Thirteen Steps Down (13 page)

cars. She'd be wearing a wonderful see-through dress and her own

diamonds andhe'd be in a tuxedo, beautifully fitting his new slim figure.

Mixhad never thought much about marriage, beyond knowing hed idn't

want it, or not yet, not till he was approaching forty maybe. But now ... If

he played his cards right, why shouldn't he marry Nerissa? If he was

going to get married one day, whowould suit him better than her and suit

him now?

A letter was decided upon. Though it was many years since she had

written a letter and as long since she had received one, Gwendolen

believed she wrote well. Any piece of prose sheproduced would be a joy to

read and kindle in the heart of the recipient a sensation of the good days

gone by when people could spell, wrote good English without

grammatical errors,and knew how to construct a sentence. A missive she

had been sent by some company purporting to supply her with gas had

contained the sentence, "You will of received our communication."

Of course she had replied in stinging words about the undoubted and

rapid failure of any business unwise enough to employ illiterates, but

had had no answer.

Now she was writing to Stephen Reeves and finding the task difficult.

For the first time in her life she wished she had a television set so that

she could have seen his programs about a country doctor. What a

surprise it would have been to see his name come up on the screen! If

she had known the series wasto be transmitted she could have stood

outside the television shop in Westbourne Grove and watched it through

the window. As things were, she couldn't write to him as she would have

liked to, that she had seen his programs and enjoyed them. "Watching

your stories brought to life on the small screen inspired-no, prompted, no,

encouraged?-impelled me to write toyou after so many years. Although in

some doubt as to the author'sidentity, I acquainted myself with your

website which--it wouldmake him see that she had moved with the

times if she mentioned the website. Then Gwendolen remembered that

ofcourse she hadn't seen the series, she hadn't got television, and she

must start again.

Hearing from an acquaintance that you had ventured into the realm of

television, I was moved to--the young man in the Internetcafe would

surely count as an acquaintance. She was anxious not to begin by telling

untruths. I was moved to renew oldfriendship--was that too forward?

Most people would say fiftyyears was a long break in any friendship--I

was moved to get intouch with you. She would have to say why. She

would have tosay she wanted to see him. Gwendolen screwed up her fifth

effortand sat disconsolate. It might be best to concentrate withoutpen

and paper and resolve on her words before starting towrite them down.

A serious young man, Darel Jones was handling his move to a

Docklands flat with tender care for his parents. Through school and

university and his postgraduate studies, he had lived at home and now,

at the age of twenty-eight, with a new and much better paid job, it was

time to leave. Knowing he must do so before he was thirty, he had been

careful once he came of age to do his own washing and ironing, eat out

four times aweek, visit his girlfriends' places rather than bring them

home for the night, and generally be independent. Thus he trod a fine

line, for his mother would willingly and happily have done everything for

him, welcomed girls, and forced herself not to apply the double standard,

inwardly congratulating him on his choice while condemning them for

their unchastity. He had spent at least two evenings a week with his

parents, taken them out, gone to the cinema with them, been charming

to their friends, and scrupulously thanked his mother for performing

small services for him. Now he was leaving, to live at the other end of

London on his own.

Neither parent had uttered a word of objection but on the eve of his

move, the new furniture installed, his clothes in twosuitcases in the hall

waiting to be put into his car, he saw a tear trickle down his mother's

cheek.

"Come on, Mum. Cheer up. Suppose I'd been going to Australia like

your chum Mrs. What'sher name's son."

"I didn't say a word," said Sheila Jones defensively."Tears speak louder."

"What'll you be like when he gets married?" Her husband passed his

handkerchief, a move he had made on an average once a week during

their thirty-year marriage.

"I hope he will. I know I'm going to love his wife."

Darel wasn't so sure. "That's a long way off," he said. "Look, I want you

both to say you'll come over to dinner on Saturday. I'll be straight by

then."

Sheila began to cheer up. "Tom and Hazel want us all to going next door

for a drink this evening to say good-bye. I said wewould. Nerissa will be

there."

Darel considered, but not for long. "You go," he said. "You can say goodbye for me."

"Oh, we wouldn't go without you. There'd be no point. Besides,we'd

miss our last few precious hours with you."

If she hadn't said that model would be there he might have agreed.

Nerissa Nash--why couldn't she have kept her father's interesting

surname?--was very beautiful, any man would admit that, and according

to his father, a nice girl. But Darel was wary of the whole celebrity world.

He knew of it only from what he read in the newspapers. Since his

preferred reading was usually the Financial Times, this wasn't much of a

guide, but certain emotive words suggestive of that world aroused his

distaste:club, fashion, star, public appearance, designer, and of course

"celebrity" itself were among them. Someone belonging in that so-called

elite must be empty-headed, ignorant,tasteless, and shallow. Such

people were heading for empty,unhappy lives, failed relationships,

dysfunctional families, alienatedchildren, and a desperate unwilliness to

grow old.

What a prig you are, he often told himself, always resolving to be less

censorious. The fact remained that he had no wish to extend his

acquaintance with Nerissa Nash beyond replying "Good evening" to her

"Hi" and raising his hand in a modifiedwave if he saw her at a distance.

Chapter 9

It wasn't until the doorbell rang that Mix remembered Danila was coming

round. He had forgotten to buy any cheap wine and now he'd have to give

her that rather nice Merlot he'd bought for his own private consumption

on Sundaynight. Spending the evening at home, as he thought alone, he

had been enthralled in Chapter 3 of Christie's Victims, reading of

Muriel Bady, a 31-year-old woman, living in Putney and employed at the

Ultra Radio Works in Park Royal. On leaving the police for no known

reason, Christie had also gone to work there. He and she became friends,

insofar as Christie was capable of friendship, and on several occasions

she and her fiance and Christie with Mrs. Christie all went out together.

Muriel Bady suffered from chronic rhinitis and Christie claimed to be able

to cure her with the aid of an inhalation device of his own invention. When

his wife had gone away, once more to have a holiday with her brother in

Sheffield, he invited Muriel around, gave her a cup of tea and showed her

what he said was the device. However, though it contained Friar's

Balsam, it also, unbeknown to Muriel, admitted a tube attached at the

other end to a gas outlet ...

It had been at this point that Mix was summoned to answer the door.

Old Chawcer had seen no need for an entry phone or even a separate

doorbell for the top flat, so on the rare occasions when someone called on

him, he had to go all the way down the fifty-two stairs and come all the

way up again. Old Chawcer never answered the door unless she was

expecting a guest, an even less usual event in the evenings, so he was

prettysure she wouldn't let Danila in. For, by the time he had set foot on

the top tread of the tiled staircase, he had remembered who this caller

must be.

The bell rang twice more before he got there. He needn't have worried

about the wine because she had brought two bottleswith her, one of

Riesling and one of gin. This ought to have pleased him but it didn't. In

his view, women shouldn't contribute to the evening's entertainment, no

self-respecting woman would, she'd expect the man to pay. Danila's mass

ofd ark hair was bigger and wilder than ever--ridiculous, he thought, it

caused her little pinched face to look tiny. Her next move made matters

even worse. Having set the bottles downon the hall table, she threw her

arms round Mix's neck and kissed him.

"I'm ever so glad to see you. I've been looking forwardto this."

He said nothing but led her up the stairs. Outside Miss Chawcer's

bedroom sat Otto, engaged in an all-over wash.

"Oh, what a sweet kitty!" Danila's shriek made Otto start to his feet and

arch his back. "Is she yours? Isn't she a darling!"She made the mistake

of putting out a hand toward Otto'shead. He drew back, hissed and

lashed at her before running upstairs. "Oh, I frightened her!"

"Come on," said Mix.

On the landing outside his front door she asked why it was so dark and

said the stained glass window gave her the creeps, but his anger was

softened to a mild irritation by her admiration of his flat. She walked

round his living room, passing the portrait of Nerissa Nash with just a

glance at it and then at him, but adoring everything else. Oh, the window

blinds! Oh, the cushions,the furniture, the ornaments, the lamp shades!

The amazing TN! That lovely gray marble statue of a girl. Who was she?

"Some goddess. Psyche, they called her, when I bought her," he said. He

poured them each a stiff gin with tonic from his fridge and ice from the

freezer. He hadn't a lemon. "You like the apartment, then?"

"It's great. What you must think of my grotty place!"

"I've taken a lot of trouble to get it this way."

"I'm sure. Why d'you read about awful murders when you've got a lovely

place like this?" She had picked up his book,left face-downwards on the

arm of the gray silk sofa. "Yuck, it's horrible. 'She was unconscious and

while he strangled her he raped her,' " she read aloud.

"Give that to me." Mix snatched the book from her. "Now you've lost my

place."

"I'm sorry. It was just that I ... "

"All right, never mind. Bring your drink in the bedroom."

They would have to go through all that shrieking and gasping stuff all

over again when she saw the furniture and the pictures. Might as well get

it over with so that they could getdown to what was the reason for her

coming at all. He refilledhis glass while she wandered around the

bedroom in the samesort of ecstasy as she'd shown in the living room. He

sipped his drink. It was that good Bombay gin in the blue bottle she'd

brought, he had to grant her that. He strolled back, pretending

astonishment to see her dressed as she had been two minutes before.

"I reckoned you'd be starkers by now."

"Mix." She came up to him. "Mix, do we always have to start doing it the

minute I come? Can't we talk for a bit?"

He was surprised. She was showing initiative for the first time, as if she

had some sort of right to an opinion on the order of events. He could see

what it was. In her eyes he was her boyfriend now and she was starting

to take him for granted. Soon she'd be telling him what to do, not asking

him.

"Talk about what?" he said.

"I don't know. Things. You getting the furniture for thisplace, your job,

mine, your lovely cat."

"It's not my fucking cat!" he almost yelled.

"There's no need to shout."

She took her clothes off but not the way Mix would have preferred, not

like a stripper giving a titillating performance. Danila undressed as she

would when she was alone, placing her outer garments over the back of a

chair, turning her back onhim to take off thong and tights. How he hated

tights. And didn't she know wearing a G-string with them was a joke?

She, left her bra till last, ashamed of her tiny breasts. He thought, I won't

see her again, I'll find some other way of getting to know Nerissa.

She went to the bed but he stopped her. "Wait a minute."He wasn't

going to do it on top of his ivory satin quilt; he lifted it off and folded it.

"All right," he said.

The look she gave him was subservient but with something in it too of

bewilderment. He took off his shoes and trousers but kept his shirt on

and his socks. A man didn't have to stripoff, that was the woman's role.

A simmering anger against her, a cold rage he couldn't quite account for,

stopped him taking any trouble and what happened could have been

called rape, only she didn't resist. He rolled away from her to finish his

drink.

Five minutes later she was walking round the flat again. He heard her

say, "Why d'you have her up there?"

There was no doubt as to what she meant. But "You mean Nerissa

Nash?" he said, to make assurance absolutely sure.

"You fancy her or something?"

Mix got up. Somewhere in him was a prudish streak, legacy perhaps of