Blast From the Past (28 page)

‘Jack. Oh, Jack. You tell me all this now. After all the years I’ve grieved for you.’

‘I have to, Polly. Because …’

But Polly put her finger to her lips and breathed a ‘shhh’. She had had enough talking now. She would put up with no more. It was her flat and she was going to take control of what went on in it. For the second time that night she crossed the room to stand over Jack, and again, as she walked, he watched the movement of her thighs, brushing against each other as she walked. Polly again took the glass out of Jack’s hand and put it down.

‘No more talking,’ she said.

‘Polly. I mustn’t,’ Jack replied, but his eyes were filled with a misty longing.

Polly shushed him again, this time putting a soft finger to his lips. His tongue momentarily brushed the tip. Then she cupped her hands around Jack’s face and gently pulled him to his feet. Then they kissed again, long and passionately.

‘No, Polly, we mustn’t. That’s not what I came here for.’ Jack spoke almost into Polly’s mouth as she
continued
to kiss him. Again he succumbed to her embrace. For the time being his passion for her was stronger than the guilt he felt.

Polly unbuttoned her shirt. She did it herself this time, purposefully and quickly. Having done so, she broke off their embrace and stood back, her mouth shining. Then she opened her shirt fully in order to show Jack her body. It was what he had longed for all evening, a proper sight of her, her breasts and her stomach and her neck, her navel and her legs, clear and unencumbered, with only the crimson triangle of her knickers still to be removed.

Jack felt weak with longing. ‘We can’t do this, Polly,’ he heard himself say.

Polly did not reply. She had done with conversation. He could say what he liked, but she was now controlling the agenda. She could feel his desire even in the air between them. She knew just how much he wanted her. She took his hand. For a moment there was the faintest tug of resistance, but after a moment Jack allowed himself to be led to her bed, as Polly had known he would.

She lay down on the bed beneath Jack’s gaze, and spread her shirt wide open on the sheet. Looking up into Jack’s eyes, she could see that they were glistening and wet. He was crying! Not much, hardly at all, there were no actual tears, but she was sure he was crying. She had never seen him cry before. Reaching down to her hips, Polly raised her knees for a moment and slipping her thumbs under the elastic of her knickers took them off. Relaxing her legs again, she lay entirely
naked
save for the shirt at her arms and shoulders.

‘Make love to me now,’ she said firmly.

‘I can’t, Polly,’ Jack replied, his voice cracking.

Polly reached up and took his hand. ‘Jack. Stop this nonsense. I said make love to me now!’

‘I … I … can’t.’ Still Jack resisted, although he could scarcely find the words to deny her.

‘Yes, you can, Jack. It’s why you came.’

Jack closed his eyes to shut out her beauty, to shut out the magnet of eroticism that lay inches from him. As his eyes closed tears formed at the corners.

‘It’s not why I came, Polly.’ He said it firmly, dragging the sentence from deep within him. Then he pulled his hand from hers and returned to his chair and drink.

49

PETER’S MOTHER PICKED
up the phone.

‘Camden Police,’ said a voice at the other end.

Peter’s mother had anguished long and hard about informing on her son. She was absolutely loath to do it and shuddered to imagine how he would react when he found out. However, she felt that she had no choice. He had been hanging around that woman’s street all night, he was wet through and not himself, and he was messing about with that dreadful knife.

She knew the terrible things her son had written to the girl after she had rejected him. They’d been read out in court. Many times he had threatened to stick a knife in her and worse; sometimes he’d been specific in his threats, talking about cutting bits off her, all sorts of horrible stuff she felt sure he’d got from videos.

He wouldn’t do it, of course. She knew that, she was certain of that. On the other hand, he’d looked so very desperate. But Peter’s mother would rather have her son arrested for breaking a court order than for murder, which was why she had decided to call the police.

‘He’s been told not to go there but he couldn’t resist it, I’m afraid,’ she said to the duty officer at the police
station
. ‘He’s just hanging about in her street in the rain … and … well, I know he’s taken his knife with him … Just against yobs and muggers, you understand! I mean, he wouldn’t actually harm anyone with it … not her, I’m sure, but perhaps you could send someone down to talk to him anyway – tell him to come home.’

The duty officer promised that they would send a car round.

‘Thank you, officer. Thank you. He’s a good boy, you know.’

50

FOR PERHAPS A
minute afterwards Polly lay staring at the ceiling. She had pulled her shirt around her but apart from that she had not moved. The only sound in the room was the milkman’s radio and a faint clatter as he made his breakfast in the room below. Polly felt foolish, angry. She had stripped herself naked in front of Jack. She had practically begged him to make love to her. He had let her do it, too. Oh, there’d been no doubting the way he’d looked at her. Jack had certainly allowed Polly to undress for him, and then he’d walked away.

She got up and put her knickers back on, buttoned up her shirt and put on the plastic mac again. Up to this point she had not looked at Jack once. When she finally did so she found that he was not looking at her but had returned to his old habit of staring into his glass.

‘I think you should go now,’ she said.

Jack did not move. ‘I can’t go,’ he said.

‘I don’t care what you can and can’t do, Jack.’ Polly’s voice was cold with hurt. ‘I want you to leave.’

Still Jack did not face her. ‘I can’t leave, Polly.’

‘You rejected me before, Jack. I got over it. Now you
come
back and reject me again. I’m not strong enough for this.’

Jack attempted to explain, but he could not. ‘It wouldn’t have been right for us to—’

‘Is it your wife? Is that what’s stopping you?’ Polly asked. She had not intended to discuss it any further, but she knew that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She could see it in the despondent way in which he sat.

‘No.’

Polly felt she had no more dignity to lose. ‘I’m lonely, Jack.’

Jack did not respond.

‘I’m lonely,’ Polly repeated.

Again he did not respond, except perhaps for the smallest of shrugs. Polly finally decided that she really had had enough. Loneliness was better than this. The evening was over.

‘I want you to leave. Now, Jack,’ she said. ‘And this time don’t come back. Not after sixteen years, not ever.’

Polly walked over to the door and opened it.

Outside the door Peter froze. Terror and excitement in equal proportions deprived him of the means to move. He’d returned to Polly’s floor and had been trying to listen, not very successfully what with that damn radio music, his ear pressed to Polly’s door. Then suddenly, more quickly than he would have thought possible, he had heard her footsteps approach, her hand on the latch, and the door had opened.

He had had no time to move even had he been capable of such a thing. He stood transfixed, a knife in his hand, blood still dripping from his nose onto his mouth and chin.

‘Goodbye, Jack.’

Peter heard her voice through the open door. One thin sheet of panelled wood separated them. In two steps he could be inside her flat, facing her, facing him. He held his knife. He held his breath. He could see the shadow of Polly’s arm on the latch through the crack between the open door and the frame. He could see partly into her flat, the carpet, the edge of the table, a shelf with all sorts of stuff on it.

‘I’m not going, Polly. Not yet.’

It was the American’s voice, the despised voice of his hated rival. Peter wondered about running in then and there. He wondered whether he would have the chance to stab the man before he fought back. Peter knew that his enemy was assured, he remembered that from the confrontation at the phonebox. He did not wish to find himself beaten to his knees again, shamed and at the man’s mercy in front of Polly. He decided against such a full-frontal attack. Much better to leap out of the shadows at the man later when he left. Instead Peter remained dead still, now more excited than scared, luxuriating in the exquisite tension of the moment, scarcely able to believe that he was almost inside her flat, that she was hardly a foot away from him. For sheer, tense, sensual pleasure this certainly beat swearing at her over the telephone.

‘What do you mean, you’re not going? You’ll go when I bloody well tell you, and I’m telling you to go now,’ Polly said from behind the door.

It dawned on Peter that Polly was ordering the American out. They must have had a row and now he was being told to go. Peter raised his knife. The blade was already crusted black and crimson with his own blood.

‘There are things I need to tell you, Polly,’ Peter heard Jack saying from within the room, ‘and something I need to do. Unfinished business.’

The door closed millimetres from Peter’s face. He stepped back from it, limp with the tension.

Inside the flat Polly turned on Jack.

‘Hey, Jack. Look at me,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me what’s what in my own place. This is today Polly, not yesterday Polly, not twenty-years-ago Polly. Not a little girl who you can screw and screw up. Not a vulnerable, exploitable fucking teenager. This is my place, right? It isn’t much, but it’s mine and while you’re here you will do what the fuck you’re told. And right now what I’m telling you to do is leave.’

‘I’m not going, Polly.’

Polly looked at Jack and she did not like what she saw. She felt a surge of resentment. Who the hell did he think he was? She’d got by without him for sixteen years and she was happy to continue to do so.

‘Yes, you are going, Jack, because I don’t want you as a part of my life any more. What’s more, I want you to
forget
about what we talked about earlier, about hurting that man. I don’t want your help with that. I can fight my own battles and if anyone’s going to hurt him it’s going to be me.’

‘Whatever,’ said Jack and Polly despised his tone. He did not believe her. He did not believe she could defend herself.

‘You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?’ Polly said.

‘Tough enough,’ Jack replied.

Polly took her time before replying. ‘Jack, I’ve known a hundred men tougher than you. Men who don’t need a uniform and an army to give them strength, because their strength is on the inside.’

‘That’s nice,’ Jack replied.

Polly went back to her bed, kneeled down and dragged a bag from under it. This time Jack refrained from studying her legs as she did so. He had allowed himself to be distracted for too long. It was time to get on now.

She stood up and put the bag on the bed. ‘I could kill you right now,’ she said, looking Jack in the eye.

‘Yes, I imagine you could,’ Jack replied with the same old charming smile. ‘You’ve certainly got cause.’

Polly could see that Jack had misunderstood her. ‘No, Jack, I mean really kill you. You could be dead at any moment. I have the means.’

The smile still had charm but probably only to a person who liked being patronized. ‘I doubt it, Polly.’

‘You doubt it.’

‘Well, you know,’ said Jack. ‘Killing people isn’t easy, not unless you know how.’

‘But I do know how.’

Jack did not believe her, of course, but there was something assured about her manner that put him on his guard none the less. He wondered what she was getting at.

‘You know how to kill people?’ he asked.

Before speaking Polly reached into her bag and seemed to fiddle with something or fix something up; whatever she did required both her hands to do it.

‘Oh, yes, Jack. I know how to kill people. After I left the peace camp I became a traveller in a convoy. Ever hear about those? Loose wandering collectives of people who didn’t fit in, people who didn’t like the rules. I mentioned my friend Ziggy earlier. He was one of them. We struck fear into the heart of the British countryside a few summers back. People thought we were going to squat in their gardens.’

‘Well, you know the British and their gardens,’ Jack said, watching Polly closely, trying to figure out what she was getting at.

‘Despite their scary reputation,’ Polly went on, ‘most of the travellers were entirely peaceful, more peaceful than conventional types by miles, the hippies you despise, but at the centre of it all there was a core of real anarchists.’

Jack laughed. ‘Anarchists?’

‘That’s right. People who wanted change and were prepared to fight for it. Road protesters, animal
liberationists
, that sort of thing. I joined them. I’m still with them. I’m not a traveller any more, but I’m still part of the struggle.’

Jack could well believe it. Polly had always been a hellcat. He could well imagine her seeking out the crappiest people in society and joining them.

‘So what do you do? Smear aniseed on hunting dogs and throw paint at doctors’ cars? Chain yourself to the cosmetics counter at the chemist?’

Polly looked Jack straight in the eye. She wanted him to understand her very clearly.

‘Next Tuesday we’re going to blow up a veal truck. I’m the bomb maker. I got the recipe off the Internet. This is the bomb.’

Polly motioned to the bag in which she had been fiddling. Jack would have found it hard to deny that he was a little taken aback at the abruptness of Polly’s statement. He smiled none the less.

‘It doesn’t look much like a bomb, Polly.’

‘Oh, yes it does, it looks exactly like a bomb. Maybe not like the sort of bomb you boys chuck about in the army, but it does look like a bomb. Any copper in Northern Ireland would recognize it quick as anything.’

Polly peered into her bag, almost as if to check that she was not exaggerating the case. She seemed satisfied.