Lovers and Liars Trilogy

  “You have the most beautiful mouth,” he was saying. “Such lovely breasts…”

  He moved his head lower. His hands were now gripping her waist, arching her back under him. He began to kiss her breasts, more gently now, touching the nipple with his tongue and sucking it between his lips. First her right breast, then the left. A tremor ran through his body. Gini waited, waited, then he straightened.

  His hands moved to the waistband of his pants, and then—when he was half upright, urgent, looking down at her with a blind concentration, she bunched her fist. She swung her arm and hit him with all her strength. The blow landed in the perfect place, just on the pressure point at the side of his neck. Hawthorne gave an exclamation of pain. He released her and stepped back.

  He recovered almost immediately. He stood there, his breath coming rapidly. A look of bewilderment, then anger, passed across his face.

  “I thought you understood,” he began. He took a step toward her. “Gini…”

  “Oh, I understood I understood very well. You’ve been explaining all evening—I see that.”

  There was a silence. His face hardened. “Not clearly enough,” he said. “Evidently.”

  “Look—will you just get out of here now. Please?”

  Gini was trying to refasten her blouse. Her hands were shaking, and she was terrified he would see this.

  “You’re afraid….”

  He was staring at her. Gini stared back. She saw comprehension begin in his face.

  “Your hands are shaking. I thought—” He took another step toward her. He lifted his hand and Gini flinched. She put up her arm instinctively, to shield herself. Hawthorne stopped. His face became set.

  “I see. I begin to understand. Just what in God’s name have you been told about me?”

  “Nothing more than you’ve just told me yourself. Right then.” She gestured furiously at her desk. “If I’d had any doubts before, I don’t now. You’ve just shown me exactly what kind of man you are.”

  “Have I?” His voice had become very cold. “I was making love to you. At least, that’s what I thought.”

  “Making love? You call that making love?” She turned to face him. “You can’t have thought that. I was goddamn well trying to fight you off….”

  “Well, I expect some resistance.” He gave a slight smile. “Under the circumstances. How long would it have continued, do you think?”

  “Get out of here now.” She took a step toward him. “And don’t lie. You heard me—I asked you, I told you to stop….”

  “Ah, but did you mean it?”

  “Yes, and you damn well know I meant it.”

  “Then I apologize.” He gave a small shrug and a cool, assessing glance. “In that case, I must have misinterpreted the signals—”

  “What signals?” she said furiously. “I never gave you one signal—not one.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “After what I’d heard about you? You think I give come-ons to men like you? Well, I don’t.”

  There was a long silence. Hawthorne’s face had gone white. She saw her words register in his eyes like a slap in the face. He gave a sigh.

  “Whatever you’ve been told,” he said in a low, tense voice, “it’s still possible. In this situation…” He gestured at her, then at himself. “In this situation, almost anything is possible. Any extreme. Unfortunately. As I’ve learned to my cost.”

  He turned away and moved across to the door, then he paused and looked back at her. “I wasn’t lying to you earlier,” he said. “In fact, I haven’t lied once since I set foot in this room—which is quite an achievement when you consider the situation. You, me—all of this. I meant it when I said I liked you. I meant some of the other things I implied—which you don’t seem to have picked up. I don’t expect you to believe me now. But when this is over—I hope you’ll remember that, at least.”

  He gave her a long, steady look. “And we were talking about sex too. Love and sex. The two subjects most people lie about most of the time. Especially to themselves. You might think, Gini, about that.”

  Gini looked at him uncertainly. The anger and the fear she had felt had now gone.

  “I did not want this to happen,” she said in a voice as quiet as his. “You shouldn’t suggest I did. I love someone. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—encourage anyone else. Not now. You should understand that.”

  Hawthorne looked at her closely, and sadly. Then he smiled. “You’re young,” he said in an odd, regretful way. “When you get to my age, you’ll realize that even love is no protection at all. These things happen—and they get under every guard. Duty, ethics, vows—yes, even love. None is an adequate defense.” He paused. “You say that now—but can you be sure you’d say it in six months? A year? Tomorrow? Or now—if I kissed you again now?” He took a step toward her; Gini did not move.

  “It’s all right. I’m not going to touch you.” He lifted his hand, then let it fall. “You see—quite harmless.” He turned back and opened the door. “Just remember,” he said over his shoulder. “I wasn’t lying. And ask yourself whether you were.”

  He walked out and closed the door behind him. Gini pressed herself against it. She was shaking. She let out her breath in a shuddering sigh. She hugged her arms tight across her chest. She listened to his footsteps ascend, then cross the sidewalk. She heard his car engine fire, and he must have opened his car windows, because she heard music—a short fine burst of Mozart—before he pulled away, and there was silence in the street.

  When he was gone, she ran across to her desk and picked up the phone. Afterward, looking back, she would ask herself if subsequent events might have turned out differently had Pascal not arrived back at her apartment some six minutes after Hawthorne left. If the gap had been just a little longer, so she had had more time to think; if she had changed her torn blouse, washed her face, tied up her hair, removed the whisky glasses and the coffee cups—would it have been different then?

  As it was, she had done none of those things. She had just sat on the floor by her desk, cradling the telephone and dialing Mary’s number again and again. She was so sure Pascal must be there, was perhaps arguing with her father even then, and it was this which explained his absence. That idea had come to her only as she heard Hawthorne drive away, and it filled her with a new agitation. She kept dialing, getting a busy signal, then dialing again.

  As she dialed, she was also listening for the sound of his motorbike, but no bikes passed or stopped, just cars, just taxis. She heard one of those taxis pull up outside, but that meant nothing. Her hands would not stop shaking; she dropped the phone, picked it up again, redialed again. It was not until she heard footsteps outside, and she heard him calling her name, that she realized. She sprang to her feet, ran to the door, and opened it.

  She began on some quick, joyful exclamation, clinging to him and drawing him into the light, then she stopped and gave a cry of concern. Pascal’s face was white. There was a jagged cut across his temple. The leather of his jacket was ripped open from shoulder to wrist.

  “Pascal, what’s happened? Oh, what’s happened?” she began.

  She went to embrace him, and then she saw the expression on his face. She saw his eyes rest on her face and hair, then fall to her torn blouse, then fix, in turn, on the details of the room behind her: the coffee cups, the whisky glasses, the disarray of objects and papers on her desk. The chair next to her desk had been overturned, she hadn’t even noticed that. Its cushion lay on the floor, together with one of her shoes. Pascal looked at these things, then looked again at her face. He was clasping her arms tightly. He looked at her mouth, and then at her neck, and she saw disbelief start way back in his eyes.

  “Darling, what’s happened?” he began. “What’s been happening here?”

  “So many things…Pascal, wait, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll explain later. You’re hurt….”

  “What in hell’s been happening here?”

  She had been trying to put her
arms around him. He gripped her wrists and held her away from him, his eyes searching her face. The question was sharp. She saw pain and bewilderment cross his face.

  Gini felt herself begin to blush. She felt the color wash up over her neck and into her face. Were there marks on her neck? She thought perhaps there were, and they made her feel guilty. She covered them up with her hand, and she saw Pascal’s face harden into a mask of incomprehension.

  “Who was here?” He walked across the room. He picked up first one whisky glass, then the other. His hands were unsteady. He turned back to look at her. “Gini, who was here?”

  “John Hawthorne was here….” She made a quick movement toward him, gave a little and incoherent gesture of the hands. “Pascal, never mind that now. When you didn’t arrive—I had to leave Mary’s—he gave me a ride back….”

  “Are you telling me you let him in here when you were alone? Jesus Christ, what’s been going on? You had that man in here? You gave him a drink?”

  “Pascal, listen. You don’t understand. I’ll explain. It was all right.”

  “It was all right?” His voice was suddenly ice cold.

  “Your blouse is torn. Your stockings are torn. Your hair—your face. Christ…” He swung around and stared at the disorder of the room, then swung back and took her hand. “Gini, what happened?”

  “He…we were talking, Pascal, just talking, for a long time. Hours. And you didn’t come back. And then the phone rang. And it was that man again, that horrible whispering voice, and then …”

  “Gini, Gini…” He pulled her into his arms and pressed her tight against him. He began to stroke her hair. “Darling, it’s all right. Tell me—he didn’t hurt you? Gini, what has he done?”

  “Nothing.” She began to push him blindly away. “He tried—well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? And then he stopped. And then he went. Pascal, I’m all right. I don’t want to talk about it. Not here. And you’re hurt. Your face is cut—”

  “Out. Now…” He drew back from her and moved across the room. He picked up the desk chair. He looked at the disorder of objects knocked over on the desk, at the cushion on the floor, at one of her shoes, which was lying next to that cushion. “Get your shoes,” he said. “Get your coat. Get any other articles of clothing that got discarded tonight….”

  “Stop that.” She swung around to face him furiously. “Just don’t speak to me that way. Stop goddamn well ordering me around….”

  “Listen.” He moved across to her fast and caught hold of her wrist. His face was tight with fatigue. When he moved his right arm, she saw pain flash in his eyes, and he swore. “Listen,” he said again. “I’m not in the mood for stupid arguments. Just get your goddamn things. While you’ve been sitting here with Hawthorne drinking whisky, I was nearly killed. And it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Pascal—”

  “Listen to me, dammit! My arm’s all smashed up. I’ve just spent Christ knows how long with doctors and police. The bike’s a writeoff. When I finally get away, I go to Mary’s house and there’s no one there. Then I go to Hampstead—you’re not there either. I’m half crazy with anxiety, looking for you, not knowing where you are, what’s happened—and finally, I come here, and what do I find? You’ve spent the evening with that man. You’ve invited him in. You’ve been sitting here with him having a goddamn drink. Your blouse is torn. Your mouth is cut. You’ve got marks all over your neck. …What in Christ’s name am I supposed to think? So don’t you bloody well dare start an argument now.” He broke off and turned away. “Just get your fucking clothes, Gini. All right?”

  There was a silence. Gini did as he said. She put her shoe back on. She fetched her coat. Pascal took her arm and pushed her outside. He slammed the door so loudly, the whole house shook.

  When they were back in Hampstead, the questions began again. Gini’s head ached so much she could not think. She persuaded him, eventually, to remove the ripped jacket. The shirt beneath was also torn. There were cuts and grazes the length of his arm. His right shoulder was so badly bruised that it was already stained a purplish-black.

  “Je m’en fiche, je m’en fiche,” Pascal said furiously. He tried to flex the arm, and winced. “I need to use my hands tomorrow. I have to set up the cameras, use the cameras maybe. Christ…”

  Gini bathed the arm and brought him a clean shirt. Pascal became slightly calmer as she did this, but he had always hated any physical weakness on his own part, and she knew it made him furiously angry with himself.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said, jerking his arm away as she tried to help him button the shirt. “Let me do that. I’m not an invalid. I told you, I have to use my hands tomorrow. Fine, I’ll use them now….”

  “Pascal, it’s hurting you. Just rest the arm….”

  “I will not.”

  “How did this happen? I still don’t understand….”

  “I told you.” He moved away. “There was the truck on my left and a big Ford behind me, right on my rear wheel, coming up fast. The truck cut in on me—then I was off the bike. I skidded along the road. I looked up—and the Ford was coming straight at me. It had its headlights on full beam. There was nothing I could do. I could hardly move. I rolled—maybe. Just a little. Not enough. And then it missed me by this much—six inches perhaps. Maybe it was a misjudgment—but I don’t think so. They could have killed me easily. But they didn’t. Why didn’t they do that?”

  He gave another angry gesture, then a shrug. “So, it was another warning, maybe? The last, perhaps? If so, we know now who’s issuing these warnings. That’s clear, at least. Look at this….”

  He picked up his leather jacket, and from its inside pocket drew out that evening’s newspaper. He tossed it across at her.

  “Hawthorne is behind all this. He is responsible. You were having drinks with a murderer tonight.”

  Gini looked from him to the newspaper. “How can you know that?” she asked.

  “Because there’s no other candidate anymore. McMullen’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “He was killed on the rail line just outside Oxford—hit by a train. His body was found early this morning, around eight. He died within eight or nine hours of leaving us, Gini. I told you we were being used to find him. Well, there’s the result. It’s there, Gini, in the Stop Press.” He paused; his face became set. “So, how was Hawthorne this evening? Clearly he was amorous. Was he also confident? More relaxed? If he was, you know why now. Most of his troubles were over before breakfast this morning, yes?”

  There was a silence. Gini read the item in the paper. She bent her head over the page and tried to think. She looked back at that long evening, that entire evening, and wondered if she had the courage now to tell Pascal what she truly thought. It would increase his anger, she knew that, and probably his hostility, but she couldn’t he, and it had to be said.

  She looked up at Pascal, who was watching her closely. “You’re wrong,” she said flatly. “Pascal, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Hawthorne isn’t responsible. I don’t believe McMullen. I don’t believe Lise. Hawthorne isn’t the way they said.”

  She was expecting another angry outburst; instead, Pascal’s reaction was quiet, and dangerously calm.

  He moved away and sat down in a chair; he lit a cigarette. “Fine,” he said after a long silence. “That seems a very surprising reaction on your part—considering what happened tonight. Obviously I don’t understand what happened. Perhaps you should fill me in on all the details. I have already asked you, several times, to do that. What’s changed your attitude toward Hawthorne so radically, Gini?”

  “Do we have to go over this now? It’s late, you’re in pain. It’s complicated. It’s a long story. …”

  “No problem,” he said icily. “I intend to hear it. All of it, Gini. And I don’t give a damn if it takes all night.”

  Chapter 32

  BY TWO IN THE MORNING, she had already told Pascal her story twice. It had been punctuated by concern, then ang
er, then incomprehension on his part. Outside, it was still raining heavily. Pascal’s face was white and drawn, and she knew he was in pain. The more Gini said, the more she had a hopeless sense that the distance between them increased. Pascal was now looking at her as if she were a stranger, someone he did not greatly like.

  “You’re lying,” he said simply when she had finally finished speaking. “If you’re not lying, you’re avoiding something, leaving something out. This story doesn’t explain your change of heart. The reverse.”

  “Then it’s because I’m not telling it the right way,” Gini said quietly. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pascal.”

  “I’m sorry.” He held up his hand, as if warding off some hurt. He leaned forward. “I know that, Gini, but you must see, it makes no sense. Why are you suddenly so convinced he’s innocent? Neither he nor your father gave you any proof. All right, they told a convincing version, but it’s just another version, Gini.”

  “It wasn’t that. It wasn’t then.” She hesitated, and saw him tense.

  “All right. So it was later. When you were alone with Hawthorne?”

  “He began to convince me at Mary’s. My father too. Maybe it helped when he intervened between me and my father.”

  “I would imagine so, yes. That was very convenient for him.”

  Gini let this pass. She sighed. “Pascal, I can’t explain. It wasn’t what he said to me so much, it was the way in which he said it. When he talked about his marriage, the other women…I know he was telling me the truth.”

  “Jesus Christ, Gini.” He gave a gesture of exasperation. “This innocent man of yours, this honorable man—what does he do when he gets you alone in your apartment?”

  “I know. I know. But before that for a long time he just talked.”

  “He talked. Fine. And what did he talk about? About women. About love. Gini, for God’s sake, he fed you the oldest line in the book. How his wife failed to understand him, failed to satisfy him…”

  “That’s not what he said.”

  “And you bought it. Gini, think. You’re not a child. The whole conversation—it was provocative.”