The Widow (26 page)

It was not too ugly; it would even have been a fairly good-looking object were it not for a lumpish thing that stuck out at the back and spoiled the proportions, known as a shrouded hammer; a technicality, explained Corinne, designed to prevent one's long woolly scarf with bobbles sticking in the mechanism and fouling it.

‘Don't have scarves with bobbles. Or long flowing locks. Or anything at all save maybe too much tit.' But she had to put up with it, and after experimenting with various sorts of loose jacket, slightly like being pregnant (luckily one was tall enough to wear them; poor Corinne, who was on the butty side) and ‘my gunslinger's trousers' – very expensive but beautifully cut; no pockets, no earthly chance of wearing stays – she had cast most of her selfconsciousness.

But this was the first time she'd worn the thing in the line of business, and the selfconsciousness showed up.

She put on her apron before leaving. Cooking in a gunbelt was also a peculiar sensation she hadn't tried before. She had a turkey leg, and she had some stuffing; leastways she had some old bread, a chicken-liver and an onion. She took the bone out, shoved the stuffing in, and put it to braise with a few rather black mushroom stalks.

‘Don't wait for me I might be late for supper,' she said into the cassette. ‘It'll hot up with no trouble.'

In the car there was trouble with the gun. The seatback was too upright, and the holster stuck into one in a very naughty way, not only obscene but highly uncomfortable. She let the seatback down, and then there had to be a lot of wriggling and plunging, exactly like having one's knickers stuck in the crack, and she hoped nobody was watching. Both driving mirrors were now in the wrong position. It was six-thirty before she reached Hautepierre.

She knew nothing about Robert save that he was a long-distance lorry driver. Sure enough, outside the ‘link' was a gigantic articulated truck. She didn't know whether it belonged to him; it looked unlikely. Gossamer International, it said in large letters. Girdles, Panties and Soutien-gorges – was there
that much gossamer in the world? This belonged to the Marx Brothers rather than to Robert.

She entered the block, in the usual strong smell of ham-hocks and cabbage, avoiding the elevator. The whole place was as before, neither clean nor really dirty, but seemed barer, sadder, more sordid. The time of day perhaps. Night falling, men and women coming home tired from work soured and unsatisfied. How many felt warmth and gaiety and happiness in their homecoming? Perhaps it was the knowledge that Norma was gone; with her talent for enjoying life, her children with their eager curiosity, their knowledge that the world was a bad place but that one can cock a snook at it. Sentimental? Yes: since Victor Hugo forced tears with the death of Gavroche. But there is a better scene; that in which Gavroche breaks the streetlamps in the quiet bourgeois street, immortalized in the police archives as ‘Nocturnal attack by dangerous revolutionaries'. Norma's children would vandalize telephone boxes. Highly regrettable. But who do the poor telephone to? The doctor, the police, the mayor? ‘Not on your Life!' as they were fond of saying. If children will go on breaking up a school, one starts asking what is wrong with the school.

She rang at the door. The bird was at home. The noise of the radio came distinctly. The world of the long-distance trucker is curiously populated, and the radio a lung through which it breathes. There was a shuffle and a bump. A woman would scrutinize the unexpected visitor through the ‘judas' spyhole, but the last shadow of doubt was removed at once by that big sunny smile.

‘Why hallo there.'

‘Hallo Robert.' He grinned again at that, much amused.

‘Come on in.' And she did.

A confusion of thought, of too many thoughts, and none of them properly thought out … There was indeed a voice that said, Oh Arlette … Idiot … but there was also the thought which said, What did you come for at all then? Vanities: you don't really think you can't cope with a clown like that. All
right then; why did you think you needed a gun? As to that, well; wandering around a place like Hautepierre at night alone might not be very safe.

Snobberies: there's that vile old woman on the landing opposite, probably listening behind the door this minute. One has things to discuss; no business of the neighbours. Am I the kind of person one keeps in the doorway, like I was Jehovah's Witness?

Self-satisfaction: I'll wipe the grin off that Robert's face. He needn't suppose I'm his dupe or pigeon. Foolish inexperience, really. And the same streak of sentimentality that tripped me on Norma. One can afford to be sentimental about children. Victor Hugo, wandering about the outskirts of the old, fortified Paris, listening fascinated to the slang of one urchin, quite failed to see that a second had neatly slit his waistcoat with a razor and removed a handsome gold watch. He said first ‘Well I'm damned' and then ‘I got what I deserved' with no rancour at all.

But the physiologically adult hooligan … Arlette had had that sadly confused cliché of ‘a dialogue' in her mind. And she had felt too, obscurely, that she had played Robert a dirty trick, somehow. As, plainly he had thought himself…

One could tell straight away, by the smell, that Norma was no longer there. Not that it was strictly speaking dirty. A man used to being alone, to looking after his truck, has rules that he keeps. It was no more than unaired stuffiness and the amiable negligence of a man who expects to find the screwdriver where he left it, which was in the sink. All the piggery–he'll have a purge one of these days, when it gets a bit excessive. No man has ever been able to see why the women fuss about the washing-up each time. One does it when there are no plates left.

The living-room, while full of dog-eared magazines and unemptied ashtrays, had a raffish comfort. A man who makes good money, who is confident in his ability to earn more. Expensive chairs and high-fidelity equipment, and odd clashing things, sometimes in good taste and as often very bad but
who cares? The things of a man who took a look and said “I like that” without hesitating. He can afford it, so why worry?

‘Have a drink,' said Robert.

‘All right.'

‘Sit down, then. Don't be frightened,' now enjoying himself vastly.

‘Scared you, didn't I? All right, I don't bear no more grudges.'

‘I didn't go to the police, you know. I thought perhaps I'd tell you why I decided not to.'

‘How d'you know where to come?'

‘How did you know where to come?'

‘Ol' woman opposite. She saw you. Did a bit of peeking, bit of listening, same as always. Wormed the rest out the kids. So I thought you put your nose in my business, I'll see how you like it, for a change. Like it?'

‘I understand it. But suppose I had gone to the police.' Robert snorted, amused.

‘No proof. What, me? 'S nothing to me.'

‘And the old woman then?'

‘Knows better than to talk to any cop. Know she'd get a right slap around the chops if she did.'

‘And Norma?'

‘Gone, hasn't she? Gone back to England? Knows nothing about it, right? Wouldn't worry me for a moment. Cops come here and say what's this, what's that, and what do you know about it? Nothing. Not interested. Prove the contrary.' He sat in the big ‘male' armchair, stretched, yawned, showing very good teeth, folded his arms across his chest, laughed again silently. ‘Pow, right through the windscreen. Aimed careful not to hit you. Just shake you, like. Oohoo, the gangsters are here. Bundle of kids' fireworks, needn't think you could trace those, bought in Germany. Yoy, big bomb attack. Shook the neighbours up too, that one. Like a cigarette? Here,' tossing the packet at her.

She caught it, put it down, and said, ‘No, thanks,' controlling her voice.

‘Bit too casual, was it? Not nice manners? Bad, that. But I'm in my own place, see? I please myself.'

Arlette looked at him carefully. Yes, if he wanted to, he could easily appear attractive. Average build, nothing immense. The bulging biceps and Pop-eye forearms of the old truckers had gone out with power steering. Tough though, and wiry. A high, bumpy forehead freshened and tanned by the open air. Reddish-brown hair, wavy; yellowish-brown eyes, alert and intelligent and glinting with the entertainment. Handsome whiskers and a long sharp chin. The big scarred hands of the mechanic. Expensive trousers, stained, but nothing the cleaners wouldn't fix. Sharp shirt with a long pointed collar, suède waistcoat affair, astronaut wristwatch. It was at this moment that she began to feel fear. She took the cigarette packet up slowly. Davidoffs, fancy, bought in Switzerland. The gossamer underclothes trundle round everywhere. She picked up a matchbox and lit it.

‘Your place needs cleaning up.'

‘Perhaps you'd like to stay and do it,' merrily.

‘Why be so mean to Norma? Why be so ungenerous? She'd have made you a good wife.'

‘And you told her to piss off. Which she did. Real sly. How d'you like that?'

‘What else could she do? Put yourself in her place. She loved you. You could so easily have made her happy.'

‘What you mean, in her place?' genuinely puzzled. ‘She's a woman. Ought to know her place. Got too cocky, thought she could run me. So I put her down, a crack. Didn't know French, didn't know German. Right, that'll keep her at home, stop any fancy adventuring about. Started wanting to go out 'n' work. None of that, Nellie,' he added suddenly in English. ‘Saucy cow.'

Arlette had nothing to say. What could one say, that would be of any use?

‘And you worked her up. Encouraging her. To attack me. As though I'd care. I don't go short of crumpet. Get plenty, climbs in the cab and volunteers. You don't have a clue. But
your crowd makes me sick. Go on strike you think, keep y'legs crossed, cut the men down. Know how to cope with that.'

‘Yes, we know,' said Arlette tartly. ‘Get the rifle, stand Norma up against the wall. With the children. I irritate you, put a bullet through the windscreen. All this violence. You don't need it. What does it gain you?'

‘A lesson is what it gained you. Strikes me it wasn't enough. Maybe you need another.' He looked at her casually, head on one side, perfectly calm, selfconfident. Silly girls were always climbing into his truck too, knowing damn well what they'd get. ‘Not all that bad at that. Many a good tune played on an old fiddle.'

‘My dear Robert,' preposterously: she always wondered afterwards why she didn't think of the famous gun at this moment. She had forgotten it altogether. She cleared her throat. ‘Don't be ridiculous. For one thing, I can let out the most colossal scream.'

‘You would?' lazily, enjoying the idea, eyes glinting. ‘Lovely. Nobody'd pay no heed, round here. Know how to mind our business, we do. Norma tried that, once. Not twice though.' With something like panic she thought of Arthur's horrible story, of the old woman who was beaten to death while half a mining village lounged about outside, uninterested.

She was taken completely by surprise. He had been sitting back there grinning, arms behind his head, relaxed the whole length of his body. He was on her like a cat. A trucker's reflexes. In one movement he pinned her wrists and held them and threw her backwards. He spoke softly in her ear, amused.

‘But you won't scream, love. You'll enjoy it.'

Little things. But talk about the skin of one's teeth …

For one thing he was in too much of a hurry. For a second he wanted to show his strength, to paralyse and frighten her with one swift stroke of mastery. The third was that he used his right hand. Since this was on her left he didn't feel the holster, and did not understand the gunbelt.

He had hooked his hand into the waistband of her trousers
and given a massive rip. The buttons tore and so did fabric. But the gunbelt held and resisted, and it disconcerted him.. Not the ordinary woman's elastic girdle – what is this? He changed his grip and tore the trousers down but the fumble relaxed his left hand for long enough that with a frantic twist she got her own right hand free, and the instinct to claw changed into an instinct to protect the holster, not let him find it out. His hard body was up against hers, but he was still tearing awkwardly at the solid buckles, expecting a simple hook clasp, disconcerted further, and she was able to force her hand down. His left hand twisted hers cruelly, mashing it against her mouth and nose. His right hand delved under the belt, gripped her tights and panties and tore them, but hers reached the holster, and the lovely spring clip delivered the gun just as it was supposed to, and as his body arched in the effort to hold her down she jerked the barrel up and felt it go hard into his stomach muscles.

The shrouded hammer did not catch in the wool of her pullover. Just as damn well. His own hammer was unshrouded, definitely.

She did not fire. She was eternally grateful for this. It would have killed him, certainly, and forever afterwards she would have thought ‘I killed him'. An end to this career, and every other.

It would have been very easy to fire. As she had been trained, the gun was only loaded in five chambers; the safety off and the hammer down on the empty one.

He stopped moving; she could almost hear him think ‘what's this hard thing, then?' She could not bite or even breathe: she jerked the gun painfully and felt him wince and the pressure on her mouth shifted.

‘It's a gun you fool. It'll blow your whole back apart.'

He realized it was true, that she meant it. Oh yes, she meant it. Her larynx was bruised and her lip damaged by her own ring, and she had no breath, but she'd gasped it out in a voice that left no room for mistake. She would have fired because she could not breathe.

He let go of her altogether and jumped back. He knew about guns; he stayed still. Some are ittybitty little things and women don't know how to hold them, but this was held solidly slotted into her hipbone, and a shortbarrelled nine millimetre pointed at you close up looks like the Russian Army, and you stay quiet.