He Died with His Eyes Open Page 10

  Before he left, the slaughterer slapped me on the back. 'First pig?' he said. 'Well, you'll have fresh pork for your dinner today, I know Jean. Cheer up.'

  Killing the pig didn't turn me into a vegetarian. I just sat abstractedly over my pork chop at midday, thinking how good it was and finishing up every scrap of it, cutting back to the bone with my big pen-knife and sucking the marrow reflectively out of the end of the bone. Yet I still wondered how it must have felt to take ten minutes to die.

  'You did all right, you know,' Jean said as we started off for the vineyards again at half-past one, to prune.

  'Not as well as the pig did,' I said.

  'We'll do another one next Monday,' said Jean cheerfully. 'There's seven to go.'

  Winter at Duéjouls, alone. I stand at the window with my back to the empty room; I have sold all the furniture that Margo didn't take. I watch the rain attack across the mountain opposite, slashing the leaves off the poplars by the stream. Tomorrow I finish the vendange at the Champagnacs', the grapes black and beautifully iced with a frost that turns your fingers blue. Yesterday I cut my hand with the knife, feeling neither the hand nor the knife. I poured wine on the cut, better than iodine. It'll be difficult loading the tubs full of grapes onto the trailer. The trailer will be solid ice. The wine will be awful. Water. The Champagnacs are the only people who leave the vendange till the middle of November.

  But this cold will pass. The woodlice will come out of the walls again with the spring rain; the snails will sail slowly through the young weeds on the path. There will be warm, wet morning dark with cloud, and I'll be out with my plastic bag and a stick to get a free dinner of snails, the petit gris. I'll put them to fast for nine days with a sprig of thyme, then clean them till they spit with vinegar and salt, boil them out of their shells and cut the shit off them, then do a cold garlic butter with parsley and eat them off the special plates that Margo bought in the market. I shall eat them by candlelight and pretend it's a dinner party. I shan't put the radio on; it talks about nothing but war.

  I listen to France Musique on the rare occasions when they stop playing Mozart and Haydn or some teaspoon concerto in T minor.

  I shut my eyes and it is summer and Margo is back again, sitting out on the terrace with me. She is getting tanned, wearing the straw hat with poppies on it that she bought in the Nouvelles Galeries.

  Did it happen? Before Barbara, did anything ever happen? Impossible—everything is impossible. Time plays such tricks—but why on me?

  There was a silence on the tape. Then Staniland continued on a new tack:

  What am I going to do about my stepson? I can't go on giving him money, I haven't any more. I gave him that five hundred when I borrowed on the equities, and then that other three. I've got to think of Charlotte. Margo, too. Margo has the house at Duéjouls for her lifetime, I've seen to that. If she sells, she just has to share the money with Charlotte. After all, Charlotte's my flesh and blood—not like Eric, Margo shouldn't have made that row at Planet; she thought I'd just pissed off and left her in the shit. But I hadn't. I'd made all the dispositions I could. I'm broke, and I can't make any impression with my writing. It isn't my fault that people don't want to hear things straight. I can't work miracles.

  I put on the next tape, which started:

  Eric takes me for a pushover, a softy. Maybe I am one. But he's ruthless. I know he can't get a job; but he sees the world's in a mess and he takes advantage of the situation by lying in bed all day. He's also a drug addict. Okay. But I'm not responsible for him anymore—he's twenty-three, it's up to the state now. It's not up to me—not up to his mother, either. Poor Margo—-I've heard that if he's not after me for money, then it's her turn. But she's not well off. She has to take in men to make ends meet.

  The player fell silent again. I thought: Of course, I'll trace Margo in the end, but it could take a long time. Suddenly Staniland broke in again and said:

  I felt bad about her, I suppose I ought to go round to Callow Street one of these days, but I'm afraid there'd be a scene like there was at Planet. I wish I could find someone who would listen, instead of just a tape. Barbara? Barbara's no bloody good. When I tried to tell her about Margo she just interrupted me and said, well, your ex-cow decided she wanted to play it on her own, so why don't you leave her be?

  Well, there was me to listen—though, true, it was too late. I switched the player off and looked at the time; ten to seven in the evening, a fine evening. In my early days I had worked at Chelsea nick—the prison. I shut my eyes and spread Chelsea out in a mental map. Callow Street was short; it ran north to south between Fulham and Elm Park Road. But there were a lot of flats in it. In fact, it was nearly all flats. But I wondered if I might have some luck for once and just find the name on one of the street doors. I was already down in the street by that time.

  18

  'Mrs Staniland? Margo Staniland?'

  'Yes, that's me.'

  She had probably been a pretty woman with red hair and smooth breasts, but she wasn't anymore; she seemed to have clouded over and shifted out of focus. The half smile had once been seductive; now it was vague. Her right eye was bloodshot. She had a kind face, with intelligence in it; but it didn't look as if she used that anymore.

  'I don't think I know you.'

  'I'm a police officer,' I said. 'I was wondering if I could come in.' I thought: Does she know he's dead? And does she care?

  'I was just going out, actually,' she said. 'But of course if—' She gestured behind her into the dark flat.

  'I won't take up much of your time.'

  'It's all right, I was only going to meet a friend for a drink. Over at the Water Rat by World's End, do you know it? Just a drink to pass the time.' She led the way into the sitting-room, dark even on this early summer's evening. The room faced east. She sat down on the sofa and indicated the armchair. 'Well? What have I done?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Well, then?'

  When I didn't answer at once she said: 'It's strange, hardly anyone calls me Mrs Staniland anymore. I reverted to my maiden name quite a while ago.'

  'But you were married to Charles Locksley Alwin Staniland?'

  'Yes, that's right.'

  'I'm afraid I have to tell you something unpleasant,' I said. 'Just try and take it easy.'

  'He's dead,' she said flatly. 'I knew it.'

  'Knew it?'

  'Well, I dreamed it. It was a horrible dream.' Her fingers started to pick at each other in a busy, meaningless way, then she fell back in the sofa without crying. She was silent for what seemed a long time. Then she said: 'Was he murdered?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'I'm not surprised,' she said. 'It was all in the dream. He reached out for me the way he used to, then his face suddenly turned shapeless. I dreamed it on Friday night, and I was only just recovering.'

  'He died on Friday. Look, let me get you something.'

  She shook her head. 'No. Just tell me everything you know.'

  I did and then said: 'You might be able to help me catch whoever's responsible. Are you up to talking about it?'

  'Yes,' she said. 'The shock won't hit me for a while yet. Not till after you're gone.'

  'He had enemies,' I said.

  'Did he, did he?' she said, nodding. She jerked her head up at me and declared: 'Well, I loved him.' She started to talk too fast: 'The trouble with Charles was that he shot past everyone; he went like a meteor. I loved him as best I knew how, but he kept breaking away from me. He was always looking forward. Always doing it! How am I going to tell my daughter? Charlotte always said he'd come back! I ought never to have left him, but he didn't give me any choice. Quarrel, quarrel, analyse, no money...'

  She burst into tears; they made a dreadful noise in her throat, like someone raking gravel on a road. When there was a lull she snatched up her bag, hunted in it and produced a crumpled snapshot. She held it out to me. 'That was him holding Charlotte's hand back at Duéjouls, where we lived in France. She's ever so like
him, isn't she?'

  'Now take it easy.'

  'It's like the tragedy of the whole world in a little glass,' she said. 'Great things are all smashed to pulp, and none of us who are left have the spirit to carry on.'

  I didn't say anything.

  'I want to talk about him,' she said, as if I'd told her not to. 'I want to. This wouldn't have happened if I hadn't left him. A stupid quarrel. Oh, yes, I loved him. He was a great man. He wouldn't allow himself to be recognized. I knew. He was engaged in a kind of work,' she said desperately. 'I should have just followed him and tried to understand, instead of making us argue and quarrel. But I was angry at him because he seemed to me to be so wasted, working on the land.' Her. face had lost its shape and was red and ugly. But her eyes were beautiful, a dark grey. 'I've got a little money;' she said, 'I'd always have looked after him. I never really cared what he did or where he went, as long as he came back to me.'

  'I think he was pretty destroyed when you and Charlotte left,' I said. It was a stupid thing to say on the face of it, but I had a feeling it would make her feel better and it did, anyway for a while.

  'Yes, I was best for him'—she nodded—'no other woman would ever have treated him right. He used to tell me that. There was nothing we couldn't discuss together.' She went on: 'I didn't care how often he got drunk as long as he didn't get hurt. I'm guilty, you know. It wasn't till after Charlotte and I had gone that I realized how badly he had needed us. He was the best and sweetest man I ever had. I've had lots, but he was the only one who touched me. Best lover, best and sweetest man— and don't let people tell you anything different, because plenty of them will try. And he was generous. Too generous. I've never been mean about money, but he was something else.'

  'I'll get to the bottom of his death, Mrs Staniland,' I said.

  'Maybe, maybe,' she said dully, 'but it won't bring him back to me. I'll always wait for you, Charlie. Never back! Never, never, never, never back!' After a while she said: 'Let me have him when you're finished, I want to bury him myself.'

  'Don't worry,' I said, 'I'll see to it.'

  'I can afford it,' she said anxiously. 'I've got this money, it's in the post office, I can look after the expenses. See? I'll show you my post office book; I've got the money, I can prove it.'

  'There's no need for that at all.'

  After another timeless pause in the darkening room, she said: 'Someone will have to tell my son, Eric, and I don't see much of him. I don't think I could face it.' She said in a rush: Would you do it?'

  'Certainly I will,' I said. 'If you'd just give me the address.'

  'It's in Soho.'

  I copied down the address she gave me.

  'Don't be too hard on Eric,' she said. 'A lot of people are.' She yawned suddenly, worn out. 'But Charles was never hard on him.'

  'Your son by a previous marriage?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, things were very hard for me in those days, with a baby and no husband. You're a police officer. You give me your word you'll tell him?'

  'Oh, yes, I promise,' I said.

  'Well, thank you very much,' she said, her voice trailing away, and when I saw that she was asleep with exhaustion, her blotched face buried in the sofa, I got up and left.

  I went out into Callow Street, which was filled with golden evening light. The traffic in Fulham Road which made a T with it was jammed solid; what wind there was blew from the south, taking the petrol fumes away with it. I look at my car, noted that someone had run into the front of it while trying to park, and left it to walk down to a drinking club I knew, not far from Hollywood Road.

  There were only four drunks in there when I arrived; also an attractive dwarf with big breasts who had once got a Cabinet minister busted. I ordered a ring-a-ding and drank it alone, slowly, at the end of the bar, staring into the glass. I shook my head over it, and the lady attending the bar who was dressed like a paratrooper came over and asked me if I wanted another.

  I said I did. My watch said nine o'clock. When I felt better I finished my second drink, paid—though they didn't want me to, on the mistaken grounds that I might do them some good with Chelsea law—and walked up the moth-eaten carpet to the street.

  Young people holding each other tight were drifting into the restaurants, and a new moon rocked over the Thames, attended by a single cloud.

  19

  I parked on a double yellow line in Old Compton Street and pushed my way into the German pub. One corner was packed with young men from good homes, the kind that draw unemployment benefit and do moonlight building and plumbing work on the side; they wore paint-stained Falmer jeans, sneakers and T-shirts, and accounted for the row of bikes on the pavement outside. They were big young men and were drinking lager. The other customers were Greeks, Italians, Asians or Maltese. Some of them were local delicatessen owners and shopkeepers, but. most of them were pimps for the whores lounging around the two bars; we knew it was a pick-up centre, but we never did anything about it. It was a pub where the police couldn't win—sited in just the right spot, with the whores' flats, the sex shops and a porno cinema opposite. Also the governor's kickbacks for copping a deaf 'un were too big. The brewers had good legal advice too—the best. So we let it go and just felt a collar or two from time to time without making a lot of fuss about it.

  When I ordered a lager I had to shout. 'Just like a Butterfly Does' and 'Woman in Love' roared out of the jukebox, which was surrounded by girls (most, though not all of them, black) and by punters, most, though not all of them, hesitant, and none of them very appetizing. I drank some beer, then carried my glass over to the group of young men.

  'Evening,' I said pleasantly. 'Anyone here seen Eric?'

  'Eric the Knack, you mean? No, he's not in tonight.'

  'He's broke,' said someone. 'He's out grafting.'

  'He couldn't graft his way out of a wet paper bag, Eric couldn't.'

  'Pity, I've got something for him,' I said.

  'Money?'

  'Why not?'

  'Well, you could try his pad. You a friend of his?'

  'I'm sort of like his uncle,' I said.

  'Eighteen, Petworth Street, third floor. This end of Berwick Street market.'

  'I know it,' I said. 'But I thought that building was condemned.'

  'Well, it is,' said the young man I was talking to. 'It's a squat.'

  'You're not a writ-server, are you?' said the boy next to him.

  'Certainly not.'

  'Not from the council, either?'

  'Not a chance.'

  'Well, if it's really money you've got for him, he owes me a tenner.'

  'And me! He's into me for fifteen quid.'

  One of the young men said suddenly: 'God, I fancy that black bird over there, the one with the sequins.'

  'Bet you the next round you don't go over and tell her.'

  The one who fancied her blushed violently under his short fair hair. 'Do what?' he said. 'No way.'

  'Here,' I said, 'why don't I introduce you to her?'

  'Oh, no. Really. I just sort of fancied her, that's all.'

  'You never know,' I said. 'It's the sort of relationship that might mature.'

  'No, honestly.'

  I knew her by sight. She called herself Gloria Lovely, and I had come across her years before when I was with the Vice Squad. I just hoped she didn't remember my face, but she saw so many faces in her line that I doubted it.

  'Hello, Gloria.'

  She put her sweet martini on the bar. 'How did you know my name?' she said suspiciously.

  'Through a friend. Do you know Eric the Knack?'

  She was a bit drunk. She didn't look as if she had the kind of liver that could manage too many sweet martinis, and she was on grass as well. 'The one that can't get it up, you mean? Thin? Bad teeth?'

  'That sounds like him.'

  'I know him,' she said broodingly, 'he owes me a fiver. He was sick in the bed the night I had him, and he hadn't got all the money. I said I wouldn't get him razored for it this ti
me.' She sighed gustily. 'I don't know why, I never learn.'

  'There's one of those boys over there badly wants to meet you,' I said .

  'Really?' she said, arching her eyebrows, which she had done orange to match her hair. 'What? One of those virgins over there?'

  They've got to start some time.'

  'Yeah, but why with me?' she said bitterly. 'They're all skint.'

  'Oh, come on. You've nothing on over here. There's no harm in it, and they'll buy you some drinks at least.'

  'I suppose if I've got to, I've got to. But if a real punter shows up, they've had it.'

  'They know that,' I said. 'That's in the standard contract.'

  'How many of them are there? What, all that lot? What are they gointer do? Gang-bang me?' She looked at me. 'I'm not sure I don't fancy you better.'

  'Not me. I'm married with three kids.'

  'You mostly are.'

  'I couldn't afford it anyway. I've got a mortgage to cope with.' Something clicked in her eyes. 'You ain't fuzz, are you?'

  'Christ, no. Whatever gave you that idea?'

  'I don't know. It's just that I can usually spot it.'

  'No sweat,' I said, 'I work on the office side of British Rail.' I took her by the arm. 'Come on, Gloria. That's a Latin name, did you know?'

  She came reluctantly. 'I reckon it's you older guys always get it up better.' She added: 'Not that it matters much either way, I suppose, as long as they ain't sick!

  We joined the young men, and I said: 'Okay, this is Gloria, who's going to buy her a drink?'

  'What'll you have?' said the one with fair hair eagerly,

  'A double brandy,' she said with a lethargic shrug. When he had gone off to the bar she said to me: 'His accent comes right out through his pants, don't it?' After a pause she added: 'You really know Eric the Knack?'