Bishop's Delight, page 11
The last entry in the diary was particularly interesting:
My coalition partners are growing restive, threatening to withdraw their support if I don’t call an election in the autumn. The house is falling. The beaten men come into their own. Oh, for a comfortable majority! Democracy at its best posits the idea of an educated and discerning electorate, a public that makes the interests of the country its own. Even the paid hacks are contemptuous. They say quite openly that we Irish are deficient in civic morality and that there is no hope for Ireland while we connive at dishonesty and dishonour in public life. Someone else said, ‘Politicians and nappies need changing regularly, and for similar reasons.’ Our honey-bearing bishop would undoubtedly agree.
He had no idea why the diary should end three weeks before Maguire’s disappearance. The notebook could not conceivably have been an isolated burst of self-exposure. More than likely, it was part of a sequence. But where were the others? And, more important, was Anna aware of them? If so, what on earth had she made of them?’
The notebook raised certain questions, to which Louise Lamotte might well have the answers. If nothing else, she would know about Bishop’s Delight, a possibility that threatened to inflame his imagination. Reluctant though he was to turn a dangerous corner, he would have to get in touch with her again. He would have to feign an interest in her pathetic kiss-and-tell book, of course, but it was all in the worthy cause of discovering what Maguire had been up to.
While Sweetman would go on piously about the public interest and the public’s right to know, he himself was a lone star ranger. He was in journalism to earn a living, and his only resources were his loathing of pretence, his sense of isolation and injured merit, and his desire to uncover the pure and unadulterated truth, not for the so-called public good but simply for his own gratification.
16
They had finished eating, and Kevin had poured what was left of the wine, holding the bottle ceremoniously over his glass for the last drip. Jane was in talkative mood. She had been to the hairdresser’s that morning, and he had noticed her new coiffure without having to be prompted, which pleased her no end. If nothing else, it showed that he paid attention to how she looked and noticed things that had nothing to do with bonking.
‘We’ll go to bed now,’ he said, draining his glass.
‘No, we won’t. We’ll watch the news first.’
‘Nothing ever happens at weekends. Besides, the news reminds me of work. The weekend is my time to be with you.’
‘You hypocrite! It’s just as well I know better than to believe you.’
She got up and, taking his hand, led him into the living room. Having given him a lingering kiss to be going on with, she switched on the television. The news was already in progress, and Sweetman was interviewing a middle-aged lady of stern diction and formidable bearing.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Sweetman was saying. ‘Where were you standing at the time?’
‘On the pavement opposite the entrance to the Musée d’Orsay,’ she replied.
‘Now this is very important. Tell me precisely what you saw.’
‘I saw a tall, lean man coming out. At first I couldn’t believe that I was looking at Jim Maguire. He had dyed his hair white; it was his thick black eyebrows that gave him away. He hasn’t changed a bit—still the same straight-backed strut and the same well-cut suit. At first I thought I was seeing things, but when I saw a big, burly man coming out after him I knew I had seen something I wasn’t meant to see. I followed them along the river for a hundred yards, then they both got into a taxi and that was the last I saw of them. I think they may have realised that they’d been spotted.’
‘And who was the big, burly man?’
‘Bill MacBride, of course. I recognised him at once.’
‘Is there any possibility you might have been mistaken?’
‘None. I live near Phoenix Park. I’ve often seen them both out jogging together as I walked my dogs.’
‘So you’re not in any doubt?’
‘None whatever.’
‘That was Sadie McGowan who has just returned from a week in Paris. Her story is interesting. If nothing else, it cries out to be investigated.’
‘Another nutcase!’ Jane said. ‘We’ll never hear the end of Maguire and MacBride.’
‘It could be a red herring, but it’s just possible there’s something in it.’
‘We’ll have a rest now,’ she said. ‘It will put the news in perspective.’
‘I need to make a few quick phone calls first.’
‘No, you don’t. You said the weekend was to be mine.’ She took him by the hand and smiled up at him. ‘Now, get them off you! Isn’t that what you always say to me?’
They started undressing, one on either side of the bed. Woody was first in. He lay on his back, listening to the rustling. ‘No, don’t take off your bra and knickers! There’s nothing like a few flimsy obstacles to stimulate the old endorphins.’
‘And who are they when they’re at home?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest. I was only trying to impress you.’
‘Now, no charging or rushing, and no storming the gates. Maguire and MacBride can wait. They’ll still be living it up in Paris tomorrow.’
Resolving to get the better of her for once, he spent the best part of an hour in foreplay. He had almost exhausted his considerable repertoire when she finally gave the signal to lower the drawbridge. They were ravening and ravenous; they went for the kill like hawks. Sated, they fell asleep in each other’s arms. It was ten minutes past three when he woke to find that she was still by his side. It was the first time she had stayed the night. He was in uncharted territory. As he lay wondering what to do next, she turned on her side and put her hand down inside his pyjamas.
‘I feel very rested,’ she said. ‘I’ll never get back to sleep now without a sedative. What do you prescribe?’
‘I’ve got some Mogadon in the bathroom.’
‘I’d rather something that doesn’t cause morning drowsiness.’ She gave his erect penis a little tug.
Within minutes he found himself engaging her in single combat again, while his mind ran on likely headlines in the morning papers. Ransacking his vocabulary for English words that rhymed with Musée d’Orsay, the best he could do was ‘Sexual Horseplay’. It wasn’t good enough. Sweetman, he felt sure, would do better. Too much excitement was sapping his imagination. If married life was anything like this, he’d never get a wink of sleep or time to finish his biography. ‘I’m sure to drop off now,’ she said finally. He waited patiently for five or ten minutes, then stole downstairs to make himself a cheese and pickle sandwich, which he washed down with a glass of elderflower cordial.
When he got back to bed, she was snoring softly. He lay on his back, trying to anticipate every conceivable variation on the Musée d’Orsay story. He was aware of Jane lying by his side; the heat from her body gave him a sense of comfort that was new to him. But all that was by the way. He felt saddened by the latest twist in the Maguire–MacBride story: it was too banal, a gift to the tabloids and all journalists who gloried in defamatory innuendo. It played into Sweetman’s hands, and made his own chosen course harder to follow.
He must have slept. She was shaking him by the shoulder when he opened his eyes.
‘I thought I’d pamper you for once,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you breakfast.’
She had placed the tray on the night table: half a grapefruit, a boiled egg, two slices of buttered toast and coffee. He looked at his watch; it was six thirty-five. He would listen to the seven o’clock news.
‘I’ll be going now,’ she said. ‘Believe it or not, I have to get to work.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.’
‘It was no trouble. It was the best weekend we’ve ever had.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’d better shave,’ she said. ‘Your chin is a rasp.’
She blew him another kiss from the doorway and was gone. He felt relieved to be alone again. He didn’t mind being pampered in bed on occasion, but he didn’t like the idea of unpredictable pampering. He’d always cooked his own breakfast, except on holiday when he ordered from the menu. This morning he’d fancied two bacon rashers and an egg with two slices of black pudding and a fried tomato. But she wasn’t to know that, so he could hardly blame her. She was a little gem. She made him feel guilty; she was so sincere in everything she said and did.
He himself lived in a world of mirrors and distorted images that could not be put in writing without further distortion. It was strange for him to come back to Jane’s truth-telling, which struck him at times as an implicit criticism of the life he had chosen to lead. She was no comforter; she said what she thought without editing a word of it, even at the risk of offending him. In moments of self-criticism he thought of her as the only genuine person in his life.
Tapping his egg and topping it gave him a little lift. It was just right, neither too hard nor too runny, and the coffee was good and strong. He’d left the grapefruit till last because that was his fancy this morning. It wasn’t something he could have done in Jane’s company without inviting comment. It was one of the advantages of the bachelor life as he saw it, being free to please oneself in every particular, to live one’s life without having to take account of well-meant criticism or advice. Solitude was important, especially for a man who spent most of his time in company he did not greatly value. On the other hand, he was fond of Jane. He liked her sense of humour, which was not the humour of other women. She grew up as the only girl in a family of seven. She knew how to hold her own among men. She saw them as an interesting variation on her own thoughts and feelings, and she preferred their conversation to that of her own sex. She’d told him more than once that the difference between men and women was greatly exaggerated because it was in the interest of some easily identified women to stir up trouble.
In many ways, Jane was the most original woman he’d ever met. Her only fault was her desire to make him look like a banker—wanting to make him dress less shabbily and to do something about his unruly hair—things that weren’t matters of high principle, but could become the thin end of a very thick wedge. There was no need to worry, though. He wouldn’t take a leap in the dark. He’d always found that situations left simmering long enough finally resolve themselves.
He switched on the radio for the news. There was an interview with the police superintendent whose team was investigating the disappearance of Maguire and MacBride, but nothing new had come to light. When he had washed and shaved, he phoned Sweetman to ask how much significance he attached to Sadie McGowan’s story. Sweetman was devious, of course. He didn’t expect him to say what he really thought, but he might unwittingly drop a hint that would point the way to an unexplored angle.
‘I watched your interview with Sadie McGowan,’ he said. ‘A red herring, if ever there was one.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Sadie’s no crank. She can tell what’s news from what isn’t.’
‘How much did you have to pay her?’
‘Not a cent. I just bought her a drink and listened to what she had to say. In case you’re interested, her tipple is kir royale.’
‘She may be good for a paragraph in a longer piece. But it’s probably too late. Her story is already dead.’
‘Wrong again, Woody. It’s only the first chapter. It will run and run. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘How is your Parisian courtesan these days?’
‘She’s on the case while on the job. She’s in touch with every high-class hooker in Paris. Sooner or later, Mag and Mac will fancy a bit of the other. As soon as they do, I’ll be on their tail. You don’t play hide-and-seek with Tony Sweetman.’
‘Anything else in the offing?’
‘There’s a big story about to break, but my lips are sealed till one o’clock. Watch the lunchtime news.’
‘I think I know. Maguire’s favourite fantasy was sex with a ballerina in her tutu. One of his victims has finally decided to tell us what it was like.’
‘Now there’s a story! The image it conjures up out-tutus anything by Degas. Would you like me to make it come true?’
Sweetman thought he was being clever, but unwittingly he’d given him a fresh angle. He would get in touch with Sadie McGowan and write a piece about her holiday in Paris. He would give an unvarnished report of what she did and thought, indirectly revealing the kind of windbag she was and thereby undermining her credibility. It would also show up Sweetman’s account of her story as a piece of overheated piffle.
He was about to get in touch with Anna when Louise phoned. ‘Have you heard the latest?’ she breathed excitedly. ‘It’s all over the papers. Maguire and MacBride have been spotted in Paris. Anything that keeps the public guessing is good for my book.’
‘That’s yesterday’s news,’ he said. ‘For the latest, you must listen in at lunchtime.’
‘So what is the latest?’
‘My lips are sealed till one o’clock, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve got something to show you. I thought nothing of it at the time, but it could be worth a small fortune now.’
‘I’m up to my neck in work, Louise, and I’ve got a meeting at twelve-thirty.’
‘This won’t take long. It’s a real eye-opener.’
‘What can it be?’
‘Photos of you-know-who in flagrante. Isn’t that how you say it?’
‘I’ll see you in about half an hour.’
He knew he shouldn’t. The memory of her kiss still disturbed him. He kept thinking of it even while he was with Jane. He arrived on her doorstep at eleven. She’d already done her hair, but she was still in her floral negligee, smelling of bath oil and synthetic sweetness. In clicking high heels she led him to her sofa, and they both sat down. He watched as she took a bundle of photos from an envelope and laid them out before him on the coffee table. They showed the naked bodies of a man and woman making love in various contorted positions. He examined them one by one to make sure it was the same male body throughout.
‘How did you ever manage to take these?’
‘That’s my little secret. One day I’ll tell you, but not yet. How much are they worth?’
‘They’d be worth a lot if they showed heads as well as buttocks and genitals.’
‘It’s obviously the body of a tall, thin man, and the woman is me, as you can see.’ She opened her negligee to let him have a good look at her figure.
‘I’m not disputing that. The headless man could even be me, or any other man with a light physique like Maguire’s.’
‘But it isn’t you or any other man. It’s Maguire, I’m telling you. And it didn’t just end there. I’ll show you my instruments of torture now that you’re here.’
‘Surely Maguire wasn’t a masochist as well?’
‘Only on rare occasions. Sometimes after a punishing day at Leinster House. He used to say it was homeopathic. But what really got him going was a touch of what he called Bishop’s Delight.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘I can’t describe what it meant to him in words, but some time when you’re not in such a desperate hurry I’ll show you. It’s one of those things you must experience for yourself. You may be able to describe it; I haven’t got the words, I’m afraid.’
‘We’ll have to describe it in the book,’ he said. ‘I can’t write about it unless I know what it is.’
‘We’ll just call it my speciality.’
‘Come on, give us a clue, Louise,’ he smiled.
‘Don’t be a naughty boy now.’ She tweaked his nose. ‘Instead, I’ll give you a little kiss to be going on with.’
It was a long kiss that sent an electrical charge down his spine and legs. His head swam; he felt quite faint. Worse still, he couldn’t get to his feet without betraying his all-too-obvious condition.
‘Maguire used to call me his little kinkajou.’ She laughed and pressed her thigh against his.
‘His kinkajou?’
‘Apparently it can suck nectar from flowers with its tongue.’
‘You learn something new every day.’ He felt relieved. The thought of a kinkajou’s tongue in his mouth had brought him back to earth. Thankfully, it was now safe to get up.
‘When are you going to make a start on my book?’
‘First you must do an outline, then I’ll know where we’re going. I need to know the beginning, the middle and the end. Can you do that for next Monday?’
‘You’ve given me an imposition. It’s like being back in the convent.’
‘Don’t worry, it isn’t an essay. Just make a list of all the things you want to include as they happen to occur to you. I’ll put them in the right order.’
‘Will you do something for me before you go? Will you massage my tummy? I’ve got a terrible pain here.’
She unbuttoned her negligee and lay out invitingly on the sofa with one foot on the floor. He knelt down and spent a pleasant five or ten minutes helping to relieve whatever was troubling her.
‘Don’t be shy,’ she said. ‘You can put your hand where the pain is, down inside my panties.’
‘Are you sure it isn’t something serious? Maybe you should see a doctor.’
‘You’re better than any doctor I know. Your touch is so soothing, Kevin.’
After a while she said, ‘Oh, what a relief! It’s gone. It must have been trapped wind.’
He felt pleased to have made his escape without need for further palpation. He was beginning to understand the deep, dark waters he had ventured into. As he cycled home, he kept asking himself, ‘What would Jane think?’ He sensed that somehow he had betrayed her. Though he hadn’t done anything wrong, he had done something he couldn’t tell her about. It was all part of his job, of course, but Jane was the kind of girl who simply wouldn’t understand.
