Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘Don’t you want to know why?’ She was a little hurt, lifting her head from his shoulder to gaze up at his face. ‘I want to tell someone, you see—’

‘If it’s Clan business, you shouldn’t,’ he interrupted, bending to silence her with a rough kiss — and for a time she let him.

‘But it’s important. I want you to… I only heard today — and you’re Sir Roger’s friend,’ she persisted. ‘It’s to be Easter, you see. It’s decided — and Roger will be there — with guns.’ She smiled, craning up to kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘Do you remember what you said the day we met? You spoke to the Clan, and you said it was time to prove we had the guts to do more than sing about dying for Ireland. Aren’t you pleased we’re going to at last?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘You don’t look pleased. Please be happy — this is what we’ve been hoping for — freedom at last.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he kissed her forehead, ‘it is wonderful news. I’m just anxious for Roger, that’s all. It won’t be easy, even if the people rise together against the British.’

‘I know, but it is something to celebrate, isn’t it?’

Something fine, he said, but a sad cold wave was washing through him. In an effort to suppress it he kissed her hair and her cheek and her neck, holding her very close, until with trembling breath and parted lips she turned her face, and he kissed her passionately, deeply, with all the love he felt for her. Why? Why did you speak of it? She was still trembling when they broke apart and he said in a broken whisper, ‘I must go . ’ She squeezed him tighter, clinging to him as one who has known little, perhaps nothing, of men. Eyes firmly shut, stroking her hair, for a while he couldn’t speak as sad, cutting thoughts waltzed round his head to the tissh, tissh, tissh of the diamond disc phonograph. Why did you tell me? But to even ask was another lie. The blame was his alone. She trusted de Witt — she loved him.

‘I must go,’ he said with more determination. She spoke but it was barely a whisper, and her words were lost at his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t…’ he said, pulling away to examine her face.

Her large eyes lifted shyly then dropped. ‘You don’t have to go. You can stay,’ she said.

‘Your aunt will be home, and…’ he understood and was afraid for her. ‘I… I think I should leave,’ he stammered.

‘Would you like to make love to me?’ She turned her face up with I can, I will eyes, and he felt a frisson of desire and at the same moment guilt that she was offering her love for the first time to a man like him. Tissh, tissh, tissh, the revolving phonograph, as if possessed by the spirit of her maiden aunt, and Laura looked down, disconcerted that he hadn’t spoken or kissed her. ‘You can, it’s all right — I love you,’ she whispered.

‘I love you, Laura,’ he said with quiet sincerity. ‘Please believe me — that’s why I’m going to leave.’ He bent to kiss her but she’d turned her face away, pulling from him, hurt and perhaps a little ashamed.

‘You’re very beautiful and I want you,’ he said. ‘It’s just…’ but he couldn’t think how to explain. ‘I love you,’ he said again, but this time it sounded like an excuse.

‘I’m glad. I love you too,’ she declared brusquely, her back turned as she lifted the needle from the disc.

And now she wanted him to leave at once. ‘I’m sorry. I do love you,’ he said again in the hall, his coat over his arm.

‘Why are you sorry? There’s no reason to be,’ she said, but wouldn’t look him in the eye.

‘Yes, there are many reasons why I should be sorry,’ he said bitterly; ‘but it doesn’t matter now… it’s gone, done…’

‘No. How can you say so?’ and she stepped forward, laying her hand upon his arm. ‘It’s just pride’ — and she lifted her eyes to his face and blushed. ‘What a hussy you must think me.’

‘You’re surprising, beautiful, clever and I want you very much — I love you,’ he repeated, drawing her close. ‘Please kiss me.’

Standing across the road from her apartment, gazing at her lighted windows, he could still taste that last kiss, smell and feel her pressed to him; and when for a moment he shut his eyes she was beckoning him back to be her lover. He stood in the empty street, the railings and the sidewalk were white with frost, his coat open, head bare, the cold pricking his face and hands. He was lonely, he hurt and he hated himself even more, though he knew he’d done the right thing for once; just too late.

There was a taxicab at the end of the street but he wanted to walk, striding out in his best shoes, slipping, almost falling, too angry to care. By the time he reached the Albemarle Hotel it was midnight.

Wiseman answered his door in slippers and a silk dressing gown, its pocket sagging with the weight of a revolver. Raising an eyebrow, he enquired with his customary composure, ‘Are you all right, my dear fellow? You did take care, didn’t you? They keep a pretty close eye on me here.’

Wolff hadn’t taken the trouble he should have.

‘Another drink?’ Wiseman asked, gazing pointedly at his tie and tails. ‘Whisky, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

Wiseman brandished the decanter. ‘You don’t mind if I…’ and poured himself a glass. ‘Sit down.’

‘No.’ Wolff took a deep breath. ‘There’s something you should know.’

‘You’re a bit out of sorts, I can see that. Are you in some sort of difficulty?’

‘I haven’t murdered anyone else, if that’s what you mean,’ he gave a bitter little laugh, ‘yet.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Wiseman replied quietly. ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’ and he indicated the couch opposite with his glass.

Wolff shook his head impatiently. He was standing with his back to the door, tapping his hat against his leg. ‘There’s going to be a rebellion in Ireland — at Easter.’ He spoke hurriedly and mechanically like someone repeating instructions. ‘Not sure of the precise date — perhaps Easter Sunday — don’t know — there will be German guns — don’t know when they’ll be landed — Casement will be part of it — not sure how much of a part — there are difficulties between him and the Clan and the leaders in Dublin. How good is my source? Good.’ He took another deep breath. ‘That’s it. That’s all I know.’

Wiseman had listened with the faintly superior air of a university don coaxing a temperamental undergraduate with nods and smiles. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’

‘Yes.’

‘They aren’t trying to smoke you out?’

‘They — whom do you mean?’ he snapped.

‘The Irish, the Clan, or the Germans — perhaps they fed her this information to test her, or you, or both of you.’

‘You know then?’

Wiseman acknowledged it with a slight nod.

‘No, it’s true,’ he said, wearily. He’d said what he had to say and he didn’t honestly care whether anyone believed him.

‘I see,’ Wiseman drawled, leaning forward, elbow on his knee and chin on his knuckles like Rodin’s Thinker . ‘Do you think you can learn more?’

‘No, and please don’t ask me to try.’

‘It must have been a difficult evening for you,’ Wiseman observed politely.

‘It was fine,’ he lied.

‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’

‘I’m sure. Look, there’s no reason for me to stay in New York, is there?’

‘Do you want to go to Baltimore?’

‘I don’t know — yes — somewhere.’

Wiseman considered this for a moment, sipping his whisky. ‘Perhaps Baltimore is best.’ Then, in his soapiest voice, ‘You’ve done well, old boy. I don’t have to tell you how important this might be. I know you’re tired — go home. Rest.’