Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

“Shouldn’t we offer some to your friend Linda?” Patrick asked.

“She’s not my friend, old boy. She’s just doing a job.”

And when Linda caught up, she did her job, circling them slowly with the camera, saying nothing.

“So what’s the world of academia like?” Cape asked Patrick, when the filming was done and they were resting, trying not to be intimidated by the prospect of the next half-hour. “At each other’s throats most of the time, are you?”

“It is competitive at times,” Patrick confirmed.

“And is it still a fact that a pretty woman can get a first if she’s willing to go to bed with the prof?”

“In my case, definitely not.”

“A clever woman, then.”

“A clever woman gets her first by right,” Patrick pointed out.

“The clever ones don’t always have the confidence in their ability,” said Cape. “They can be looking for another guarantee.”

“I won’t say it hasn’t happened.”

“We’re all ears, aren’t we, Ben?” said Cape.

The bishop gave a shrug. He was staring out at the black cliffs of Lliwedd. He’d looked increasingly unhappy since finishing the joke about the parrot.

Patrick sympathised. Out of support for the wretched man, he felt an urge to be indiscreet himself, to share in the impropriety up there on the mountain. “There was a student a few years ago,” he said.

“Quite a few years, I ought to say. She was very ambitious not merely to get a first, which was practically guaranteed because she was so brilliant, but to beat the other high flyers to a research scholarship.”

“And she gave you the come-on?” said Cape.

“I knew what she was up to, naturally, but it still surprised me somewhat. This was in the nineteen-fifties, before casual sex became commonplace. One summer afternoon in my rooms in college, I yielded to temptation.”

“And she got her scholarship?”

“She did. She went on to get a doctorate, and she is now a Government Minister.” He named her.

“That’s hot news, Pat,” said Cape. “What was she like in bed — playful?”

“All this is in confidence,” said Patrick. He looked across at Linda, and she was filming the view, too far away to have heard. “It was terrific. She was incredibly eager.”

“You heard that, Ben?” said Cape. “The Minister bangs like the shithouse door in a gale. Don’t go spreading it around the clergy.”

Ben Tattersall was hunched in embarrassment.

Patrick felt a surge of anger. The whole point of his story had been to take the heat off Ben. “How about you, Cape? Ben and I have been very candid. We haven’t heard much from you — about yourself, I mean.”

“You want the dirt on me? That’s rich.”

“Why?”

“Ironic, then. Fine, I can be as frank as you fellows, if it keeps the party going. You may not have seen me in forty years, but I’ll bet you’ve seen my work on television. Have you watched The Disher?”

“The what?”

“The Disher. The series that dishes the dirt on the rich and famous. It’s mine. I’m the Disher. As you know if you watch it, my voice isn’t used at all. You have to be so careful with the law. No, my subjects condemn themselves out of their own mouths, or the camera does it, or one of their so-called friends.”

Patrick was too startled to comment.

The bishop said, “I don’t get much time for television.”

“Make some time about the end of February. You’ll be on my programme telling the one about the parrot.”

The bishop twitched and looked appalled.

“I mean it, Ben. That’s my job.”

Patrick said, “Remember what day it is. He’s having us on, Ben. She didn’t film us when you were telling the joke. I checked.”

Cape said, “But you didn’t check the sound equipment in my rucksack. It’s all on tape. The parrot joke. And your sexy Minister story, Pat. We don’t expect you to talk to camera when you spill the beans. We tape it and use the voice-over. A long shot of us trekking up the mountain, and your voices dishing yourselves. Very effective.”

“Let’s see this tape-recorder.”

Cape shook his head. “At this minute, you don’t know if I’m kidding or not. I’d be an idiot to confirm it, specially up here. But I warn you, gentlemen, if you try anything physical, Linda is under instructions to get it on film.”

“He’s bluffing,” Patrick told the bishop. “He probably sells used cars for a living.”

Ben Tattersall was on his feet. “There’s a way of finding out. I’m going to ask the young woman. Where is she?”

Cape said, “She went ahead, to film us crossing the ridge.”

It was becoming misty up there, with another cloud drifting in, and Linda was no longer in view.

“This will soon blow across,” Cape said. “We can safely move on. Then you can ask Linda whatever you like.” His calm manner was reassuring.

The others followed.

Curiously enough, the snow was not a handicap on this notorious ridge. It was of a soft consistency that provided good footholds and actually gave support. Had the night before been a few degrees colder, the frozen surface would have made the near vertical edges a real hazard.

The mist obscured the view ahead, which was a pity, because the rock pinnacles and buttresses are spectacular, but Patrick was secretly relieved that he was unable to see how exposed this razor edge was. He kept his eyes on the footprints Cape had made, while his thoughts dwelt on his own foolishness. What had induced him to speak out as he had, he could not think. To a degree, certainly, it was out of sympathy for Ben Tattersall after that mortifyingly juvenile joke. There was also, he had to admit, some bravado, the chance to boast that a university professor’s life was not without its moments. And there was the daft illusion that this expedition somehow recaptured lost youth, with its lusts and energy and aspirations.

I must be getting senile, he thought. If it really does get out, what I told the other two, the tabloid press will be onto her like jackals.

He had never heard of this television programme Cape claimed to work for. But in truth he didn’t watch much television these days. He preferred listening to music. So it might conceivably exist. Some of the things he had seen from time to time were blatant invasions of people’s privacy.

No, the balance of probability was that Cape was playing some puerile All Fools’ Day joke. The man had a warped sense of humour, no question.

On the other hand, a programme as unpleasant as The Disher — if it existed — must have been devised by someone with a warped sense of humour.

“It goes out late at night on ITV,” Ben Tattersall, close behind him, said, as if reading Patrick’s thoughts. “I’ve never seen it, but a Master of Foxhounds I know was on it. He resigned because of it.”

“It’s real?”

Cape Brown, out ahead, turned and said, “Of course it’s real, suckers. You don’t think I was shooting a line?”

In turning, he lost balance for a moment and was forced to grab the edge of a rock while his feet flailed across the snow.

“Hold on, man,” said Patrick, moving rapidly to give assistance. He grabbed the shoulder strap of Cape’s rucksack. Ben Tattersall was at his side and between them they hauled him closer to the rock.

In doing so, they disturbed the flap of his rucksack. Out of the top fell a sponge-covered microphone attached to a lead. It swung against his thigh.

Patrick stared in horror and looked into Ben Tattersall’s eyes. Despair was etched in them.

“Look away.”

“What?” said the bishop.

“Look away.”

Impulse it was not. These things always appear to happen in slow motion. Patrick had ample time to make his decision. He put a boot against Cape Brown’s arm-pit and pushed with his leg. The fingers clutching the rock could not hold the grip. Cape let go and plunged downwards, out of sight, through the mist. He made no sound.