Айрис Мердок - The Nice and the Good

The lazy sinister summer evening thickened with dust and petrol fumes and the weariness of homeward-turning human beings drifted over Notting Hill like poison gas. The perpetual din of the traffic diffused itself in the dense light, distorting the facades of houses and the faces of men. The whole district vibrated, jerked and shifted slightly, as if something else and very nasty were trying, through faults and knots and little crazy corners where lines just failed to meet, to make its way into the ordinary world.

Ducane was hurrying along, consulting a little map which he had made in his notebook to show him the way to where Peter McGrath lived. He felt a certain amount of anxiety about this surprise visit to McGrath. Ducane did not like playing the bully, and deliberate and calculated bullying was what it was now necessary to produce. He was also anxious in case he should bully to no purpose. If he had to use force he should at least use it quickly and efficiently and get exactly what he wanted. But he unfortunately knew so little about his victim that he was uncertain how best to threaten him, and once the advantage of surprise had been lost McGrath might refuse to talk, might stand upon his rights or even 'turn nasty'.

There was behind it all the unnerving fact that so far his inquiry had got nowhere. The Prime Minister had asked for an interim report and Octavian, who had had nothing to tell him,. was getting nervous. The newspaper was still withholding the story, George Droysen's further investigations in Fleet Street had produced nothing, it had proved impossible to trace 'Helen of Troy', Ducane had searched Radeechy's room in the office without finding anything of interest, and the promised authorization to examine Radeechy's house and bank account was held up on a technicality. Ducane might reasonably have complained that as his inquiry had no status it was not surprising that it was unsuccessful. But he had undertaken the task on precisely these terms and he hated the idea of defeat and of letting Octavian down. McGrath was still his only 'lead' and everything seemed to depend on what more he could now be bullied into telling. This thought made Ducane even more nervous as he turned into McGrath's road.

McGrath lived in a noisy narrow road of cracked terrace houses, some of which contained small newsagents' shops and grocers. Most of the front doors were open and most of the inhabitants of the street, many of whom were coloured, seemed to be either outside on the pavement or else hanging out of the windows. Not many of the houses bore numbers, but by counting on from a house which announced its number Ducane was able to identify an open doorway where, among a large number of names beside a variety of bells, the name of McGrath was to be seen. As he hesitated before pressing the bell Ducane felt his heart violently beating. He thought grimly, it's like a love tryst! And with this the thought of Jessica winged its way across his mind, like a great black bird passing just above his brow. He was going to see Jessica again tomorrow.

'Bells don't work,' an individual who had just come down the stairs informed him.'Who d'yer want?'

'McGrath.'

'Third floor.'

Ducane began to climb the stairs, which were dark and smelt of cats. In fact as he climbed three shadowy cats appeared to accompany him, darting noiselessly up between his ankles and the banisters, waiting for him on the landings, and then darting up again. On the third floor there was a single well-painted door with a Yale lock and a bell. Ducane pushed the bell and heard it ring.

A woman's voice within said,'Who is it?'

Inquiries at the office had not revealed that McGrath was married, and Ducane had assumed him to be a bachelor.

Ducane said,'I wanted to see Mr McGrath.'

'Wait a minute.' There were sounds of movement and then l. nnsL Saxe.

'Rats?' said Ducane.

'Cats, rats, outsize rats I call them, I'm going to open the door and you must rush in, otherwise they'll get in too, quick now., The door opened and Ducane entered promptly, unaccompanied by a cat.

The person who had opened the door for him was a tall woman with a very dark complexion, so dark that he took her at first for an Indian, dressed in a white dressing gown, her head wrapped in a towel. Possibly the white turban had suggested India. There was something very surprising about the woman though Ducane could not at first make out what it was. The room was a little obscure and hazy, as the curtains were half pulled.

'I can't abide cats, and they take things anyway, they're half starving and they scratch; my mother told me I had one jump on my pram and it was sitting there right on my face and ever since if there's a cat in the room I can't get my proper breath, funny isn't it. Have you got a thing about cats yourself?'

'No, I don't mind cats,' said Ducane. 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but I'm looking for Mr McGrath.'

'Are you a policeman?'

The question interested Ducane. 'No. Is Mr McGrath expecting the police?'

'I don't know what he's expecting. I'm expecting the police.

I'm expecting the Bomb. You've got a sort of hunting look.'

'Well, I'm not a policeman,' said Ducane. But I'm the next best thing, he thought with a little shame.

'McGrath's not here. He'll be back soon though. You can wait if you like.'

Ducane noticed with some surprise that his agitation had now completely disappeared, being replaced by a sort of calm excited interest. He felt physically at ease. He could well believe that he had a hunting look and he wore it coolly. He began to inspect his surroundings, starting with the woman who confronted him.

The tall white-clad woman in the turban was certainly not Indian. Her complexion was rather dark and wisps of almost black hair could be seen escaping from the towel, but her eyes were of an intense opaque blue, the thick dark blue of a Northern sea in bright clouded light. Ducane judged her to be some sort of Celt. She stood before him equally staring, with a relaxed dignity, her arms hanging by her sides, her eyes calm and slightly vague, like a priestess at the top of some immensely long stone staircase who sees the distant procession that wends its way slowly towards her mystery.

Startled by this sudden vision, Ducane lowered his eyes. He had been staring at her in a way that was scarcely polite and, it now seemed to him, for some time.

'Don't tell me who you are, let me guess.'

'I'm just from – ' Ducane began hastily.

'Oh never mind. In case you're wondering who the hell I am, I'm Judy McGrath, Mrs McGrath that is, not old Mrs McGrath of course, she's dead these ten years the old bitch. I'm McGrath's wife, God help me; well, you'd hardly think I was his mother, would you, though I'm not what I was when I won the beauty competition at Rhyl. I did win it, you know, what are you looking like that for? I'll show you a picture. You married?'

'No.'

'I thought you were a bachelor, they have a sort of fresh unused look. Queer? T 'No.'

'Not that you'd tell me. It's their mothers that do it to them, the old bitches. Why don't you sit down, there's no charge. Drink some pink wine, it tastes like hell but at least it's alcohol.'

Ducane sat down on a sofa covered with a thin flowerprinted bedspread, which had been tucked down into the back of the seat. The room was cluttered and stuffy and smelt of cosmetics. A second door, half open, showed a darkened space beyond. The furniture, apart from the sofa, consisted of low dwarfish chairs with plastic upholstery and modern highly varnished coffee tables, grouped round a television set in the 11LLMG VaNVN, lalll:y aJu-Clay, ~llula all-aio. ~ a-u…~y..u~…, looking camera lay upon one of the chairs. A white frilly petticoat was extended upon the linoleum reaching into the darkened doorway. The place had somehow the air of a shop or a waiting room, an unconfident provisional faintly desperate air, an atmosphere of boredom, an atmosphere perhaps of Mrs McGrath's boredom.