“Let’s go and eat, Raymond,” he said.
They’d had nothing since breakfast, and it was already early evening.
Raymond pushed the brim of his hat up with one finger. “Did you say something?”
“What are we going to eat tonight?”
“I bought a couple of tomatoes,” Raymond said, “and there’s half a baguette left over from yesterday. That should do us.”
So that was supper.
Afterwards, Raymond declared himself quite full—“replete” was the word he used — and Billy couldn’t bring himself to disagree.
Over the next few days, as they journeyed south, Raymond subjected Billy to a series of lectures on food. It was his belief that food both dulled perception and extinguished desire. Raising his voice above the clatter of the train, he recited lines from Baudelaire, then he talked about how Jean Genet had written most of his books while hungry. He quoted a letter in which William Burroughs describes finding an inch of fat on his stomach and being repulsed by it. He quoted some Chinese poets as well. The only image Billy could remember later was that of an old man surviving on the leaves that fall from a locust tree. He hoped to God there were no locust trees in Monte Carlo. Food breeds laziness, Raymond said. It breeds complacency. Food’s dangerous. If the trip they were making was to be worthwhile, if they wanted to see things, really see things, they should be careful not to eat too much.
“Dangerous?” Billy said in a quiet voice. “Food?”
“Oh yes,” Raymond said. “The danger cannot be overestimated.”
Billy watched a field of vivid lavender float by. “So we have to starve?”
“Think of Rimbaud in Ethiopia,” Raymond said. “Think of St. Francis in that cave outside Assisi.”
In part, Billy brought it on himself, since he deferred to Raymond constantly. It was Raymond who decided where they stayed — doss-houses every time, for their “atmosphere”—and it was Raymond who came up with the itinerary. But then the whole trip had been Raymond’s idea in the first place, so what was Billy to do? Although he did have a little money of his own, he felt awkward using it — and besides, it wouldn’t have been enough to make a real difference. He was dependent on Raymond, in more ways than one, and Raymond knew it.
In a spirit of defiance, Billy walked over to the snack bar’s vending-machines and bought a packet of crisps and an orange Fanta. He imagined Raymond’s lip curling at this display of weakness. The conversations in the park and on the train had happened at the beginning of their holiday, and it wasn’t until the last night that Billy finally rebelled. It was late afternoon when they arrived in Ostend, and the ferry didn’t leave until eleven. Billy had already imagined a farewell dinner — nothing fancy, just some fried fish and a bottle of local wine — but Raymond had other ideas. He thought they should eat on the boat, or else wait till morning.
Before Raymond could finish outlining his plan for the evening, Billy interrupted. “I need a bit of money.”
Raymond gave him a look that was both baffled and sly, and then took a step backwards. It was possible that he had known Billy would react in this way; in fact, maybe this was the effect he’d been after.
“Please give me some money, Raymond,” Billy said. “I’m starving.”
Before Raymond could walk away, Billy reached out and grabbed him by the collar. As Raymond tried to jerk himself free, his suit jacket split right down the back. Letting out a string of swearwords, he hit Billy on the side of the head with the back of his hand. Billy felt a flicker of triumph: Raymond so rarely lost control. He still needed money, though. As they wrestled on the quay, Raymond’s ankle turned on the cobbles, and he fell over. One knee on Raymond’s chest, Billy pinned him to the ground. Raymond stopped struggling and closed his eyes. Billy found Raymond’s wallet and removed a few notes, then stood up quickly and dropped the wallet next to Raymond’s outstretched hand.
Raymond lay quite still for a few seconds, then opened his eyes and shouted, “Thief!”
At first Billy thought he must be joking — it was Raymond’s sense of humour exactly — but then he saw the fear and hostility in Raymond’s eyes, and in that moment he had the feeling that he didn’t know Raymond at all, that the two of them had never met before and that he had, in fact, attacked and robbed a total stranger.
Raymond shouted the word again, in French this time, and Billy stared in disbelief as Raymond sat up and pointed an accusing finger. Passers-by were looking at Billy now, and at the money in his hand; some of them seemed to be about to intervene. Snatching up his rucksack, Billy started running.
That night he ate by himself, and the old couple who owned the bistro let him sleep in a small room next to the kitchen. The following morning he caught the ferry to Dover. He was home by midnight. He didn’t see Raymond again for years.
23
For the last few minutes he’d had the sense that he was being watched. A light sweat broke out on his forehead as he remembered the figure in the hospital grounds, and how her gaze had seemed to linger on him even after he had moved away, into the trees; there had been a kind of weight to it, as if her eyes were thumbs and they were being pressed into his back. Warily, he glanced over his shoulder. Sitting behind him, two tables away, was an Asian man in a dark-grey suit and an open-necked blue-and-white-striped shirt. Although the man appeared to be staring downwards at his hands, which were resting on the table, Billy still felt as if he was being scrutinised. Facing the corridor again, he started on another sandwich. He now knew what he should have said to Raymond in that pub in Cheshire. I still owe you forty francs. That might have put paid to his irritating smile.
A staff nurse walked past, jingling a bunch of keys. Billy was about to open his newspaper when the Asian man finally spoke.
“You’re guarding that woman, I suppose…”
The man’s voice was genial, and a little careworn, but it had no false notes in it. Clearly, he was no threat to security. Billy turned in his chair. The man was still looking at his hands.
Billy adopted the same innocuous tone. “That’s right. I’m on duty all night. A twelve-hour shift.”
Only now did the man look up. There was a pale cast across one of his eyes, as if candlewax had been smeared over the iris. “You work hard,” he said.
“Pretty hard. What line of business are you in?”
“Hi-fi. I own a couple of shops.”
“I’ve had the same system for twenty years. Ever since I joined the force.”
“Come to me,” the man said. “I’ll upgrade you.”
“I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it.”
“I’ll give you a special price.”
The two men smiled at each other.
Billy raised his can of Fanta to his lips and drained it. “So what brings you here?”
“My wife’s having an operation tonight.”
“Nothing too serious, I hope.”
The man looked away for the first time, his eyes moving across the cafeteria. “I don’t know. Something to do with her bowel.”
“I hope she comes through it all right,” Billy said.
“Thank you,” the man said. “Me too.”
There was a silence during which he appeared to be trying to decide whether or not to go further, and Billy glanced down at his paper. In interviews he often used this technique. If you stepped back, it had the effect of allowing the other person to come forwards, almost involuntarily, and occupy the space you’d just vacated. It was one of the more subtle methods of eliciting a confession.