THE MEDIEVAL CITY of Bristol lay at the confluence of two rivers, the Lower Avon and the Frome. Long ago its docks had prospered on the trade of tobacco, molasses and cocoa; its Royalists had defended their stronghold in England’s civil war. Now, after the massive destruction wreaked by the bombing in the Second World War, there was precious little left to reflect its origin. Tired of watching the endless grey concrete walls sweeping by the train window, John returned his attention to the address in his hand. He had spoken to Saunders this morning, had agreed to meet him on neutral public ground, a small area of parkland near the Clifton Gorge suspension bridge.
Saunders had refused to divulge much further information on the telephone beyond the fact that he kept a flat in London, and that he had been following Ixora for some time. He had also insisted that John would have to come to Bristol before any further explanation would be offered. Luckily, Playing With Fire had now entered its post-production phase, and he was able to get away.
Saunders arrived late. He came running across the dry grass as if he was frightened that John had decided not to wait for him. He was wrapped in a filthy grey raincoat, its belt knotted untidily at the waist. Beads of sweat glistened on his face, as if he was sickening. Wary of their purpose in meeting at all, the two men remained several yards apart from one another.
‘Stay where you are,’ called Saunders. ‘Just answer my questions, yes or no. I want to know what Ixora has told you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you met her, did she tell you that she was single?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lie. Did she say she was a virgin?’
John took a step forward. ‘She didn’t say anything about that, and I don’t think—’
‘Shut up.’ Something gleamed in Saunders’ hand. John became aware that he was holding a gun, training the thing at his face. He had never seen a real firearm before. The effect was more disturbing than he had imagined.
‘She told you her background was, what – French?’
‘Spanish.’
‘Lie. She said that her father was killed in a car crash?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lie. She told you she’s twenty-four?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lie. She loves you, wants your respect, but above all, wants you to trust her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lie, lie, lie! You’ve really fallen for it, haven’t you? You’re married, of course.’
‘Why is it that after a certain time, a married man will believe anything he is told by a beautiful girl?’
‘This is different, I was working with her, I had no intention of getting involved . . .’
‘Be quiet. There’s nothing more revolting than hearing other people’s excuses for their lack of moral fibre.’ He slowly paced around John, the gun held between his hands. ‘I’m not so sure now that you’re even worth saving. Smarmy expense-account media wideboys like you are two a penny. Who would miss you?’
‘My wife and child.’
‘You should have thought about them earlier. Now, of course, you’re in it up to your neck.’ And over my head, thought John. So many crazy people were suddenly populating his life that it was starting to feel normal.
‘You’d better listen to me carefully,’ said Saunders, walking closer. ‘Whatever happens, Ixora must never marry again. I am a doctor. I have a private practice here in Bristol, and I spend three days a week in my London consulting rooms. Three years ago I took a vacation in Florida. I met Ixora there. We quickly fell in love, and after an idyllic two weeks together, we returned to England to be married in a registry office. If that surprises you, consider that I was then forty-four years old, lonely after a disastrous divorce, and Ixora was like a dream come true.’ He stopped pacing and rested with his back against a tree. ‘She was the personification of all my desires, charming and beautiful, full of life. But most of all she loved me, or so I thought. It took me a while to realise the truth.’
‘Which is?’ asked John wearily. He was getting sick of being a captive audience for everyone’s crackpot opinions about Ixora.
‘She is – unwell. Unbalanced. Mentally ill, if you like, suffering from paranoid delusions. She believes all men to be her enemies, that they will all eventually try to harm her. She thinks she’s being persecuted by someone, a representation of all her inner fears.’ Saunders’ choice of words made John wonder if he was a psychiatrist. ‘She is liable to hurt herself, and those around her – especially those who are closest to her. You’ve seen what happens when men succumb to her charms. The boyfriend, the photographer before him. She should really be put away in some place where she can’t harm anyone.’
‘Wait a minute,’ shouted John, his anger growing steadily. ‘It seems to me that it’s the men around her who cause all the damage. Christ, you’re the one who tried to stab me!’
‘I didn’t want to hurt you. The knife was for protection. I was just trying to warn you away.’
‘Are the two of you still legally married?’
‘No. Ixora and I were a divorced over a year ago.’
‘Then why the hell are you still hanging around her?’
‘I try to watch over her. Don’t you see, I’m compelled to ensure that she causes no harm to herself, or to others.’
‘Are you telling me that she’s a murderess?’
‘I didn’t say that. She – causes bad things to happen.’
Suddenly the source of the problem became obvious. ‘You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?’ said John, removing his hands from his pockets and taking a step forward.
‘No! That’s not true.’
‘Yes you are, she left you, and you couldn’t handle it. You still can’t accept that she’s gone. So you hang around, spying on her, trying to screw up her chance of a life with anyone else. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘No – I just want people to stay away. God, I realise how that must sound—’
‘Do you honestly think she’ll take you back? No wonder she hasn’t said anything to me. I can imagine how embarrassed she must be about the whole thing.’
‘I’m going now, Saunders.’ John took a step back. ‘If I see you hanging around again, I’ll have you thrown in gaol.’
‘No!’
He saw the recoil from the pistol before he heard the retort. A chunk of bark exploded from the tree trunk beside his head. He darted around the oak and ran as hard as he could down the grassy slope towards the bridge. A second shot echoed across the gorge, then a third, the air parting sharply above his head. He refused to stop, and did not look back until he had reached the busy roadway far below. When he finally turned around, Saunders was nowhere to be seen.
John was not a superstitious man, but he was forced to concede that some people attracted bad luck. Ixora seemed to be a magnet for madmen and murderers; as if she gave off some kind of electric signal that only reached those with irregular brain patterns, drawing them to her.
Perhaps he should include himself in that lineup. After all, he was doing things he had never done before in his life. He’d undergone a transformation from suburban man to lead player in a noir thriller. And if he was honest with himself, there was even an attraction to it. At home Helen waited, faithful and constant, a determined homemaker in a world of kids and casseroles, a world he no longer felt a part of. Out here, Ixora beckoned to a realm of dark, deceitful luxury, where risks were taken for high rewards. Didn’t the most tender fruit always hang from the highest branches?
Now more than ever, he felt that Ixora was worth each new risk. When he thought of her, the image of Helen receded in his mind. It was not until he reached the station that his pulse returned to normal, and he could not be sure if its pace was due to the woman or the gun.
There was still the question of Ixora’s ‘marriage’. Although he understood her reasons for concealing it, the subject had to be faced. How could they continue with these lovesick men lurking around every corner? The good doctor was dangerous, to himself as well as others. He began to wonder how many more he had yet to meet.
John checked his watch as the train arrived at Paddington. Howard would be pissed off with him, disappearing without any warning. Perhaps it was best not to go in at all today. He rang Ixora from the station concourse and waited for the answering machine to kick in, then remembered that she was dubbing her lines today at the De Lane Lea sound studios in Soho.
He caught her just as she was leaving on her lunchbreak. She looked relaxed and refreshed, with a casual eloquence of style that reaffirmed her beauty with every movement. She told her friends she would see them in an hour and, slipping her arm in his, walked with him into Old Compton Street. They succeeded in usurping one of the small wicker tables at the front of the Soho Brasserie and ordered a freezing bottle of Chardonnay.
‘Well,’ asked Ixora, pleasantly surprised, ‘to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘I’ve just been shot at by your ex-husband.’
Her face fell. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Does the name Saunders ring a bell? The bearded man who’s been following us everywhere? Sorry, just to clarify things, this is not the one who turned up skewered on the Buckingham Palace railings, this is the other one, the one you swore you’d never seen before in your life. The one who stabbed me in the arm, remember?’
‘I was frightened that something like this would happen. John, he’s not my ex-husband. He’s not anything. He’s – I don’t know what, crazy or something—’
‘Give me a break, Ixora. I’ve seen the marriage certificate. It’s in your handbag.’
Her eyes studied his for a moment. ‘Then you’ll also have seen the envelope it came in.’ She pulled the bag to her lap and fumbled angrily inside it. ‘If you take a look at the postmark you’ll see it was sent to me just two weeks ago.’ She pulled the envelope from its pocket and slapped it onto the table. The frank-mark was issued with a recent date. ‘It’s his idea of a bizarre joke. Oh, you should have seen the letter that came with it! He’s sending me the certificate to show how our love can be legitimised in the eyes of God. He’s worshipped me from afar but could never reveal his love. He’s my protector, he’s been put on the Lord’s good earth to ensure that I come to no harm, I’m the living personification of all his dreams, pages and pages of bullshit.’
‘Do you still have it?’
‘No, I threw it away. I kept the certificate because it was too crazy to part with. I was planning to show it to you when I had this all sorted out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been to the police about it, John.’
‘Christ, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I wanted to do something about it myself. I don’t want you running around screening my callers, acting the PR agent in our private life as well! You have enough of your own problems. I wanted to do it myself. I didn’t think it would backfire like this. I take it he missed?’
John smiled. ‘He missed.’
‘He was probably using airgun pellets. That’s what these people usually do.’
‘I don’t think so. His first shot killed a tree.’
‘Then the police will pick him up, won’t they?’
‘If I tell them.’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ve seen enough of PC Plod already. Anyway, I’m not too sure what to believe right now. I know you’re still not being completely honest with me. Saunders knew too much about you, Ixora.’
‘I guess he’s done some research. He hangs around outside my house, remember?’
‘He also says you lie to me all the time.’
‘For God’s sake.’ She rested her knuckles on her hips, exasperated. ‘Let’s get this over with. What sort of lies do I tell you?’
‘About your background. He says you met in Florida three years ago . . .’
‘That’s ridiculous. Three years ago I was living in Barcelona. John, this has gone far enough, all right?’
‘I’m just trying to get things clear in my own mind. If he’s made all this up, if he’s living out some kind of fantasy . . .’
‘Look around you, people do it all the time.’
‘. . . then how did he know that I’d find the licence in your handbag?’
‘I can’t remember when I put it there, but I suppose he saw me do it.’
‘I want to believe you, Ixora.’
She rose from the table and slipped her jacket back over her shoulders. ‘No, John, I’m not so sure you do. I think perhaps you’re ready to go back to your family for a while. Subconsciously you want to return to your wife and your son, and you’re looking for an easy way out. You want to stop believing in me so you can leave behind a clean slate.’ She tilted her head back and lowered her sunglasses. ‘If that’s true, then you’d better tell me now, John, because I’m in this deep even if you aren’t.’
‘You’re wrong, I’m with you all the way. I just have to be sure.’
‘You can’t say that, that’s the woman’s line. Besides, nobody’s ever sure about anyone in this situation. The wives occupy the moral high ground, the mistresses wait and cry, the men stall both parties because they want the best of everything. Triangles consist of one indecisive man and two decisive women. It’s all guilt and recrimination, and nobody mentions love.’ As they left the restaurant she darted a Kleenex beneath her shades. ‘Well, I’m mentioning it. I love you, John. I love you. If you want me to wait, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll wait. But there finally comes a time when you have to commit yourself fully. Saying that you love someone isn’t enough. There has to be total trust on both sides. It’s like teaching someone to swim, the moment when you take your hands away. You say you love me, but you’ve got to trust me with all your heart before you get it all back. Remember that.’ She turned and smiled. ‘All your heart.’
‘All my heart, huh?’ He took her hand and led her across the sunlit road. ‘You’re going to be late for your dubbing session.’
‘No I’m not.’ She checked her watch. ‘I still have plenty of time.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’
They made love in the top floor suite of Hazlitt’s Hotel in Frith Street, with the windows wide open and the soft pale yellow curtains billowing to admit the clattering of restaurant kitchens, the honking of the traffic, snatches of music and the conversation of friends meeting outside pubs and winebars, an unending torrent of street noise. And all around them the dazzling sunlight fell, casting a golden radiance across Ixora’s pale body and filling the air with shimmering atoms of dust. It felt so good to be touching her away from the deadening, mildewed gloom of the house in Sloane Crescent. He lay down with his head against Ixora’s breast and listened. Below, the air was acrid with shouts and traffic fumes, the sheer weight of humanity making itself heard, and he felt a thrill to be at the centre of so much life, to be able to share it with such an extraordinary woman. He prayed that the moment would never end.
But it did, and they dressed in comfortable silence, and left the hotel like illicit lovers, which Ixora pointed out was exactly what they were.
She returned to the dubbing studio an hour and a half late. He decided to delay Howard’s wrath until the next day, and headed home to Waterloo.
Today the bridge seemed broader and even more sunwashed than ever before, but as he boarded the train his euphoric mood began to dissipate, so that by the time he reached Richmond he felt wretched. He wanted to be there with Ixora when she undressed for bed and when she sleepily awoke in the morning. He wanted to know what clothes she chose from the wardrobe, what she prepared for breakfast. He was frightened that Helen would ask him something so trivial and ordinary that for a moment he would forget himself and reply with some damning blunder.
More than that, he almost wished he would.
Helen was in the garden when he arrived, bringing in the last of the washing. She proffered a cheek as he passed, passively received the peck and moved on to the ironing board. She was wearing baggy jeans and an old check shirt of his with the tail hanging out. An Australian soap opera shrilled from the portable TV on the kitchen counter.
‘How come you’re home so early?’ she called into the corridor.
‘My meeting with Howard was cancelled. Is the water hot?’
‘Should be hot enough for a shower, if that’s what you want.’
‘You read my mind.’ John kicked his shoes beneath the bed and unbuttoned his shirt.
‘Give me your trousers.’ She appeared at the door with a red plastic washbasket in her arms.
‘They’re fine.’
‘They’re creased. Put them on top.’ She laid them across the top of the basket and followed him to the bathroom.
‘Where’s Josh?’
‘Over at Cesar’s. He’s staying there the night.’
‘Is that a good idea? You know how nuts they are together.’ He turned on the shower taps and adjusted the water.
‘I said he could.’
He had showered at the hotel, but showered again for safety, lathering his chest so that he smelled of a familiar brand of soap. Afterwards he towelled himself dry, gelled his hair and pulled on his old grey sweatshirt and jeans, walking barefoot into the lounge. Helen was sitting in the centre of the sofa, patiently unwinding a tangle of wool.
‘Dinner won’t be ready for hours,’ she said. ‘If you had called, I could have put it on earlier.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not hungry yet. I’ve got plenty of work to do, anyway.’ He seated himself at the dining table and placed his briefcase before him. He was surprised to find it unlocked. He must have forgotten to lock it at the hotel.
‘Tell me something I’m interested to know,’ said Helen.
‘Sure, what?’
‘Did you have a good time today?’
‘In what way?’
‘At the hotel.’
His stomach dropped. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think, trying to sound casual. ‘I’m – not with you.’
‘I’m aware that it’s me you’re not with. Who is she, John?’
‘Who is who?’
‘For God’s sake, John, the woman you’re having an affair with! Is she a client of yours?’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘Don’t lie to me, John. I may be many things, but I’m not a complete fool. I’ve known for long enough. Each day brings new outrages. Just don’t insult my intelligence by denying it.’ His stomach was churning. It was hard to think above the pounding in his chest.
‘Today, for example. Howard called for you this morning. He wanted to know where you were. I told him I had no idea. This afternoon you left the hotel Visa slip in your back trouser pocket. I even listened on the extension when you took a call from her the other day.’ She concentrated on unwinding the wool in her lap. ‘What offends me most is that you’re not even trying to hide it. Either that, or you’re hopeless at having an affair.’
‘I haven’t been able to make any sense of what’s happening to me,’ he replied, turning slowly to face her. ‘If I had known how I felt, I think I would have tried to talk to you.’
‘Well, we’re talking now.’
‘How did you –’
‘– find out in the first place? I don’t really want to give you the satisfaction of knowing. And I’m not going to ask why you did it. It’s obvious. Christ, it’s all the women’s magazines ever talk about. You gave up the chance to be someone because I got pregnant before you’d left school. Then I made it worse by admitting that I’d done it deliberately, because I wanted you and I wanted us to have a baby.’ She threw aside the wool and rose from the sofa. ‘A decade or so down the line I’ve turned into some kind of sitcom housewife and you’ve hit menopause ahead of schedule. We’re a case history, you and I. What would the magazines say about that? They’d say I’m to blame, and they may even be right. But you know, John, it didn’t have to be like this. It’s this because you chose it.’ She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, trying hard not to cry. ‘I’ve already told Josh. He’s staying at Cesar’s because he wants to be away from you. I think for both our sakes you’d better make other accommodation arrangements until we get this sorted out, don’t you?’
‘Why are you being so damned sensible?’
She turned at the door, her eyes filled with cold fury. ‘Because somebody has to be, John, and it’s certainly not going to be you. Not while this damned woman has you bewitched.’ She shook her head, as if trying to awaken from a dream. ‘I must say, your sense of timing is really terrible. And once again, so is mine.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because, my love,’ she replied, resting her hand on the front of her shirt, ‘I’m ten weeks pregnant.’
That night, as the landscape darkened beneath banks of rolling cloud, the continental breezes which had held them in a pocket of late summer warmth suddenly died away, and the first frosted winds of autumn swept in across the city.