clothes, and makeup clubbed her with Henry's class, and by the looks they exchanged, it was evident that Henry and she had something going.

'Is this the 'special' you've got with you?' she asked, giving Jonathan a head-to-toe look meant to be sultry.

'That's right,' Yank said. 'He's to see the Guv straight off.'

'The Guv's down to the church. Evening service. Will he be staying long?'

Jonathan resented being spoken of in the third person. 'No, I won't be staying long, duck.'

'A few days,' Yank said.

'Then I'll put him in 14,' the bird said. 'You and The Sergeant can have the rooms on either side. How's that?'

Yank took the key and led the way as they climbed a narrow, ornately carved staircase to the second floor where, after passing through a maze of dark broken corridors with irregular floors that squeaked under carpeting, they stopped before a door. The Sergeant opened it and gestured Jonathan in with a flick of the thumb.

The room was large, uncomfortable, and cold, as befitted its period. The first thing that caught Jonathan's eye was the open wardrobe in which the clothes he had had brought to the hotel were hung.

'We were expecting you,' Yank said, openly proud of his organization's efficiency.

Jonathan crossed the room and looked out over the vista. Beneath his window was a neat garden, scruffy now with autumn brownness, in the center of which was a formal quatrefoil pond, the water green with algae and rippling in the brisk wind. Beyond the garden rolled the gentle hills of Wessex, sucked empty of color by the metallic overcast. The prospect was marred by the thick bars on the window.

'The bars help to keep out the draft,' The Sergeant said with a heavy chuckle.

Jonathan glanced at him wearily, then spoke to Yank. 'They're all your people, I suppose. Hotel personnel and all?'

'That's right. Loo owns the whole shooting match. By the way,' he said with a knowing ogle, 'what did you think of the girl at the desk? Slick chick, eh? Lucky bugger!'

Jonathan wasn't sure, but he assumed the bird did tricks for the special guests. 'When do I meet the head crapper?'

'Who?'

'Mr. Loo. The Guv.'

'Soon,' Yank said, obviously annoyed at Jonathan's irreverence. 'I think you'll be comfortable here. There'll be one inconvenience, though. You'll be locked in until the Guv says otherwise, and the WC's down the hall, so...' Yank shrugged, embarrassed that British inns lacked the convenience of American ones.

The Sergeant broke in. 'So if you have to go potty, mate, just rap on the wall, and I'll take you down by the hand. Got it?'

Jonathan regarded The Sergeant languidly as he asked Yank, 'Does he have to stay around? Don't you have a kennel?'

The Sergeant rankled. 'I hope I'm not going to have any trouble from you, mate!'

'Hope's cheap, anus. Indulge yourself.' He turned to Yank. 'What about Miss Coyne, the young lady you picked up with me? There's no reason to hold her. She's nothing to me.'

'Don't worry about her. She'll be all right. Now why don't you wash up and grab a few Zs before your chat with the Guv.'

Left alone in the room, Jonathan stood by the window, feeling off-balance and angry. His sense of deja vu was total. These people with their ornately staged machinations, this feeling of the ring closing in on him, the vulgar Sergeant for whom murder and mayhem would be an exercise, the veneered Americanism of Yank—everything here was a British analogue of the CII. And if this 'Guv' was true to form, he would be urbane, hale, friendly, and ruthless.

He lay back on the bed, his fingers pressed lightly together and his eyes set in infinity focus on the wall before him, and he began deliberately to empty his mind, image by image, until he had achieved a state of neutrality and balance. The muscles of his body softened and relaxed, last of all his stomach and forehead.

When they knocked at his door twenty minutes later, he was ready. The machinery of his mind and body was running calmly and smoothly. He had reviewed the events of the past two days and had come to one distasteful realization: it was possible, it was likely even, that Maggie had set him up for the Loo people.

With the threatening presence of The Sergeant close behind him, Yank and Jonathan walked some two hundred yards down the road from the Olde Worlde Inn before turning off into a yew-lined lane that led through an arched gateway to a curious church.

As they stepped into the vestibule, the teetering tonal imbalance of amateur singers making a joyful noise unto the Lord announced that evening service was in progress. The Sergeant remained outside, while Yank and Jonathan advanced into the church. It amused Jonathan to see Yank tiptoe across to a back pew and kneel briefly in rushed and mumbled prayer before sitting up and staring at the serving priest with an expression of bland and dour piety. Jonathan glanced around at the decor of the church and was surprised to find it was Art Nouveau: a style unique in his experience for religious architecture. He examined it with open curiosity as the vicar began his sermon to the handful of faithful scattered sparsely among the pews.

'No doubt you will recall,' the voice was a rumbling bass with the nasal and lazy vowels of the well-educated Englishman, 'we have begun to examine the meaning of the sacraments. And this evening I should like to take a look at baptism—the one sacrament that, for most of us, is an involuntary act.'

The decor of the church fascinated Jonathan without pleasing him. Mother-of-pearl and pewter were inlaid into the ornate floral carving; tubercular angels, their long-waisted bodies curved in limp S-forms, their fragile- fingered hands pressed lightly together in prayer, looked down on the congregation with large, heavy-lidded eyes; exotic, short-lived flowers drooped from slender stems up the stained glass windows; and above the altar a glistening effeminate Christ in polished pewter trampled the head of a snake with ruby eyes.

The service continued through communion, and everyone but Jonathan went up to receive the Host Jonathan watched Yank return from the rail, his palms pressed together, his eyes lowered, Christ melting in his mouth.

At a signal from Yank, Jonathan remained seated as the rest of the faithful filed out after a last vigorous attack on Song. Then Yank conducted him to the vestry where the Vicar was finishing off the last of the communion bread.

'Sir?' Yank's voice was diffident. 'May I introduce Dr. Hemlock?'

The Vicar turned and with an open gracious smile of greeting took Jonathan's hand between his large hirsute paws. 'This is a pleasure,' he said, winking. 'So good of you to come.' His mellow basso wanned with practiced civility. 'Just allow me to finish and we'll have a good natter.' He drank off the last of the communion wine and wiped out the chalice carefully, while Jonathan studied his full puffy face with its tracery of red capillaries over the cheekbones and in ruddy abundance on the substantial amorphic nose. His hair had retreated beyond the horizon line of his broad forehead, but was long on the sides and blended with his full muttonchop sideburns.

'Odd ritual, this,' the Vicar said, replacing the utensils. 'The last morsels of consecrated bread and wine must be consumed by the priest. I suppose it arose out of some fear of contamination and sacrilege, should the body and blood of Christ find its way into the alimentary canal of an unbeliever.' He winked.

'What is missionary work but the effort to introduce Christ to the uninitiated?' Jonathan commented.

The Vicar laughed robustly. 'Precisely! Precisely! You, I dare to assume, do not avail yourself of the sacrament often.'

'No form of cannibalism appeals to me.'

'Oh. I see. Yes.' The Vicar folded the last of his vestments carefully and set them aside. From behind, his formidable bulk seemed to fill the black flowing garment. 'Shall we take a turn around the churchyard, Dr. Hemlock. It's quite lovely in the last light. We shall not be needing you, Yank. I'm sure you can find something to amuse yourself with for a few minutes.'

Yank made a gesture akin to a salute and left the vestry. The Vicar looked after him with paternal warmth. 'There's a very bright young man for you, Dr. Hemlock. Energetic. Zealous. We pulled him away from another project and made him your liaison with our organization because we thought you might be more comfortable working with someone who was au courant with things American.' He put his heavy arm around Jonathan's

Вы читаете The Loo Sanction
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату