Lovers and Liars Trilogy (169 page)

‘Look, Markov, Jippy,’ she said. ‘Isn’t she lovely? In daylight, I’m sure she’s meant to be blind, but the moon gives her eyes. She’s looking across the river…What time is it, Markov?’

‘Nearly midnight. Around midnight, Lindsay…’

Lindsay had moved off again. She trailed her hand dreamily over the crisp crests of the topiary hedges and made her way along a path, the river flowing ahead of her, and Markov and Jippy somewhere behind her in the shadows. Perhaps Jippy brought me here for the garden, Lindsay thought; perhaps it was Jippy’s companionship that made her feel truly at peace for the first time that evening, for Jippy’s presence always calmed.

She stepped through a gap in the hedges and approached a wooden balustrade. She leaned over it, wisps of mist drifting, then clearing, and looked down at the flow of the tide. The river was smooth and dark, a liquid looking-glass; reflected in it, bending gently then reassembling as the currents moved beneath, she could see the moon, lights like orbs, and an Ophelia-woman, pale and poised on the tide, who looked up at her, half drowned, from some water world beneath.

In the distance, a church clock chimed, then another, then a third. The last minute of the last hour of the last day of deadline month. Lindsay thought of Rowland McGuire, who had felt close, very close, the instant she came out here. She would summon him up, Lindsay decided, before, as she had resolved she would, she said her final and irrevocable goodbye.

Rowland McGuire, this week, was away. Taking his first vacation in a year from the newspaper he edited, he was climbing with friends on the Isle of Skye, or possibly—for his plans were subject to change—he had moved on to join another old friend from his Oxford days, a man who, as far as Lindsay could gather, was associated with the film industry in some way. This man had wanted Rowland to join him in Yorkshire, where he was engaged on some hush-hush project of an undisclosed kind, which—for unspecified reasons—required unspecified assistance from Rowland McGuire.

Scotland; Yorkshire. Lindsay closed her eyes, spinning together these inconclusive strands in her mind. Behind her somewhere, Markov was talking about nothing as usual, and Jippy was walking up and down in a somewhat anxious way. She concentrated:
Yorkshire
, she felt sure and, since her imagination was on such occasions busy, detailed and compliant, Rowland rose up before her with a visionary speed.

There he was, in some remote place—Rowland liked remote places, and liked to be alone in them. Lindsay discovered he had spent the day on some Brontë-esque moor. She could see its crags and its heathers; she could hear a lapwing’s cry. She could watch Rowland stride across these wuthering heights: this she did for a while, and very dark, handsome and desirable he looked. Then Lindsay settled him down in an inn by a blazing log fire, an inn delightfully unencumbered by the friend or other inconvenient occupants. Rowland, she found, was reading—well, he usually was. Yes, he was definitely reading, and he was wearing the green sweater Lindsay had given him the previous Christmas, a sweater which was almost exactly the same green as his eyes. She could not quite see the title of his book, a pity that, but she could read Rowland’s mind. He was thinking about her; he had just decided that before he turned in, he would give Lindsay a quick call.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Markov said, on a plaintive note, ‘but is it suddenly arctic out here? Jippy, can you feel the wind getting up? It’s
Siberian
. Brrr…Like my legs are icy, my nose is icy, my hands…’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Markov, shut
up
,’ Lindsay cried, and concentrated again.

It might have been pleasant had Rowland begun that telephone call with some momentous word—‘darling’, for instance, would have done very nicely indeed. Lindsay’s imagination, however, had its dry, its legalistic side; it was a stickler for accuracy. Rowland, therefore, did not use this, or any other inflammatory term; he simply addressed her, as he always did, by name.

And then—she could hear his voice distinctly—he told her in a friendly, fraternal way what he had been up to this past week. He enquired as to her own recent activities and announced he’d be returning to London soon. He recommended a book for Tom’s Oxford history course. He passed on his best wishes to Tom; then, with less obvious warmth, but a politeness characteristic of him, he sent his regards to Lindsay’s difficult mother, whom he disliked, not unreasonably, and to her mother’s new husband, disliked by both Lindsay
and
Rowland, who disparaged him with enjoyment and accord.

These formalities over, he said, as he often did, that it was good to hear her voice, hoped she was well and looked forward to seeing her again soon.

Lindsay disconnected. It was a conversation of a kind she had had with Rowland a hundred times: amusing, polite, concerned, dispassionate, brotherly; these conversations broke her heart. Rowland, of course, did not know that, at least Lindsay was hopeful he did not, for she kept her own feelings well concealed, and had done so now for a long time—almost three years.

Lindsay opened her eyes; the moment felt auspicious. She looked down at her own wavering Ophelia-woman reflection, and wished Rowland a long goodbye. She said her farewell, her final farewell, to the other Rowland, the Rowland she wanted but could not have, the Rowland that inhabited a future that was never going to happen. Let him
go
, oh let him
go
, she said to herself, and then, since she wished him nothing but well, she added a rider: that Rowland might find a woman who would bring him the happiness he deserved, and that he would do so yesterday, tomorrow, at once, very soon.

This was a spell, as Lindsay was aware. She could sense its power in the air, but it was important, indeed vital, that effective spells be correctly wound up. Accordingly, she touched wood three times; she crossed and uncrossed her fingers three times, but these actions seemed insufficiently solemn—she felt, obscurely, that some offering or sacrifice needed to be made. And so, hoping neither Markov nor Jippy could see her actions, she opened her small evening bag. Inside it, folded small, was a note written by Rowland McGuire. It was not a long note, nor were its contents—they concerned work—of any great significance, but it was the only specimen of Rowland’s handwriting she possessed, and she had been carrying it around like a talisman for nearly three years. A small square of paper: ‘Dear Lindsay,’ this note began. If she read it, she knew she would weaken, so she did not read it—anyway, she knew its four-line contents by heart. Leaning over the balustrade, she let this charmed piece of paper fall. It eddied towards her, then away; some current of air caught it, and it settled on the water like a pale moth; she watched it be carried away by the tide.

The gesture made her sad, but she also felt immeasurably lighter, she found. She floated back up the path, arm in arm with Markov and Jippy, Markov grumbling about the cold and Jippy’s quiet gaze resting on the flagstones ahead. It was at this point in the evening, perhaps a little belatedly, that Lindsay, glancing at Jippy, wondered if he might have been influencing her once more. It was Jippy, after all, who had suggested Markov procure her the invitation to this party; it was at Jippy’s urging that she had kept that invitation, and she began to suspect now that it was Jippy’s influence that had weighed with her when she finally decided to come. It was odd, was it not, she thought, that he and Markov had been in the garden all evening, as if they had been waiting for her there. With Jippy, mainly because his presence was so silent and unobtrusive, it was always easy to forget he was there; it was only after her meetings with him were over that Lindsay sometimes suspected he had
influenced
her in some shadowy way, with some invisible sleight of hand.

Now, drifting back through the garden to the stairs, she had, most strongly, the sensation that Jippy had possibly been guiding her, and that he was certainly guiding her now. This was superstition on her part, she told herself; Jippy did not
do
anything to which she could have pointed in evidence—at least not for a little while. Even so, the impression grew; it was imprecise and hazy, yet it was strong. Jippy’s grip on her arm was light; he guided her back along that white corridor, Markov forging ahead of them both now, and he guided her back through the tides of that party crowd. Lindsay could sense both that he wished to speak and was as yet unable to do so, and that he had a destination in view for her; looking at his pale, set face, she felt sure this destination was close, perhaps just the other side of those entrance doors.

Their passage through the party was not the easiest of odysseys. Caught up in the swirling currents, they were buffeted towards that lipstick-red couch with its limpet men and siren girls; negotiating that, they were accosted, several times, by various ancient mariners wishing to tell various tales. Jippy guided them past these hazards; he paused briefly as paleface and ponytail hove into view, lamenting the latest news, which was that treacherous Lulu Sabatier had organized simultaneous Hallowe’en parties in New York and Los Angeles to celebrate Diablo, and that—ultimate treachery!—Tomas Court was now rumoured to be at one or the other of these.

‘But
which
, my friend,
which
?’ the ponytail cried.

‘I don’t
know
,’ paleface responded. ‘I don’t fucking well
know
.’

‘If I find Lulu, my friend, I won’t be responsible for my actions…’

‘I’ll fucking well
kill
her,’ cried paleface, diving into some murky confluence by the doors.

Jippy gave a small gentle smile at this and touched Lindsay’s arm. The crowds parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and she and Jippy surged through. Outside, in the peace and darkness of the streets, Jippy and Markov escorted Lindsay back to her car. They walked, footsteps echoing, along narrow cobbled roads, with the dark walls, the rusting winches and traps of abandoned warehouse machinery, rising up on either side. Just audible on the breeze came the slithering sound of river water against mud; Lindsay could sense that Jippy still wished to speak and was still struggling to voice words.

Nearly half a mile from Lulu’s loft-palace, they finally found Lindsay’s little car, parked outside a ruinous, boarded-up church, with one of its wheels—Lindsay was impetuous at parking—on the pavement. From the deserted streets, from nowhere, the taxi Markov had been demanding of the air some seconds earlier, now appeared. No-one was too surprised by this phenomenon; such things tended to happen when Jippy was around.

‘Greece, tomorrow.’ Markov kissed Lindsay. ‘Blue skies, sun, pagan temples,
divine
hotels. Enjoy Oxford. Enjoy New York. See you when we get back, my dearest. We leave at dawn!’

He then began to argue with the taxi driver—he always argued with taxi drivers on principle—about the route he should take to Markov’s London apartment, which, like the other bolt-holes Markov maintained around the world, was enviably situated, utterly practical, and very small.

‘Goodbye, Jippy,’ Lindsay said, kissing him. ‘I hope you have a wonderful holiday. Send me a card…’

‘I w-w-will. I…’ There came a lengthy, choking pause. Knowing that Jippy was finally about to volunteer the statement she had sensed was imminent when they were in the garden, Lindsay waited quietly while he fought consonants.

‘Y-y-y-yaw…’ Jippy stuck painfully; his brown eyes beseeched her. Lindsay did not prompt, for she knew that could make him seize up completely; she shivered as the wind gusted.

‘Y-y-y-York…’ he managed finally. Lindsay stared at him. Drops of sweat now beaded his forehead; his face was pale. Gently, she took his hand.

‘
York
? Do you mean Yorkshire, Jippy? I was thinking of Yorkshire, earlier. When we were in that garden. Did you know?’

Jippy nodded, then shook his head. He gripped her hand tightly; his own felt deathly cold.

‘Ch-ch…’ This word, also, would not be said. Lindsay glanced over her shoulder at the desolate, semi-ruined building, with its forlorn boarded eyes. Church? Was Jippy trying to say church?

‘Are you all right, Jippy?’ she began. ‘You look…’ She hesitated; ‘afraid’ was the word that sprang to mind, but she was reluctant to use it. She could sense some alarm, some skin-chilling anxiety; it was being communicated to her from Jippy’s cold hand. His lips were now trembling with the effort of words; his eyes rested on hers with a dog-like fidelity; she could not tell for sure, she realized, whether his expression was happy or sad. He gave a small convulsive jerk of the head and suddenly the word, the phrase, burst through its restrictions.

‘Ch-check your machine.’

Lindsay looked at him blankly. She had been expecting a less mundane statement; according to Markov, Jippy’s words often carried a secondary, hidden meaning, but this suggestion seemed to defy all but the most obvious of interpretations.

‘My machine, Jippy? You mean my answering machine? When? Tonight? But I always check it anyway…’

Jippy’s burst of eloquence was over. This time, he did not shake his head or nod; he bestowed on her instead one of his heartening, benevolent smiles—a smile Lindsay would remember, many months later, when she came to consider the results of this evening, and of Jippy’s advice. He pressed her hand, then climbed into the cab beside Markov. As it drove away, both men waved. Curiouser and curiouser, Lindsay thought, driving home.

Mindful of Jippy’s words, and still haunted by his expression, she checked her fax and her answering machine immediately she entered her apartment. Her hopes, which had risen high on the drive back here, now fell. No faxes; no messages; the machine’s unwinking red light mocked her. During her absence, no-one had called her—from Yorkshire, or indeed from elsewhere.

T
OWARDS MIDNIGHT, THE SAME
night, Rowland McGuire put down the book he had been reading, rose, and threw another log on the fire. He pulled on the green sweater Lindsay had given him the previous Christmas, and moved quietly past the table where his friend Colin Lascelles was contriving to smoke two cigarettes at once and exude desperation. He opened the door.