The Touch of Innocents

  ‘I suppose a man like you has many girls. Is Paulette one them?’ she asked, trying to sound indifferent.

  ‘Paulette? Good God, no. Couldn’t. She’s a friend of the family, so to speak. Used to be a pretty girl but … it would get too involved.’ He swallowed more wine, relaxing, lowering his guard.

  ‘She gave me the impression she didn’t spend all her time in London, that she was really only a visitor.’

  ‘S’right.’ The words were beginning to slur a little. ‘She’s a silly bitch. Comes to London to hide.’

  ‘Where would someone hide in London?’

  ‘Be buggered if I know. She moves about a lot. I just phone … Look, what’s all this about bloody Paulette?’ There was suspicion in his voice; in her heart she heard one of the doors slam.

  ‘Nothing, not a thing,’ she reassured.

  ‘Not jealous of a younger woman, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe a little.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t come here to talk about bloody Paulette. I came here to have a bit of fun, which is exactly what I propose to do. Again. In just a minute.’ He drank again, ran his hand up the inside of her thigh. He looked at her for a while, and then moved once more for the scarf. She beat him to it.

  ‘My turn, lover. Your chance to relax for a change. You mighty man.’

  His face flushed with apprehension but he did not object, inhibitions of inadequacy overwhelmed by alcohol, and he lay submissively on the bed, arms raised. She tied them severely to the bed head; he winced but uttered no complaint.

  ‘I want the full works,’ he insisted. ‘Use your imagination, not your hands. Don’t want you scratching me to pieces with those filed fingernails of yours.’

  ‘You’re not going to know what hit you,’ she said, smiling. She reached for a linen napkin from the table. ‘It’s what I call blind man’s buff.’ And she placed the napkin over his eyes, securing it tightly around his head so he was completely sightless.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘Wait for it.’

  And there was the organizer. She scooped it up as she headed for the drinks trolley from which she took a bottle of a popular cream liqueur. Irish liqueur. Blackheart country, she thought, and it hurt even more.

  ‘What is it? Where are you?’

  ‘You will never have tasted so sweet,’ she reassured, unscrewing the bottle. She ripped off his underpants and proceeded to drip the creamy liqueur, spot by spot, from his eager lips slowly down his chest to his navel. The effect was electrifying. He tightened, not knowing where the next drop might hit, feeling it cool and trickle upon his hot skin, every part of him growing tense, rigid, his excitement extreme. He proceeded to cry, utter low moans of pleasure, alternately to complain and congratulate as he waited, blind, bound, helpless, for the next tantalizing drop.

  And she flicked through the organizer. It took her a while, one-handed, divided attention; flickering screen, trembling body. Dashing between hope and hell. At one point she dropped it on the bed, but he was aware of nothing except the sensation of cream liqueur being massaged gently with the tip of her small finger into many parts of his body.

  There was no record under ‘Paulette’. With climbing anxiety she searched under ‘Devereux’ but Fauld was growing more demanding, insisting she be more physically explicit.

  And there it was. ‘Devereux’. With Paul’s details. And then, separately, Paulette. Nothing but a telephone number. In London. She had it. She had it!

  ‘Come on, woman, don’t drown me in the bloody stuff.’

  But she was busy sweeping her underwear and tights from the end of the bed into her bag. She rose from the mattress.

  ‘What …?’

  ‘Don’t worry, lover. I’ve got to disappear to the bathroom for a second. Another surprise for you. And have this to keep you going.’ She dribbled more liqueur onto his lips and the pink tongue reached out to capture every drop. ‘You wait right here. I may be a little while.’

  She replaced the organizer exactly where she had found it – he must never suspect her real motives – and in a stride had retrieved her shoes and dress. In the bathroom it was the work of less than ten seconds to towel away the dampness and climb into dress and shoes, the rest could come later. Her coat, a hand through her hair. One last glance at the trussed and blindfolded body. Then she slipped out the door, pausing only to hang a sign on the handle requesting early room service.

  Her whole body dripped with fury and disgust; she resolved to put Fauld out of her mind forever. But as she fled through the hotel foyer, one further thought insinuated itself into her mind. She picked up a payphone and dialled.

  EIGHT

  Devereux spread himself across the green leather of the Government Front Bench, his feet propped languidly upon the Clerks’ table, enjoying himself. It was a debate on the economy, the Chancellor of the Exchequer was up batting for the Government and he was building a minor monument to the fact that most things in politics conform to the cock-up rather than the conspiracy theory. Conspiracies involve a meeting of minds; there was none here. Fuelled by good dinners and the heady atmosphere of the crowded late-night Chamber, the Opposition were being merciless in taunting the Chancellor by resurrecting his many optimistic but ultimately erroneous prognoses of the last election campaign, when he had spied many a green shoot bursting through the arid economic wastelands.

  ‘Green shoots?’ one loud Welsh voice derided. ‘What sort of trip was the bloody man on? If there were any green shoots around he must have been smoking ’em!’

  Devereux hid his mirth behind a sombre expression. Must support the Chancellor. In public. Even as the man dug his own political grave and removed himself from the lists of ‘the man most likely to …’

  The House of Commons attendant appeared beside the Speaker’s Chair and passed a green message slip along the ranks of Ministers crowded onto the bench. From hand to hand it was carried, until it had reached its destination, Devereux. He opened it, irritated that he should be disturbed in the middle of such fine entertainment, the irritation turning to exasperation and anxiety as he read. His daughter was waiting for him in Central Lobby. What on earth? With a curt bow in the direction of Madam Speaker, he immediately vacated his seat and the Chamber.

  He found her lurking beside the statue of Gladstone. Devereux gasped. In the weeks since he had last seen her she had grown emaciated and unkempt. A pallor had invaded her face and the skin had roughened, signs of wear which she had attempted to cover in excessive layers of cosmetics. The result was a garish, scarcely recognizable mask, slashed across by two brightly rouged lips. They appeared to be moving.

  ‘I had to see you.’

  This was not the place. Central Lobby is the busy crossroads of Parliament where politicians and public congregate; it offered Devereux no chance of privacy. But few places within the Palace of Westminster offer privacy – he had to get her to his room, even though that lay on the other side of the building and entailed a long walk through corridors bustling with colleagues. Many cast a jaundiced eye in his direction as they saw him hustling along a young woman who was clearly remarkably rough trade.

  Ahead of them, in the Library Corridor, he could see a group gathered around the news service printer, swapping gossip and ribaldry, their spirits and volume high. In mid-sentence their exchanges ground to a halt as their attention turned upon him. And the girl. He knew what they must be thinking and flushed with embarrassment. That they should think that of him. That they could think that of her.

  He pushed her into his room and slammed the door closed.

  ‘In God’s name, Paulette …’ His voice bristled with anger.

  She stood, head down, and wouldn’t meet his eye. And as he saw her misery, his voice fell, flooded with concern.

  ‘Look at you! What on earth has happened?’

  ‘I need help.’

  Not ‘please’, not ‘Hello, Father’ – she rarely called him ‘Father’ or used any other form of add
ress, it had all grown so distant; he got a more personable greeting from the professional beggars in their doorways up the Strand.

  And she always wanted, always took, never gave. Now he had discovered why she took and what she used it for – he should have guessed much earlier, should have known, but a father is always the last to know when it comes to his own little girl.

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Money. I need money. Just a few hundred pounds.’

  ‘A few hundred. On top of the few thousand.’

  ‘I’ve had a difficult time and—’

  ‘No more,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘I told you last time that there would be no more money, Paulette. Any other form of help that it is within my power to give. But no more money.’

  ‘But I need some cash. Can’t you see I’m starving? At least give me enough to eat.’

  He stared at her, what she had become, struggling to find any trace of his child within this ghastly apparition, tearing at himself inside.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why? Just when I’m getting better. You told me to sort myself out and that’s just what I’m doing. Honest. But do you think it’s easy? I’m in agony, cold, hungry. I just want enough to live on while I’m getting my head straight.’

  And he wanted so much, so desperately, to believe her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just a hundred, a measly hundred, that’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘I’ll pay for a private clinic anywhere in the country, everything you need there, but not a penny in cash. I told you before.’

  ‘You told me lots of things before.’ For the first time the two charcoal eyes that were burnt into the mask turned directly to him; they had a vicious edge. ‘You told me that you loved me.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I bet you told mother that you loved her. Is that why she killed herself?’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘You drove her to it, now you want to turn your back on me, too. Is that it?’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Paulette—’

  ‘A hundred bloody quid. That’s all. And you want to moralize with me?’ The tongue sprang forth like a cobra’s. ‘You cheated on her, cheated on her like a dog. All I can remember of my mother is her crying herself to sleep, every night, alone. And now you want to cheat me, too.’

  ‘I don’t! I want to help. I love you.’

  ‘But not enough to give me money to eat.’

  ‘It’s because I love you that I say no!’

  ‘But that’s always your version of love. Saying no. To me. To mother.’

  ‘I’ll not help you destroy yourself.’

  ‘I’m starving, for Chrissake. Can’t you see?’

  He could see, but he could find no words, could do nothing but look on in bewilderment.

  ‘I wonder what all those other bloody politicians were saying as they saw you and me. Another one of Devereux’s women? Going down-class a bit, isn’t he? But he did always screw anything in sight, even when his wife was around, didn’t he? Didn’t she even find him giving it to her best friend? In her own bed?’

  He collapsed on the sofa, burying his head in his hands, sobbing.

  Then she was on her knees beside him. Touching his hand. Sobbing too.

  ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry,’ she gasped. ‘Didn’t mean to hurt you, please forgive me. It’s just so hard for me right now. Say you forgive me, Father.’

  He looked up through swollen eyes. ‘We have a lot of forgiving to do in our family, Paulette. Of course I forgive you. I love you. I want to help you.’

  ‘I promise, on my mother’s memory, I’m clean. No more nonsense. All I need is just a little time. And a little money—’

  ‘No!’ he cried, and with a sweep of his arm had hurled the side lamp across the room where it smashed into the far wall. ‘Because I love you – No! Can’t you see it would be so easy to give you the money, to stop this persecution? But it would be wrong. I may have done so little for my family of which I am proud, Paulette, but I would rather die than watch you harm yourself still further.’

  She had sprung back to avoid the flying table lamp, and now she stood by the door.

  ‘So what do you expect me to do? How do you expect me to live?’

  He had no words, simply shook his head. She opened the door to leave.

  ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’ she shouted in a voice which echoed along the corridor. ‘I’m going to get the money from a man. Lots of men. Whatever they want, so long as they pay for it. Just like I’ve got money before. I’ll use my body, just as you have. Like father, like daughter. Except there’s one big difference between us …’

  He looked at her as though he had seen his own corpse rise from the grave.

  ‘You fuck for power, I fuck for money. Hard cash,’ she screamed. ‘And my way, dearest Father, is one hell of a lot more honest than yours. I feel filthy just having been associated with you!’

  His hand stretched out to restrain her, to bring her back, but she was gone. In her place at the door stood a colleague, immediately joined by another, drawn by the commotion. They took one look at him and, with mumbled apologies, left.

  Devereux sank to his knees. And towering above his head, just as on that night in the stables with the dog, his father’s face was laughing at him.

  Barely daybreak. Inside, the cathedral was gloomy and ill-lit, light sufficient only for the handful of passing souls who had come to pray beneath the soot-encrusted roof and the droning passage of a cleaning woman polishing the floor of wooden tiles. It was a place of heavy atmosphere, of unfulfilled dreams: the vast domed ceilings had been intended for lavish gilt and mosaic, not bare brick that displayed only the ravages of time and a century of corrupting candle smoke, and which leant in one corner upon a buttress of polythene-clad scaffolding. The time span of God is eternal; not so His roofs.

  It was cold. Daniel shivered as he entered, unshaven, unbreakfasted, hurriedly dressed, summoned by her message. It had been many years since he had entered a place of worship, yet he found himself instinctively making the sign of the cross. Couldn’t help himself. Conditioned.

  ‘Never knew you were a Catholic,’ he greeted, slipping into the place beside her in one of the rearmost pews. It smelt of fresh polish.

  She offered nothing in reply beyond a shake of her head.

  ‘Why here?’

  ‘Nowhere else to go,’ she responded eventually.

  ‘I’ve been dying a thousand deaths, waiting, imagining the worst,’ he told her, his own sleepless night lending an edge of accusation to his voice. If he had been hoping for sympathy, even an explanation, he was doomed to disappointment. Nothing.

  She had changed, aged, the vitality gone, the cheeks hollowed as though with a sculptor’s knife. The fingers twitched in agitation as if passing rapidly over some invisible rosary. The eyes were dark and starved of sleep.

  She had withered, like one of the beshawled women who huddled devotedly at the far end of the nave before the great altar. She was not the woman who had set forth the night before.

  ‘I got a telephone number,’ she uttered eventually in a small voice. ‘Paulette’s. I thought.’ She raised eyes filled with reproach to the huge painted crucifix that hung suspended above the congregation. ‘But it’s not. No one’s number. A public telephone in a coffee shop. Never heard of any Paulette.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Daniel,’ she bit. ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  Towards the front of the cathedral a bell sounded the call to morning prayer; people bobbed in their seats and devotions began.

  ‘What do I have to do, Daniel? Even Abraham got a break. I’ve given everything; how much more am I supposed to give? My career. My son …’ Her eyes fell from the cross to her lap, the thought unfinished.

  ‘Yourself?’

  She turned towards her friend, her eyes brimming, and nodded. ‘Everything. I’m fresh out of things to give.’

  She failed to
notice the lines of his face slowly turning to stone.

  ‘All I want is Bella. My child. What’s so bloody unreasonable about that?’ She was trembling, gazing at the crucifix, alone with fractured hopes and beliefs. A low chanting of responses rose from the other end of the cathedral as the crimson-cloaked priest, diminished by the distance, began pacing his way through the ceremonies. An old man propped on bent leg shuffled towards them with an offertory bag, hesitated, then passed by, conscious of grief.

  She was back with him. ‘What do I do, Daniel?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘Of course you can, you’ve got to.’ His tone was abrupt, strangely dismissive.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What could possibly be wrong, apart from the fact that I’m sitting here feeling about as useful and as used as last week’s toilet tissue.’

  ‘What on earth—?’

  ‘It’ll sound a little selfish, I know, thinking about my problems rather than yours for just a fraction of time, but have you any comprehension of what it makes me feel like, to sit here and have you discussing the loose elastic in your underwear while you’ve got me playing the white man, taking cold showers back in the hotel room. Jesus, if only I’d known you weren’t coming back last night I could have gone out and maybe got lucky myself.’

  ‘Daniel, I never even thought—’

  ‘Precisely. That’s what is cracking my nuts. That you so obviously never even considered what it might mean to me. You took me so much for granted you didn’t even spare me a passing thought.’

  ‘That’s not true. Why do you think it took me so long to call?’

  ‘Because I assume you were otherwise occupied.’

  The ornate chalice glinted in the candlelight as the priest raised it high above his head. The churchgoers queued for the sacrament, coming together in fellowship, sure of support and strength. But not Izzy. Suddenly she was falling into the darkness again through a swirling fog of incense, watching helplessly as the final knot tethering her to reality unravelled into pathetic strands. Panic bit through her misery, but also there was anger. Not a single man would have thought twice about doing what she had done, least of all Daniel. Done it? They would have bragged about it. She’d be damned if she would allow him to make her feel guilty.