'Who's to explain to?' she demanded. 'We're dead. Get it, dead. We don't exist in the world where that happened. That's past history. It hasn't got anything to do with us. We belong to the future.'
'Well someone's going to have to explain it,' said Piper, 'I mean you can't just go round burning houses down and exploding boats and hope that people aren't going to ask questions. And what happens when they don't find our bodies at the bottom of the bay?'
They'll think we floated out to sea or the sharks got us or something. That's not our problem what they think. We've got our new lives to live.'
'Fat chance there's going to be of that,' said Piper, not to be consoled. But Baby was undismayed. Grasping Piper's hand she led the way on through the woods.
'Dual destiny, here we come,' she said gaily. Behind her Piper groaned. Dual destiny with this demented woman was the last thing he wanted. Presently they came out of the woods again. In front of them stood another large house. Its windows were dark and there was no sign of life.
'We'll hole up here until the heat's off,' said Baby using a vernacular that Piper had previously only heard in B-movies.
'What about the people who live here?' he asked. 'Aren't they going to mind if we just move in?'
'They won't know. This is the Van der Hoogens' house and they're away on a world tour. We'll be as safe as houses.'
Piper groaned again. In the light of what had just happened at the Hutchmeyer house the saying seemed singularly inappropriate. They crossed the grass and went round a gravel path to the side door.
'They always leave the key in the glasshouse,' said Baby. 'You just stay here and I'll go get it.' She went off and Piper stood uncertainly by the door. Now if ever was his chance to escape. But he didn't take it. He had lived too long in the shadow of other authors' identities to be able now to act on his own behalf. By the time Baby returned he was shaking. A reaction to his predicament had set in. He wobbled into the house after her. Baby locked the door behind them.
In Hampstead Frensic got up early. It was Sunday, the day before publication, and the reviews of Pause O Men for the Virgin should be in the papers. He walked up the hill to the newsagent and bought them all, even the News of The World which didn't review books but would be consoling reading if the reviews were bad in the others or, worse still, non-existent. Then, savouring his self-restraint, he strolled back to his flat without glancing at them on the way and put the kettle on for breakfast. He would have toast and marmalade and go through the papers as he ate. He was just making coffee when the telephone rang. It was Geoffrey Corkadale.
'You've seen the reviews?' he asked excitedly. Frensic said he hadn't.
'I've only just got up,' he said, piqued that Geoffrey had robbed him of the pleasure of reading the evidently excellent coverage. 'I gather from your tone that they're good.'
'Good? They're raves, absolute raves. Listen to what Frieda Gormley has to say in The Times, 'The first serious novel to attempt the disentanglement of the social complicity surrounding the sexual taboo that has for so long separated youth from age. Of its kind Pause O Men for the Virgin is a masterpiece.''
'Gormless bitch,' muttered Frensic.
'Isn't that splendid?' said Geoffrey.
'It's senseless,' said Frensic. 'If Pause is the first novel to attempt the disentanglement of complicity, and Lord alone knows how anyone does that, it can't be 'of, its kind'. It hasn't got any kind. The bloody book is unique.'
'That's in the Observer,' said Geoffrey, not to be discouraged, 'Sheila Shelmerdine says, 'Pause O Men blah blah blah moves us by the very intensity of its literary merits while at the same time demonstrating a compassionate concern for the elderly and the socially isolated. This
