A Prospect of Vengeance

He breathed out. 'Because of Philip Masson?'

'Because of Philip Masson. And because this was my idea, not yours — my truth . . . not yours, Ian.'

'Your revenge, more like. And that's the wrong way to look for truth, Jen — it's a bad way, Jen.'

He was right, of course. He was always fucking right —

going to church on Sundays, and giving to charity, and never getting drunk on a Saturday night, or any other night! But she wanted to hurt him, not to argue morality with him. 'And you want the truth about some silly woman who forgot to pack her gun when she went to arrest a terrorist? A woman you've never met — who wouldn't have given you the time of day if you had met her? That's stupid — ' The image of Philly came back to her: Philly smiling his big slow smile at her, when they met — Philly hugging her, godfatherly — the smell of his pipe- tobacco and his malt whisky, Philly strong and safe — Philly praising her, Philly laughing as the champagne cork popped . . . even Philly in that rare unguarded moment, looking at her with that ungodfatherly look, of naked- desire-well-controlled . . . which she'd shared

— oh! how she'd shared! — but which she hadn't truly understood until it was too late —

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Too late! Too late!

But she had hit him hard. And that was all that mattered.

'He's mine, Ian. Even if we don't write this book . . . he's mine.' She corrected her own thought: all that mattered was that someone was going to pay in full; that was all that mattered. 'You can have your bloody Spanish book instead.'

She swept a hand over the Greater Arapile. ' But I want Audley, Ian.'

Ian bit his lip. With Ian — or, at any rate, with the old Ian —

there had been times when commonsense, and confused affection, and old-fashioned journalism (never mind self-doubt!), had played the very devil with his Christian imperatives! 'Well . . . we'll see, Jen — we'll see!'

'Yes — we'll see, darling.' If she'd got that much back, to make him question his irrational obsession with the Fitzgibbon woman, then that much was better than nothing.

'Miss Fielding — ?'

'Oh — ?' Jenny turned quickly towards the question: she had halted Ian, but Cathy Audley had progressed towards her father before she'd realized that she was alone, and had had to turn back to them ' — we're coming, dear . . . This is an amazing place — isn't it? All these lovely little flowers!' She grinned at the child. 'We saw a fox, Cathy — down there — '

She pointed ' — with great big ears . . . he's in the rocks down there, somewhere — '

'Did you? Gosh!' The child scanned the hillside. 'A fox — ?'

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'He's gone, dear — '

Audley was still waiting. Although now, after they'd taken such a time to reach him, he had managed to stand up, and had moved out of the shade of the monument into the full sunlight, so that she could see him clearly at last.

'Daddy — !'

What he looked like, length-and-breadth-and-face, was no great revelation: there had been that picture, which John Tully had uncovered, of David Audley in a line-out — Cardiff versus the Visigoths, on some dreadful rugger-playing day, when they'd all looked as though they'd been mud-wrestling: and Audley had been wearing a dirty headband, and a look of excited brutality, like an eager Saxon in the shield-wall at Hastings.

(But — God! the real-life image, of the man himself, jolted her as though she'd touched a live wire — )

'Daughter?' Standing up under the monument, Audley could look down on them, with the huge sky behind him: a sky shading down from purest blue to palest blue-grey, where the distant green line of trees on the next ridge divided it from the yellow cornfields, and he seemed ten-foot-tall for a moment, above them. 'What's this, then?'

But it wasn't that —

'What's this, then?' Audley smiled at his daughter as he repeated the question. And then he looked directly at Jenny.

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'Hullo, there!'

That made it worse. Or . . . not just worse — much worse!

'Daddy — this is Mr Robinson . . . and Miss Fielding. They know Willy Arkenshaw. And they write books, Daddy. And they want to talk to you.'

'Yes.' Audley stared at Jenny. 'I know.'

'Dr Audley — ' The jolt of the shock was still there: it shook her voice, just as it had shaken her hands that time, after she touched that wire beside the ancient Victorian light-switch in the cellar at home. 'Dr Audley.' The husky faltering repetition was almost worse: it was so far from the way she had intended to face up to him that it was almost laughable.

Except that, if she started to laugh, she was afraid she might go off into hysterics.

'Daddy — ?' As Audley continued to stare at her — as they both continued to stare at each other — the child