find himself, therefore, creeping upstairs rather than down. Fascinated by the force within him in whose command he seemed to be, in detached manner he watched himself creep into Viola’s flat, open the door of her bedroom, move to her bed.
By the light of the full moon he was able to look at her beautiful face lying back on the pillow, hair awry, poor swollen eye a blackish colour. She breathed deeply. Edwin’s eyes went to the bottle of sleeping pills beside her bed. The idea came to him that he could slip in beside her without disturbing her. There, head on her breast, he could sleep for hours. Once again, she might never know.
But even as he reflected, the foolishness of his plan rasped through Edwin. He was a gentleman, after all. Gentlemen do not take such unfair advantages or unwise risks more than once. With regret, he would leave her sleeping. He left her room.
His secret visit, unfortunately, had done nothing to calm his blood. Sadly, by the light over the front door, Edwin found himself scanning his address book. There were girls all over London longing for nocturnal visits. The problem was merely one of choice. When considering the recipient of his tired state, he had to choose one who would be full of sympathy, and not likely to make too many demands.
His finger paused at an address not far from Holland Park. Edwin hailed a taxi, wondering at the fickleness of man, and continued on his way.