The Censor, page 21
On the Friday of the previous week, Charles Carmichael had been out of the office. Some small point came up concerning the Gavin Herod account: particularly the Herod property in the Canaries. The purchase of the ground, the building of the villa, and more besides, had been accomplished by Carmichael Properties. But this was one of those areas in which Humphrey did not wish to be actively involved. Charles had been the agent, in everything. Now, when this small matter came before him, Humphrey simply told his secretary to refer it to Charles who was not available.
‘If they want a quick answer, Miss Fuller would probably know.’ The girl was merely trying to be helpful.
‘Miss Fuller?’ Humphrey felt the twinge. Charles’ secretary was a fortyish, abrupt woman called Hamilton. If anyone could supply quick answers, apart from Charles, it should be her. Then why Miss Fuller?
‘Diane Fuller in Contracts,’ the girl prompted.
Carmichael Properties employed some one hundred and fifty people. Diane Fuller was only on the periphery of Humphrey’s awareness. A dark girl, young with striking black eyes. Very bright, go places, someone had told him.
‘Why Miss Fuller?’ He was conscious that he had made no bodily movement since the girl had first mentioned Miss Fuller. A holding in of emotion.
‘Miss Fuller worked very closely with Mr Charles over the Herod property. She would probably know.’
That was all. A simple matter, a minor discrepancy involving a small sum in the Herod account. Yet the fact of this girl from Contracts being closely involved in the Herod matter had stimulated the radar of suspicion in Humphrey’s mind. He even went down to Contracts on some pretext, simply to look at the girl. His fears grew Humphrey could recognise wantonness. When he returned to his office his first reaction was to call George Militant.
Now, a week later, the shadow of the full story reached him. The girl, Diane Fuller, had dealt with the complex Herod contract. During the previous September, Charles had flown to Tenerife to inspect the work and carry out some private business for Herod. Indeed, it was the private nature of the business that made Herod a debtor to Carmichael himself. The facts, now revealed, included the unpleasant detail that Diane Fuller had accompanied Charles Carmichael on the Tenerife trip. The dangers of this truth, in the light of Carmichael’s intrigue over The Golden Spin, and Herod’s involvement in it, could not be over emphasised.
Humphrey Carmichael wrestled with his temper that Friday morning. The immediate reaction was to call in the Fuller girl, sack her on the spot, then send for his son and have the whole thing out once and for all. But even his fury could not stop the flow of cold calculation that was so much a part of his character. Often Humphrey Carmichael’s logic was at fault, but quick reaction to emotion did not enter into his makeup. It was mid-afternoon before he cleared his desk of essential work and buzzed down for Charles.
When his secretary showed Charles into the office, Humphrey asked for them not to be disturbed. His son fell into a chair. He looked exhausted, heavy dark smudges under the eyes, his blond hair not as neat and tidy as usual, its sheen dulled.
‘You look terrible,’ Carmichael began gruffly.
‘So would you. I’ve got a stinking cold; there’s more work here than I can deal with, and Pamela’s not well.’
‘Oh, you still communicate with Pamela?’ Sarcasm spread thickly.
‘Christ father, you’re bloody silly at times. There’s nothing wrong between Pamela and me.’
‘No?’
‘No. Get it clear for heaven’s sake.’
Humphrey paused. The dossier lay in one of his desk drawers barely a foot from his hand. ‘Then why?’ he spoke quietly. ‘Why can I get hold of facts concerning you and other women? If life’s so good to you and Pamela, tell me that.’
Charles laughed. ‘What other women?’
Humphrey Carmichael held up his left hand, fingers spread, and ticked off the three names in the dossier.
Charles remained unperturbed. ‘Ships that pass,’ he said with a smile. ‘I don’t share your religious fervour, father. There are rules and rules. Some rules have become bad, restricting, taboos. You’ve got to see that we can’t all obey the law of the wolf cub pack. A lot of us need variation. There are psychiatrists who’ll tell you that extra-marital relationships, kept under control, can actually save marriages.’
‘Psychiatrists.’ Scorn.
‘So can sexy books in the right circumstances. And note that I use the word sexy not dirty. You and your kind equate sex with dirt. That’s what taboos and guilt does for you. Anyway, what are you up to collecting information on me? You going to turn it in to Pamela?’
Humphrey’s words came out with no warmth. ‘I’ve told you before. I’m your father. I’m concerned with the morals and ways of life of all those who are close to me.’
‘Well I’m sorry, if my morals don’t suit, it’s just too bad. What I do outside this firm is my private business, my private life. It has nothing to do with you.’
‘I would argue with that. But you’ve hit one nail. I’m most concerned about what you do inside the firm.’
‘Inside?’
‘Miss Diane Fuller.’
‘And what the hell’s Diane Fuller got to do with it?’
‘The Herod business. Tenerife. Last September.’
Charles’ brow creased. His memory picked up the threads. A shower of pictures in a couple of seconds. Brown earth coming up under the wing of the aircraft; the drive to Puerto de la Cruz; banana groves; the Tiede, that towering, beautiful volcanic mass against the sky; Diane talking incessantly about the difficulties of the contract; the drive out to the villa; an unsubtle smell of lemons that always seemed to come from the girl.
‘I don’t follow,’ said Charles.
‘Diane Fuller went with you to Tenerife.’
‘Yes.’
‘That is office business. Company business. My business. You’ve started to confuse your adulterous way of life with my way of running a company.’
‘And you confuse the issue.’ Charles rose. The pause was the moment before the whirlwind struck. ‘You filthy, prying, foul-minded, sexless Judas. Christ, you’re a Member of Parliament, a respected man.’ White with anger. ‘Get this into your head, respected man. Diane Fuller works here. She’s good at her job and she’s going to be even better at it. She’s an asset to the company. She came to Tenerife for two reasons. First, I wanted someone with me who knew that contract inside out and backwards. It was necessary. Secondly, the whole thing was more likely to go smoothly with a woman along. You do recall, father, what else I was doing on that trip? Or would you prefer to forget? I wasn’t bedding the Fuller bit. I was carrying ten thousand pounds sterling, in notes, out of the country for your friend and mine, Gavin Herod ...’
‘Be quiet.’
‘I will not be quiet.’ Charles drew a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. ‘You sit on your dung hill, plotting and scheming. Your family must be above suspicion, the big wheel of middle class morality. Yet you’ll turn a blind eye to small details like side deals with Gavin Herod and the fact that I could have been nailed badly for the currency thing. “Problems with getting money out to the Canaries, Gavin? I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. Have a word with my son.” You said it. You said just that, giving me the look which spelled it out. Take care of him. Do anything he wants, but I don’t want to know about it. So I did. Ten grand in notes with an extra ten per cent on his account and putting up with the eternal chatter of Miss Fuller, and the wretched smell of her lemon soap every time I got within two paces of her, and all you can think about is screwing in office time.’
Charles’ drastic outburst all but convinced Humphrey. It certainly disturbed him. He was shaken and perplexed by the time Cotterill drove him back to The Hall.
‘If you’ve got any other complaints or sexual fantasies, come to me first, not last,’ had been Charles’ parting shot, following a further tirade.
Humphrey arrived home in a state of extreme agitation. He was angry. With Charles. With himself. Dorothy’s note hit him with a confused impact. At first, Humphrey could not straighten his thoughts. In the car he had thought about the stream of mental accusations that he had been making against Charles. In the last weeks he had become so tormented with the idea of his son playing the role of general debaucher that he was almost willing to believe anything about him. Now there was bewilderment.
Dorothy’s note meant one thing. Then the reflex. He acknowledged that he might have been wrong about Charles. It was equally possible that he had made a mistake regarding his wife. The paradox built into a thunderhead of anxiety. Where had she gone this time? What was she doing? Who was she with? The picture of evil: the bodies, breasts, organs, slime. They were with him for much of the time nowadays, but tonight Dorothy’s face was transposed on the imagined bodies. This was the dark side of Carmichael’s mind: the area lit by dripping candles and sweet with cloying incense. The land of skulls and sugar, dark practices and creatures of particular horror which might have been created. by Bosch or the Elder Breughel. Shadowed pictures where Carmichael equated evil with sex and vice versa. Man and woman at their most bestial; copulating in the blood flowing from the severed limbs of children, perverting nature, performing acts so gross as to be nameless. As the clock moved on he became more engrossed in the idea of Dorothy being involved in this toxic and septic world.
In the end, he rang Price, and the psychiatrist was quick to recognise the cry of a man in terrible mental anguish.
‘I’ve come to know your wife very well, Sir Humphrey.’ His voice level and cool: the calming influence. ‘I really don’t think you need worry over much. She’s told you that she’ll be back tomorrow. Accept it. I personally don’t think she’s off on another do like the last time. She was fine yesterday. When she returns I suggest that you behave as if nothing extraordinary has happened.’
‘I can’t help being concerned.’ Desperation in his voice.
‘No, but you are showing concern for her because she’s not at home. It might be a good idea to show more concern when she is there.’
Silence. No answer. Price continued. ‘Look, why don’t you come in and see me. I really would like a talk with you. Dorothy’s been a very unwell woman.’
There was more gentle persuasion. In the end, Humphrey agreed to see the psychiatrist on Monday afternoon. He went to bed still disturbed with the waking nightmares. Sweating. Fighting to replace the mental ghosts with the solid realities. His work. The building assault on The Golden Spin. Finally, Humphrey Carmichael dropped into a sleep populated by the relentless obscene dream visions.
*
Dorothy Carmichael sipped her wine, allowing herself the luxury of letting tension ease away.
It was impossible to put an age on the man who sat opposite her. Thick white hair, a face that had not gone flabby with time, but retained its texture, hard, tanned. He could be approaching sixty, obvious care was spent on the body. Not the usual kind, though she had picked him up in her standard way: the hotel bar, aimless meeting place of unknowns.
He called himself Irving Scholes, but was reticent to talk of his work or background. She detected the threads of a hard life and, certainly the reward of money. His clothes were conservative, well-kept; his personality bright, the mind agile. He talked of politics, Art, the Theatre, Cinema.
It was his suggestion that they should dine together and he had chosen the restaurant: The Ivy where she had not been for years. The evening had a dazzling flavour in spite of the itch. Listening to him talk, Dorothy realised that she had been imprisoned, away from the true centre of life for a long time. She had not seen any of the exhibitions he mentioned, nor the films or plays. He talked of literary figures, playwrights, directors and people concerned in the arts in a way not culled second hand from the reviewers of The Observer or Sunday Times. The whole conversational environment was new to her and she felt her way delicately. However, she had read a few of the books he spoke of, but his perception illuminated her own understanding of the works.
‘There is quite a remarkable book coming out in September. You mustn’t miss it.’ They had reached the coffee and cognac stage. The itch and urge redoubled. Dorothy smiled politely and acted the attentive audience. ‘I was lucky enough to read it in America last year,’ he continued. ‘It’s strong. Disturbing. A deep, powerful analysis of the disruptive elements among American youth. You might like to make a note of it.’ Scholes smiled. A good, uncomplicated smile lighting up his eyes. ‘The Golden Spin. Written by a man called David Askelon. It’s something that should be read by people anxious to be aware of what’s going on around them.’
Dorothy nodded and sipped her coffee. Scholes sighed and looked round for a waiter. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back to your hotel?’
‘You’re not staying there?’ For the first time she saw the possibility of having made a mistake. Perhaps he simply did not want it. Or was queer. Hardly. Past it? Men drop away easily and suddenly.
‘No, I don’t stay there. Usually just drop in for a drink there. I stay at my club, like all the old lonelies. Still, one adjusts.’
She came on a trifle quickly. ‘You’ve given me such a lovely evening. I hate to think of you being lonely. Alone. Why don’t you come back to the hotel with me?’
‘I wouldn’t think of letting you go by yourself.’
‘No.’ She held the pause, counting the seconds as the desire grew. ‘I meant come back with me.’
Comprehension showed in his eyes.
Dorothy turned the knife. ‘But I suppose men who live lonely lives, like you, prefer younger women.’
He sat very still. ‘They are sometimes the only ones who can accommodate us, Dorothy. The young, heartless women whom we have to pay. By my standards you’re a young woman. Are you really inviting me to your room? For ...?’ He left it unsaid.
‘Women get lonely too.’ She had never admitted that to one of her casual men before. Always they were slightly younger, most grateful, eager to the point of nausea.
Irving Scholes nodded. ‘Askelon, in this book I mentioned, The Golden Spin, points out that loneliness can attack any age group and its symptoms follow a pattern. If you have any mind at all you are more likely to become hypersensitive to life: the battling factions in the struggle for survival, the incipient dangers grow daily under modern conditions. This lonely examination leads to morbid pessimism. And there is the other course. One becomes too concerned with one’s own body. Sex, or the lack of it, the drying well, takes over the mind. It’s an interesting viewpoint.’
‘You’re gently telling me I set too much store by sexuality?’
‘No, I’m just saying that can happen with lonely people. It would be easy for me to accept your offer and come back with you. But I don’t know if you’d find it a pleasurable experience. I’m not a young man.’
The desperate void within. The itch constant and now fastening itself on to this one creature, Irving Scholes. ‘We could talk.’
‘You’re kind. I’d like that. Yes.’
They returned to the hotel where he exercised a pleasant discretion, going on ahead of her and waiting by the lift until she collected her key.
In the room, she contrived to sit him in the only chair, while she half sat, half reclined, on the bed, doing her best to rouse him by constantly crossing and uncrossing her legs so that he had an uninterrupted view of her thighs and underclothes.
They talked: of the world, life and death, yet she managed, each time, to bring the conversation back to the erotic. In the end her desperation became too difficult to control. She left the bed and went to him, wrapping her arms round his neck. She kissed his ear, sliding her tongue into the waxed centre, an unpleasant taste.
‘Irving, you’ve given me such a marvellous evening. Please finish it for me. Have me.’
At last he put his arms around her. There was a sense of embarrassment. Looking straight ahead and in a strange nervous voice, he said, ‘Put the light out. I have a ridiculous modesty.’
Dorothy felt him shake, the quiver of nerves. Quickly she got to her feet and switched off the bedside lamp, the only illumination.
Standing by the bed she undressed swiftly. She could hear his breathing and the movement as he discarded his clothing.
When she was naked, Dorothy stretched out on the bed and called ‘I’m ready’ in a low voice, her body trembling, uncontrollable: not the state of a young bride. It would not have mattered who the man was, young, old, deformed. To have a man within was all that mattered.
‘One moment.’ She heard him, the catch in his throat. Then his weight on the bed, naked next to her.
Dorothy put out her arms and he came close. They kissed. No true response from him. She became more vigorous, sliding her crotch onto his thigh, her tongue filling his mouth, her readiness apparent by the ooze filming his flesh, on the thigh. She ran her hand down between his legs and found him, warm and limp, like some soft, delicate flower.
‘I’m sorry,’ he was indistinct. ‘I warned you that I’m not a young man. It isn’t you. You attract me greatly. It’s a physical thing. I can only get satisfaction in one way.’
Dorothy, in desperate anxiety. ‘How? Tell me, I’ll do anything.’
‘Your mouth.’
Her vast sexual experience suddenly shrank from her, dwindling to the fact that, with all the men she had taken, loved, performed with, the act had always simply been the act. Positions had varied. But it had always been the penis in her vagina. Only once had there been even an attempt at variation on the theme. Once, long ago, an acquaintance of Humphrey had tried to take her rectally. She resisted, slipping him into her, but the attempt was an unpleasant trial on the memory. She had read of oral sex and the thought revolted her.
Scholes sensed her hesitation.
‘Please, don’t worry. If you ...’
