The Angel Tapes (31 page)

“Please don't call me that.”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I did before. Not now. I don't like people having me on. It rubs me up the wrong way.”

“And I suppose,” Elaine said carefully, sitting down opposite him, “you've never deceived anybody in the line of duty?”

“That's different. That's work.”

“So's mine.”

“Maybe. And you're right: It was pretty shitty.” He sipped some coffee; it was like molasses, but good. “So let's keep things strictly on a professional footing from now on, okay? Tell me about Delahunt.”

He'd hurt her feelings, that was obvious. But she'd done the same to him; far worse. Macken hadn't come here to score points. He was glad when she cut the charm and grew serious, businesslike.

“I spoke to his wife today,” she said. “All sweetness and shite. Until, that is, I mentioned Buenos Aires.” She told him of her father's unexpected discovery.

Blade sipped more coffee, then put the cup and saucer aside.

“There's no mistake, is there? They were fake?”

“So the experts there say. It certainly put the wind up Mrs. Delahunt. More so when I asked her the name of the firm that had insured the jewels. That's when she showed me the door. But it shouldn't be hard to find that out.”

“Hmm. Delahunt is going to love you.”

And so, Blade thought, is Charlie Nolan. He was already figuring out how the loose ends were about to be tied up. There was something poetic about the whole thing: first Roche, then the Price brothers, now Delahunt and Nolan. The game that had been set in motion nine years before was in its final stage of play.

“Look, Elaine, would you do me a favor? It's in your own interest as well.”

“Sure.”

He took his notebook from his pocket and began to write, talking as he scribbled the words. “This is a note for Detective Superintendent Charles Nolan. You probably won't know him but he's conducting the Delahunt investigation.”

“Nolan? Yeah, I think his name's been mentioned a few times in the office.”

“Well, you're to take this note to him. He can open doors for you. And
you
can open a door for him, too.” Blade signed the note, tore out the sheets, and passed them to her.

“What do you mean, I can open a door for him?”

“It's complicated. You'll find out when you get to Harcourt Square.” He hesitated. “Leave it till tomorrow afternoon though, will you? The morning isn't a good time.”

Elaine put the note in her purse without reading it.

“You're sure you wouldn't like a drink?”

No! No alcohol. Not now. He couldn't risk it. Not now.

“Well, maybe just a drop of whiskey in the bottom of a glass.”

She'd already risen when the telephone rang in the adjoining room. She shut the door behind her. Blade heard her voice, muffled.

*   *   *

The minutes ticked by. Blade grew restless. He no longer heard Elaine's voice on the phone. The music had ended some time before.

“Blade!!”

Her scream jolted him. He leaped from the chair and made for the door to the adjoining room. The scream came again, the scream of a woman in mortal danger. He flung the door open.

The room was a bedroom, vast. The bed itself seemed to hover above the floor, an illusion created by the indirect light beneath it. Other light bathed the room in a deep pink that changed the white carpet to the color of cotton candy. There were animals ranged around the room's sides; soft toys; pandas and koala bears; cats and dogs and monkeys as big as sumo wrestlers; squirrels and rabbits; a life-size, white plush pony; plush cranes and pink flamingos with outstretched wings were suspended from the ceiling.

So, too, was Elaine de Rossa.

A pair of gymnast's stationary rings had been secured by metal bolts in the middle of the high ceiling. The rings were adjustable and hung now at the level of Blade's chest. Elaine de Rossa had set them in motion by the momentum of her body and they swung slowly back and forth. Participants in this branch of gymnastics will tell you that there are various positions you can assume, making use of the rings. The forward and backward start are popular and require only a little practice. The backward uprise, cross, and cross hang are exercises that shouldn't be attempted by beginners. The inverted hang, however, is one of the most difficult feats of all. You slip your knees through the rings and suspend yourself solely by entwining your legs in the ropes—and all this must be accomplished without spinning or jerking horizontally. Done well, it's spectacular.

Done nude, it's breathtaking.

Elaine de Rossa swung slowly upside down in the soft, pink light, eyes closed and mouth open, perfect teeth bared. She was singing to herself: “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.…”

Blade approached her slowly, like a man in a trance. He'd never seen anything so beautiful. In the pink light her body glowed with a sensuality that awakened in him emotions that had lain dormant for over forty years. Pink, the color of babyhood, of warmth, of mothering, of innocence.

He'd never seen anything so beautiful—or so vulnerable and challenging all at once. Her blonde hair, loosened, swept the white-pink carpet as she swung. Her round breasts and hips were the same hue as the rest of her torso, tanned evenly. Her nipples were taut and their shadows lengthened and contracted as her body swung from the rings. Her navel was a vertical line.

At the bifurcation of the long thighs that rippled in the light, Blade saw a smooth mound. Liquid trickled from the parted lips; they were almost purple in the light.

“Kiss me,” Elaine said. “Kiss my fanny. Kiss my lips.”

They were on a level with Blade's own. He caught her hips as they swung toward him, held them, heard Elaine moan, and pressed his tongue deep into that moist recess.

“Oh God!” she cried and he felt her hands grip his shins.

Then he was thrusting down deep, exploring her warm, secret places with circular movements of his tongue. She hadn't allowed any soap or other foreign substance to penetrate those depths and he tasted only the magnificence of Elaine de Rossa. He felt her hands clamber up his thighs, unbuckle his pants, slide them down his legs, work his underpants out over his erection. Then her mouth was slowly, slowly engulfing his cock; her chin brushed against his soft hairs. He shuddered. The shuddering caused Elaine to climax and warm liquid flowed down Blade's chin.

She was humming the chariot song now, and Blade felt the vibration in her larynx transfer itself to his penis. He swelled so much that he thought her jaw might burst. He came up for air.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “Enough. Bed. Now.”

But suddenly there was the sound of a phone ringing. It was not Elaine's house phone; the ringing came from close by, from Blade's jacket pocket.

Angel.

The long-awaited call. But God almighty, why
now?
He felt his erection wither in Elaine's mouth. She released him and looked up at him questioningly.

“Golly, Blade, you're not going to take that?”

He had the phone in his hand already. “I have to, I have to. It's business.”

“Blade!”

“I'm sorry, Elaine. I'm going to the other room.”

Blade left her hanging in the rings and shuffled to the door, trousers held up with one hand, phone in the other.

Don't stop, he urged the phone; don't hang up now. He shut the door and leaned against it, panting. He took a deep breath.

“Macken.…”

“Blade, it's Peter.”

He blew his top. The little gobshite. He said things to his son that he'd never said before, things that no father has a right to say. When Blade had finished, Peter's voice was small and nervous.

“You weren't at home. I tried you dozens of times. I know I promised I'd never ring you on your mobile again—but I had to.”

There was no sense being angry now. The damage was done. He sighed heavily.

“All right, Peter—spit it out.”

“Er, the cockroach is gone, Blade.”

“Gone?”

“Lock, stock and barrel. He came around in a taxi today and moved a load of his stuff out. Joan was in bits.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No. And he didn't say when he'd be back either. I heard them arguing in the kitchen. He was on crutches, too, Blade. He looked as white as a sheet. I think he must have been in an accident.”

“Poor chap. How's your mother now? Is she all right?”

“She's gone to a friend's house. You know what I think, Blade? I think Roche is gone for good. That's why I had to ring you.”

Macken relaxed. Through the timber of the door he heard music. Not minimalist this time but something that took him back to his Arabian days and nights. The impossible bending of high notes, the throb of goatskin drums, soothing and enervating at the same time.

Of all the people who should call him now, it had to be his son. Blade felt love.

“Take care of your mother. Will you do that, Peter?”

“You sound funny, Dad.”

“I'm grand, Peter. Believe me, I'm grand. Good night, son.”

Thirty-eight

Elaine de Rossa was lying on the bed when he returned. The rings still swung slightly. Her eyes were glassy. Blade smelled something pungent in the room. Hashish, very strong, very African. From hidden speakers came a song in Arabic, North African, a mesmerizing chant sung by boy sopranos, with violins and pounding drums rising in volume, then receding. Blade was back in the desert, under a black sky filled with painfully beautiful stars. This was where lust began.

“Get your kit off,” she murmured huskily. “And no more police business tonight.”

He struggled out of his clothes, felt passion return. Elaine thumbed a switch behind her head and the music increased in volume. He joined her.

“Fuck me, Blade,” she said. “Fuck me now.”

Blade's thrusting began slowly. His hands alternately squeezed and relaxed on Elaine's buttocks, her vagina kneading his erection. She called his name and the name of God. The voices of the boy sopranos entwined round an inconceivable note as the African drums beat more loudly and insistently. He thrust faster and deeper, felt his first juices emerging. Time to think about the Girls from Brazil.

The Girls from Brazil. There'd been three of them. And what they'd taught him in 1980 beat the hell out of thinking of ice and vinegar.

The African drums pounded wildly, their rhythms seeming to resonate in an echo chamber; now came the violins, bowed upright, Maghreb style, like an old-fashioned viol. Elaine was thrusting her pelvis up to meet his every stroke. Their bodies were soaked.

He'd replied to an advertisement in a German newspaper during an especially idle and boring weekend. The three women had been purveying tantric yoga. Blade had known nothing about it, but they'd sold it well. The lessons, they'd said, would be costly, but he'd emerge from them a new man. What had clinched it for Blade was that the lessons were practical ones: seldom had the term “hands-on” been more appropriate.

They'd given him his own mantra, one easily memorized. You chanted it first, over and over, until it spun in your head, looping like the outgoing tape of an answering machine. Then it really
was
in your head; you didn't need to chant it aloud. It released the power of Shiva and Shakti, the male and female opposites, what the Buddhists call samsara and nirvana.

The mantra was only a preliminary. The yoga itself did things to Blade Macken's libido that a live, personal group session with every
Playboy
centerfold girl couldn't hope to rival.

The hours passed.

“Gosh, Blade,” Elaine gasped at last, “where did you learn this stuff?”

He didn't think it was prudent to tell her. Instead, he turned Elaine over on her belly and began to massage her buttocks. She trembled at his every touch, kicked her feet in ecstasy. Blade's hands went to the lips of her vagina and he parted them tenderly. Holding her open as wide as possible, he slid his cock between his fingers and entered Elaine. He was deeper than he'd ever been. She moaned loudly. There were more drumbeats and African violins playing; they merged with the mantra that revolved in Blade's head. Time lost its meaning for him. He felt that only seconds had gone by, but knew from experience that his perceptions had altered.

Now his cock was slowly massaging Elaine's parted labia. Blade no longer knew where he ended and she began.

“My God, Blade,” she whispered, “it's like you're fucking me and licking me at the same time. This is unreal.”

No, he thought, this is real. Unreality was the domain of the woman who called herself Angel.

Another unreal thing was: he felt her presence close at hand, almost in this very room.

*   *   *

The nights were the worst.

When the traffic passing along the wharf had trickled to a few stray passing cars, when the voices in the adjoining building and below her were silent, when only ghosts were there to keep her company, that was the worst time of all.

Carol couldn't sleep at a time like this, when the sins of the world came to call on her. She knew she was responsible; her diary had told her so. But
she
had written that diary, if only to remember herself as she'd once been, to chart her day-to-day sinking, to her becoming this other person. It was her and it wasn't her; that was the most puzzling part of all.

When her daddy's voice spoke to her during the hours of darkness, telling her things, Carol heard his voice sometimes from outside her, sometimes from within. His voice told her things she knew and many things she couldn't have known. She was damned; she knew that. Each day brought fresh horrors, as she descended lower and lower, felt herself being pulled apart, felt the contagion in her head sallying out into the world.