‘So you went to prison for my wife. And she came to see you, wrote you beautiful grateful letters?’
‘It wouldn’t look right, would it, visiting her lover’s murderer. After a year I started writing to her. Every single day. But I heard nothing. Nothing in eight years. I didn’t even know she was married again till I came out.’
The poor deluded sap stared away towards the mountains beyond Lordsburg. Looking at him, Beard was pleased that he himself had never fallen properly in love. Not if this was what happened to a man’s reason. He had come closest with Patrice, and what an idiot that had made of him. In the circumstances it was not possible, but he would have liked to press Tarpin about the murder weapon, the hammer with the narrow head. Had he really forgotten that he had left a bag of tools in Belsize Park? What an ass, and how convenient.
Tarpin said, ‘I can’t stop thinking about her, and you’re the only one I can talk to. We’ve both loved the same woman, Mr Beard. You could say our fates are entwined. She won’t let me come near her, won’t even talk to me for five minutes on the phone. But I still love her.’
He repeated himself, with greater force, so that two workmen walking past the stand glanced up in their direction.
‘I ought to be bitter, I ought to be furious at the way she let me down. I ought to break her neck, but I love her, and it makes me feel good just to say it out loud to someone who knows her. I love her and if it was ever going to stop, it would have happened a long time ago, when I realised I wasn’t going to hear from her. I love her, I love …’
‘Let me get this right,’ Beard said. ‘You came all this way, you concealed your criminal record from Homeland Security, just to tell me that you still love my ex-wife?’
‘You were the only other player, if you see what I mean. You’re the only one I can say it to and it means something, that Patrice killed Aldous, and I paid for it with eight years of my life. And I owe you an apology, treating you the way I did when you came round to my house. But I was under a lot of stress, you see, with Patrice going to see Aldous in the evenings because she didn’t dare upset him. But I am truly sorry about hitting you like that.’
Beard said, ‘I think we can let that one go.’
But there was a purpose to Tarpin’s apology. ‘There was another reason I came. I’ve thought about this really hard. I’ve got to do something with myself. I can’t spend the next ten years just thinking about Patrice. Mr Beard, I want a fresh start, somewhere far away from where she is. I saw about your thing here on the TV. You’re the only one who knows this situation and I know you’ll understand. I’m asking you to give me a job. I’ve still got the skills, plumbing, wiring, bricklaying, labouring. I’ll pick up litter, if that’s what’s on offer. I know how to work hard.’
Beard’s thoughts were running ahead. He had found something for Darlene’s Nicky, even though she lasted only two days. There were ways round Tarpin’s illegal status. And the man was a fantasising fool who possibly deserved a break. It was unfortunate for Tarpin, however, that minutes before, Beard’s mood had dipped at the memory of those dark days, when he watched from a first-floor window as his wife, in new frock and shoes, went down the garden path to her Peugeot and her evening assignation. Wasn’t eight years enough? Wasn’t his punishment complete? It probably never would be, Beard thought as he stood and extended his hand and resumed his official tone.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Tarpin. I don’t know whether I believe your story, but I’ve enjoyed it. As for a job, well, you had an affair with my wife and you encouraged her to murder my close colleague, or, who knows, you killed him yourself. All in all, I don’t exactly feel I owe you any favours . . .’
Tarpin stood too, but he refused the handshake. He sounded astonished. ‘You’re saying no?’
‘Yes.’
He moved at speed from whining petitioner to aggressor. ‘Because I went with your wife?’
‘Mostly that, yes.’
‘But you didn’t love her. You fucked everything in sight. You didn’t look after her. You could have had her all to yourself, but you drove her away.’
Now that he was angry, he looked more like his former self, with the colour back in his cheeks and that old ratty look. He was gaunt, but in possession perhaps of some wiry strength. And though he had shrunk and aged, he remained taller and younger than Beard.
‘I didn’t go looking for an affair,’ he said loudly. ‘Patrice came on to me as a way of getting at you. I had my own problems. My wife ran off with my kids. You wrecked your own fucking marriage. That beautiful woman. You broke her poor heart!’
Mindful of the possibility of violence, Beard was edging away along the line of bleachers. He was no Tom Aldous, adept at cracking kneecaps. He said from a judicious distance, ‘There are some patrolmen down by the highway. Clear off now or I’ll invite them to come and discuss your tourist visa with you. They’re not so gentle with illegals in these parts, you know.’
‘You bastard! You cowardly bastard!’
Beard descended the stand as fast as he was able, then strode away. Even when he had reached the far side of the parade ground and was heading back towards the Texan-style barbecue, he could hear the diminishing cries, ‘Cunt! Coward! Cheat! I’ll get you!’ Heads of upright citizens turned to look, and there were disapproving glances in Beard’s direction too. Some minutes later, after a wrong turn, he found himself in the grand colonnade of green portable lavatories and slipped inside to make lingering use of one. When he came out and looked around, he saw Tarpin in the distance, right down on the highway, waving his thumb at the passing traffic.
Beard was late for his rendezvous with Darlene, but he was tired and hot, and there was much to think about, so he dawdled. Tarpin, not Aldous, was the lover whom Patrice could not shake off, and she made up a story to escape another black eye. But what had stopped the bullying was the thrashing Aldous delivered. Even if Beard had strangled Aldous with his bare hands, Tarpin would have stepped up to take the blame, such was the reach of his obsessive delusional state. Beard’s past was often a mess, resembling a ripe, odorous cheese oozing into or over his present, but this particular confection had congealed into the appearance of something manageably firm, more Parmesan than Epoisses. He was reflecting cheerfully on this formulation – it reminded him that he was still peckish – and was in sight of the Texan barbecue when he felt his palmtop trembling in his pocket. Melissa, the screen told him. Calling before she turned in for the night. But when he put the phone to his ear he heard the sound of a car’s engine and, faintly in the background, Catriona singing.
‘Darling,’ he said quickly, before she could speak. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘We were on the plane.’
Running off with the conductor, taking his child, was his immediate thought. ‘Where are you?’ he said peevishly, expecting her to lie.
‘We’re just leaving El Paso.’
He paused to take this in. ‘How can you be? I don’t understand.’
‘We’re on our way. It’s half-term, Lenochka is taking care of the shops and, as you know, Catriona and I have got something to discuss with you.’
‘Like what?’ Beard said, feeling nameless guilt. What had he done now?
She said, ‘Someone called Darlene phoned to tell me you two are getting married. Before you do, your daughter and I would like a word.’
That. In memory the occasion was as vague as a half-forgotten dream, but he knew the moment, some weeks ago in the trailer bedroom. Darlene had not mentioned it since.
He said, ‘Melissa, believe me, there’s no truth in it.’ As if by saying so he could make her turn back to London and leave his evening free.
She said, ‘Hold on, I’ve got to take this exit . . . One other thing I want you to know before we meet. Terry.’
‘Yes.’
‘He doesn’t exist. I made him up. It was a way of saving face, and it was stupid. It made things worse.’
‘I see,’ Bear
d said.
And he did. She had uninvented Terry, and now he would be expected to do the same for Darlene. He heard Catriona singing or shouting in the background.
Melissa said, ‘We’ll see you soon. And you belong to us.’ She rang off.
He remained where he was, leaning against a pole that supported a loudspeaker. Thank God it was silent. Around him the site was emptying as the sun lowered and men came to the end of their shifts and headed for the parking lot. As he recalled it, he and Darlene had been making love after drinking one hot afternoon, and the air conditioning was at its highest setting, rattling like a madman at the bars of his cell. Seconds before he came, she cupped her hand around his balls and asked him to marry her and he had said, or shouted, yes. Perhaps the notion of such wild folly and abandon was what brought him on. How could he have meant it when he was already not married to Melissa? No one would believe a man at such a moment? The point was that Darlene had discovered his other life, and like the bold player she was, she was forcing his hand. Someone, or everyone, would be disappointed. Nothing new there.
Beard reached for his infrared car key, whose reassuring solidity seemed to contain all the miles he wanted to put between himself and Lordsburg. It would be sensible to slip away now, find lodgings along the interstate in Deming, avoid Darlene and Melissa all day tomorrow in order to concentrate on his world-historical event, then face them afterwards, together or separately. Anything but face them this evening. But as he turned to walk towards his car, he felt great sadness at losing the promised hour with Darlene. The old parliament of his selfhood was in uproarious division. An eloquent voice of experience rose above the din to suggest that denying himself a long-awaited release could be even more damaging to his concentration. He ignored this voice and continued walking. Sometimes a man had to make sacrifices, for science, for the well-being of future generations.
But then came deliverance. He had taken barely thirty steps when he heard his name called behind him. She had come out from under the Texan-barbecue awning into the thoroughfare just a hundred yards away, and was running towards him in a jiggling, splayed-arm manner, and he felt relieved. They would go straight to his motel room. The decision was out of his hands.
For reasons of her own, she did not ask him why he was heading in the wrong direction. They strolled companionably arm in arm down the boulevard of green latrines towards the parking lot. When they were there she thought it would be better if she left her car and came in his. He could think of no good reason why not, except that he would be bound to her company, tomorrow morning as well as tonight. That was surely what she had in mind. As he drove towards Lordsburg she slid her left hand across his lap, and she caressed him the whole way while she told him what she would do when they were indoors. He was in a trance, no other thought in his head, as he turned into the motel drive and pulled up outside his usual room. He went robotically to the office to check in. Soon they were reclining their excited naked bulks on cool sheets behind a double-locked door. Only ten years ago, when he still thought he could rescue himself with exercise, he would have been shocked by his own pneumatic form, by his concertina of chins, and by the ribbed contours of the woman he was stroking, and by the sweaty scent of newly cut grass that arose from armpits, groins and crooks of knees, heavily enfolded regions that rarely saw air or light. Yet everything was as thrilling as it had ever been. She was a kind and ingenious lover, who sucked and licked and teased and drew him wetly in, but when his moment came, he remembered to refrain from giving himself away in marriage.
Afterwards, they lay closely side by side. She lifted her weight onto one elbow and, gazing down on him fondly, played with the few tufts of hair that survived behind his ears. His eyes were closed.
‘Michael?’ she whispered. ‘Honey?’
‘Mm.’
‘Did I ever tell you that I love you?’
‘Yes . . .’ He had been thinking, with strange lucidity of his old friend, the photon, and a detail in Tom Aldous’s notes about the displacement of an electron. There might be an inexpensive way of improving a second generation of panels. When he was back in London he would blow the dust off that file. He said again, contentedly, ‘Yes.’
‘Michael?’
‘Mm.’
‘I love you. And d’you know something?’
‘Mm.’
‘You belong entirely to me and I’m never letting you go.’
He opened his eyes. Post-coitally, it troubled him, that women could not instantly discard their intimate pre-coital personalities, but lingered instead in an oppressive continuity of feeling. He, on the other hand, was luxuriating in the rediscovery of his unshareable core, in nurturing that private little part that was a man’s closest approximation – was this ridiculous? – of a foetus. Ten minutes before he had felt he belonged to her. Now, the idea of belonging to anyone, of anyone belonging to anyone, was stifling.
He was roused to accusation. He said, ‘You phoned Melissa.’
‘I sure did! More than once.’
‘And you told her we were getting married?’
‘You bet.’
She was still completely naked, but from somewhere she had produced a stick of gum – she never chewed while they made love – and set her jaws in their easy circular motion, and at the same time grinned good-naturedly down at him, waiting for his outburst, and enjoying herself.
‘How did you get the number?’ An irrelevant question, but her jauntiness had thrown him.
‘Michael! You called her from my place while I was at work. You think it doesn’t show up on the phone bill?’
He was about to speak but she laughed and clutched his elbow.
‘Do you know what happened when I called that number first time? A little child answered and so just to make sure I said, “Sweetheart, can I speak to your daddy?” and do you know what she said?’
‘No.’
‘Real serious. “My daddy’s saving the world in Lordsburg.” Isn’t that cute?’
It was no longer possible to have such a conversation naked. He went to the bathroom and fetched a dressing gown, and when he came back he was surprised to find her getting dressed. She still looked cheerful. He sat on a chair by the bed, watching her as she stepped into her skirt and bent with a grunt to fix her shoes.
Finally he said, ‘Darlene, let’s be clear. We’re not getting married.’
She spoke as she pinned her hair in a mirror by the TV set. ‘I have to get home to shower and change. I’m helping out at the school tonight for an hour. But don’t worry. Nicky gets off work at the pharmacy in ten minutes and she’ll give me a ride.’
She was ready to leave and came and sat by him on the edge of the bed. She smiled ruefully and patted his knee. He was already feeling some rising regret that she was going. Was it self-love, this appetite for such a voluminous woman? His life had been a steadily mounting curve, Maisie to Darlene.
She said, ‘Listen to me. A list of things you ought to know. One is, you’re not an entirely good person, nor am I. Two, I love you. Three, I always assumed you were married. You didn’t talk about it, I didn’t ask. We’re consenting adults. Four, when I spoke to Melissa I found out there was no Mrs Beard. Five, there have been times when you made love to me you said you wanted to marry me. Six, so I’ve decided. We’re getting married. You’ll kick and scream, but my mind’s made up. I’ll wear you down. No escape, Mister Nobel Lauree-ate. The stagecoach is pulling out and I do believe you’re on it!’
She was so merry, so hopelessly optimistic and well disposed. So American. He started to laugh, and then so did she. They kissed, then kissed deeply.
He said, ‘You’re magnificent, and I’m not marrying you. Or anyone.’
She stood and took her bag. ‘Well, I’m marrying you.’
‘Stay a little longer. I’ll drive you home.’
‘Uhuh. I just got dressed. You’ll make me late. I know you.’
She blew him a kiss from the door and was gone.
&n
bsp; He remained in the chair wondering whether to phone Hammer and find out how the meeting with the lawyer went. The conversation would be easier from his own point of view, he decided, if he took a shower first. He thought he might watch the local TV news to see if the project was getting full coverage, but the remote was under a pillow, under one of many, on the far side of the bed, and he did not feel like stirring, not just yet. He was so lethargic that it crossed his mind that it would be a fine thing to move, or be gently moved on a hospital gurney to another room where the bed was made and his clothes were not sliding off the chair and the contents of his suitcase were not advancing across the floor. Not possible. He belonged here, in this world. So he would take a shower, now. But he did not get up. He thought about Melissa and Catriona approaching him along the Interstate, driving into the sunset, and how wise he had been, not telling Darlene of their arrival. She would want them all to have dinner together and discuss the future. He wondered where Tarpin was staying, and then he reminded himself he should be feeling excited about tomorrow, which made him think again about Hammer. And so his mind turned soporifically through the complications of the evening, so that when it came, the explosive knock or kick against his door, his startled surprise took the form of an involuntary leap from the chair and a jolt of pain through his chest. Then it came again, two powerful blows resounding against the hollow plywood.
‘All right,’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming.’
Pulling open the door sucked the dry asphalt warmth of the evening into the motel room and revealed Hammer against an orange sky, and behind him a large figure in a suit.
‘I’m not even asking,’ Hammer said flatly. ‘We’re coming in.’
Beard shrugged as he stood back. Why then should he apologise for the state of the place?
Hammer looked pale, his face was rigid. He said in the same unmodulated voice, ‘Mr Barnard, Mr Beard.’ It was usually ‘Professor’.
Beard shook the man’s hand and gestured towards the chaotic bed, the only place to sit, and he returned to his chair. Barnard, who carried a document case, brushed the sheet with a fastidious flick of his hand, reasonably concerned about bodily fluids getting on his grey silk suit. Hammer sat beside him, and the three were hunched close together, like children plotting in a bedroom on a rainy afternoon.