Lover (20 page)

He walked round the end of the bed to Lily's side. Her breasts lolled outwards, pallid and blueish in the poor light. Dark bruises on her ribs. Had a rough customer, poor kid. Still, the extra kip would do her good. He'd make her that tea when he got back from the pub.

Her handbag was on the floor, at the head end. He lowered himself slowly, careful not to disturb the sandbag inside his head, undid the clasp and took out a packet of Players and Lily's battered leather purse. It felt nice and fat. Good old Lily. Treat her to a drink later, he thought. Cheer her up a bit… She deserves it.

He lifted the pillow away from her face, thinking to say, I'll leave you to sleep—but the words never came. Instead of the Lily he'd expected, with soft, sleep-pouched features, there were two viscous, clotted eyes in a swollen mass of dark red, mottled flesh.

Ted gasped and backed away from the bed, holding the pillow in front of him like a shield. His heel knocked something that spun across the floor. Looking round, he saw, as it clattered to rest, that it was a kitchen knife.

He whirled back to the bed. The quick movement made the room dip and spin, and in the middle, Lily's bulging, ruined eyes with their burst blood vessels bobbed like the north point on some hideous compass. He staggered, caught his feet in a trailing blanket, and tripped over backwards, pulling the bedclothes with him.

He gasped and scrambled upright. On the bed, Lily's legs protruded from a bloody, tangled mass, dark, glutinous loops and glistening slabs of flesh that seemed to writhe in the half-light.

One glance was enough. Ted flung the pillow at it and bolted, bellowing and retching, out of the room, down the stairs and into the street. For a moment, he stood on the pavement, gasping and shaking, then weaved his way down the road, towards Fitzrovia.

In the Black Horse, the working half of Walt the barman's face twisted upwards into an expression of surprise as Ted slid Lily's purse across the bar and gestured towards the row of optics. ‘Drink,' he croaked. ‘Anything.'

Walt poured a whiskey and slid it across the bar, then opened the purse. ‘Blimey. You're quids in, aren't you?'

Ted wasn't listening. Slumped on his elbows, head down, he muttered, ‘What happened… Christ, what happened… All night…in bed with…with
that
…all night… Give me a drink, for God's sake.'

‘There.' The barman nodded towards the glass, and was about to turn away when Ted said, ‘Lily…'

‘What about Lily?'

‘Her face… She… Oh, Christ… All night, lying there… with, with her
face
…'

‘What's happened to her face?' said Walt, sharply.

‘She… I can't go back in there.'

‘Where? She at home?'

‘Yes.'

Walt leaned forward. ‘She in trouble?'

‘She… she…'

‘That's it.' Walt wiped his hands. ‘I'm coming with you.' He took off his apron, hung it up, and put on his jacket.

‘No.' Ted's voice was a whisper. ‘I can't go in there again.'

The barman ignored him. He stepped through to the other bar to tell his fellow-worker to mind the shop for a minute, then opened the hatch and walked round to Ted.

‘What you done to her?' He caught hold of Ted's jacket, spinning him round, and shouted into his slack, shocked face. ‘You show me. Come on. Show me what you done.'

‘No…' Ted was whimpering now, shaking his head violently, but it was too late. His legs buckled beneath him and his feet scrabbled for purchase as the barman towed him across the room and out of the door.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Where we going?'

‘Bateman Street.'

They walked in silence, Walt gripping Ted's arm.

Ted stopped automatically in front of the door and stood, head down, like a horse in harness. ‘Up there,' he whispered. ‘Don't… I can't…'

‘You're bloody well going to. Open the door.'

Ted jabbed the key at the lock with shaking hands and dropped it. As the barman bent to pick it up he made to run away, but not quick enough—the barman straightened and threw a punch that sent him reeling into the wall. ‘Now open that door before I do you some real damage.'

Ted staggered into the front hall and the barman pushed him up the stairs with a series of jabs, muttering, ‘You bastard, what you done to her? Let's see what you done.'

The door stood ajar. Ted reeled back, grabbing the banister for support. ‘I can't go in.'

Walt gave the door a shove, and dragged Ted inside.

‘What's that smell?'

Ted shook his head.

‘Jesus, something's on fire!' Walt flung open the door to the kitchenette, grabbed the handle of the kettle, and dropped it again, gasping. ‘Red hot.' Ted stood in the doorway and watched, stupefied, as he twisted off the gas.

‘Right. Where is she?'

‘In there.' Ted jerked his head towards the bedroom. Walt hesitated on the threshold.

‘Lily?' he called, his voice gentle. ‘Lily? You all right?'

Ted shook his head. ‘She can't…' he said, hoarsely. ‘She's…' He shrank back into the hallway as Walt rounded on him.

‘She's
what
?' In the dim light, the moving half of his face looked as if it was trying to tear itself away from its lifeless counterpart. ‘You bloody well stay there, or I'll kill you.'

Ted's legs gave way entirely as the barman opened the bedroom door, and he slumped to his knees against the wall. ‘Oh, Christ,' he muttered, ‘Oh, Christ… Lily…'

A moment later, the door was slammed shut, and the barman stood over him once more.

‘Keys,' he said, ‘Give me your keys.'

Ted fumbled at his pocket and handed them over. He heard the door slam, the key turn, then footsteps thundering down the stairs.

‘Lily… Christ…
Lily
…'

When Walt arrived back with the police, some ten minutes later, they found Ted curled up in a foetal position on the hall lino. In the days that followed, the police amassed evidence for use at his trial: the fingerprints on the handbag, the bloodstained trousers and curling tongs, which also bore Ted's fingerprints, the theft of Lily's purse, and the evidence of the girl Marie, who, anxious to placate her new and very jealous protector, denied she had ever set eyes on him.

Walt told the police that Ted had said he'd done it. It wasn't a lie. Over and over again they'd prodded him through the sequence of events that led to his discovery of Lily's body, and there always came a moment, after they'd entered the flat and he'd called out to Lily, when Ted said he'd killed her. ‘I can hear him now,' he told the officer. ‘He said he'd done it. I can see his face as he said it. Clear as day.' His certainty grew each time he said it. The police asked Walt if Ted had confessed to killing Lily when he walked into the pub, but Walt said no, it wasn't then. He remembered Ted giving him Lily's purse and muttering a bit and asking for a drink, but that was all.

As the barman's affection for Lily was common knowledge amongst the regulars at the Black Horse, they were careful not to ask questions or discuss the case in front of him. They knew he was touchy; who wouldn't be with a face like that? What they couldn't understand was why Ted had done it. He wasn't the brightest, and he drank too much on occasion, but he wasn't violent. He'd never laid a finger on Lily as far as anyone knew, and anyway, why kill the goose that laid the golden eggs? Coming so soon after that other poor girl, as well…

Walt kept schtum and got on with his work. When the pub closed for the night he went home and sat out the raids under the stairs. Alone, because he was ashamed of the nightmares that woke him, shouting; and besides, the other lodgers preferred the cellar. Afraid of sleep, he fingered the artificial silk slip which he had, on impulse, scooped from the floor of Lily's bedroom and stuffed in his pocket before he'd fetched the police. He didn't know why he'd done it—in fact, he didn't
remember
he'd done it until he'd pulled it, rumpled and slithery, from his jacket pocket. But he was glad, because it reminded him of her. It still had a faint smell: powder, perfume, and a hint—very slight—of perspiration. Lily when she was alive. By feeling, not thinking, he could banish the terrible image of the corpse that lurked in his mind, seldom out of sight for long. He rationed his imaginings to a single picture of Lily in the slip, waiting for him, warm and soft and kind. Nothing more. Then he would press the garment against his damaged cheek as if it were a relic and he a supplicant, hoping for a miracle.

F
riday, now. Two a.m. Just got back. No raids, thank God. When I came into my room I found Ginger, stark naked, sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed. He didn't look when I came in. I said hello, but he didn't hear me, either. Fast asleep with his eyes wide open. He used to share with Prideaux. They took the car away yesterday afternoon—too late for Mathy. He bought it yesterday morning. Found Webster and Reilly packing up his things when I came in after lunch. Webster told me I'd got a new roommate. I'd rather be on my own, but Ginger's decent enough. It could be worse—Corky or Davy.

It must have been Mathy who went down in flames. Must have been trapped in the cockpit. Burnt alive. Heard his screams over the R/T. We all did. Poor bastard. He'd dreamed about it—woke me up once, yelling and beating the bedclothes, trying to put the fire out. Called it the flames of hell…
Jesus
. I don't want to go that way. I could be next. This time tomorrow, I might not be here. It's possible. Might as well make the most of it while I am.

I told Webster Mathy'd left me his lighter. Don't know if he believed it, but he gave it to me. Found a photograph of his sister, underneath a pile of shirts, and pocketed it when Webster wasn't looking. Money, too—thirty bob. Not sure why I took the picture. She's a nice-looking girl, and I thought it might be useful.

I wonder if Ginger'll have nightmares like Mathy used to. He's got the jumps, all right; yesterday he threw a boiled egg at a WAAF waitress because it wasn't done enough. Hit the target, too. He's obviously a better shot on the ground than he is in the air. He's shouting in his sleep, now. I flick Mathy's lighter and see that his hands are clawing the air as if he's reaching for the stick, thumb at the ready, then his arms come down and he subsides. I lean over and hold the lighter up to his face: he's staring ahead with a fixed expression, tears on his cheeks. Doesn't know I'm here. I wonder if I should push him down flat on the bed, but decide he's better left as he is.

We flew four sorties yesterday. I haven't felt that tired since I got concussed. I had a nap at six, but it didn't do the trick and I woke up with a headache, very restless. I wandered about outside for a bit. Didn't want to go to the mess, so I decided on a walk. Didn't fancy going anywhere particular, but I knew that finding a brunette would take the edge off it, at least. By the time I'd got across the airfield there was no doubt in my mind: London again. The same feeling that comes with the scramble klaxon: there is nothing else.

I heard someone calling me as I was walking through the wood, but took no notice. Bloody Gervase. He wanted to know where I was going. I told him to piss off but he wouldn't, just kept trotting alongside asking stupid questions. I got to the road, saw an army lorry and flagged it down, but when I turned to say goodbye he was climbing in behind me, and I could hardly pitch him back out again.

All the same, I knew I was going to go through with it. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep to stop him talking. I felt better, knowing I was on my way.

They dropped us near a tube station—east, somewhere. Gervase said to me, ‘Where are we going?'

I said, ‘I'm going into town. I don't know where you're going.'

‘I'm coming with you.'

Nothing I could do. He clung to me like a limpet. The thing I'd wanted, first, to be by myself in a crowd of people, I couldn't have, because he was there. I tried to stay calm in the train and was able to forget he was there for a while, but then he'd say something, and the irritation would begin all over again. We got off the train at Piccadilly. Soho was more lively than last time. Raids some way off, thank God, although I did laugh when I saw one chap running down the street holding a dustbin lid over his head.

I wanted to enjoy myself, but Gervase was still trailing after me like a lamb that's lost its mother. I said, ‘Will you fuck off?' but he trailed me into a pub in Greek Street and insisted on buying half a pint for both of us. When we'd finished, I told him to go and find himself a girl. He turned the colour of a tomato, which annoyed me even more. I said, ‘What's the matter with you? Is it a disease or something? There's things I need to do, and I don't want you along.' He was turning the whole thing into a farce.

There were a few likely-looking brown-haired women in the pub, and a couple came up to us, but I couldn't talk to them with him hanging about and watching me, and this irritated me even more, because time was getting on. I told Gervase I'd meet him later, and we arranged it, but he still wouldn't let me alone. Then a dirty-looking man who said he was a poet started pestering us for money. Gervase gave him half a crown, and I slipped off while they were talking.

I didn't have to go far, just a couple of streets before I saw a torch flashing. A woman stepped towards me and asked me if I'd like to go home with her.

I said, ‘I want to see you, first.' When she shone the torch at her face I saw the hair was brown. The face and body looked all right as far as I could tell, but I wasn't concerned with that.

She said, ‘Like me, do you?'

‘I like your hair.'

She said, ‘Well, it'll be a pound and ten shillings.'