lot of whisky.
He realized that he wanted to drink some more.
'You'd better go, Judy. Come on, put your clothes on.'
'Why such a hurry, Mr?'
'Because I'm dead tired and I want to go to bed and I can't go to bed while you're in it. Come on, Judy.'
, You could lie beside me, Mr Honey. I wouldn't so much as touch you the whole night through.'
'Don't be silly, girl.'
'Have a drink, Mr Honey. A little drinkie. I brought some with me. Just for good fellowship.'
Ducane saw that Judy had placed a leather flask and two glasses on the table beside the bed. He watched while she rolled over on her front and poured a little whisky into each glass. She rearranged herself, reclining on her side, and held out a glass towards him.
The movement disturbed Ducane intensely. Judy, seen in the haze of the room, which cast a sort of silver- gilt shadow over her long body, had seemed like something in a picture. Possibly she had actually reminded him of some picture by Goya or Velazquez. But that rolling movement with its awkwardness, its glimpse of buttocks, the grotesque bracing of her knees, momentarily wide apart, brought with it the pathetic ugliness of real flesh and also its attractiveness.
Ducane found that he had leaned forward and accepted the glass of whisky.
'That's right, Mr Honeyman. Now we can talk. Just a little talk and then I promise I'll go. We're getting to know each other, aren't we? Isn't that nice?'
'I wouldn't call it nice exactly,' said Ducane. 'Whatever it is, nice is not the word.'
'Cheers, mister.'
'Cheers, Judy.'
'Now what shall we talk about? Let's talk about us.' She stretched luxuriously, pointing her toes and lengthening out her mouth and eyes. Her shoulders twitched. Dappled shadows moved over her contracted stomach. Then she relaxed again.
'How did you get tied up with that devil McGrath?' asked Ducane. He was looking into his glass, but he could see the dark haze of her blue-black hair which seemed to move like a form upon golden waters.
'I was very young, Mr Honey. And he was somebody. I knew I could only marry a man who was somebody. He could make something of himself, Peter could. He's bright.'
'Bright, yes. And. he's made something of himself all right.
He's made himself into a pretty promising crook, and he's made you into one too.'
'Do you think I ought to leave him, Mr Honey? T 'No, of course not,' said Ducane with exasperation. He forced himself to look at her. He tried to concentrate upon those very clear North Sea eyes. He apprehended that her face was not really dark but radiant, almost pale, beneath its shadowy honey-golden surface colour. Her body extended in a long gilded blur. Goya, Velazquez, aid me, he prayed. 'I think you ought to persuade him to mend his ways before he lands both of you in prison. You wouldn't like it at all in prison, Judy.' Oh God, I want to hurt her, he thought. Let her go away, just let her go away.
'I've got to leave him, Mr Honeyman, there isn't any other way. You know that. You know I can't make Peter change.
I've got to leave him, Mr Honeyman, and you've got to help me.' Her voice grew softer, coaxing.
Ducane stared into the supplicating blue eyes. Let me drown, he thought, so long as I see nothing else, feel nothing else. He said, 'I'm afraid I can't help you, Judy. I've given you my advice.
And now '
'You can help me. Only you can help me. Only you can really save me, Mr Honey.'
'Would you please stop calling me by that ridiculous name!' said Ducane. He turned his head stiffly, robot- like, and looked at the bathroom door.
'All right – dear – John.'
Ducane stood up. 'Now would you kindly get out?' He turned his back to her.
'In a minute, John, in a minute. Don't be cross with me. I know I've done wrong things and it wasn't all Peter's fault. Even before I met Peter I was – you know – with men. It just seemed natural. But I feel so different since I met you. You're the first man who – you're so different and good. You could save me, Mr John, and no one else could do it. I wouldn't ask anything except to know you and see you now and then, and you'd talk to me of things. You could make a difference to my whole life.
And I'd do anything you liked, I'd learn something, anything.
I'd become a, I don't know, a nurse '
Ducane uttered a sound which might have been a laugh or might have been an exclamation of disgust. He was not sure himself which it was.
'Save me, John, sweetheart, help me. It's such a little thing for you, and such a big thing for me. You said yourself that if I stayed with Peter I'd end up in prison.'
'I didn't actually,' said Ducane. 'But never mind. Put your clothes on.'
'In a little minute, honey, John. John, you don't know what it's like for a woman to be in despair. I'm afraid of Peter. I've no one to turn to. I haven't any friends and I only know men who are bad. People like you are safe. You're grand and everyone respects you and you have real friends. You can't sort of fall out of the bottom of the world. I'll have to leave Peter, I've just got to, and what will become of me then? Won't you be a friend to me, John, that's all I ask. Say you'll look after me a little, say you'll see me again, please say you'll see me again, just that little thing, please.'
There was a whining edge to her voice. I mustn't pity her, thought Ducane. She thinks she's serious but she isn't. She would do me harm. I would do her harm. Do I see her as damned then? What does it matter what I see her as? I can do nothing for her. 'I can do nothing for you,' he said in a dull voice.
There was a silence. Judy said, 'I'm so tired. I'll go soon.' She gave a little groan and turned over on her face.
Ducane moved slowly round and regarded her. She lay prone, her face plunged into the pillow. With a sudden intensity of concentration he looked at her body, giving it the attention which he might have given, in some picture gallery far from home, to a masterpiece when he might never see again. Only this was not the gaze of contemplation.
Ducane allowed himself to realize his strong directed excitement. In fantasy he laid his hand down, very gently, upon the golden neck, beneath the dry crisp pile of dark hair, upon that particular hillock of the spine, and drew it very slowly downward, over the velvety hump of the shoulder, into the hollow of the back, which would move and shudder a little, along the glossy curve of the hip and then, more slowly still, over the firm strokeable rise of the buttock and on to the back of the thigh, which Ducane saw, as he moved now noiselessly closer to the bed, to be covered with a fleece of golden hair.
Suppose I were to fuck her? Ducane said to himself. This was a word which he never normally used, even in his thoughts, and its sudden occurrence now excited and shocked him. The word came again with the voice of Richard Biranne. Biranne had used the word, he felt sure, some time in their discussion.
Well, suppose he were to? Ducane put his glass down very silently upon the bedside table. The girl was lying quite still, her face invisible, her breathing just perceptible in the faintest regular pressure upon the white sheet beneath her shadowed side. She might be asleep. Ducane's fantasy fingers stroked her body with a feathery creative touch, the light light touch of passion which conjures forth, to the last caressed detail, a presence of flesh. He leaned over her.
A faint smell arose from Judy's body. It was a not unpleasant smell, mingled of sweat and cosmetics. Ducane looked down between Judy's shoulder-blades. He saw a grey tumbled heap of dead pigeons. He opened his mouth and devoured the smell of Judy. He felt again the onrush of Luciferian lightness, and saw in Radeechy's handwriting, written across Judy's bare golden shoulders, the message Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of law.
At the same time Ducane felt perfectly cold. A cold watcher within him saw the scene and knew that he would not even with the most diffident or momentary gesture lay his hands upon the satiny golden back of Judy McGrath. He thought, she knows I will not touch her. She knows I will not, perhaps she conjectures I cannot. He put his hand down holding himself instead, restraining and comforting that which so much wanted Judy.
I am the perfect whited sepulchre, Ducane thought. I've fiddled and compromised with two women and been
