Red Crystal (24 page)

He gave her what he hoped was an open and appealing look. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she said with half-hearted annoyance. ‘Well – the answer’s yes. He’s in a room up the corridor. Your colleagues have been in there most of the morning.’

Absorbing the information greedily, Nick muttered vaguely, ‘My colleagues?’

‘You
are
a policeman, aren’t you?’

He asked suddenly, ‘Does everyone know that?’

She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t think so. I’ve only just found out this minute.’

‘Well, keep it a secret, will you, love? There’s a good girl.’

She winked at him. ‘Mum’s the word, eh?’

After she’d gone, Nick thought for a long time, until, irritatingly, his eyelids began to droop. But even as he fell asleep, the image of Wheatfield remained tantalizingly in his mind.

Gabriele cut out the front page of the
Sunday Times
and taped it to the kitchen wall beside the other cuttings. The collection was impressive. Altogether, four newspapers had featured one or more of her pictures, and a fifth had published their own less spectacular pictures, showing Max against the railings. One far-right paper had published hardly anything, but then that was to be expected.

Later there would be more, in weeklies, monthlies, and political publications. Inter-News expected good foreign sales. Stan Geddes had even mentioned the possibility of
Newsweek
and
Time.

It had gone remarkably well.

But, best of all, there might be
more.

Max’s injuries had been awful, certainly. When she’d seen his face she’d almost forgotten to take any more pictures. But then, later, she’d begun to see the possibilities…

With Max seriously hurt, the affair could become a major issue, a focus for student discontent, a
cause celebre.
All it needed was a long stay in hospital, some uncertainty about whether he would ever fully recover, a lost memory, an inability to concentrate. A ruined life. That should be easy enough to arrange. He could fake most of it.

She regarded the cuttings again with satisfaction.

The phone rang.

She jumped slightly then relaxed. It would be Giorgio, of course. Announcing his intention of coming home.

Pips sounded down the line. She waited for him to get the money in, then said a very cool ‘Hello’.

The reply came back and she gulped.
Max
.

She listened, gripping the receiver in disbelief. ‘It’s just a broken nose … And my face looks pretty bad. But there’s nothing serious. I’m going to discharge myself tomorrow. Can’t stand this place …’

She said, ‘Can’t you stay in for a while?’

‘No … They’re driving me mad. And the filth are here, giving me aggravation …’

‘They’re not going to charge you with anything, are they?’

‘Haven’t said so.’

She sighed heavily. ‘Well, sit tight for the moment. I’ll be in touch.’ She rang off quickly.

The vision of Max the martyr evaporated before her eyes. Now the media would print a couple more articles, letters would appear in the correspondence columns, there’d be a question in the House – and then nothing. The story would die a death.

She sighed heavily and said, ‘Shit!’

She strode into the kitchen and searched for a cigarette. At last she found one and lit it angrily. She felt cheated.

What was she going to do now?

It would have been a help to discuss it with someone, but without Giorgio …

Damn him, where had he got to? He’d been off before, of course. In Italy he’d disappeared quite often, usually on one-night stands. But she’d always ignored it for the simple reason that she didn’t care. That, of course, was why he always came back. Because she never gave him any hassle.

But this time was different. She didn’t want to be alone.

She paced restlessly around the house. Then, suddenly, she stopped. There was still a way … Still a possibility of getting more out of Max’s situation. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sitting around doing nothing. There was an element of risk, of course, but she rather liked that. Besides, it would give her someone to talk to.

She scribbled a note in case Giorgio returned.

Grabbing her camera bag, she checked that she had enough film, and hurried out into the mews. As she turned the corner the phone began to ring inside the empty house.

Victoria forced a piece of bread and marmalade into her mouth and realized it was the first food she’d had for nearly twenty-four hours. She didn’t feel a bit hungry.

She wrapped the dressing-gown more tightly round her waist and peered at her face in the bathroom mirror. Not a pretty sight. The black eye was a stunner, covering the whole of her eye and half her cheek. It was psychedelic purple and black, with tinges of dark green and red.

The bruises on her arms and legs had also developed well. In an odd way, she felt rather proud of these scars of war, as if they gave her an entry into the exclusive group to which Giorgio belonged, a group, she vaguely realized, in which action was everything.

In the long night hours he had told her more about Italy and the corruption and injustice of the system there, and of the need to fight fascism and the repression of the poor. She was very impressed by his commitment. She was also flattered and pleased that he should have taken the trouble to explain it to her.

Then they’d made love again.

She brushed her hair and ran her hands thoughtfully over her body. She still found it extraordinary that someone should like her just as she was.

The door opened and Giorgio stood there.

‘Did you manage to get through?’ Victoria asked with a smile.

He shook his head briefly, with irritation. She saw that his mood had become dark and ominous. She felt a twinge of alarm. ‘Why not try again in a few minutes?’ she suggested.

There was a long pause, then he sighed angrily. ‘I have to go away. Abroad. And I must organize …’

Her heart sank. She should have known. It had been too good to last. She said lightly. ‘Perhaps I can help … with the arrangements.’ She thought: What a brave face I’m putting on it.

He was hardly listening. Instead he sighed again and murmured petulantly, ‘Idiotic arrangements … It is left to me to do it all.’ Suddenly he shot her a glance. ‘Have you any wine?’

‘No, but I can go and get some.’

‘And food. And newspapers, all of them.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Hurriedly she got dressed. At the door she called, ‘I’ll be about fifteen minutes,’ but there was no reply.

The newspapers were easy, but it took her twenty minutes to find a food shop that was open on a Sunday and, because she couldn’t remember where the nearest off-licence was, she had to go into a pub to buy the wine. The landlord stared at her black eye with frank curiosity.

When she returned she had an appalling suspicion that he would be gone. She fumbled nervously with the key.

The living-room was empty. She felt sick. She called, ‘Giorgio?’

‘Mmmm?’

She let out a sigh of relief. The sound came from the bathroom.

She took a glass of wine to him in the bath and kissed his head and touched his cheek.

His mood had not improved. ‘The newspapers,’ he demanded impatiently.

‘Sorry!’ She hurried to get them.

‘Hah!’ He flicked the
Sunday Times
with his fingers. ‘Hah!’ It was a small cry of triumph.

She looked over his shoulder at the front page. There were two photographs, one of a battered demonstrator. She stared more closely. Underneath the blood the face looked familiar. She gasped, ‘Oh –
oh
! Isn’t that – isn’t that your
friend
?’

He didn’t reply but opened the paper to the next page and laughed out loud.

It was hard to see anything funny in the appalling sequence of pictures. She was shocked by the viciousness with which the policeman had obviously struck his victim. The man looked as though he was in agony.

Then Giorgio exclaimed, ‘This shows what
really
happened, yes?’ and she finally understood. He was pleased because the police had been caught in the act, red-handed. It had never occurred to her to look at it from that point of view.

The newspapers and the wine seemed to have improved Giorgio’s mood, and he began to talk with animation about his days in Paris during the student uprising, about the viciousness of the police there, and the way the students had fought back.

As she sat on the closed loo watching him, she thought: It’s no good, I love you already, and it’s going to break my heart.

‘They were good days,’ he said finally.

‘It sounds very exciting.’

He sat up suddenly, sending water slopping over the edge of the bath. His face had clouded and she could see he was irritated again. He sighed peevishly, ‘Tomorrow I have to find a van to go to Paris. How can I know how to rent a van in London?’ He asked the question rhetorically, gesturing with upturned hands.

‘But I can arrange that for you,’ she replied quickly. ‘First thing in the morning.’

He stared at her, then, coming to a decision, nodded slowly. She felt a surge of happiness.

‘What kind of a van?’ she asked.

His eyes slid away. ‘Something – where it is possible to conceal things. I want to return with certain’ – he thought for a moment – ‘
publications
that must not be discovered.’

It took a moment for everything to sink in – that he was returning. She couldn’t help visions of the future leaping into her mind: visions of the two of them together, loving each other …

‘Publications,’ she repeated vaguely, to keep the conversation going. Then the meaning of the other words became clear. He was talking about an important, perhaps even dangerous, journey. Yet he had not hesitated to trust her, to confide in her. She felt very proud. She thought: He won’t regret it.

In a businesslike way she repeated, ‘A van. Where things can be hidden. It’ll take a while to find one, but I’ll start first thing in the morning.’

He nodded briefly, obviously relieved at having handed the job over to her. She could see that his mind was already on other things. He said pointedly, ‘I’m very hungry.’

‘I’m
so
sorry! What
was
I thinking of.’ She hurried into the kitchen and started peeling potatoes, wondering feverishly how she was going to find precisely the right van. Suddenly she stopped dead.

Of course
.

When she got back, he was standing naked beside the bath, drying himself. She panted, ‘Stupid of me, but I’ve
got
a van! A camper van, in fact. It’s got cupboards and bunks and plenty of places to hide things!’

He threw the towel over the edge of the bath and was silent. His body was very beautiful. With an effort she continued, ‘You could borrow it for as long as you want.’

He went to the mirror and began to brush his hair. She murmured, ‘Well, why don’t you think about it,’ and returned to the kitchen.

She tried to make the meal a success. She laid the table with care and, though it was the middle of the day, placed candles on it. She put out a fresh bottle of wine and crisp French bread and served thick steaks with sauté potatoes, and tomato and olive salad. Later, she produced Brie and fruit and freshly ground coffee.

While they ate she tried to be light and amusing but he hardly spoke except to ask her about her family. She showed him a couple of photographs, one of the family having a formal tea on the lawn. He remarked on the house and how large it was. But then he fell silent again and the conversation trailed off. Dejected, she thought: He’s not interested in me at all. I was a fool to think he was.

Then without warning he focused on her and smiled a small intimate smile. ‘This – er – van, it will get to Paris all right?’

Surprised, she stumbled, ‘Yes …
Yes
. Some friends have been using it, so it should be working okay. When did you want it?’

‘Tuesday.’

Only two days away. She thought rapidly. ‘I’ll have to go and fetch it. Tomorrow. It’s in the country, you see. I’ll have to get someone to drive me down there. It’s a bit out of the way …’

He eyed her thoughtfully, weighing her up. Eventually he said, ‘If I had business in Paris, could you bring the van back for me – into England?’

‘Of course!’ she exclaimed, laughing.

Paris. With him. She could hardly believe it.

‘Even though the – publications – would be inside?’

She met his gaze and shrugged, as if such a risk was something she dealt with every day. ‘It’s no problem.’

‘Good.’ He was smiling, obviously pleased with her. She grinned back at him, and, in a burst of bravado, said, ‘You’ll stay tonight, won’t you? And then we could drive down to the country together! In the morning. To collect the van.’

His expression changed subtly, and a thin but impenetrable barrier dropped over his eyes. She could have kicked herself. She’d obviously pushed him too far. In an attempt to retrieve the situation, she said mildly, ‘Well, think about it.’

She cleared the table and did the washing-up. When the last dish had been put away she stood uncertainly by the sink. How could she persuade him to stay? How could she make it as wonderful as it had been the night before? What on earth was the
right
approach? Discretion? Indifference? Blatant interest?

She took a large gulp of wine and considered the options. Eventually she decided that, whatever the situation called for, it probably wasn’t discretion.

After swigging more wine direct from the bottle, she walked into the living-room. Shaking slightly, she went straight up to Giorgio and knelt in front of him. With what she hoped appeared like calm confidence she began to undo his shirt. His expression was impassive. She had a moment’s doubt. But it was too late now.

She pulled the shirt off his shoulders and, kissing his arm, worked her way slowly across his body, just as he had done to her the previous night. Then she pulled him gently to his feet and began all over again.

Still he stared at her, his face emotionless.

Then, finally, he moved. His fingers grasped her hair and she looked up to see the glint of desire in his eyes, and she knew that she had won him. For the moment at least.