Rupert Thomson - Dreams of Leaving

They thanked him for the lift and the advice, and watched as a curve in the road snuffed his tail-lights out.

In the hotel lobby, Mary asked for a telephone. ‘I want to call Alan,’ she told Moses.

‘What are you going to tell him?’

‘I’m going to tell him that we’ve broken down in the middle of nowhere and that we can’t get back tonight.’

‘It sounds awful. It sounds like you made it up.’

Mary smiled and spread her hands. ‘It happens to be true.’

While Mary went to telephone, Moses registered as Mr and Mrs Shirley. The charade he had invented for Peach seemed to have taken on a life of its own.

‘That’s odd,’ Mary said, appearing at his elbow a moment later. ‘There’s no answer.’

‘Maybe he’s gone out or something.’

She pushed her lips forward, shook her head. ‘No, he said he was staying in this evening. He had some work to do.’

‘Maybe he changed his mind.’

Mary didn’t look convinced.

‘Look, you’ll be home by tomorrow lunch-time,’ Moses told her. ‘And, anyway, you’ve been away for longer than this before without calling.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but something doesn’t smell right.’

*

What a day it had been. There seemed nothing for it but to get terribly drunk. After all, as Mary reminded him, it was their first night alone together.

They began with cocktails in the hotel bar, then switched to gin and tonics and carried their gin and tonics, ice ringing in their glasses like chimes, into the dining-room. Mary chose a table in the darkest corner and ordered a bottle of wine.

Moses leaned back in his chair. It felt like weeks since Mary had appeared at the top of the stairs in her black wool coat and her jewels and announced that she was going to change his life. He had been living on his nerves all day and they were beginning to fray and buckle, they were beginning to say, Go and live somewhere else for a while. Hopefully, though, there would be no more surprises. Please, he begged. No more villages. No more fathers I didn’t know I had. No more Peach.

He finished his gin and tonic and, seeking distraction, looked into the room. There was a sudden fluttering of napkins over by the window, as if two white birds had spread their wings only to discover that they couldn’t fly. Another couple had sat down to dinner. The man wore a blue blazer. Crest on the breast pocket. Anchors on the buttons, no doubt. The woman, younger by at least ten years, wore a garish red blouse. Ruffles spilled fussily over her bust. They talked so intimately, these two, that the candle on their table scarcely flickered. Their hands clasped across the condiments. Their eyes locked as if they found each other captivating. But something failed to convince. Each time the waitress came by they flinched, withdrew their hands, turned their faces up to hers with stupid eagerness. They were like two bad actors. Ham love.

The wine arrived and Moses turned his attention back to Mary.

‘Well,’ she said, pouring them both a glass, ‘now that we’ve dealt with the past, what about drinking to the future?’

‘The future,’ Moses said.

They both emptied their glasses.

As Mary poured again, Moses leaned forwards. He began to spin his knife round on the tablecloth.

‘Did I ever tell you about the policeman?’ he said.

‘What policeman?’

‘It happened about four months ago. While I was out. This policeman came looking for me, apparently. He knew my name. He asked Elliot if I was living at The Bunker. Elliot wouldn’t tell him. So he hit Elliot. Out of the blue. Knocked him right over. Then he disappeared.’

‘Who was he?’

‘That’s just it. Nobody knows. And Elliot had never seen him before.’ He swallowed a thoughtful mouthful of wine and went back to spinning his knife around. ‘I’ve got a hunch, though. About who it was, I mean.’

‘Who then?’

‘Peach.’

‘Moses,’ Mary laughed, ‘you heard what your father said. Nobody ever leaves that place.’

‘Well, how come he knows who I am then?’

‘I don’t believe he does.’

‘He used my name, Mary.’

‘I didn’t hear that.’

‘And the way he looked at me — ’

‘I’m sorry, Moses. I just didn’t get the impression that he knew who you were. I think you’re being — ’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Moses hissed. ‘He’s an actor. Not a second-rate actor like those two over there,’ and he jerked a thumb in the direction of the two lovers, ‘a real actor. A professional.’

Mary held her elbow in the palm of her hand. Her cigarette pointed at his face. She watched him calmly through the rapid spiralling of smoke. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to prove,’ she said.

‘I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just saying, suppose he did leave the village. Suppose,’ and he paused for a moment, ‘he came after me.’

Mary shook her head. ‘That’s called paranoia, Moses.’

‘Is it?’ he said.

*

An hour later they were both laughing drunk.

‘And what about,’ Moses was almost weeping, ‘and what about when Marlpit said, “And how is your young ladyfriend?” and Peach said, “Marlpit, this is Mr Shirley’s wife.”’

Uncontrollable hysterics.

Then Moses suddenly said, ‘Oh, shit .’

‘What is it?’ Mary asked.

He groaned. ‘I just remembered. The young ladyfriend. I was supposed to be meeting her tonight. We had some things to sort out.’

Mary’s eyes mocked him for a moment. ‘So call her.’

‘I think I’d better.’

He clambered to his feet. The table rocked, the carpet tactfully absorbed the sound of falling cutlery. On his way to the lobby he meandered past the two lovers. They seemed drunker too. Less stilted, anyhow. Less tense. Red Blouse was ordering a trifle.

‘I shouldn’t really,’ she was saying, ‘but — ’ and her lips disappeared coyly into her mouth. What a naughty girl.

Blue Blazer came to the rescue, his chair a white charger now, his fork a lance. ‘Well, it isn’t every day, is it?’ His smiling teeth glistened beneath his RAF moustache. He could almost taste the sweet sponge and jelly of her thighs. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll have one too.’ The wicked bugger.

Still shaking his head, Moses found the pay-phone in the corner of the lobby. He lit a cigarette. He dialled Gloria’s number with a finger that seemed too big for the holes. The number rang and rang. No reply from Gloria. He dialled Eddie’s number next. He was supposed to be going too. No reply from Eddie either. Now what?

The clock above the reception desk said ten to eleven. They would probably both be at the club by now. So phone the club. But what was the name of the club? The Blue something, he remembered. Yes, that was it. The Blue what, though? Elliot would know, he thought. He dialled Elliot’s number. No reply again. He slammed the receiver down. What the fuck was going on?

He put his cigarette out. Suddenly his mouth tasted of wine and ashes. He swallowed. The taste remained. There were two worlds. One here, one out there. Nobody at home out there. Nobody listening. And him standing here, marooned in this one. A shiver ran the length of his spine. This second world, the world where he had been born, the world where he had already died once, where he could die again, crept up his nostrils, crept into his lungs, like gas. He felt the greedy breath of policemen on his neck. He turned. Nobody there.

He fought loose, won a moment of clarity. Directory Enquiries, he thought. He dialled 192. A woman answered.

‘Please can you help me?’ he began.

The woman laughed. ‘I’ll try.’