The Censor, page 32
Now, in the grey afternoon light, there was no sign of any work or creative activity. The desk tidy and uniform: blotter, diary; address book; calendar; telephone.
Then she noticed there was a key on the lock of the desk’s long central drawer. She turned the key and pulled out the drawer.
Scissors. A tube of glue. A thick leather-bound book. A scrap book of some five hundred pages. Thick pages the colour of wet cement. Dorothy sat down and opened the book on her lap. Literally thousands of cuttings: some plain and flatly printed; others smooth, cut neatly from glossy magazines. But they all carried the same message. The message of a guilty mind looking secretly at the raw material of mans’ quest for love. There were snippets from woman’s underwear advertisements: girdles, bras, slips, corsets; girls peeping coyly from behind trees, or surrounded with greenery, or lying flat on rugs. There were nudes and pieces of nudes, close-ups of the physical facts of the beauty that is woman: smooth and wonderful photographs mixed, without skill, with cruder pictures.
By the age of some of the cuttings the book spanned around thirty years. To some people it would be an historic document. The body. The oddly erotic. The evidence showing no breakthrough into true physical contact which could lead to a marriage of minds.
The itch within Dorothy grew. She sat back, flicking through the pages of this sad revelation, muttering ‘poor love’, from time to time, when the most blatant, or most splendid, cuttings fell into view.
She was still sitting at the desk when Humphrey returned. He looked a beaten and dejected man as he crossed the hall and stood in the doorway. His eyes did not seem to take in what he saw. Then, as his shoulders slumped forward, all the nightmare creatures and the seven devils who lived in his corridored mind leaped into his consciousness. He muttered, ‘It’s only a book. Dorothy. My book. But that’s all.’
‘I know. Come with me Humphrey. Come love.’
‘No, it’s only a book.’
‘Come.’ She put out her hand and took his, leading him, a broken human, up the stairs.
He hardly knew what was happening to him as she gently undid the buttons, stripping off the clothes, making him comfortable, docile on the bed.
‘You can forget about your book now.’
He nodded, watching her as she undressed and approached him. She knew that her work would have to be delicate and patient, kind and loving. That it would be hard and long. But at least her therapy might eventually cleanse.
*
June heard the news from John Sutton and did not know whether to laugh or cry. She had only just replaced the telephone receiver when the instrument rang again.
‘So it’s all over.’
‘Oh David, congratulations. I’m so happy.’
‘It had to work. Now, June, you tell him.’
‘Yes.’ No escape, the painful moment rushing towards her.
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can …’
‘Now. Now you tell him. Today. Quickly.’
‘But …’
‘Janie, baby, no prevarications. You tell him now while he has a little joy and a little strength. Leave it a day and you’ll be back on the treadmill and there’s no future.’
‘But I can’t just …’
‘You can; and you will. There’s a Pan Am flight out of Heathrow at ten tonight. I am going to be on it. So are you.’
‘But David, I haven’t even …’
‘I know, but you’ll survive. So will he. Now do it. Then put your immediate needs into a suitcase and come over here. I leave at eight-forty-five and I love you. Someone once said that winning needs discipline and the spirit needs freedom. Win and have freedom.’
The click and the dialling tone.
*
John Sutton put down the telephone after calling June. His secretary came through on the squawk box.
‘Mr Coin’s here with Mr Cadogan.’
‘Send him in.’
Ed Coin and Freddy came in beaming, grappling with each other and with John. Repeating the words of congratulation, elated at the result.
‘We’ve got a little surprise, John.’ Coin grinned. ‘Nobody here really had any doubts about the way things would go, so we planned a small celebration. Just a get-together, everybody in the firm. Six o’clock in the board room.’
‘Hey. That’s nice. Can I bring someone?’
‘Not Walter Turk,’ laughed Freddy.
When he had got rid of them, Sutton called June again.
‘Put on your prettiest dress and come down to the office, darling. We’re having a little celebration. Six o’clock. Okay?’
He was puzzled by her silence, there seemed to be no quick joy with his happiness. Then, out of all their past together, he caught the note in her voice and it was all the bad moments they had ever experienced.
‘John, I’m sorry but I can’t. I’ve got to talk to you. Come back here now. It’s urgent. Please. Would you?’
He knew but could not face what was unsaid, nor what could be said. The voice separate from the body, ethereal on the telephone. It was not a real thing. ‘Oh June, please. It’s a big day. Everyone’s going to be here. Please.’
‘I can’t. Don’t make me. John, come back. Come and talk.’
‘See you here at six. I won’t take no for an answer. We can talk anytime. We can talk tomorrow. Or later on tonight.’ The last frantic bait rose in his brain and, even then, he could not believe what she was not saying to him. ‘Look June, now all this is over, perhaps, perhaps we can get things settled once and for all.’
‘Please come and talk. Things are settled.’
‘Six o’clock. Here at six. Your prettiest dress.’
She still had not arrived by seven and he could not leave. The champagne worked, his back was sore from the congratulatory pats, and some of the girls from the typing pool even ventured to kiss him lightly on the cheek. He said nothing but noted that David Askelon was not there.
June put a few things into her best suitcase, then sat down to write the letter. She finished it at eight and dialled David’s number. ‘I’ve told him,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m on my way over.’
‘How’d he take it?’
‘As well as could be expected. We’ll talk later.’
John Sutton got back to Essex Place at around nine-forty-five. He had not telephoned, knew that nobody would be waiting, yet the small hope remained, the centre of his being.
The letter was not a literary masterpiece. But it did not try to ease what he now had to face. Emptiness; the shell of living without life; the years ahead with the endless packaged whine and that pointless strumming of nostalgic, sentimental regrets.
Below them London was a nest of glow-worms thrown out against black moss. In the bright capsule she took his hand and gave a quick smile. Then a nod.
‘That was the Prologue,’ she said, her voice small and uncertain.
He patted her knee, then lifted his head, arrogance and assurance in his smile. When he spoke it was almost aggressive. ‘Now read the future.’
If you enjoyed reading The Censor, you might also be interested in The Liquidator by John Gardner, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from The Liquidator by John Gardner
Prologue: Paris
August 1944
Mostyn was fighting for his life. Twice he had thrown the short one into the gutter, but now they were both at him: the short one trying to pinion his arms while the big fellow's hands were almost at his throat. He was tiring now, sweating and furious: furious with himself for being caught like this. It was an object lesson in lowering one's guard while still operational.
That morning he had seen British tanks in the Place de la Concorde. He had whistled all the way back to Jacques' flat - feeling that life was his again. The job was nearly over - and now, to be jumped by the very two men he had so carefully avoided during the past long six weeks. It was unforgivable.
The big one reached for his throat: he could feel himself being pressed against the wall: the cold bricks hard at the back of his neck as he pushed his chin down on to his chest to stop the great hot hands forcing through to his windpipe.
But the big man was winning: the world was going red. He could hardly breathe, and the pain had begun to paralyse his shoulders and arms as he threshed about, panicking to set himself free. What a way to die - in a back alley off the Boulevard Magenta, with all Paris singing at her emancipation on this gorgeous afternoon.
Somewhere, far away beyond the waterfall noise in his ears, he thought he could hear the tanks again. One last effort. He heaved upwards with his arms, kicked out and brought his knee sharply between the big one's legs. He felt the knee-cap make a squashy contact. The man yelped and dropped back, growling a German oath before springing in again. Out of the corner of his eye, Mostyn saw something flicker farther up the street. Still grappling with the two men, he gave a quick turn of the head. The newcomer was running out of the sunlight at the alley entrance, the mottled camouflage jacket unmistakable. Mostyn shouted - shocked at the frightened falsetto of his own voice: 'Help! Quickly! I'm British! Help! Intelligence!'
The big fellow looked round, startled and off-guard. There was a moment's hesitation, then he began to stumble away. The little man had lost his balance, pushing himself from the wall in an attempt to follow his companion.
They only managed three steps - four at the most. To Mostyn, panting against the wall, the shots sounded like cannon fire. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The two Germans lay like crumpled piles of clothes - the big one sprawled face-down, his head resting on the pavement, a matted patch of spreading red where the base of his skull had been: the little one was on his back, a bullet through the neck, his eyes looking up with the reproachful surprise of one who has met his Maker unready and with unexpected swiftness.
Mostyn looked at his saviour. He was a sergeant: from a tank crew, judging by the accoutrements - map-case and binoculars - slung round his neck. Now the big Colt automatic seemed too heavy for him. His wrist sagged as though the weight was dragging it down; a thin trickle of blue smoke turning to wispy grey as it filtered from the muzzle, up the barrel and over his hand.
But it was the eyes that made Mostyn catch his breath, sending the short hairs tingling on the nape of his neck: ice-blue, cold as freezing point, looking down at the bodies with immense satisfaction.
Mostyn prided himself that he could read the truth in other men's eyes. These told the story all too plainly. This man, a perfect technician in death, had enjoyed shooting to kill. He was, thought Mostyn, a born assassin, a professional who would blow a man's life from him as easily, and with as little emotion, as he would blow his own nose.
The sergeant was still gazing at the corpses, his mouth curved slightly at one corner in a wry smile. This one, thought Mostyn, will be worth watching. One day he might be useful again.
1 - London
Saturday June 8th 1963
BOYSIE
Boysie Oakes slid the razor smoothly over the last froth of lather below his chin and ran the side of his third finger carefully in its wake. Satisfied, he rinsed the razor, doused a flannel and proceeded to sponge away the surplus foam. Drying his face, a moment later, he paused, peering into the mirror, searching for the least sign of wear or tear.
For a man in his mid-forties, Boysie was in peak condition. Not a single fold of skin showed on the neck or up the hard jaw line. His mouth, with the built-in slight upward curve at the left corner, had not deteriorated into the full sensual thickness which he had once feared. Momentarily he turned his head, slanting his eyes to get a better look at the left profile which a woman had once called his 'Mona Lisa side'.The striking ice blue eyes were as clear as they had been in his teens - the tiny laughter lines and minute crows' feet revealing a dependable maturity instead of the prophetic marks of encroaching age. Time had neither thinned his eyebrows nor pushed back his hairline: the only concession to approaching middle age seemed to be the shining flecks of grey at his temples.
Boysie spilled a tiny pool of Lentheric Onyx into the hollow of his left palm, crossing it to the right and working the mixture up his long fingers before running both hands quickly down and over his cheeks and chin. His eyes twitched fractionally as the lotion stung into the pores, the clean tang catching at his nostrils. He followed it with a tiny puff of talc from the black and gold container, rubbing it down and away until no trace was visible.
Replacing the requisites of good grooming in the clear glass cupboard, he stepped away from the magnifying mirror, running the backs of his right-hand fingers to and fro over the freshly barbered jowl, now smooth as nylon stretched tight over arched female buttocks. His complexion - burnished by the daily half-hour stint with the sunray lamp - was as clear and tough as well-waxed leather, with none of the danger marks of purple-red veining under the eyes or at nose tip.
Ablutions completed, Boysie padded from the bathroom, across the carpeted passage into the luxurious little bedroom. Brubeck and his boys brought their arithmetically steady improvisation on Leonard Bernstein's Somewhere to its nostalgic climax. The record-player clicked as the next disc fell into position on the turntable and the liquid peace of Bach's Goldberg Variations filled the flat. The quiet pace of the harpsichord made Boysie feel more than usually conscious of the luck that had come his way.
Ten years ago he had never heard of the Goldberg Variations, or, for that matter, Matisse - one of whose original geometrically brilliant oils hung over the white and silver headboard of the big double bed. Boysie lit a king-sized filter and took a quick look at himself in the wall-length mirror. The picture seemed pretty good to him: his body, utterly male, hard, balanced and straight as a lath. He posed conceitedly - a Sunday heavy ad in azure string vest and Y-front briefs.
Coming out of the little fantasy, he took a long draw at his cigarette, rested it on the ashtray - which stood next to a deluxe copy of the Kama Sutra on the bedside table - and slipped a cream poplin tailored shirt over his head. Pulling out the tie rack, he selected a Thailand silk in bronze to match the autumn-tinted Courtelle suit which lay ready on the bed. Johann Sebastian's intricate keyboard practice weaved on.
Whatever else one felt about Mostyn, thought Boysie adjusting the waistband of his trousers, at least he was a thorough swine. He was really deeply indebted to Mostyn. A complete new world had been opened up to him almost from the moment he had signed the Official Secrets Act, together with that ominous piece of paper which made him a particular slave to the Department of Special Security. Art, Literature, Music, the Drama, food, wine, the knowledge of a gourmet (if not the true palate) - all had been brought to him through Mostyn: together, of course, with the £4,000 a year, the regular bonuses and the white custom-built E-type Jaguar.
Fully dressed, he slipped his wrist-watch over the fingers of his left hand and glanced at the dial. Ten-thirty: must get going. For the second time that morning Boysie felt the disconcerting butterfly flutter in the pit of his stomach - always the prelude to flying. He walked into the living-room where the battered multi-labelled tan Revelation stood packed and locked; poured himself a double jigger of Courvoisier and pressed the stud that opened the secret drawer in his rebuilt Sheraton bureau. The small, pearl-handled automatic pistol lay snugly in its crimson velvet recess. He checked the mechanism and slid the weapon into the leather holster sewn into the hip pocket of his trousers, slipping the patent quick-release strap over the butt to keep it in place, and dropping three fully loaded spare magazines into the tailored clip on the inside pocket of his jacket. Mostyn would have a fit, he thought, if he knew of that gun. The business of only allowing him to go armed when on an actual assignment was one of the few things Boysie hated about the Department. There was no doubt that Mostyn would shoot up the wall with the agility of a monkey on a stick if he even heard of the existence of the weapon. But then, what Mostyn - now Second-in-Command of Security - believed about Boysie, and what Boysie knew about himself were as far removed from each other as the proverbial chalk and Stilton. When one really got down to cases, carrying that pistol - which couldn't be classed as a real man-stopper anyway - was Boysie's own private little joke against Mostyn. Even so, he invariably experienced a trickle of cold sweat whenever he thought too deeply on the consequences of Mostyn discovering his tiny secret.
The telephone jangled in the bureau recess. That would be Iris. He picked up the handpiece and heard her voice - an amalgam of honey and rough sand - soft in his ear:
'Boysie?'
'Yes, sweetie?'
He could feel his body rise even at the sound of her. It had been like that for six months now - half a year of concentrated technique between assignments. She knew the game all right. When you dealt with the luscious Iris, it wasn't just a matter of one night in the Savoy Grill then oops into bed with no remorse. There had been moments of frustration of course, but, on the whole, Boysie had enjoyed the protracted love-play which, all being well, would end that very night on a bed not a spit from the palm fronds and surf of the Mediterranean. Again the spectre of Mostyn slunk quietly through his mind. One didn't take Mostyn's personal secretary for a dirty weekend on the French Riviera every day - and get away with it. Oh well, let's hope she's worth it, he thought.
'Boysie? I'm just leaving the flat. Everything all right?'
'Right as rain, sweetie. Don't worry about a thing. I'm going to ring the duty officer in a minute.' For a second he wondered if he was allowing his manner to assume too much urgency.
'You do think it'll be all right?'
'I've told you. Don't worry. Your boss never appears before midday on a Saturday, and by that time, sweetie, we'll be off into the wide blue yonder.' His stomach gave another twitch. There was silence, and for a moment he thought they had been cut off:
