Such Men Are Dangerous (18 page)

She shifted, realized something, frowned. A little strange, wasn’t it? The power of mind over matter? The distraction of thought?

She moved back the bedclothes, put her feet to the floor, testingly. Stood up, walked over to the fireplace, walked over to the cooker. Filled the kettle, lit the gas, bent down, got out the coffee jar. Returned and kneeled upon the bed, drew back the curtains, pushed up the window. Leant there with elbows on the sill; listening to the continuing and infinitely more musical peal of the bells; conscious of a motorcyclist revving up and of the cries of children who were on the Heath.

She got down off the bed. She raised both arms in line with her shoulders and twisted her trunk as far as it would go, both ways, a fine waist-trimming exercise. She touched her toes six times.

Steam was issuing from the kettle but suddenly she decided she didn’t want any coffee nor breakfast. Well, anyway not here. If she got dressed very quickly, if she hardly bothered about washing or makeup or brushing her hair, then she wondered if she could guess the path he would have taken: Siamese twin calling out to Siamese twin, Heloise calling out to Abelard: and so, by running, soon catch him up. She was almost certain she could track him just by love.

“Simeon,” she would say. “Most lovely man that ever was. Why didn’t you wait for me?”

26

Somehow Jericho, having fought the battle of Joshua, managed to get rid of him. She felt shaken by the episode. She had written out his cheque. It was for three thousand pounds and Josh’s face, albeit briefly, had leapt back into liveliness at the sight of it. But then, again pathetically, he’d asked whether it might have been for more if he hadn’t made a nuisance of himself, got on the wrong side of her, miscalculated the gamble.

She tried to reassure him, shook his hand, said she would see him before she left. She went with him to the entrance and watched him start on his walk home, the earlier spring now missing from his step, the legend on the back of his sweatshirt a pointedly cruel joke:
Keep your pecker up
.

On the front it said:
Think big
.

It was then nearly half-past-eight. Because she felt unsettled and not in the right mood to be alone, she didn’t want merely to go to her room with the intention of staying there. She hadn’t meant to return to the vicarage tonight, yet now it seemed the most sensible thing to do. She decided not even to telephone first. If the vicar wasn’t there, or if he was there but engaged with something lengthy, she would at least have had the walk.

She thought she remembered the way but in fact got lost and on the first occasion she asked for help was wholly misdirected. The roads were very quiet. Not nervous about such things generally she now began to wonder whether she were being foolhardy. Several times, on hearing footsteps coming up behind her, she held on tightly to her shoulder bag. At one point, five or six youths who were going in the opposite direction—
and
, thankfully, on the other side of the road—plied her with laughter and ribaldry and several shouted invitations; she estimated the distance to the nearest house showing a sliver of light. Yet, anyway, the danger passed. Nevertheless she hurried; rued the impracticability of high heels, the price of vanity. She glanced back over her shoulder, was startled by the soft approach of a beer-bellied fellow in a checked shirt and a Stetson who seemed to be regarding her with furtive interest. She knew she was overreacting but actually started to run…with even the wretched tap-tap of her shoes appearing to call attention to her,
here I am, absurd and alarmed, a natural victim, come and get me
! She passed a cemetery—ideal, she thought, ideal, what more is lacking?—but then saw cars going by at right angles and realized she had almost reached a busier road. On the further side of it, outside park gates, there was a man pacing backwards and forwards. Illogically, she supposed—yet only afterwards did it strike her as being that—she hastened towards him as if towards her saviour. “Excuse me but do you know St Matthew’s Vicarage? I hope to God you do.”

“I ought to,” he smiled. “I live there.”

This took her back so completely it was a second or two before she could adjust.

“Have you been having trouble?” he asked.

“I’m afraid it was my own fault. I was so sure I knew the way. You’re Mr Madison?” She had meant but forgotten to glance at the photographs which Graeme had obtained.

He nodded. She would plainly have to discard at least some of her preconceived notions concerning vicars—and automatically wondered about her own appearance. She knew it had been all right prior to leaving the hotel but had her apprehensions made her shiny-nosed, dishevelled? A minute or two before, she had worried about being raped; now she worried about the condition of her makeup.

“Geraldine Coe,” she said. They shook hands.

“We’re only a few yards from the vicarage, Miss Coe. Or is it Mrs?”

As they began to walk in the direction he’d indicated, he moved round behind her, to be on the outside.

“But weren’t you waiting for someone?”

“No,” he said, “I had a headache. I was hoping a breath of fresh air might clear it.”

“I always carry aspirin in my bag.”

“I’ve already taken some. But thanks.” (Even as she’d made it, she had known the gesture was without point.) “Are you a local woman, Miss Coe?”

“No, I’m staying at the Royal. Shall probably be returning to London tomorrow. I’m from the
Chronicle
.”

“The
Chronicle
!”

“I hoped for a short interview.”

“Good heavens. With me? Are you doing a feature on the town?”

“It isn’t that.” Something in his manner made her hesitate.

“What could I have done, then?” But she heard the anxiety that underlay his laugh.

“It’s about the two Heath boys. Their claim to have seen an angel.”

They had reached the driveway to the vicarage. He stopped abruptly and stared down at her in anger—she could have sworn that it was anger. “Who in God’s name told you that?”

“The boys’ father. He phoned our Fleet Street office.”

“When?”

“This morning. Why are you so…so surprised?”

He didn’t answer but started striding up the gravel drive, apparently unbothered whether or not she could keep up.

Yet at the front door he waited for her. In the hallway a woman of about fifty-five gave her an inquiring look.

“I was just coming out to get you,” she said to her son—the resemblance was unmistakable.

“Why?”

“I didn’t want you catching cold. Besides, I’m making you a milky drink. It ought to help your head.”

“Mother, this is Miss Coe. A reporter from the
Chronicle
. She wants to talk to us about the Heaths, et cetera.”

“How nice.”

“No, it is
not
nice in the slightest. With all due respect to Miss Coe I could kick the bloody
Chronicle
from here to perdition and the bloody Mr Josh Heath along with it.”

“Simon! Simon,
dear
.”

“Why on earth did he do it? They all knew it was absolutely essential to stay quiet.”

“Miss Coe, would you like a cup of Horlicks?”

“Miss Coe would probably like a glass of whisky. I know I damned well would.”

“Darling, what
has
happened to your vocabulary? I haven’t heard you swear so much since—”

“I feel I have a reasonable excuse. Here, let me take your coat.”

“Thank you. If you don’t mind, Mrs Madison, I think I’d much prefer that cup of Horlicks.”

“Then you may have mine, with pleasure. And, Mother, so long as you don’t harp on about my vocabulary, you’d be quite welcome to join us.”

While he hung up her coat Geraldine had the opportunity to glance into a wall mirror. He held open the door to what was obviously his study.

Mrs Madison had gone to fetch the Horlicks. Geraldine was waved to a large and comfortable armchair. The room was a pleasing mix of ancient and modern—the armchair modern. Simon stood for a moment with his back towards her, looking up at the crucifix over his desk. While he did so, she noted the framed black-and-white photograph of an attractive young woman with dark hair. She noticed, too, the yellow plastic dog that sat by it, soppy-looking, quite sweet, yet curiously out of keeping with what other ornaments were in the room. But then he turned and took a bottle and a glass from a cupboard near the bookcase. “That’s better,” he said. “Do you find it warm enough in here?”

“Yes, fine.”

“I apologize for my vocabulary.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“Perhaps you were lucky not to do so this evening.”

“I have to admit it wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. Frankly, I still can’t see the reason for it.”

“Because as soon as this story breaks—tomorrow, I imagine—”

“It may not be tomorrow. They were certainly holding space for it but it’s possible they’ll decide to wait until Wednesday, then launch it with a big splash: headlines, photographs, the works.”

“Tomorrow or Wednesday,” he said, “it really makes no difference. Unless…” In the midst of pouring his whisky he stopped and looked at her more hopefully. “Unless that means you can get them to hold it indefinitely. Well, for a period, say, of three to four weeks.
Then
you can publish with my blessing, splash it about in luminous vermilion, in fiery letters six feet high.” He must have seen her expression, Geraldine thought, because suddenly he gave a shrug and his optimism went. He turned, continued pouring the whisky, then replaced the cap. Mrs Madison came in with the Horlicks and a plate of biscuits but she didn’t stay. “You can tell me all about it later.” Geraldine noticed the habitual slight severity of her expression softened as she looked at him. “I’ll see you later, Miss Coe. Or, if I don’t, then I’ll hope to meet you on some future occasion.”

“Because as soon as this story breaks…?” prompted Geraldine, after Mrs Madison had left.

“Then it turns into nothing but a three-ring circus. The
Sun
gets hold of it, the
Mirror
, the
Mail
. We’ll have ‘The Disco Angel with the Song of Love’ and the standard girlie photos all winking their encouragement. Sensationalism, ridicule! It wasn’t what I wanted, it wasn’t what I thought to get. I’ve already seen the Bishops of Grimsby and Lincoln. I’ve set up appointments to meet four more bishops during the week, plus a number of others in the C of E who hold a position of influence. I’ve made an application to the Church’s Council for Health and Healing. I’ve done everything within my power to set the ball rolling…I mean in a controlled and dignified manner. And all for what, Miss Coe?” He clenched his free hand into a fist and pounded the arm of his chair with it, three times. “And
all—for—what
?”

She felt incensed, as though he were using his fist as a weapon of intimidation. It wasn’t part of her job to put forward her own opinions at a time like this and on dozens of apparently more provocative occasions she had managed not to; but tonight (perhaps she was unduly tired) some demon of perversity appeared to take possession of her.

“Is dignity so all-important?”

“I should have said so, yes. Don’t you think that a heavenly revelation, or what I for one accept wholeheartedly as such, deserves to be treated with awe, not with hysteria? It asks for action, not exploitation. For alarm, even. What it doesn’t ask for is a retreat into jokiness and facetiousness. Just make a noise, pretend it isn’t there.”

“But awe—action—alarm.” She slowly numbered these responses on her fingers. “Yet no mention of joy?” She felt that for better or worse she was committed now. “And there are a couple of other things which strike me as a little odd.”

For a moment he massaged his forehead lightly with one hand, covering his eyes.

“Yes, Miss Coe, you’re right. Of course one shouldn’t leave out joy. What’s happened here is obviously a proof of God’s existence and of his wish to be merciful. Great! And joy is one of the fruits of the Spirit, should be totally—yes,
totally
—integral. But at the same time I can’t help thinking that if a messenger arrives to announce what an awful cock-up the world has made of things and to warn it of imminent catastrophe, then your natural urge to shout whoopee may seem a little out of place. Particularly if you’ve always taken God’s existence and the question of his concern pretty much for granted anyway. But clearly you see the matter differently?”

She emitted a small laugh.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t dare!”

“Now you make it sound as if I’m trying to browbeat you.” Naturally by this time he had taken his hand away from his eyes but he still looked extremely weary. “What were the other points you mentioned?”

“Well…” She slightly shifted her position in the armchair, straightened her back a little. “The first is, I get the feeling that in general you don’t have a very high opinion of people. They’re not really to be trusted.”

He shrugged then gave a very faint smile.

“I wonder if that could largely be because…in general…I haven’t?”

There was a mildly disconcerting silence.

“What about you?” he asked.

“But aren’t you going to add anything to that?”

“If you like. I think that people are capable of great things on occasion, great moments of heroism and tenderness and sacrifice, especially when they forget to rely on themselves and when they place their full dependence where it ought to be. But otherwise…”

“Yes? Otherwise?”

“I think that on the whole they’re more than merely weak and self-centred, more than merely ineffectual and misguided. I think that even if we omit altogether the problem of real hardcore evil they’re still, by and large, petty-minded, hypocritical, uncharitable, jealous, greedy. Do I need to go on?”

“I didn’t realize,” she answered, equably, “that the Christian viewpoint was only another term for misanthropy.”

He smiled again, and less faintly than before. “A Christian, surely, doesn’t have to be blind to people’s faults, shouldn’t try to pretend they simply don’t exist? Why are we here at all, if not for the sake of self-improvement? No,
surely
, while seeing how very far from perfect everyone still is, the Christian nevertheless attempts to love him, in the same way that he loves himself?”