Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'Stop this, please.'

'And why would you want to do that?' I continued remorselessly. 'Let me see . . .'

'Shut up,' she said, more intently now.

'Not because of me, obviously,' I said. 'You like me, but so what? I have been around for long enough. It must be something else. Or someone else.'

'Shut up, I tell you! Just shut your mouth!' Her face was transformed; her voice was angry, furious, but her face was one of pure terror. For the first time, she looked what she was.

At that moment, I justified all her opinions about men. I was enjoying myself. I was reducing her to nothing, crying, raging, out of control – truly out of control, not with some fake passion that she sold by the yard to the highest bidder. This was the real Elizabeth, frightened, defenceless and totally alone. I had pushed through all her defences at last. I was not proud of myself, but I could not stop. I wanted to push her over the edge.

'Someone else? That must be it. Someone who does not fit into that ideal of cruelty. Who does not deserve the way you treat them, and you're frightened. Not a woman, obviously. So, a man. Oh, my God! That's it! It's obvious, really. You are in love. You have finally, really, fallen in love.'

She had collapsed off the settee, and was on her knees on the floor, head in her hands, her entire body shaking with sobs as she dissolved into tears of misery and hatred. Then a wave of compassion flowed over me and I regretted what I had said. But only a little. The feeling of triumph was too strong.

'I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!'

She attacked me, flailing at me with her fists, hitting me on the face and on my shoulders and chest. She meant it, and knew how to fight. I had to grab her by both hands to make her stop, and still she struggled to get free and renew the attack. So I bound her to me, by putting my arms around her so she could scarcely move, and then had to lie on top of her, squeezing the breath out of her body as she tried to squirm free.

'Listen to me,' I said into her ear when the struggling subsided enough for me to speak. 'You need to understand a few things here. I am your friend. I don't know why, but I am. You do not understand much about friendship, I know. It is time to learn. I do not judge you or criticise you. I never have. I never will. For as long as you have known me, you have hidden from me. That does not matter either. But it is time to stop. You have fallen in love with someone. Serve you right. You now know it is not merely a word in a book. Your life will change forever, and not before time. You will have to make more room for trust and generosity. And heartache and disappointment, perhaps. Don't be afraid of it. Now, can I risk letting you go without meeting the fate of Herr Wichmann?'

She sniffled, which I took to be a yes, so I cautiously let her go. She immediately came towards me again, and sobbed into my shoulder for a good ten minutes.

'I'm sorry. I have never behaved like that before.'

'And I, also, am sorry you have never behaved like that before,' I said with a smile. 'Who is this paragon of all the manly virtues who has stolen your heart where all others have failed?'

There was a long, long pause, before she finally lifted her face, sniffled – she even managed to make that attractive – and stared at me with defiance. 'Mr Stone.'

I just stopped myself from laughing. 'Are you . . . I mean, really?'

'Don't laugh.'

'I'm not,' I said, 'really I'm not,' although I was. 'It's just that I imagined . . . that Russian count, now. He's a handsome, rich fellow.'

'He's also married. Besides, I do not wish to live in Russia.'

'But Stone is . . . you know . . .'

'Middling height, a tendency to the plump, gruff, unforthcoming and old,' she replied with a watery smile.

'Yes. So . . .'

'He is the only man – apart from you – who does not look at me as a potential possession. He is kind and has asked nothing in return. He likes me, I think, and dislikes everything that others find fascinating. He is completely gauche, and uncomfortable, but seems to want nothing more than to be with me. He is not a shareholder, and never will be. I really do love him. I knew it the first time I met him. I have never known anyone like him, never felt like that for anyone else.'

'Does he know about . . .'

'About me? No. Nothing. And he must not. I want to be loved. Really loved. And by him.'

'Are you ashamed?'

'Of course I'm ashamed! I want to be what he thinks I am. Promise me you will never say anything? Please?'

I nodded. 'I met you for the first time a few months back. I know nothing else about you at all. But I am not the problem at the moment. Drennan is.'

She pulled up her legs, and wrapped her arms around them, then laid her head on her arms. She looked as she should have been, a young girl, innocent, and naïve. 'I'm so tired,' she said. 'And I don't know what to do. I have to stay here, hoping he will come to see me. Every time the doorbell rings, I hope it is him. Every time a letter comes, I hope it will be from him. There is nothing I can do about it. For the first time in my life, I cannot do anything at all except hope.'

'Classic symptoms. You should know, surely? You've read the books.'

'I never thought it would be like this. It is so painful. I am more afraid than I have ever been. Always, in the past, I have been able to take control and think my way through. Now I can do nothing. And he will find out about me, I know he will. And then I will never see him again.'

'Well,' I said, 'that is not necessarily the case. I have not walked out in outrage.'

'But you, Mr Cort, are a liar and a criminal, with the morals of the gutter.'

'Oh, that's true. I had forgotten that.' I took her hand, and smiled. 'And we guttersnipes must stick together. So you can count on me, at least.'

'And what about you?'

'What do you mean?'

'You lecture me about love, but who do you love? About friendship and trust, but who do you trust?'

I shrugged.

'Your world is as cold as mine. The only difference is that I didn't choose my world and now I want to get out of it.'

'I have to go. I have a lot to do tomorrow.'

'Stay with me.'

I was tempted, believe me I was. But I shook my head. 'I think it would be better if I had the singular honour of being the only man in the world ever to refuse you.'

'Twice, now.'

'So it is. Take it as a mark of my esteem.'

She leaned over and kissed me very gently on the forehead, then I saw her swiftly brush a tear from her eye. 'Good luck, my friend.'

I kissed her on the cheek, and left. I felt utterly exhausted. I should have been preoccupied with the fate of empires and the fortunes of the mighty. Instead, the only image in my mind was of a beautiful young woman crying her eyes out.

The next day I went as soon as it was polite to see Sir Edward Merson, Her Majesty's Ambassador to France. I was fairly certain it would be a waste of time, but I had been close to British civil servants long enough to realise that it is necessary to cover all possibilities, to stop up all routes by which blame can come and attach itself. Should everything end badly – and I thought it might well – a failure on my part to alert the British Embassy would undoubtedly become the reason why everything went wrong.

A strange morning, as it turned out, an island of tranquillity in the midst of the chaos that was surrounding me. Sir Edward was not there – it was the hunting season, and he was not a man to allow business to get between him and a quail. So I left a message, then, feeling unsure of what to do next, wandered into the nearby English church where all the English expatriates (except me) gathered as a matter of course every Sunday to listen to the Word of God and breathe in the aroma of the Home Counties. It was like stepping into a different world. The church was a perfect imitation of an English Gothic building, as reinterpreted by people like my own father in the past fifty years. I sat through the entire service, the first time I had done such a thing in many years. My father may have rebuilt the odd church, but he had only rarely gone into them for other than professional reasons. The Campbells were dutiful in their religion and took me along to St Mary's Bayswater every Sunday, but were hardly exuberant in their religiosity. And school chapel, twenty minutes of prayer, hymn, lecture, every morning, was such a commonplace that I think most of the boys there were entirely unaware that it had any religious significance whatsoever. It was just part of the day, a moment where you could drift off in your thoughts and dream of other things.