John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

— They get him yet?

— Who? said Liza, smiling at his performance.

Mor frowned at him, and shook his head, but David pretended not to notice.

— Why, your murderer, of course.

Liza’s mouth fell open, the glass shook in her hand, and then was still. David went on:

— You mean you didn’t know about it? O come on now, Liza, I thought you and Mor had arranged it. You know — we’ve got everything at our party including a murderer loose in the grounds with the cops chasing him. You didn’t know, Liza?

— Shut up, David.

— O excuse me, said David, grinning, and coughed behind his hand. Liza turned to him.

— David, what is this joke all about? Seriously now.

— Well Liz, it’s no joke. Some tinker stabbed his girlfriend six times in the heart tonight. The guards had him cornered here when the rain came on. The way I heard it they left some green recruit to watch for him while they all trooped back to Celbridge for their raincoats. Anyway, they say he’s somewhere in the grounds, but knowing the boys he’s probably in England by now. Come over to the window and you can see the lights. It’s all very exciting.

Liza took a drink and laid down her glass. She said quietly, without raising her head:

— Why didn’t you tell me, Mor?

— I forgot.

— You forgot.

— Yes. I forgot.

David looked from one of them to the other, grinning sardonically. He said:

— Perhaps, Liza, he didn’t want to frighten you?

Mor turned and looked at David, his lips a thin pale line.

— You have a loud mouth, David.

He moved away from them, then paused and said:

— And uncurl your lip when you talk to me. Or I might be tempted to wipe that sneer off your face.

The smile faded, and David said coldly:

— No offence meant, Mor.

— And none taken.

— Then why are you so angry?

Mor laughed, a short, cold sound.

— I haven’t been angry in years.

He stalked away, and in silence they watched him go. Then Liza laughed nervously and said:

— Take no notice of him, David. He’s a bit drunk. You know.

David shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her.

— I must go home.

In the hall Liza helped him into his coat. He said lightly:

— Why don’t you come over to the house and visit me some day? The old bachelor life gets very dreary.

She glanced at him with a small sly smile.

— For what? she asked.

He pursed his lips and turned to the door. With is hand on the lock he said stiffly:

— I’m … I’m very fond of you, Liza.

She laughed, and looked down at her dress in confusion.

— Of me? O you’re not.

— I am, Liza.

— You shouldn’t say things like that. Good night, David.

But neither moved. They stood and gazed at each other, and Liza’s breath quickened. She moved swiftly to the door and pulled it open, and a blast of wind came in to disturb the hall. She stepped out on the porch with him. The oaks were lashing their branches together, and they had voices that cried and groaned. Black rain was falling, and in the light from the door the lawn was a dark, ugly sea. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then turned away from him and said:

— Call me.

She stood very still and looked out at the darkness, and the damp wind lifted her hair. David moved to touch her, and dropped his hand. He said:

— I’ll call you tomorrow.

— No. Not tomorrow.

— When?

— I must go, David.

With her head bent she turned and hurried back along the hall.

All the guests had left the drawing room, and Mor sat alone in a high, winged chair, a glass in his hand and a bottle beside him on a low table. His tie had at last come undone, and his eyes were faintly glazed. Liza went to the couch and straightened a cushion. From the floor she gathered up a cigarette end and an overturned glass. He watched her, his chin on his breast. He said thickly:

— What’s wrong with you?

— Nothing. Have they all gone?

— I suppose so.

She went to the tall window beside his chair and drew back the curtains. The wind pounded the side of the house, and between gusts the rain whispered softly on the glass. Down past the black, invisible fields, little lights were moving. She said:

— I wonder why he killed her.

— They say he wanted to marry her and she wouldn’t have him. I think she was maybe a man-eater. A tart. He killed her. Happens every day, these days.

There was silence but for the wind and rain beating, and the faint sighing of the trees. Mor said:

— I suppose David made his usual pass?

She moved her shoulders, and he grinned up at her, showing his teeth. She said:

— He asked if … he asked me to go with him. Tonight. He asked would I go with him.

— Did he, now? And why didn’t you?

She did not answer. He poured himself another drink.

— I know how David’s mind works, he said. He thinks I don’t deserve you. He’s wrong, though — God help me.

— You have a nasty mind.

— Yes. Though he must have been encouraged when I took the job. That sent me down a little farther.

He looked at her where she stood in the shadows watching the night. He frowned and asked:

— Do you despise me too?

— For taking the job? Why should I? Are you ashamed?

— No, no. Your father is very good to do so much for me. Yes, I’m ashamed.

— Why?

— Don’t act, Liza.

— It was your decision. If you had kept on writing I would have stood by you. We would have managed. Daddy could have —

She bit her lip, and Mor laughed.

— Go on, he said. Daddy could have kept us. You’re right. Kind, generous daddy would have come along with his money-bags to sour our lives. Where’s the use in talking. Me a writer? I’d be laughed out of the county. The bar in the Grosvenor Arms would collapse after a week of the laughing. Did you hear how mad Mor knocked up old man Fitz’s daughter and moved into the big house and now says he’s writing a book? Did you ever hear the likes? No, Liza. This place produced me and will destroy me if I try to break free. All this crowd understands is the price of a heifer and the size of the new car and the holiday in Spain and those godblasted dogs howling for blood. No.

She said quietly:

— If you hated these people so much, why did you marry into them?

— Because, Liza my dear, I didn’t know I was marrying into them.

There was a long silence, then Liza spoke:

— It wasn’t my fault he died, she said, sadly defiant.

Mor turned away from her in the chair and threw up his hands.

— Always, he said. Always it comes to your mind. Blaming me.

She did not speak, and he leaned towards her, whispering:

— Blaming me.

She joined her hands before her and sighed, holding her eyes fixed on the dark gleam of the glass before her. He said:

— Well why don’t you just trot along now after old David there. Sure maybe he can give you a better one. One that will live longer and make you happy.

She swung about to face him. Her eyes blazed, and she said:

— All right then, Mor, if you want a fight you’ll get one.

For a moment they stared at each other, and her anger went away. She turned back to the window.

— Well? Mor asked, and the word rang in the silence. She lifted her shoulders slowly, allowed them to fall. Mor nodded.

— Yes, he said. We’ve had it all before.

He stood up unsteadily, pressing his fingers on the arm of the chair for support. He went and stood beside her at the window. She said:

— They’re still searching. Look at the lights.

Side by side they stood and watched the tiny flashes move here and there in the dark. Suddenly she said: