Dear God. Difficulties. “Yes, love. The bailiffs took my painting. I had to give it to Sheehan today.”
She was horrified, outraged. “And he did that? We must tell the police, Lovejoy!”
Women with conviction slay me. “We’d not get ten yards, love.” No acting now; I felt really despondent, fated.
“Can’t you do another painting?”
I stared. She knew even less about antiques than Big John, a zilch minus. “The one the bailiffs nicked was an 1891 Unterberger. It took me eight weeks.”
Another fire engine wah-wahed past. The street was in uproar, traffic tangled.
“Then we’ll buy him one, Lovejoy.”
Hopeless. “Look, love. This hoodlum has a standing army of eleven killers. He needs my Unterberger to goldbrick a collection of dud William IV antiques—to authenticate his dross, so he can sell it to a dealer he hates. The deal’s success depended on my fake.”
My mouth dried. Two goons were standing opposite, staring somberly at the porch. I shrank. “Crisping your car was his opener.”
She shrank with me. She was learning, but slowly. She said with asperity, “I’ll speak to my husband about this, you just see if I don’t!”
“Janie.” I pulled her inside the museum. It’s mostly natural history— gruesome animal relics, skeletons, birds’ eggs. Nobody ever goes in except a dozy curator. 1 cupped her face in my hands, though I was shaking and every neuron in my panic-stricken cortex was shrieking to run for it. “They’re going to catch me sooner or later. Well, so be it.” I gave her a noble if sweaty smile of self-sacrifice, a real Sidney Carlton.
“But it’s… murder, Lovejoy!” Her poor little—well, rich and big— experience couldn’t cope with all this criminal behavior.
“Yes, darling.” I sighed more soul, gave her a gentle kiss to show utmost sincerity. “But I won’t let you suffer. I’ll…” I swallowed in panic because my life depended on how she took my next lie, “… go out and face them.”
Her eyes filled. “Oh, Lovejoy! You’re so brave!”
Fuck the tears, you silly cow, my aghast mind shrilled. Get on with it! Buy me a plane to Alaska, Istanbul, Hull…
“Good-bye, Janie.”
“Wait!” She was in tears, desperately swinging her lovely hair as she cast about. Her voice took on resolution. “I’m not going to let you! There must be a way!”
“But what?” I said, most sincerely brave and puzzled.
“I’ve got it!” She was so thrilled. “Algernon!” she said excitedly. “I’ll send you with Algernon!”
“Algernon?”
“Yes, of course! Macao! My husband’s firms partly finance that racing syndicate!
Advertising or something. Stay overseas, a week maybe, and Mr. Sheehan will have quite forgotten about your mistake with that painting.” My mistake? See the way they shift the blame? She drew me among the horrible glass cases. I went willingly, now she’d seen sense. “Quickly! I’ll send for a car, we’ll collect your things. You’ll catch Algernon at the airport.”
I almost fainted with relief. “I’ve got no things, love. The bailiffs.” But they’d given me an envelope with two dud checkbooks, driver’s license, and passport. Then I confessed, to clarify things even further, “I’ve no money, doowerlink. And think of the expense.”
“Lovejoy!” she said, kissing me fiercely. “I’m determined! Do you understand?”
About bloody time. “Yes, dearest,” I said humbly. At last I was heading for safety out of this whole mess.
An hour later, though overcome by nostalgia, I shrank down in the limousine rather than give a backward glance at the High Street, the shoppers, the distant green countryside to the town’s north. Janie’s driver headed us out on the A12 trunk road while she pretended a frosty boredom and secretly held my hand. My jacket bulged with a wadge of notes and travelers’ checks. I had no luggage, only an outdated pamphlet on Macao that Janie had grabbed in the money exchange. Not much to be leaving with, but if I stayed I’d have less.
3
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ONCE upon a time, before a helpful lady ravished my chastity into extinction, I used to wonder about women. Even though at the time I was only a beardless wobbly-voiced sprog with vocal cords, for an alarming spell, unsure of their destiny.
The day after my virginity vanished—V-Day plus one, so to speak—it dawned on me that women are affected by men as much as we are by them. That is to say, women are the cause of almost all the world’s theories, which is why most theories aren’t worth a light. Like, I mean, if a theory’s any good, it ends its career and becomes fact, right?
Well, my own particular theory about women is that they’re constitutionally incapable of feeling appetites same as us. I’ve said it before, but don’t misunderstand me: they have their moments, but it’s all tangential stuff. They get peckish, but never quite reach that outermost pitch of actual hunger that we feel. They desire, but can’t absolutely lust. A bloke, now, is the exact opposite. When we crave, we can’t see, think, do anything else at all, for nothing matters until it’s gratified. That’s why women always seem so odd; their appetites are always in relative neutral. I just can’t understand the point of living in a state of less than maximum revs. Birds are really odd. You can’t tell them this, though. They won’t have it. They always say things like “Women feel love more than men,” which is a scream and only goes to show. It proves my point, because love isn’t a mere feeling, but there’s no telling women. Like talking to a brick wall. I have to mention this now because there might be no time later on, and in any case, it’s women that rule us, though they pretend the opposite. Hence I was fleeing from an unfair vendetta caused by Janie when I’d done nothing wrong and it was all her fault. See? In spite of everything, I like their company more than anyone else’s, but haven’t quite got the hang of why they all hate each other so. Still, that’s
