‘Oh Madeline, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through today. I’ve got to — ’
She pushed me away.
‘For God’s sake, William, what are you doing? Not here.’
We stood apart. She stared at me accusingly.
‘I brought you these,’ I said.
From the bag I brought out the box of chocolates, which was squashed, and the flowers, which were crushed. Two of the carnations’ heads had come off completely. She smiled when she saw the gift but it was a pitying smile, one I could have done without.
‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘Know what?’
Her smile broadened.
‘That it was my birthday, of course.’
I gripped the box of chocolates tightly and tried to say something, but at first the words wouldn’t come. My mind went back to Mrs Gordon’s inexplicable question — ‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘This is… your birthday party?’
‘Of course it is. Piers very kindly said I could give a party in his flat. How did you get the address?’
Before I had time to answer, Piers himself appeared. He slid his arm around Madeline’s waist and said, ‘Darling, Charles is just putting that new tape on. Do I know your friend?’
Our eyes met and mine were the first to look away. Madeline turned towards him, put her hand on his shoulder and said, ‘No, this isn’t a good time to play it now. Take it off — please? Quickly.’
But it was too late. From the next room I could hear the familiar opening of ‘Stranger in a Foreign Land’: high, bright chords on the keyboard, shakers setting the tempo and the mood, and that strong, plangent figure from the sampled saxophone.
‘Why not?’ Piers was saying. ‘I think it’s smashing.’
I pushed past him and stood in the doorway of the room, watching the other guests as they danced to my music. In spite of myself I couldn’t help feeling a certain grim satisfaction when I saw how well ‘Stranger in a Foreign Land’ was working as a party record. If the other members of The Alaska Factory had been there, I would have turned to them and said, ‘I told you so’. But it would have seemed like an old triumph, now. I had already moved on.
Madeline touched my arm and said, ‘William, can we go and talk? Let’s go into one of the bedrooms for a minute.’
I looked past her, only half-listening. That key change from D major to F: that was really neat. I couldn’t have written something like that a year or two ago.
‘Look — I thought you knew what I was saying that night. When I said I wanted a change. And then I didn’t hear from you, so I thought… well, that you’d understood.’
‘But I sent you this song.’
‘Yes I know, but — you must have written it ages ago, didn’t you?’
‘No, I wrote it last week.’
She followed me as I made for the door.
‘Does Piers know that I wrote it?’ I asked. ‘Has he listened to the words?’
She shook her head.
‘I don’t think so. He’s not very interested in music.’
A riposte occurred to me at this point: something about them being suited to each other, in that case. But I didn’t say it. There’s a time and a place for everything, if you ask me.
*
Sometimes, all you can do is try and wipe things from your memory. As far as the rest of that night is concerned, I’ve done a pretty good job, and there’s nothing much to tell. One thing I do remember is the cold. I’ve never known cold like it. I suppose I could have gone inside somewhere, an all-night café or something, or a hotel, but I was too frightened, you see. Frightened of being seen. I went to a park. Several parks, in all probability, although they start to blur in my mind. I can remember going further into the centre of town, early in the morning it must have been, avoiding the queues for the night buses, ignoring the taxi touts and the beggars who kept coming up and asking me (me!) for money. I can remember heading down towards the river, sitting on some steps for a while. Steps that led into the water. I can’t find words to describe the cold. It was there — yes, it was there — that it started to get light. I watched the sickly dawn spreading itself over the Thames. I drank a whole bottle of champagne and ate a whole box of assorted continental chocolates. I was violendy sick, on two, three or possibly seven separate occasions.
It’s a strange feeling, to feel lonely and at the same time scared that somebody might talk to you. Gradually, after about ten hours or so, the loneliness started to win out. I became desperate to see someone, and my situation began to seem so insupportable that I considered, for the first time, going in and giving myself up to the police. Perhaps it would be best, after all, to make a clean breast of everything. Who knows, they might even have tracked down the real murderer by now, and I wouldn’t be under any suspicion. They’d be pleased to see me, I’d be a valuable witness, and instead of finding myself on the threshold of a never-ending nightmare I’d be able to see the whole business wrapped up and disposed of, never to trouble me again. Oh God, if that could only be true.
I didn’t have the courage to do it myself, of course. If I was going to give myself up I needed someone to help me, someone to take me along to the police station and be ready to back up my story. I only had one friend in London who could be relied upon to do that, and it was a lot to ask. An awful lot. But there was no choice, really. Not when you thought about it.
It took me another couple of hours to walk to Tony’s house, which was in Shadwell. I kept close to the river as much as possible, and then headed up north when I reckoned I’d come far enough. It must have been getting on for ten-thirty by the time I got there. He and Judith had a new, fairly modern little place on a housing estate. I stood in the porch for ages, worried about the impression I would make as soon as they saw me, unable to imagine any coherent way of telling my story. I considered running away again. I hesitated, and wavered, and thought, and sweated, and shook. Finally I rang the bell.
Judith came to the door almost immediately. She was wearing her coat over what seemed (from the parts I could see) to be her smartest clothes, and her hair looked immaculate. Far from being surprised to see me, she gave every appearance of being relieved.
‘William, there you are!’ she said. ‘We were starting to go frantic. We’ve been leaving messages on your machine all morning.’ Before I had time to say anything she had turned around and was shouting up the stairs, ‘It’s all right, Tony, he’s here!’
Tony came running downstairs. He was wearing a light grey suit with a narrow tie.
‘Judith was convinced you’d forgotten,’ he explained. ‘We were a bit worried when we couldn’t get you on the phone all night, you see. We thought you might have gone away for the weekend.’
‘No, I was… round at Madeline’s house last night,’ I improvised, not entirely untruthfully. I didn’t have a clue what was going on.
‘Come into the kitchen,’ said Judith, ‘and I’ll show you what’s what.’
As I followed her into the kitchen, the explanation suddenly hit me. It was Sunday morning, and I was supposed to be looking after Ben for the day while they went up to Cambridge for their luncheon party: that promise I had made more than two weeks ago. As was only to be expected, I had forgotten all about it.
‘There’s some salad in the fridge,’ Judith was saying, ‘and some quiche. You and Ben are to help yourselves but don’t give him any cucumber because he won’t touch the stuff. Don’t ask me why. He’s at that sort of age. He’ll show you how to work the video and he’ll probably want you to play with him on his computer games. There’s plenty of tea, and plenty of milk. He likes his milk with this strawberry stuff in it. It’s very easy, you just have to stir it in.’