Armistice (19 page)

“It's a bit of both,” said Jonathan, hoping that that would be an end to it.

“You have my sympathy,” said Judge Dore, plowing on.
“If I can be of any assistance, let me know.” The last he said cheerfully—too cheerfully for Jonathan.

“I wouldn't want any of your money. It's not about the money.”

Judge Dore's brow furrowed. Jonathan had sounded truly angry. They stood looking at each other for a few moments. Jonathan imagined telling judge Dore about his son. When the judge said, “What the hell are you talking about, Priest?” for a moment he feared that he had told him.

“I meant that I didn't need you to help me with money, sir,” he stuttered.

“I wasn't really offering to, Priest, it was just a manner of speech. I wasn't offering you money any more than I was about to offer to supply you with a less troublesome woman than that which you are plagued by.”

“I'm sorry. I misunderstood.”

Judge Dore softened. He wasn't a bad man, Jonathan thought. “It was a mutual misunderstanding. And there's really no problem with your new chambers?”

Before Jonathan could reply a clerk appeared.

“See you in there,” said Perceval Dore. “I'll hold them off for two minutes. Use the time.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

As dusk fell again Philomena set foot on the southern approach to Waterloo Bridge. The many boats and barges plying the Thames had begun to show all their lights, yellow and white. Stretched reflections rippled on black water. She'd walked
miles, crisscrossing north and south, killing time. Weary and hungry, her feet hurt. The evening's rising damp gave wet thickness to the air. This little added resistance, she was convinced, further hindered her already laborious progress.

Leaning against the wall of the bridge she felt empty, run out, and that it wouldn't matter if she tipped over into the depths below. She again had a strong desire to experience a fall through space—a few free, weightless moments. A boat underneath, sliding under the bridge, pulled at her and she leaned over more. White faces angled up, their hands going to their mouths, and she sent her weight backward.

After that it took her she didn't know how long waiting, doing absolutely nothing, barely breathing, before she recovered the strength necessary to walk on to the Strand, where she gratefully caught a bus traveling in the direction of her hotel, alighting once in order to purchase suitable make-up.

A transformation later, St. Peter smiled broadly and bowed low as he ushered her inside The Gates of Heaven.

“Have you found Daniel?”

“Not yet, but I've an address for him now. ‘The Lion's Den.'”

“Our sister club,” replied St. Peter, quick as a flash.

On the first floor Anthony came directly over to her. “I'm so pleased to see you here again, Felicity.”

She was momentarily wrong-footed by the warmth of his welcome. “Oh, hello, Anthony.”

“Are you meeting anyone or are you free to pass the time with me?” he said, steering her to some seats.

Almost recoiling from Anthony's touch she masked the impulse and let him guide her.

“Would you like a drink?”

She asked for a lemonade.

“That won't make you very relaxed, will it?” quipped Anthony.

“That might not be my aim,” she said, as Felicity, trying to summon up a hint of flirtatiousness.

“Yesterday evening you were about to tell me whether or not you really are an artist,” said Anthony.

“Does it matter?”

“I don't know,” replied Anthony.

“I am an artist. That's
all
I do.”

Anthony looked to see if she was making some kind of joke by putting so much emphasis on the “all.” No, she was clearly making a point.

“Oh,” he said. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I like it here.”

“Oh,” repeated Anthony, at a loss. “It was pretty odd the way you got up and left last night.”

She shrugged as if to say, “That's me.”

“Did I say something?” he asked, clearly irked.

“No.”

“Did you suddenly discover that you disliked me?” He was trying to remain level but his eyes and mouth were fixed. Philomena felt a flash of danger from him.

“No,” as candidly as she could.

“It was nothing about me?”

“No,” direct to him again. Would that settle it?

“Have you a neurosis that causes you to behave in that manner?”

“Do I have a what?”

“Do you know what a neurosis is?”

“Not exactly.”

“It's an irrational anxiety or obsession. Did you suddenly become anxious last evening?”

Why wouldn't he shut up? She was going to have to give him a better answer than just saying “no” to everything.

“To tell the truth,” she said, “I did become anxious, suddenly. That I was doing the wrong thing with the wrong man in the wrong place.”

“Go on,” said Anthony, less aggressively.

“I've never been anywhere like this before,” she said, slipping a needy undertone into her voice.

“Ahhh.” She was a novice. Now he understood.

“But I am lonely,” now inviting his forgiveness.

“I know what you mean. But people who saw what you did, they must have thought I had said or done something.”

“I'm sorry for that.”

“You're sorry for it?”

“Yes.”

She watched him suddenly brighten. This was a different Anthony, lighter, more alive. Antagonism sloughed off him. It was as if he'd been enveloped in a thick coat of it and now that it was cast off he could come alive.

“All right, I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Anthony, that is sweet of you.”

“Don't mention it. It's the war, isn't it?”

“What's the war?”

“It's set us a few problems. How to live, that sort of thing.”

My God, thought Philomena. Is this the same man? He seemed so in earnest, so genuine, so likable.

Across the room Jonathan had stopped mid-stride and his mouth was wide open. He was unable to believe his own eyes. Philomena, sat chatting with Anthony Dore? Them laughing together? He retreated before either of them saw him, pressing himself to the wall. He wanted to become flat, to merge with the hard plaster. He stole a look. Dore was leaning forward to touch Philomena's arm and she was letting him and they were both smiling—no two ways about it—they were flirting! Philomena was flirting with Anthony Dore! Jonathan had to get away.

There was a drape to his left—slide behind it—but it concealed something; his head struck it. An electrical fuse box. Did it have an on/off switch?

“You know, Felicity,” confided Anthony, “I've been thinking about you a lot today.”

His cold hand on her knee.

“Get your hand off there.”

Anthony looked at her for a moment before lifting his hand. Smirking, he placed it on her thigh.

“Get it off there or I'll hurt you,” she told him.

“Promises, promises,” said Anthony, a steely glare in his eye.
Fear rose from Philomena's belly. Suddenly the lights went out.

There was panic as people in mid-movement collided with each other. Some screamed. Men and women called out the names of those from whom they were separated, and “I'm over here!” “Where?” and “Someone put the lights back on!” and “Ow!” and “Help!”

Philomena seized the opportunity to extricate her thigh from Anthony's hand. He, however, seemed to think that the surrounding mayhem and the darkness was his opportunity to take a better hold of her. She felt his hands on her waist, her breast. She tried to punch his face in the jet blackness but her arm was trapped against the chair by a falling body. Other bodies rolled into her and away. More screams and names called in terrified voices; panic infecting, spreading like a virus, other voices crying, “Stay still! Stay still everyone! Don't move!”

She tried to protect herself by getting to her feet but Anthony followed suit. Now they were being buffeted by humans on the verge of stampede, desperately searching for a way out. Someone could die in there, crushed, trampled to death underfoot and Anthony was still trying to take a hold on her. She freed an arm and reached for her hatpin. Some of the more self-possessed patrons fired their cigarette lighters and held them up so there were glimpses of people's heads. She felt a hand again on her waist, sliding down toward her buttocks—she didn't like it at all and called: “Anthony?” He replied, “Yes!” and she tensed her muscles to stab him when
a hand gripped her arm, stayed her blow. Jonathan's voice in her ear hissed: “Don't.” Again: “Don't.”

In the darkness she submitted and slackened, allowing Jonathan to guide her away from Anthony, moving against the herd. Anthony grabbed for her and tried to latch on again, calling “Felicity, is this you?” She felt him brush her bare arm, seize it and for a moment she was in the grip of both Jonathan and Anthony, in the dark, in the panicked crowd. She snapped her wrist and twisted out of Anthony's grasp, and went with Jonathan.

They pressed their way through the crowd that was pouring down the stairs like water that had suddenly found a fall until he glimpsed his dope supplier and her guard pushing a side door open. They would have a nifty way out. He headed after them and found the door led onto a fire escape. Jonathan let go of Philomena once they were on the iron steps. The two ahead descended to the safety of the ground, but Jonathan strode up the escape. Philomena could tell he was furious. His back was rigid. He turned his head once to make sure she was following. She could understand Jonathan being shocked to find her in there with Anthony Dore, if he saw her before the lights went—he must have done; he never would have found her in the dark without knowing she was there to be found. Except he was there in The Gates of Heaven too, wasn't he? They both had some explaining to do.

Up ahead of her Jonathan stepped off the top of the fire escape onto a flat roof and half-turned to wait. As she neared:
“I go there to buy my dope,” he said curtly, leaving her to explain her presence.

A brooding silence. She wouldn't be bullied by him, or cowed by his anger.

“I was trying to gain Anthony Dore's confidence, in the hope that I could verify what you told me,” she said, trying to make it sound the most reasonable thing in the world.

“How did you meet him?” asked Jonathan.

“I followed him.”

“That didn't look like a first meeting.”

“Second.”

“He thinks you're some sort of tart?” followed by, slightly less aggressively before she could protest: “He thinks you're a particular kind of young woman from the way he was touching you.”

“I didn't like him doing that. I told him to stop.”

Jonathan's jaw flexed angrily.

“What is that in your hand?”

“My hatpin,” she said, deliberately not looking down at it, as if holding it like a dagger was normal.

“What was your intention?”

“As you correctly read; I was intending to stab him.”

“Stab him dead?”

“Stab him just in his hand or arm.”

“You thought you could be that accurate?”

“Just a little jab.”

“Somebody falls against you, jogging your arm, or forcing it, so your four-inch hatpin enters not his hand, but his heart.
He's dead. Or you stab someone else entirely—in the eye for instance—did you consider that?”

“But none of those things happened.”

Jonathan now was frowning, puzzling something out. She felt that in his mind he'd moved on from her impetuous stabbing attempt. “Who does Dore think you are? I mean, you couldn't have told him your real identity.”

“I've told him my name's Felicity. He thinks I'm an artist. That's all he knows. I created her in order to meet him.”

“Felicity? That's why he was calling it.”

Philomena laughed: “Did you think he was expressing great happiness?”

Jonathan looked rueful: “It was all a bit of a blur.”

“I can't believe that you thought he was shouting for joy!” scoffed Philomena.

“I wouldn't put it past him. People going mad in a dark room might be his idea of a good time.”

“Oh, come on.”

Jonathan turned his head toward the parapet, a serious look on his face.

“Do you think anyone's been hurt?” he said.

“It'd be a miracle if they weren't.”

“People didn't need to panic in that way.”

“Why not? It was terrifying,” she said. Now she thought about it, he hadn't shown any fear in the panic. More evidence of his dual nature; decisive in a real physical crisis, nervy otherwise?

“And she's an artist?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Spur of the moment. It explains my unladylike hands.”

“What do you think of Dore? Have you got anything out of him?”

“No.”

“Do you think you would have if the evening hadn't been interrupted?”

“I don't know. It wasn't going the way I wanted it to.”

He pondered this for a few moments then seemed to lose interest. He went to the edge of the roof and inclined his body over the parapet. After a while she did the same, but several feet to his right.

At that moment the power was restored to the club because light suddenly spilled from the open door, revealing dozens of people milling below.

“There he is,” said Philomena quietly.

From their precipitous vantage they could see that Anthony Dore was searching—presumably for Felicity, amongst the patrons who had made it out of the building. He was moving swiftly between groups, checking the women.

A wind came up, a gust, rippling Philomena's flimsy dress. She crossed her arms and shivered.

Out of the side of his mouth Jonathan asked, “Where did Felicity come from?”