'And why's that?'
'Surely you don't think it an accident that, of all the people he might have told, he chose to come to you?'
'I don't know, except that I was handier than anyone else.'
'Who else could he tell?' said Henry impatiently. 'He'd never go to the police outright. He stands to lose as much as we do if he did. And for the same reason he doesn't dare tell a stranger.
Which leaves an extremely limited range of potential confidants.
Marion, for one. His parents for another. Cloke for a third. Julian as an outside possibility. And you.'
'And what makes you think he hasn't told Marion, for instance?'
'Bunny might be stupid, but not that stupid. It would be all over school by lunch the next day. Cloke's a poor choice for different reasons. He isn't quite so apt to lose his head but he's untrustworthy all the same. Skittish and irresponsible. And very much out for his own interests. Bunny likes him – admires him too, I think – but he'd never go to him with something like this.
And he wouldn't tell his parents, not in a million years. They'd stand behind him, certainly, but without a doubt they'd go right to the police.'
'And Julian?'
Henry shrugged. 'Well, he might tell Julian. I'm perfectly willing to concede that. But he hasn't told him yet, and I think the chances are he won't, at least not for a while.'
'Why not?'
Henry raised an eyebrow at me. 'Because who do you think Julian would be more apt to believe?'
No one said a thing. Henry drew deeply on his cigarette. 'So,' he said, and exhaled. 'Process of elimination. He hasn't told Marion or Cloke, for fear of their telling other people. He hasn't told his parents, for the same reason, and probably won't except as a last resort. So what possibilities does that leave him? Only two. He could tell Julian – who wouldn't believe him – or you, who might believe him and wouldn't repeat it.'
I stared at him. 'Surmise,' I said at last.
'Not at all. Do you think, if he'd told anyone else, we'd be sitting here now? Do you think now, once he's told you, that he'd be foolhardy enough to tell a third party before he even knows what your response will be? Why do you suppose he called you this afternoon? Why do you suppose he's pestered the rest of us all day?'
I didn't answer him.
'Because,' said Henry, 'he was testing the waters. Last night he was drunk, full of himself. Today he's not quite sure what you think. He wants another opinion. And he'll look to your response for the cue.'
'I don't understand,' I said.
Henry took a sip of his coffee. 'What don't you understand?'
'Why you're in such a goddamned rush to kill him if you think he won't tell anyone but me.'
He shrugged. 'He hasn't told anyone yet. Which is not to say he won't, very soon.'
'Maybe I could dissuade him.'
'That's frankly not a chance I'm willing to take.'
'In my opinion, you're talking about taking a much greater one.'
'Look,' said Henry evenly, raising his head and fixing me with a bleary gaze. 'Forgive me for being blunt, but if you think you have any influence over Bunny you're sadly mistaken. He's not particularly fond of you, and, if I may speak plainly, as far as I know he never has been. It would be disastrous if you of all people tried to intercede.'
'I was the one he came to.'
'For obvious reasons, none of them very sentimental,' He shrugged. 'As long as I was sure he hadn't told anyone, we might have waited indefinitely. But you were the alarm bell, Richard.
Having told you – nothing happened, he'll think, it wasn't so bad – he'll find it twice as easy to tell a second person. And a third. He's taken the first step on a downward slope. Now that he has, I feel that we're in for an extremely rapid progression of events.'
My palms were sweating. In spite of the open window, the room seemed close and stuffy. I could hear everybody breathing; quiet, measured breaths that came and went with awful regularity, four sets of lungs, eating at the thin oxygen.
Henry folded his fingers and flexed them, at arm's length, until they cracked. 'You can go now, if you like,' he said to me.
'Do you want me to?' I said rather sharply.
'You can stay or not,' he said. 'But there's no reason why you must. I wanted to give you a rough idea, but in a certain sense the fewer details you know, the better.' He yawned. 'There were some things you had to know, 1 suppose, but I feel I've done you a disservice by involving you this far.'
I stood up and looked around the table.
'Well,' I said. 'Well well well.'
Francis raised an eyebrow at me.
'Wish us luck,' said Henry.
I clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. 'Good luck,' I said.
Charles – out of Henry's line of vision – caught my eye. He smiled and mouthed the words: I'll call you tomorrow, okay?
Suddenly, and without warning, I was overcome by a rush of emotion. Afraid I would say or do something childish, something I'd regret, I got into my coat and drank the rest of my coffee in a long gulp and left, without even the most perfunctory of goodbyes.
On my way home through the dark woods, my head down and my hands in my pockets, I ran virtually headlong into Camilla.
She was very drunk and in an exhilarated mood.
'Hello,' she said, linking her arm through mine and leading me back in the direction from which I'd just come. 'Guess what.
I had a date.'
'So I heard.'
She laughed, a low, sweet chortle that warmed me to my heart. 'Isn't that funny?' she said. 'I feel like such a spy. Bunny just went home. Now the problem is, I think Cloke kind of likes me.'
It was so dark I could hardly see her. The weight of her arm was wonderfully comfortable, and her gin-sweet breath was warm on my cheek.
'Did Cloke behave himself?' I said.
'Yes, he was very nice. He bought me dinner and some red drinks that tasted like Popsicles.'
We emerged from the woods into the deserted, blue-lit streets of North Hampden. Everything was silent and strange in the moonlight. A faint breeze tinkled in the wind chimes on someone's porch.
When I stopped walking, she tugged at my arm. 'Aren't you coming?' she said.
'No.'
'Why not?'
Her hair was tousled, and her lovely mouth was stained dark by the Popsicle drink, and just by looking at her I could tell she didn't have the faintest idea what was going on at Henry's.
She would go with them tomorrow. Somebody would probably tell her that she didn't have to go, but she would end up going with them anyway.
I coughed. 'Look,' I said.
'What?'
'Come home with me.'
She lowered her eyebrows. 'Now?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
The wind chimes tinkled again; silvery, insidious.
'Because I want you to.'
She gazed at me with vacant, drunken composure, standing coltlike on the outer edge of her black-stockinged foot so the ankle was twisted inward in a startling, effortless L.
Her hand was in mine. I squeezed it hard. Clouds were racing across the moon.
'Come on,' I said.
She raised up on tiptoe and gave me a cool, soft kiss that tasted of Popsicles. Oh, you, I thought, my heart beating fast and shallow.
Suddenly, she broke away. 'I've got to go,' she said.
'No. Please don't.'
'I've got to. They'll wonder where I am.'
She gave me a quick kiss, then turned and started down the street. I watched her until she reached the corner, then dug my hands in my pockets and started back home.
I woke the next day with a start, to chill sunlight and the thump of a stereo down the hall. It was late, noon, afternoon maybe; I reached for my watch on the night table and started again, more violently this time. It was a quarter of three. I jumped out of bed and began to dress, in great haste, without bothering to shave or even comb my hair.
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