You grinned, trying to minimize the story. It suddenly struck me that I might have heard about the incident somewhere, one more horrifying night in Northern Ireland.
I said, “When you were there filming, what did it feel like?”
“I can’t remember much about it now. It just happened.”
“You said you got carried away. What did you mean?”
“It was like flying on autopilot. I went on filming and didn’t take too much notice of what was going on around us.”
“Were you excited?”
“I suppose I was.”
“And the people didn’t notice you?”
“Not really, no.”
I said nothing more, but I knew then what had happened. I could see it in my mind: you and the soundman, running and crouching, linked by the equipment, right in the thick of the action, filming by instinct. You said you had had a few drinks, that you were tired, that no one seemed to notice you. I could sense the feeling, imagine exactly how you had felt. For those few moments your cloud had thickened around you and the other man, and taken you through the danger invisibly.
X
We spent three more days in London, ostensibly preparing for our holiday but in practice using the time to get to know each other better, and to spend a lot of time in bed. Your bachelor existence made me feel domestic. We talked about redecorating your flat, I made you buy a lot of cookware and household goods, and as a present I gave you a huge houseplant for your living room. You seemed bemused by all this, but I had never felt more blissful.
We left London on a Thursday morning, driving north on the Mi motorway with no particular route in mind, just a shared wish to be on our own together.
I was still nervous that Niall might be somewhere around, in spite of my self-declared belief that he was in France. Only when we were in your car, speeding away, did I feel finally safe from him.
We stopped for the first night in Lancaster, checking in to a small hotel near the university. We rested after the long drive, feeling happy, anticipating the holiday together. That evening we made plans for the next day, touring around the Lake District.
We discovered we were both lazy about sightseeing. We were content to drive to a place, walk around briefly, perhaps have a meal or a drink, then drive on to somewhere else. I liked being driven by you, and found your car smooth and comfortable to sit in. With our things in the luggage space at the rear, the back passenger seat was empty, and so we used it as a dump for the tourist guides and maps, the food we bought to eat on the way, a bag of apples and chocolate, and all the other accumulated litter of traveling.
For three days we followed an erratic route, crossing and recrossing the north of the country: from the Lakes we went to the Yorkshire Dales, then briefly visited the hills of southern Scotland before returning to the northeast coast of England. I loved the contrasts in the British scenery, the swift transitions from low to high ground, from industry to open countryside. We left the north and headed down the eastern side. You said you had never seen this part of the country before, so it was new to both of us. The longer we were together like this the more I felt I was leaving my old, inadequate life behind me. I felt free of cares, happy, loving, and above all assimilating at last into a normal life.
But then, on the fifth day, there came the first of the intrusions.
XI
We had arrived in a village called Blakeney, on the north coast of Norfolk, and were staying in a bed-and-breakfast private house in the narrow Street leading down to the shore. I had disliked the look of the village as soon as we arrived, but we had been driving all day and all we really wanted was a place to stay for the night. We planned to visit Norwich the next day. The woman who owned the house told us the restaurants closed early, so after a brief rest in our room we went straight out, leaving our bags unopened.
When we returned, all my clothes had been removed from my suitcase and were laid out in neat piles on the bed. Each garment had been carefully folded.
“It must have been the woman downstairs,” you said.
“But surely she wouldn’t come in and interfere with our stuff?”
I went downstairs to find her, but the lights in the rooms were out, and to judge by the gleam under one of the doors upstairs, she had already gone to bed.
The following night, in a hotel in Norwich, I was awakened in the small hours by the sudden and unpleasant sensation of having been hit by something. You were asleep. I reached over to switch on the bedside lamp, and as I did so something moved quickly down the pillow and onto the mattress. It was hard and cold. I sat up in fright, moving away from it, and got the light on. What I found in the bed beside me was a cake of soap, quite dry, perfumed, the brand name engraved into its surface. You stirred but did not wake up. I climbed out of bed, and almost at once discovered the colored-foil wrapper. It had been neatly opened, and laid flat on the carpet. I climbed back into bed, switched off the light, then lay deep under the covers, holding on to you. I did not sleep again that night.
In the morning you suggested driving westward, right across the widest part of the country, and visiting Wales. I was deeply preoccupied with the event in the night, and simply agreed. We realized we had left the road map in the car, so I offered to go down and collect it.
The car was where we had left it the night before, in the hotel park. There was a key in the ignition, and the engine was running.
My first thought was that it must have been running all night, that you had accidentally not switched off, but when I tried the door I found it was locked. The same key was used for both. Trembling, I opened the driver’s door with the key you had given me, and reached in for the one in the ignition. It was brand-new, as if recently bought, or stolen.
I hurled it as hard as I could into the shrubbery surrounding the car park. Back in the room, when I gave you the road map, you asked me what the matter was. I did not know what to say, so I told you my period was due to start, as in truth it was, but the real reason was my growing dread of the inevitable.