He saw her as the loveliest thing that had ever happened to him. He accepted that their relationship had begun simply because she needed sex. He also knew that, however much she protested, it was far more than that now for both of them. That was all he knew. But it was sufficient.
And so they began to meet on the sand dunes. Not as often as before — he had to accept her terms — but at least they were still lovers. Several times more she tried to end it. He couldn’t understand why, and she would not explain. She merely told him there was a part of her life she could not share with him, that she should not really have started a relationship with anyone. But she could never quite manage to dismiss him forever.
‘Don’t you know that I would die for you,’ he told her once. His eyes blazed his passion. He really did love her.
‘You do not know what you are saying,’ she replied. And there was a deep weariness in her voice.
The very first time they met in the dunes, cloaked in the safety of the night’s pitch blackness, they had gathered handfuls of scrub grass for a makeshift bed, stripped naked, and spread their clothes on top of it. She had told him to lie on his back and look at the stars, and then she had started to work on his body with her lovely warm wet tongue and her soft fingers.
She was from a different planet. He had found a kindred spirit, another total romantic, and he loved her so much for that. All other girls that he had known would have laughed if he had tried to use the language he and Marjorie shared. Her poetry was so much better than anything he had ever managed, and she wrote for him. He thought it was the most beautiful poetry in the world. Eventually he stopped trying to find out more about her because he realised he must accept Marjorie Benson merely for what she was to him, the complete package, mystery and all.
His favourite poem had been the one in which she came as near she ever did to telling him that she loved him.
She had handed him the poem, scribbled on a page torn from an exercise book, and he had showered her with kisses. Her face had been wet with tears. He could still taste the saltiness of her skin.
He loved her so much — and now she was dead.
At first his brain did not function at all. He could not think in the present — only relive the glorious past with the woman he worshipped.
Then he had an idea. The only person he could think of who might be able to help him was Mark Piddle. Johnny jogged back to his bicycle carrying his shoes and socks, damp now from lying on the wet sand, pulled them on, and cycled swiftly up the hill to the run-down Victorian house in Cliff Road in which Mark and Irene shared a flat. By the time he arrived it was just after midnight. He was sobbing uncontrollably as he propped his bike against the iron railings outside, and when it fell over as he climbed the steps to the front door, he did not bother to put it upright again. He flung open the door which was never locked — and took the stairs to Mark’s first-floor flat three at a time. Johnny had been there a couple of times to play chess with the reporter. This visit would be a bit different.
There was no bell so Johnny hammered loudly on the battered door.
Inside Mark was still on the phone. He had already filed copy to four national dailies that night — the Daily Mirror, the Daily Mail, the Express and The Telegraph — and had nearly finished dictating his story to the copy-takers of a fifth title, Fleet Street’s newest tabloid, The Sun. He would have loved to keep his interview with Jenny Stone until next day, when he would have been able to file it early enough for it to get the show he thought it deserved, and he could then have gone for an exclusive deal with one of the major papers, but he knew the nationals’ own staffers would have caught up by then. So he was completing a ring-around aimed at catching as many of tomorrow’s last editions as possible. It would work to his advantage locally, though, because only the first editions reached Devon and so, with a bit of luck, the interview would still be fresh around the Durraton area for Thursday’s Gazette. The snapper, too, was back in the office, desperately trying to wire a picture quickly enough to catch the last editions of the nationals.
It seemed that Irene, although waiting up for Mark, had fallen asleep on the sofa. The hammering grew louder and louder. Wondering who the hell it could be at that time of night, Mark covered the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver with his hand and yelled at her to answer the door.
Irene, now wearing skin-tight jeans and one of Mark’s shirts, took some time to stir, but obediently heaved herself awake and went to the front door. Johnny was leaning against the doorpost. His eyes were wet and rimmed with crimson, his face red and swollen from the tears, and the front of his tee shirt still damp with them. His jeans were covered with sand and wet patches from squatting on the beach. His whole body seemed to be shaking, and his breath jerked in short sharp gasps, making it difficult for him to talk.
His voice, when it came, was high-pitched and hysterical. ‘I killed her, Irene, I killed her. I murdered her...’
Mark heard the shouted words just as he completed reading over his piece to the Sun. He hung the phone up quickly and dashed to the door.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said.
Irene, gentle as ever, took Johnny by the hand and led him to the sofa. He was weeping hysterically again.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Mark again. ‘Get him a drink or something. Brandy. Have we got any brandy?’
Irene shook her head. ‘Only some beer in the fridge.’
‘Tea then,’ instructed Mark. ‘Hot sweet tea. Go on, Irene. Move yourself.’
He could just catch Johnny’s incoherent mumblings through the boy’s tears.
‘I killed her. I did it. It was me.’
Mark was stunned into silence. He became aware that the boy was wet with sweat, yet shivering with cold.
‘Irene, get my thick fisherman’s sweater,’ he called. ‘And hurry up, will you? Where’s that tea?’
Irene brought the sweater promptly and made Johnny peel off his damp tee shirt. She had also taken a clean towel out of the airing cupboard and she rubbed Johnny dry with it before pushing his limp arms into the jumper.