‘I didn’t know that was your scene. I thought you only slept with one man at a time and…’ Charles tailed off, embarrassed.
‘No, it’s not my sort of thing. But Marius was into all that. Only a bit. Nothing very serious.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Don’t sound so bloody superior. It’s easy for a man. If you’re a girl you have to get interested in what your bloke’s interested in. If he’s mad on football, you watch Match of the Day. If it’s two-way mirrors, well…’
‘Was it like that in the South of France?’
‘No. It was only a couple of times we ever did it. Last June. There was a party in Holland Park, and one near Marble Arch.’
‘But they were Sally Nash’s parties?’
‘She was there.’
‘And what’s the danger? Are you going to be called as a witness?’
‘Bloody hell.’ She looked very affronted. ‘Look, I may be a tart, but I’m not a whore.’ Charles tried vaguely to work out the distinction, but fortunately Jacqui clarified. ‘All these girls they’re calling in the trial do it for money.’
‘I’m sorry. Then what’s the…?’
‘There are some photographs.’
‘Of you and Steen at the party?’
‘Yes. With some other people.’
‘Naughty photos?’
‘A bit naughty. But I think that’s why Marius doesn’t want to be seen with me.
‘Why? Are the photographs going to come up in court?’
‘No, they aren’t. But Marius must think they will. It’s the only explanation.’
‘But if you’re both in the photos, he could be identified anyway. It doesn’t make any difference whether he’s seen with you or not.
‘No, Charles. The point is, they can’t tell it’s him. His face is covered.’
‘Don’t tell me-with a black leather mask.’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? I was joking.’
‘Well it is.’
‘But you, on the other hand, are not covered?’
‘No. Far from it.’
‘Hmm. How do you know they won’t come up in court?’
‘Because I’ve got them. I paid a lot of money for them.’
‘Did someone blackmail you?’
‘No. The Sally Nash trial started on Friday, and I bought them off the bloke who took them on Saturday.’
‘How much?’
‘Thousand quid.’
Charles looked at her quizzically and she explained. ‘Marius had given me some money to buy a car, but it hardly seems worth buying one now, with all this petrol scene.’
Charles reflected momentarily on the difference between a tart and a whore and decided he was being a bit harsh. Particularly as Jacqui continued, ‘I wanted to give them to Marius as a present. Set his mind at rest. And now I can’t get to see him. I daren’t send them through the post or letter-box, because his secretary’ll see them…’
Suddenly Charles’ role in the proceedings became very clear to him. ‘And so you want me to deliver them?’
Armed with an innocuous-looking brown envelope, Charles Paris returned to his room in Hereford Road, Bayswater. It was a depressing furnished bedsitter, which he’d moved into when he left Frances. Nothing except his clothes and scripts gave it any identity. The furniture had been painted grey by some earlier occupant, but was mostly obscured by drip-dry shirts on wire hangers. A low upholstered chair with wooden arms sat in front of the gas-fire. There was a small table covered with paper and carbons, a rickety kitchen chair, a single bed shrouded in yellow candlewick, and in one corner, inadequately hidden by plastic curtain, a sink and gas-ring.
Whenever Charles entered the room, fumes of depression threatened to choke him. Every now and then, in a surge of confidence, he would consider moving, but he never got round to it. The room was somewhere to sleep and he did his best to ensure that that was all he did there.
He got back about five and, before the atmosphere of the room had time to immobilise him, opened the cupboard, got out a half-full bottle of Bell’s and poured himself a healthy measure. After a substantial swallow, he felt he could look at his surroundings. It was more of a mess than usual. Candlewick in disarray on the unmade bed, coffee cup with a white crust on the table. Cold December air was gushing through the open window. He remembered leaving it to air the place on… when was it? Monday? Yes, Monday, 3rd December. The day he’d done that bloody awful radio play.
He slammed the window and put on the gas-fire. It hissed resentfully but came alight (which was more than it sometimes did). He felt strongly in need of a bath, stripped off his grubby clothes and put on a shapeless towelling dressing-gown. Taking a fivepence from his change, he went down to the bathroom on the first landing, checked that the water wasn’t running hot, and fed the meter.
Then he remembered soap and towel. Upstairs again to get them. Inevitably, the bathroom door was locked when he returned. The sound of running water came from inside.
Charles hammered on the door and shouted abuse, but the strange singsong voice that replied over the sound of water told him it was useless. One of the Swedish girls. There seemed to be hundreds of them in the house. And, he thought as he savagely stumped upstairs, all of them old boots. They really shattered the myth of Scandinavian beauty, that lot. Spotty girls with glasses and ruggerplayers’ legs. He slammed the door, picked up the whisky bottle and fell into the chair.
The gas-fire spluttered at him as he sat and thought. There was something odd about the whole business with Jacqui. Her explanation about the photographs seemed unconvincing. In fact, her account of Steen’s sudden change of behaviour didn’t ring true either. A man in his position who wanted to get rid of a girl-friend needn’t go to the length of obscene notes.
For a moment the thought crossed Charles’ mind that he was being used in some sort of plot. To carry something. What? Drugs? Or just what Jacqui said it was-dirty pictures? But it seemed ridiculous. A much simpler explanation was that she was telling the truth.
The way to find out, of course, was to look in the envelope. He’d known since he had had the photographs that sooner or later he would. And, he reasoned, Jacqui must have assumed he would. She hadn’t asked him not to; the envelope was unsealed. But he still felt slightly guilty as he shuffled them into his hand.
There were six, and they were exactly what Jacqui had said they would be-obscene pictures of her and Marius Steen. Perhaps obscene was the wrong word; they didn’t have any erotic effect on Charles; but they intrigued and rather revolted him.
The photographs had the posed quality of amateur dramatics. Steen’s body was old, a thin belly and limbs like a chicken’s. The tatty little leather mask made him look ridiculous. But, Charles was forced to admit, the old man was rather well endowed.
But it was the sight of Jacqui that affected him. There she was in a series of contrived positions-astride Steen, bending down in front of him, under him on a bed. The sight was a severe shock to Charles; it made him feel almost sick. Not the acts that were going on; he’d seen and done worse, and somehow they seemed very mild and meaningless on these shoddy little snapshots. But it was the fact that it was Jacqui which upset him. He didn’t feel jealousy or lust, but pity and again the urgent desire to protect her. It was as if he was seeing the photographs as her father.
A click and silence told him that the gas meter had run out. Blast, he hadn’t got a ten p. Brusquely, he shoved the photographs back into the envelope, sealed it and dressed. Then he started his campaign to get to see Marius Steen. It was half past seven. He went to the call box on the landing and rang up Bernard Walton, currently starring in Virgin on the Ridiculous at the Dryden Theatre.
