Lovers and Liars Trilogy (75 page)

She began on some quick, joyful exclamation, clinging to him and drawing him into the light, then she stopped and gave a cry of concern. Pascal’s face was white. There was a jagged cut across his temple. The leather of his jacket was ripped open from shoulder to wrist.

“Pascal, what’s happened? Oh, what’s happened?” she began.

She went to embrace him, and then she saw the expression on his face. She saw his eyes rest on her face and hair, then fall to her torn blouse, then fix, in turn, on the details of the room behind her: the coffee cups, the whisky glasses, the disarray of objects and papers on her desk. The chair next to her desk had been overturned, she hadn’t even noticed that. Its cushion lay on the floor, together with one of her shoes. Pascal looked at these things, then looked again at her face. He was clasping her arms tightly. He looked at her mouth, and then at her neck, and she saw disbelief start way back in his eyes.

“Darling, what’s happened?” he began. “What’s been happening here?”

“So many things…Pascal, wait, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll explain later. You’re hurt….”

“What in hell’s been happening here?”

She had been trying to put her arms around him. He gripped her wrists and held her away from him, his eyes searching her face. The question was sharp. She saw pain and bewilderment cross his face.

Gini felt herself begin to blush. She felt the color wash up over her neck and into her face. Were there marks on her neck? She thought perhaps there were, and they made her feel guilty. She covered them up with her hand, and she saw Pascal’s face harden into a mask of incomprehension.

“Who was here?” He walked across the room. He picked up first one whisky glass, then the other. His hands were unsteady. He turned back to look at her. “Gini, who was here?”

“John Hawthorne was here….” She made a quick movement toward him, gave a little and incoherent gesture of the hands. “Pascal, never mind that now. When you didn’t arrive—I had to leave Mary’s—he gave me a ride back….”

“Are you telling me you let him in here when you were alone? Jesus Christ, what’s been going on? You had that man in here? You gave him a drink?”

“Pascal, listen. You don’t understand. I’ll explain. It was all right.”

“It was all right?” His voice was suddenly ice cold.

“Your blouse is torn. Your stockings are torn. Your hair—your face.
Christ…
” He swung around and stared at the disorder of the room, then swung back and took her hand. “Gini, what happened?”

“He…we were
talking,
Pascal, just talking, for a long time. Hours. And you didn’t come back. And then the phone rang. And it was that man again, that horrible whispering voice, and then …”

“Gini, Gini…” He pulled her into his arms and pressed her tight against him. He began to stroke her hair. “Darling, it’s all right. Tell me—he didn’t hurt you? Gini, what has he done?”

“Nothing.” She began to push him blindly away. “He tried—well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? And then he stopped. And then he went. Pascal, I’m all right. I don’t want to talk about it. Not here. And you’re hurt. Your face is cut—”

“Out.
Now…” He drew back from her and moved across the room. He picked up the desk chair. He looked at the disorder of objects knocked over on the desk, at the cushion on the floor, at one of her shoes, which was lying next to that cushion. “Get your shoes,” he said. “Get your coat. Get any other articles of clothing that got discarded tonight….”

“Stop that.” She swung around to face him furiously. “Just don’t speak to me that way. Stop goddamn well ordering me around….”

“Listen.” He moved across to her fast and caught hold of her wrist. His face was tight with fatigue. When he moved his right arm, she saw pain flash in his eyes, and he swore. “Listen,” he said again. “I’m not in the mood for stupid arguments. Just get your goddamn things. While you’ve been sitting here with Hawthorne drinking whisky, I was nearly killed. And it wasn’t an accident.”

“Pascal—”

“
Listen
to me, dammit! My arm’s all smashed up. I’ve just spent Christ knows how long with doctors and police. The bike’s a writeoff. When I finally get away, I go to Mary’s house and there’s no one there. Then I go to Hampstead—you’re not there either. I’m half crazy with anxiety, looking for you, not knowing where you are, what’s happened—and finally, I come here, and what do I find? You’ve spent the evening with that man. You’ve invited him in. You’ve been sitting here with him having a goddamn
drink.
Your blouse is torn. Your mouth is cut. You’ve got marks all over your neck. …What in Christ’s name am I supposed to think? So don’t you bloody well dare start an argument now.” He broke off and turned away. “Just get your fucking clothes, Gini. All right?”

There was a silence. Gini did as he said. She put her shoe back on. She fetched her coat. Pascal took her arm and pushed her outside. He slammed the door so loudly, the whole house shook.

When they were back in Hampstead, the questions began again. Gini’s head ached so much she could not think. She persuaded him, eventually, to remove the ripped jacket. The shirt beneath was also torn. There were cuts and grazes the length of his arm. His right shoulder was so badly bruised that it was already stained a purplish-black.

“Je m’en fiche, je m’en fiche,”
Pascal said furiously. He tried to flex the arm, and winced. “I need to use my hands tomorrow. I have to set up the cameras, use the cameras maybe.
Christ…
”

Gini bathed the arm and brought him a clean shirt. Pascal became slightly calmer as she did this, but he had always hated any physical weakness on his own part, and she knew it made him furiously angry with himself.

“I don’t
know
what happened,” he said, jerking his arm away as she tried to help him button the shirt. “Let
me
do that. I’m not an invalid. I told you, I have to use my hands tomorrow. Fine, I’ll use them now….”

“Pascal, it’s hurting you. Just
rest
the arm….”

“I will not.”

“How did this happen? I still don’t understand….”

“I
told
you.” He moved away. “There was the truck on my left and a big Ford behind me, right on my rear wheel, coming up fast. The truck cut in on me—then I was off the bike. I skidded along the road. I looked up—and the Ford was coming straight at me. It had its headlights on full beam. There was nothing I could do. I could hardly move. I rolled—maybe. Just a little. Not enough. And then it missed me by this much—six inches perhaps. Maybe it was a misjudgment—but I don’t think so. They could have killed me easily. But they didn’t. Why didn’t they do that?”

He gave another angry gesture, then a shrug. “So, it was another warning, maybe? The last, perhaps? If so, we know now who’s issuing these warnings. That’s clear, at least. Look at this….”

He picked up his leather jacket, and from its inside pocket drew out that evening’s newspaper. He tossed it across at her.

“Hawthorne
is
behind all this. He
is
responsible. You were having drinks with a murderer tonight.”

Gini looked from him to the newspaper. “How can you know that?” she asked.

“Because there’s no other candidate anymore. McMullen’s dead.”

“What?”

“He was killed on the rail line just outside Oxford—hit by a train. His body was found early this morning, around eight. He died within eight or nine hours of leaving us, Gini. I
told
you we were being used to find him. Well, there’s the result. It’s
there,
Gini, in the Stop Press.” He paused; his face became set. “So, how was Hawthorne this evening? Clearly he was amorous. Was he also confident? More relaxed? If he was, you know why now. Most of his troubles were over before breakfast this morning, yes?”

There was a silence. Gini read the item in the paper. She bent her head over the page and tried to think. She looked back at that long evening, that entire evening, and wondered if she had the courage now to tell Pascal what she truly thought. It would increase his anger, she knew that, and probably his hostility, but she couldn’t he, and it had to be said.

She looked up at Pascal, who was watching her closely. “You’re wrong,” she said flatly. “Pascal, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Hawthorne
isn’t
responsible. I don’t believe McMullen. I don’t believe Lise. Hawthorne
isn’t
the way they said.”

She was expecting another angry outburst; instead, Pascal’s reaction was quiet, and dangerously calm.

He moved away and sat down in a chair; he lit a cigarette. “Fine,” he said after a long silence. “That seems a very surprising reaction on your part—considering what happened tonight. Obviously I don’t understand what happened. Perhaps you should fill me in on all the details. I have already asked you, several times, to do that. What’s changed your attitude toward Hawthorne so radically, Gini?”

“Do we have to go over this now? It’s late, you’re in pain. It’s complicated. It’s a long story. …”

“No problem,” he said icily. “I intend to hear it. All of it, Gini. And I don’t give a damn if it takes all night.”

B
Y TWO IN THE MORNING
, she had already told Pascal her story twice. It had been punctuated by concern, then anger, then incomprehension on his part. Outside, it was still raining heavily. Pascal’s face was white and drawn, and she knew he was in pain. The more Gini said, the more she had a hopeless sense that the distance between them increased. Pascal was now looking at her as if she were a stranger, someone he did not greatly like.

“You’re lying,” he said simply when she had finally finished speaking. “If you’re not lying, you’re avoiding something, leaving something out. This story doesn’t explain your change of heart. The reverse.”

“Then it’s because I’m not telling it the right way,” Gini said quietly. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pascal.”

“I’m sorry.” He held up his hand, as if warding off some hurt. He leaned forward. “I know that, Gini, but you must see, it makes no sense.
Why
are you suddenly so convinced he’s innocent? Neither he nor your father gave you any proof. All right, they told a convincing version, but it’s just another
version,
Gini.”

“It wasn’t that. It wasn’t
then.
” She hesitated, and saw him tense.

“All right. So it was later. When you were alone with Hawthorne?”

“He began to convince me at Mary’s. My father too. Maybe it helped when he intervened between me and my father.”

“I would imagine so, yes. That was very convenient for him.”

Gini let this pass. She sighed. “Pascal, I can’t explain. It wasn’t
what
he said to me so much, it was the
way
in which he said it. When he talked about his marriage, the other women…I
know
he was telling me the truth.”

“Jesus Christ, Gini.” He gave a gesture of exasperation. “This innocent man of yours, this honorable man—what does he do when he gets you alone in your apartment?”

“I know. I know. But before that for a long time he just talked.”

“He talked. Fine. And what did he talk about? About women. About love. Gini, for God’s sake, he fed you the oldest line in the book. How his wife failed to understand him, failed to satisfy him…”

“That’s not what he said.”

“And you bought it. Gini,
think.
You’re not a child. The whole conversation—it was
provocative.
”

“It wasn’t.”

“You can’t mean that.” He rounded on her angrily. “Gini, he talks to you about his love affairs, his one-night stands, his
fucks
? If you can’t see it, I certainly can. I
know
why men talk that way to women—I’ve seen men do it a thousand times. It’s a goddamned come-on, you know that.”

“It didn’t sound that way. It wasn’t calculated. He was being honest. I believed what he said.”

“All right. All right.” Pascal threw up his hands. He rose and began to pace back and forth. She could see him fight down the anger and the impatience. He returned to his chair and looked at her intently.

“Okay. We go over it one last time. I don’t want to. You don’t want to. Still, that is what we do. Fine. I’ll buy the first part of your story. It’s been an emotional evening with your father. Hawthorne comes to your aid. He drives you home. He plays you Mozart, God help us. He asks to come in, and you agree. It’s insane, but that’s what you do. He then sits there, and he has a very proper, honest conversation with you—no undertones, no suggestivity, and you warm to him. Am I right so far?”

“I didn’t warm to him exactly,” she said. “I admired him, I think.”

“What?”

“I admired him—as a person. I didn’t necessarily like him, or approve of him, but he was interesting. Complex. Guarded. Hurt. Honest, at some cost.”

“You were falling in love with this man? That’s what it sounds like…Jesus Christ, Gini, I don’t
understand
this.” He gave another furious gesture, then stood up. “I need a drink. You want a drink?”

“No, I don’t. I want to go to bed. I want to stop going over and over this. What’s the point?”

“The point is, you’ve come to a totally irrational, foolish,
female
decision about this man.” He gave her a sharp glance. “It’s all instinct, intuition.”

“I don’t care. I still think I’m right.”

He poured himself a brandy and turned to look at her. “You do realize that’s no way to work on this, don’t you?” he said more coldly. “It’s a totally stupid way. And I won’t work like that.”

“Fine. So we take a different approach.”

“Why do you have to be so obstinate?
Why?
Gini?” He moved across, sat down, and took her hands in his.

“Darling, let’s just get one thing very clear. No matter what you thought while he was talking to you, you
know
what happened next.”

“Do I?” She gave him an exhausted glance. “I’m not so sure I do.”

“All right.” He sighed. “We go through it one last time. When did he first touch you, before the telephone call or after it?”

“After. No, before. No—I could sense what was coming before. He—well, he took my hand. He kissed my hand.”

“You never mentioned that.”