“Hey, Polly, people get dumped. It happens, you know. Get the fuck over it. What, you think you have a right not to be hurt? Not to be unhappy? I was a shit, I admit it, but a guy sweettalking a girl into bed is not rape. Little girls getting gangbanged in alleyways, that’s rape.”
Polly smouldered for a moment and then gave it up.
“Get out, Jack. You just don’t get it and you never will.”
“No! No!” Jack simply would not let the argument end. “
There was nothing Polly could do. If Jack did not want to leave she could not force him. She could call the police, of course, but she had no desire to do that. Besides which, despite herself Polly was beginning to become rather interested in Jack’s obsessions. It was obvious to Polly that Jack had some deep, deep problem inside himself. A problem which for some reason he had sought her out in order to deal with. In some ways it was quite fascinating.
“They let the first women into the Citadel this year,” Jack said, producing what appeared to be a non sequitur.
“The citadel?” Polly enquired.
“It’s a military training facility. They let in forty women who want to be turned into shaven-headed, desensitized grunts.”
“How depressing.”
“Is that what you wanted, Polly?” Jack snapped. “For women to turn into men?”
“Why are you asking me this stuff? Don’t you have therapists in the army?”
But Jack was not listening to Polly. “Truth is they can’t do it,” he continued, almost to himself. “They’re not up to it. Ladies can’t run as fast, punch as hard or lift as much as men. At the Parris Island training centre forty-five per cent of female marines were unable to throw their grenades far enough to avoid blowing themselves up. Female trainees are twice as likely to get injured, five times as likely to be put on limited duty! These are the facts, Polly. But facts don’t matter, because this is politics. Politics decides on its own reality, and if anybody objects they will be condemned as sexist Neanderthals and their careers will be over. It is a witch-hunt, Polly. Leftist McCarthyism. We’re living through the fucking Crucible.”
“And you see my problem, Jack, is that I don’t care,” Polly replied. “Don’t you understand? I don’t care!”
Jack was pacing the room now. “The US military manual has been changed to accommodate the equality lie. It’s called ‘comparable effort’. Women get higher marks for doing less. They do six press-ups, the guys do twenty; they only climb halfway up the rope. Assault courses are called ‘confidence courses’ and you get to run around the walls if you can’t get over them. What happens when there’s a war? You think the enemy will say, ‘It’s OK, you’re a girl, we’ll go easy on you’?”
Polly tried once again to get at whatever it was Jack was trying to tell her.
“Why are you projecting all this onto me, Jack? This is pathological. I’m an ordinary Englishwoman living somewhere above the poverty line in Stoke Newington. I knew you when I was seventeen! This has nothing to do with me! Yet it’s almost as if you’ve come to me tonight to blame me for what you think is wrong with the world-”
“Well? Well! Aren’t you pleased we’re falling to bits? Aren’t you pleased we don’t know who the fuck we are any more? Gender politics is rendering the Western world ungovernable!”
Polly had been interested for a moment, but her interest was over.
“It isn’t, but if it was I wouldn’t care! Do you understand? I don’t care about it either way, all right? What happens to your army and who you choose for president is a matter of supreme indifference to me! Because tomorrow morning I have to go to work and wade back into a sea of people who have been abused, cheated, demeaned and destroyed all for reasons of race, sex, sexuality and poverty. They don’t have much hope, but if they have any I’m it, so please, Jack, leave, because I have to get some sleep.”
“OK, OK, I’m going.”
Jack got up and started to put away his bottles, and Polly sat back down on the bed feeling terribly, terribly sad.
53
The milkman had finished his breakfast and brushed his teeth. It was time to go to work. He wondered about going upstairs on his way out and speaking to the woman above. He decided against it. She still had someone with her; it would be embarrassing. He’d have a word that evening, just to let her know that two could play at the complaining game.
He turned off his radio, switched off the lights and let himself out into the hall.
At the bottom of the house, sitting in the hallway, Peter heard the door open and close and then the sound of a heavy footfall on the stair. This Peter knew was his best chance. The man above him, the man coming down the stairs, was the American. It was only minutes since Polly had ordered him to go, and now that was what he was doing. Besides which, who else would be walking out of the house at four thirty in the morning?
Silently Peter retreated into the shadow behind the stair. His enemy was on the floor above him now, the footsteps descending fast. The dark shape of a man appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Peter leapt out of the darkness and plunged his knife deep into the man’s back. He heard the man try to cry out, but there was only a muffled, gurgling sound.
The milkman sank to the floor without a word and lay there gulping his last blood-sodden, strangled breaths beside the bicycle. Looking down at him, Peter noticed that one of the tyres of the bicycle was flat. He also noticed that whoever he had killed it was not the American.
54
Jack and Polly had also heard the milkman leave. Jack was relieved; he had no wish to encounter the other residents of the building. He finished putting away his bottles, then collected Polly’s glass from the bedside table where she had left it and drained his own.
“I’m sorry about going on so much,” he said. “It’s just that I had to tell you all that stuff.”
“That’s OK,” Polly assured him. “Actually I’m glad. I’m glad you did.”
Jack did not ask her why, and Polly did not tell him. The truth was that the things Jack had talked about, the feelings he had displayed, had made Polly feel better about herself and, more important, better about not being, or wanting to be, any part of Jack’s life. It seemed to her that he had been right in a way about linking her with the ideological struggles he found so frustrating. The world had changed a little and for the better. Big tough guys like Jack couldn’t quite have it all their own way any more. Power was no longer an absolute defence against bad behaviour. Bigotry and abusive practices were not facts of nature; they could be challenged, they could be redressed. And perhaps, in her own small way, Polly had been a part of that change. She and a few million other people, but a part none the less.
Jack had stepped through into the kitchen area and was washing up the glasses.
“Jack, please, you don’t have to wash up,” Polly said.
“Yes, I do, Polly. I have to wash up,” Jack replied, drying the glasses thoroughly with a teatowel.
“My God, you’re a new man and you don’t know it,” Polly laughed.
Having cleared up the drinks Jack took a look around the room. He seemed to be checking that everything was in order.
“So General Ralston dropped his candidacy for the chair of the joint chiefs,” he said. “The Kelly Flinn scandal had put so much heat under the issue of sexual morality in the military that he had to withdraw rather than further provoke the liberal feminist lobby.”
Polly went and got Jack’s coat. “Goodbye, Jack.”
