The Loo Sanction

'Yes, I see. My, you are in a tight spot, aren't you?'

Jonathan's desire to punch that fat face was great, but he tightened his jaw and held on. 'I am going to make one demand of you,' he said.

'What would that be?' the Vicar asked civilly.

'Miss Coyne's out of this from here on. In fact, she is out of your organization altogether.'

The Vicar looked from him to Maggie. 'I see. I had been given to understand that you two were romantically involved—well, physically involved at least. So I suppose this request is to be expected. Are you sure this is what the young lady wants? Perhaps she would prefer to see you through this. Lend some support, if need be. Eh?'

'It's not her choice. I want her out.'

The Vicar blew out an oral breath, his heavy cheeks fluttering. 'Why not? She has served her purpose. Certainly, my dear. You are free to go. And have no fears about your little flap in Belfast. It will be taken care of.' He enjoyed playing Lord Bountiful; it was the churchman in him. 'However,' he continued, turning to Jonathan, 'I do think you would do well to take advantage of the Loo organization and bring a couple of our men along with you to the National Gallery.'

Jonathan laughed. 'The very last thing I need is the burden of your pack of bunglers. Those men from MI-5 who tailed me to the Cellar d'Or almost blew my cover.'

'Yes, Yank told me about that. I was most disturbed. I assure you it won't happen again.'

'I wasn't able to contact the guys in time to call them off,' Yank explained from his corner.

'I don't care about that. Just keep any Loo people away from me.'

'I'm afraid our Loo organization doesn't impress you much, Dr. Hemlock. Indeed, I have a feeling that you share with Strange a certain disdain for things British.'

'Don't take it to heart. I arrived during an awkward period for your country. The twentieth century.'

The Vicar tapped the desk with his fingertips. 'You had better succeed, Hemlock,' he said, winking furiously.

The split-reed cry of the wind around the corners of the Olde Worlde Inn slid with the force of the storm from a basso hum to a contralto quiver. Jonathan listened to it in the dark, his eyes wandering over the dim features of the ceiling.

They had not spoken for a long time, but he knew from the character of the current between them that she was awake.

'I have to give the papers time to carry the story about the Marini Horse. There's nothing for me to do tomorrow but keep out of sight.'

She turned to him and placed her hand on his stomach in response.

'Do you want to spend the day with me?' he asked.

'Here?'

'Christ, no. We could run down to Brighton.'

'Brighton?'

'That's not as mad as it seems. Brighton's interesting in the middle of winter. Desolate piers. Storm swept. The Lanes are empty, and the wind flutes through them. Amusement areas boarded up. There's a melancholy charm to resort areas in the off-season. Strumpets all dressed up with no place to go. Circus clowns standing in the snow.'

'You're a perverse man.'

'Sure. Do you want to come with me?'

'I don't know.'

A metallic tympany of sleet rattled against the window, then the stiff wind backed around, and the room was silent.

'Last night, at The Cloisters...' She paused, then decided to press on. 'Do you remember what I said?'

Of course he remembered, but he hoped she had been babbling and would forget it all later. 'Oh, you were pretty much out of your head with the dope. You were just playing out fantasies.'

'Is that what you want to believe?'

He didn't answer. Instead, he patted her arm.

'Don't do that! I'm not a puppy, or a child that's stubbed its toe.'

'Sorry.'

'I'm sorry too. Sorry the idea of being loved is such a burden to you. I think you're an emotional cripple, Jonathan Hemlock.'

'Do you?'

'Yes, I do.'

The downward curl of the last vowel made him smile to himself.

'I have a plan,' he said after a silence. 'When this thing is over, we'll get together and play it out. Gingerly. Week by week. See how it goes.'

She had to laugh. 'Lord love us, if you haven't found the tertium quid between proposal and proposition.'

'Whichever it is, do you accept?'

'Of course I do.'

'Good.'

'But I don't think I'll go to Brighton with you.'

He rose to one elbow and looked down at her face, just visible in the dark. 'Why not?'

'There's no point to it. I'm not a masochist. If we went to Brighton together—with its sad piers and rain and... all of that—we'd end up closer together. We'd laugh and share confidences. Make memories. Then if something happened to you...'

'Nothing's going to happen to me! I'm a shooter, not a shootee.'

'They're shooters too, darling. And worse. I'm frightened. Not only for you. I'm frightened selfishly for myself. I don't want to get all tangled up in you—my life so tangled up in your life that I can't tell which is which. Because if that were to happen, and then you were killed, I would take it very badly. I wouldn't be brave at all. I'd just roll myself into a ball and make sure I never got hurt again. I'd spend the rest of my life looking out through lace curtains and doing crossword puzzles. Or I might end up in a nunnery.'

'You'd make a terrible nun.'

'No. Now lie down and listen to me. Stop it. Now, here's what I'm going to do. Tomorrow morning I'm going back to my flat, and I'm going to get right into bed with a hot water bottle and a book. And every once in a while, I'll pad out and make myself some tea. And when night comes, I'll take a bunch of pills and sleep without dreaming. And the next day, I'll do the same. I hope it rains all the time, because Sterne goes best with rain. Then Tuesday night, I'll meet you here at the Vicarage. You'll give over the films, and we'll say good-bye to them, and away we'll go. And if you don't turn up at the Vicarage. If you... well then, maybe I'll go down to Brighton alone. Just to see if you're lying about the wind fluting through The Lanes.'

'I'll be there, Maggie. And we'll go off to Stockholm together.'

'Stockholm?'

'Yes. I didn't tell you. We've agreed to do a month in Sweden. I know a little hotel on the Gamla Stan that's...'

'Please don't.'

'I'm sorry.'

'And please don't telephone me before it's all over. I don't think I could stand waiting for the phone to ring every moment.'

He felt very proud of her. She was handling this magnificently. He gave her a robust hug. 'Oh, Maggie Coyne! If only you could cook!'

She turned over and looked into his eyes with mock seriousness. 'I really can't, you know. I can't cook at all.'

Jonathan was relieved. This was much easier on him. Play it out with banter and charm. 'You... can't... cook!'

'Only cornflakes. Also, I hate Eisenstein, I can't type, and I'm not a virgin. Do you still want me?'