The Bear's Tears

innocence.

'Margaret — my dear Margaret!' he said, rising. One of his hands signalled her release. Her arms fell numbly to her sides. Was there hope—? No. The tone was mocking, confident. Babbington came towards her, hands held out. Her body flinched from his embrace. 'Margaret—?' His eyes hardened as he studied her face. Then he turned from her and said, 'You've caused me a lot of concern, Margaret — a great deal of pointless worry.' The mockery of a stern parent's voice.

'Andrew—!' she blurted, her body trembling as if the hot room was cold.

He turned on his heel. 'Yes?'

He made another gesture with his right hand, and she heard the door close behind her. Even through the wood, she could hear the reluctant slither of the dog's heavy paws as it was tugged away down the corridor. It barked once as if to remind her of her danger.

'I—' she began. Then: 'Where's Paul — Paul's alive, isn't he? You've got Paul here, haven't you?'

Babbington looked grave. He gestured her to a seat and she, moved nearer the fire to avoid his touch. The armchair invited;! insisted. Her legs seemed without strength. Babbington sat I opposite her.

'I'm afraid—' he began.

'No—!' she wailed immediately, then thrust the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth. Her eyes misted. Babbington's gaze glinted. 'Oh, no…' she breathed. 'No, no, no…'

'I'm sorry—'

'He didn't know anything — he couldn't have been any harm to you!' she protested, finding the deception she had planned now available as something to fend off reality. 'We didn't know anything! We didn't, I swear we didn't, I swear we didn't know anything, we didn't know…' Her voice subsided into sobbing.

It was as if she wrenched at the hands of a great clock. Heaving time backwards. If she went on protesting, on and on, Paul would be alive. 'We didn't… nothing… nothing…'

It was difficult to see Babbington's expression when she looked up. She wiped her eyes, and saw that his face was moved only to a clever smile of satisfaction.

'I'm sorry, Margaret — it won't do.' He sighed. 'I toyed with the idea. I didn't believe you couldn't know. I hoped it, at first. Believe me. Then I hoped I might delude myself into such a belief… but, all to no avail. I can't escape the truth — you know everything. About Aubrey. About myself.'

She wanted to protest, to stop him. He'd gone too far, too swiftly. There were moves to be made, gambits to deploy. Not this, this nakedness, beyond which Paul's death was utterly real.

'No,' was all she said, dropping the hand she had extended to try to silence him.

'I'm afraid it has to be, Margaret.' His voice was soft, almost a caress. She saw his bulk move from the chair towards her. Slowly, she looked up. Again, it was difficult to see his expression clearly. He cupped her chin in one large hand. 'Paul's alive, my dear. Wounded, but alive—'

'What—?'

He struck her, then. Her head twisted, her jaw was shot through with pain, her neck burned with the jolt from his closed fist. She heard him walk away, heard the fire grumble and spit like an old man. She touched her jaw, tasted blood in her mouth; spat.

'He's alive, and will stay alive if you tell me why you're here. Tell me where you've been, what you know, who's with you — and he lives. Understand me?' He turned to her and shouted: 'Do you understand me?'

'Yes, yes—!' She caught the blood that spilled from her open mouth in the palm of her hand. Blood and saliva. She stared at it, horrified, then returned her gaze to his face. He did not seem to regret the violence, or shrink from it.

'Good. Where's Hyde?'

'Who?'

He moved swiftly towards her, and she flinched. 'Hyde!' he barked. 'Where is Hyde?'

'I don't know.'

He hit her again. The gobbet of blood in her palm flew into the grate and sizzled on the logs. She cried out with renewed pain.

'Where is he?'

'Czech — Czechoslovakia…' she sobbed.

'Why?'

'I don't know!' she screamed at-him. 'He didn't tell me anything — just in case this happened!'

Babbington lowered his clenched fist. He seemed satisfied. 'What did he instruct you to do in his absence?' he asked in a thick voice. 'What?'

Margaret watched him. She must not tell Babbington anything more—! She had already told him too much, far too much while the blows and the shouting were in control of her. She glanced guiltily at her handbag, at her hands, her feet. She hunched into herself, retreating from Babbington. He would kill Paul and her once he knew everything—

'What did he instruct you to do? Follow me? Watch me?'

She was prepared for the questions to continue, yet they still acted with the naked shock of icy water, so that she flinched, appeared guilty, seemed to choke off confession by putting her shaking hand to her lips.

Babbington snatched at her handbag and tipped the contents onto the bright rug in front of the fire. He stirred the compact, the keys, the hairbrush, the paper handkerchiefs, the purse, with the toe of one shoe. Then his shoe touched the instruction booklet on how to fit and use the telephoto lens, and finally the small plastic tub in which the second roll of film had been contained before she loaded it.

Like a delicate footballer, he kicked the small tub across the rug with a flick of his toe, then separated the instruction booklet from the litter of other objects. He bent and picked them up, his face gleaming from triumph, suspicion and the firelight. His eyes were hard when he looked at her after opening and reading the booklet. His big hand clenched upon the plastic tub, squeezing it.

'What?' he breathed softly. 'My, but you have been an industrious little thing, haven't you.' Then his voice hardened once more. 'What was the purpose of your photography, Margaret? Where are your holiday snaps?'

She remained silent, quivering like a sapling at the first wind of an approaching storm. She would not prevent her head from shaking, as if to defy him.

'What did you photograph?' he roared at her. She huddled into the chair. He grabbed her arms, bruising them, and dragged her face close to his. She was terrified of the hard chips of light in his eyes, of the mouth that appeared hungry. 'Tell me, Margaret — or he dies now. Do you understand me? He dies now!' He flung her dramatically back into the chair, even as she cried out:

'No—!'

'I give you my word — now!' He snapped his fingers, moved towards the door.

'No—!' He did not stop. 'I followed you — to a meeting — in the Belvedere!'

He turned on his heel. She heard his breath sigh out like sexual release. It was hot, heady in the room; a place for exotic plants, foetid.

'You have evidence of that meeting?'

She nodded. 'Two rolls of film… telephoto lens…'

He moved heavily towards her. 'Where are those rolls of film?'

She flinched from his raised hand.

'Posted them—'

He grabbed her chin and jerked her face upwards. His thumb and forefinger pressed her jaw painfully. 'Where are they? When did you post them?' He shook her face between his fingers like something utterly fragile and breakable. 'Tell me, Margaret. Tell me!'

She blurted out the name of the pension and the time she had posted them. He released her chin at once and glanced at his watch. Then he moved quickly to his desk, snapping on the intercom. He barked orders into it, ending with: 'They won't have been collected yet. Yes, of course police IDs for you and whoever you take—! And hurry!'

He flicked the switch and turned to her. She felt something loosen and slide within her; will, resolve, she