That night, Lizzie Blank went down to Gino’s Club. It was Ladies’ Half-Price Nite, and very crowded. There was a man who stood up on a stage and insulted the audience, and people laughed at him. She was amazed when she learned that he got a wage for it. She thought it was just one of those things that happen.
She had just got on the right side of her first Tequila Sunrise when Clyde appeared. He made a nuisance of himself all night, nursing a Brown Split, with his feet stuck out and getting in the way of the dancers. She could see him watching her, his lugubrious face splintered by the mirror ball into a thousand bloodshot eyes.
It was two o’clock when she left, slipping out of the back door. She thought in terms of an early night, although it was true that sleep didn’t interest her like it did other people. For a time she had taken Lizzie Blank’s clothes with her in a carrier bag when she went out at night, and changed in a ladies’ lavatory somewhere, but the weather was getting a bit chilly for that, and she didn’t expect to meet Mr. Kowalski on the stairs. And what if she did? She smiled absently to herself. She had just got some new boots, white leather ones with platform soles and very high heels. Clyde saw her from the knee downwards, as he blundered out of the strobe lights and into the dark.
It had been raining earlier; the air was still damp, and there were puddles underfoot. Clyde had a torch. Slicing through the clammy night, the beam buried itself in her new coney coat, nuzzling at the dark-brown fur. She saw her face in one of the puddles, a white moon, a globe. There was a smell of vomit and chicken curry. Cats cried like human babies from the wall of an old washhouse. She put her back to the plum-coloured brick, waiting for him to catch her up.
Clyde thought his luck was in. She could tell that from the way his long face split in an uncertain grin, and from the way he fumbled at his flies. He lowered the torch beam decorously. She reached forward and took the torch from him, tickling the back of his hand in a flirtatious way with her long nails. Her face downcast, she turned the beam full on Clyde’s exposed genital equipment. Clyde darted back. “Shy?” she said; half challenging and very coy. She reached out with her right hand for what he had on offer. A thin wail rose to join the noise of the cats. For good measure, she hit him with the torch on the side of the head. It was surprisingly sturdy, she thought, for plastic; she would keep it as a souvenir. Clyde backed off, folding his long body in half and retching onto the cobblestones. He flailed his arms and upended a dustbin with a clatter. Its entrails spilled out across the yard. From inside the club, Sam-7 and the Alkali Inspectorate ground their rhythms into the smoky air; off the beat, Lizzie stamped on Clyde’s fingers. From way across the town she could hear the sound of a train rattling across the points, the 1.10 A.M. sleeper from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston. Fearing that the damp might bring Lizzie’s hair out of curl, she took her chiffon scarf from her pocket and shook it out. She saw the stars through it, the fuzzy and rose-pink constellations, so lost and far away, all shot through with the Lurex in the weave. Her blood was up. She knotted it under her chin as she clicked along the street.
She was only a quarter of a mile from Napier Street when she met Mr. K.; and it was all over quickly. She was not surprised to see the familiar shape trundling along, enjoying the amenities of the small hours. For a moment she forgot that it was Lizzie who was out, and she almost called to him. They came face to face at the street corner. It was clear at once that he shared Clyde’s misperceptions; he thought that she was an amenity herself. He raised his stubbly head, and she saw the loneliness and hunger in his eyes. Bugger this for a game of coconuts, she thought. He put out a hand, so she bit it. It was quickly and unreflectingly done; a few clumps with her doubled fist, while the torch beam blinded him. She was not stronger than other women, but quite free from their dread of inflicting pain. “
Colin’s dreams now lay in ruins; also, it was necessary for him to move his bank account. He called into one or two, picking up leaflets about mortgages and saving schemes, furtively eyeing the cashiers to see if they appeared libidinous. Standing in the High Street, he found himself clutching a sheaf of dark purple leaflets entitled “Our Executor Service.” Hastily he stuffed them into a passing litter bin, looking round to see if he was being observed.
When he arrived home, Dr. Rudge was just leaving. Sylvia, bundled into her combat jacket, was seeing him off at Florence’s gate. It was 4:30 P.M., blue and cold. He let himself in at the front door. Suzanne was hanging about in the hall, probably waiting for the phone to ring.
“Did Jim call you?” he asked.
“Yes, he called.”
“So you know what happened?”
“Yes, so I know.” Her voice was listless. She crossed her arms over her belly. “I can’t follow all the— permutations. It tires me. My back aches.”
“Have you told your mother?”
“No, what’s the point? That’s up to you.”
“Yes…thanks.”
“Only, if you start rowing, I’ll have to leave. I can’t stand it.”
“I don’t think that will arise.”
“You’re not going to tell her about Isabel?”
“She probably knows. I think she does. Oh, not the name…but that there was somebody. I’m not sure that Isabel being Jim’s wife adds a new dimension to our problems. It seems to, when you first think about it, but…it’s not incest or anything, is it?”
“No, it’s not that. Well, I hope you can sort yourselves out.” Suzanne nodded distantly, as if they were only slight acquaintances. It was good of her, he thought, not to take up a moral stance. “It’s kind of weird,” she added, as she lumbered away.
Sylvia came in, rubbing her blue hands. “Oh, there you are, Colin. I’ve had a rotten day.”
“You look all in.”
“She’s shouted and raved for hours. You know what it is now? She keeps pointing at Lizzie and saying that her name’s Wilmot. She says she’s called Wilmot and she used to live next door.”
