Dover Beach (30 page)

I had read the novel on Boxing Day, too, I realized with a pang. And Gwen, not Kathy, had been by my side. I decided not to think about that just now.

Kathy didn't share my enthusiasm for the movie. "I didn't expect the ending," she said quietly. "I kind of hoped—"

"It's your standard trick ending," I explained. "Private-eye stories have to have trick endings."

"They should have happy endings."

"Yeah," I agreed. "But I guess maybe it's tough to have both."

"I expect you're right."

The lights in the theater dimmed, and
Casablanca
began.

Casablanca
did not have a particularly happy ending either—at least, boy did not get girl. But I thought it was a wonderful movie, and I fully concurred with Kathy's judgment. She was crying at the end. "They were in love," she sobbed. "They belonged together."

"I guess sometimes love doesn't amount to a hill o' beans in this crazy mixed-up world."

"Well, it should."

I couldn't disagree with her. I was thrilled by the movies, but they didn't exactly leave us in a jolly mood. We rode the Tube in silence back to Kathy's flat and made slow, almost pensive love. Kathy held me tight afterward, but she still had nothing to say, and eventually sleep claimed her. I stayed with her for a long while, and then I wandered out to the living room.

I sat in the rocker, naked, and stared out the window.

I was thinking about Gwen. What was she doing at this instant? Churning out a last-minute rewrite at the
Globe?
Playing the piano for Stretch and Linc? Or perhaps she was lying in bed, awake, wishing she had someone to hold her, someone to protect her from the dark.

Was she thinking of me?

Gwen would understand, I thought. Gwen understood everything.

But what did that matter? Gwen was an ocean, a lifetime away.

And yet...

I hadn't told Kathy about Gwen. I had told her a lot, but I hadn't told her about dancing in the fallout shelter, about Louisburg Square, about our little family. And that meant something.

But I wasn't sure what.

I stared out the window and rocked back and forth, back and forth, as I waited for the dawn.

Chapter 27

Kathy and I were both on edge the next morning. The holiday was over, and now life had to go on. We were excessively polite to one another, eager to avoid the pointless arguments that tension produces. Kathy spent a long time at breakfast silently reading the newspaper, as if afraid to leave her flat and face the world. I understood the feeling. Finally she got up from the table and prepared to go.

"Will rehearsal be all right?" I asked.

"I'm sure it'll be difficult," she said. "I haven't thought about my character for days." She paused. "You'll go to the hotel, then?"

"Right."

"I have some money in the bank," she said. "Not enough to pay the whole bill, but maybe—"

"That's okay, Kathy. Let me try reasoning with them first."

"Well, you know I'm happy to help."

"I know. Thank you. You'll be back..."

"In the middle of the afternoon, I expect. We can talk then about what to do, if you like."

"All right. We'll talk then."

We embraced stiffly, but after a few moments the stiffness disappeared, and Kathy pressed herself against me, burying her face in my neck. I stroked her hair and held her tight. When she pulled back from me finally, her eyes were moist. "Well," she said. "See you later, then."

"See you later, Kathy."

She walked out the door with its broken lock. I listened to her footsteps on the stairs until I couldn't hear them. Then I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, read the paper some more, tried again to fix the lock. I wasn't eager to face the world, either.

Facing the world meant going to the hotel, and going to the hotel meant making a choice I did not want to make.

You see, in the hotel, in my room, in a pocket inside my old suitcase, was a return ticket to America. Land of Opportunity. If I cashed it in, I would have enough money to pay the hotel bill, with enough left over to take Kathy to as many movies as she liked.

If I cashed it in, America would become the dream, and England the reality. Maybe that's what I needed. Maybe then I would quit thinking the thoughts that had whirled around my brain as I rocked all night in front of Kathy's window. Make the choice. Shut the door. Start living my life.

I had to start sometime.

The day was cold and gray and windy. The leftover Christmas decorations looked tired and faded; so did the people I passed on the street; so did the Guilford Hotel. I stood outside it for a moment, then gathered up my courage and marched in.

The desk clerk was reading another dirty magazine. He lowered it when he noticed me. "Well," he said, "the cops've started looking for you too, mate."

"Yes, I spoke with the police yesterday. There's no problem."

"The only problem's wot you owe us, then."

"Yes, about the bill. If I could just get into the room for a moment, I could—"

"Oh, no, you don't. Settle up first."

"But I can't do that unless I can get into the room. The money's in the room—at least, what I need in order to get the money is in there. Someone can come with me, if you like."

The clerk looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and pugnacity. Finally he shrugged and said, "'old on till I talk to the manager." He picked up the phone and turned away.

I stared past him at the pigeonholes that held the keys. Where was mine? Second row, middle. Yes. So close I could almost reach over and grab it. Something different about that pigeonhole. What was it?

My brain needed a moment to wake up. There was a letter next to the key. Air mail stationery, American stamp. I couldn't make out who it was addressed to, but Winfield hadn't told anyone in America where he was staying. And I had. It hadn't taken them long to reply.

"The manager's comin' out to talk to you," the clerk said, hanging up.

"Fine. I wonder if I could have that letter in my slot there."

The clerk looked behind him, saw the letter, and laughed. "No chance, mate. Settle up first." A short fat man wearing a suit and tie came over to the desk. His sparse black hair glistened greasily. "'ere's the bloke," the clerk said, gesturing at me.

"Mr. Sands, my name is Ormsby," the fat man said. "I'm the manager of this hotel."

"Hi. I wonder if I could have that letter there that's addressed to me."

Ormsby raised a hand. "One moment. I understand that you have a large unpaid balance here, and you wish to enter your room to procure the money to pay it."

"Well, yes. Sort of."

"'Sort of? Please be more specific."

"Listen, I'd really like to see that letter—"

"Mr. Sands, we shall be happy to give you the letter when you pay what you owe us. Not before. Now, how do you intend to settle your account?"

There was my dilemma, then. I could have the letter only if I sold the ticket. But looking at the letter made me want very much to hold on to that ticket. At least for a while. At least until I had rocked some more. So what was I supposed to do?

"Mr. Sands? I repeat, how do you intend to settle your account?"

I looked at the manager. How had he gotten so fat? He must have worked at it. He must have wanted to be fat. I disliked him very much. "I don't know," I whispered.

"You don't know? Then why are you wasting my time?"

I looked at him. "I don't know."

Ormsby shook his head, exasperated with the stupid American. He advised me that he was evicting me from my room. He started explaining how and when he would sell my possessions for nonpayment. In the middle of the explanation I turned away and walked out of his hotel.

I stood outside for a while, not knowing what to do next. I had certainly been clever in dealing with Ormsby: now I had neither the letter nor the ticket. A gust of wind made me shiver, and I began walking. So much for making my choice, for starting my life. Whichever way the wind blows. What was the matter with—

Someone grabbed my coat collar and pulled me backward into an alley. The barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head.
Geez, that Ormsby doesn't fool around,
I thought stupidly. But then my attacker spoke and brought me back to reality. "Sands, it's me. Don't pull anything, okay? I just wanna talk."

It was Winfield. He let go of me and lowered the gun. I turned around.

He looked awful: pale, unshaven, eyes feverish, black hair dirty and uncombed. The hand that held the gun was trembling—from liquor? from the cold? "Hi," I said. "Where've you been?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Winfield responded.

"I can't pay the hotel bill, so Kathy is letting me stay with her. I just came back here today to try and pick up my things."

"I've been waiting for you," he said. "The police are after me. Everyone's after me."

His voice was whiny, full of self-pity. I leaned back against a garbage can. "Did you spend the night out here?" I asked.

He gestured vaguely with his gun. "Flophouse. I couldn't stay anyplace where they could find me."

"Where'd you get the gun?"

"Someone in the flophouse. I still have enough money for stuff like this."

"Did you burn down Cornwall's house?"

Winfield shook his head violently. "No, can't you see? I was in a pub when I heard about it. I figured I'd be blamed, so I hitched a ride back to London. I saw the police going into the hotel when I got here, so I knew they were after me. That's when I decided to lie low. Is Cornwall all right?"

"I don't know. He disappeared the night of the fire too. Hasn't shown up since."

"Disappeared?" Winfield thought that over for a moment, and then nodded. "They must be after him, too, of course—if they haven't already got him."

"You have a theory to explain all this, I take it?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's the government—Hatton's antiscience government. They're out to get me because I'm a clone. Cornwall lied to me to try and protect me, but it was too late. So now they're after both of us."

"But who was trying to kill you back in Boston?" I asked. "And why would the government suddenly be out to get Cornwall after all these years?"

"It was—it was finding out that
he
had a clone that upset them. They were willing to leave Cornwall alone until that came up. They're afraid he'll pass his secrets on to me, and then there'll be more cloning taking place. My existence forced them to act, don't you see?"

I saw that his physical condition hadn't affected his ability to spin crazy theories. I didn't bother to argue with him anymore about this one. If the facts changed again, he would find a new theory, even if it totally contradicted his old one. There would always be another theory. "Did you break into Kathy's apartment?" I asked.

He looked puzzled. "No. When did that happen?"

"Sometime on Christmas Day. We figured it was you, trying to find out where Cornwall was."

"It wasn't me," he said quickly. "I was—well, I was having a few drinks on Christmas. It must have been the government, right? They're looking for him too." He saw the expression on my face and hurried on. "You've got to believe me, Sands. I'm innocent. I haven't done anything. I don't
know
what to do. That's why I've been waiting for you."

I felt a twinge of pity for him, like the one I had felt for him at Cornwall's house, as his dream died. Looking at his alcohol-drenched helplessness, I was inclined to believe that he was innocent.

But if he was innocent, who was guilty?

I hadn't a clue. "Well, what do you want from me, then?" I asked. "I can't make the police stop looking for you."

"Give me a place to stay," he said. "Just till I can straighten out. I'll pay you—I've still got money."

"What will you do once you've straightened out?" I asked. "Start looking for Cornwall again?"

He looked as if he were about to cry. "I don't know, Sands. I don't know. Just help me. Please."