Ian was suddenly sitting with her on the bench and he gripped her hand. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘What was it? Where’ve you been?’
‘Been? Oh, just at the bar.’
‘Were you?’
‘Just at the bar. Too dark to move.’
‘Why did the lights go?’
‘Like the pit, isn’t it?’
‘But who are they, Ian? What the hell’s going on?’
‘Ralph may know.’
‘You don’t? You don’t, honestly?’ The last word came out as an apologetic whisper, an afterthought. Often she felt that she must not press him too hard with questions,
perhaps because she did not want to know all the answers, perhaps because she knew he would put up new barriers, making her feel even more shut out.
‘Some little crisis. Some bloody stupidity. They shouldn’t have come here.’ He raised his voice. ‘Any hope of a light, Ralph?’
‘I’m trying. A minute,’ he replied. His voice now came from the other side of the room and as he spoke he switched on a flashlight and shone the beam down to the floor. She had
not seen him move from the bar. Ralph walked slowly along the route taken by the group of men, the beam still pointed slightly ahead of him, obviously looking for something. Did he fear traces,
unpleasant stains on the Monty’s old, worn carpet? The search went as far as the closed door, but Ralph did not open it. ‘Yes, a minute,’ he said. He sounded anxious. The beam was
played carefully over the same ground again, perhaps even slower now, as if he were fixing in his memory the spots that would need attention. ‘All very much in order,’ he announced, the
tone saying the dead opposite. Perhaps he realized that, and when he spoke again he deliberately lightened his voice. ‘Yes, all fine.’
The beam moved back towards the bar and in a few seconds all the lights came on. In full, tired splendour the Monty gleamed again. ‘Apologies all round,’ Ralph cried.
‘I’d say the club should stand everyone here a drink after that, wouldn’t you? Another power failure, a damned and depressing nuisance. So, what will it be, folks? Arthur,
Neville?’
But the two men he spoke to stood up, both looking troubled and obviously eager to get out. One of them made a small gesture to wave Ralph’s offer away, and glanced towards the closed
door. Then they hurriedly left. Ralph called a genial ‘Good night, boys,’ after them, which they ignored. He turned: ‘Ian? The lady?’
‘Yes, why not,’ Ian said. ‘Brandy again, Sarah?’
For a moment she was on the point of answering him. Because of fear, and because she should not have been in this place at all, and should not have seen what she had seen, she was going to take
the drink, cave in to the Monty’s nervy ambience again, tag along as a smiling, sipping part of the conspiracy of wise blindness. Then she found she couldn’t do it. Instead, she yelled:
‘Ralph, a man might be dying behind that fucking door.’
Angrily, Ralph glared at Ian, signalling unmistakably that he regarded him as responsible for Sarah in the club, and that she was deeply out of order and should be kept quiet. ‘Oh, I
don’t think so.’
‘Why not go and see?’
‘I –’
‘Your place, but you don’t go and see. Ian, how can he be like this, how can you be like this, for God’s sake? How can any of us?’ She found she was yelling, as if to
reach everyone in the club and to get through to them, despite the blankness they so carefully built.
‘I told you – stupid behaviour, stupid people, they shouldn’t have come here. Who wants to get mixed up with them?’ Ian replied. ‘Look, let’s leave now, shall
we?’
Again she wavered and was almost on the point of backing down, choosing caution, and agreeing with him. It had become routine: in the Monty there would always be things it was cleverer not to
have seen, and things it was brighter not to have heard: the rule was, Just close your eyes once in a while, like in so much of life. Tension never altogether left the Monty and you had better
learn how to handle it. Normally, Sarah could handle it: she took a little care, forgot what it was best to forget, yet still got her kicks. She was on a night out, not a course of ethics. No,
definitely not a course in ethics.
But tonight she said quietly: ‘Ian. I want to see he’s all right.’
‘Why? You don’t know him.’
‘What the hell does that matter?’
‘It’s crazy, Sarah. You’re just curious, on the look-out for any damn thing new.’
‘Maybe. I’m going to find out, all the same.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take my word.’
‘What word?’ For a second, she sat plucking up strength. Was Ian right, and did she simply need a new thrill? She certainly could not deny that it was the atmosphere of threat and
possible danger which helped draw her to the Monty. Absurd and childish, really, but every time she came into the club looking for Ian she felt that same bright burn of excitement, a sense of
risk-taking and freedom and – and a sense of something else she could not define properly, and maybe did not want to. Was it more than the snobby thrill of slumming, an off-colour delight in
the seedy raciness of the place and probable villainy of many of its members? Probable? And some more. Ian used to tell her quietly which were crooks, most of them pathetically small-time, but
crooks all the same. A few reached middling, and might be waiting the chance to move up, thinking big, walking cocky, but staying put. Occasionally, Ian would introduce her to some of the regulars,
and even without help she could have guessed they lived on the wrong side. Mostly, they tried to be cheerful and friendly with her, even charming in their rough style, but, of course, they knew who
she was and that eventually she would go home to a police husband rich in braid and commendations, and they did not understand what she was doing in the Monty or why she went on seeing Ian Aston.
How could they when she did not really understand it herself? They kept their talk with her short and afterwards stayed at a distance, up near where the five strangers had just passed, beyond the
pool tables, so she couldn’t hear. One or other of them used to watch her all the time, and she did her best to ignore it.
Their attitude always amused Ian, and so did hers: he could find a laugh almost anywhere. On the whole, she loved this in him, though now and then it might turn her ratty and explosive, but only
for a while: she couldn’t stay like that with anyone, and especially not with Ian. Usually, she fell easily into harmony with him, thought as he thought, felt as he felt, did what he
suggested.
Now, though, she fought off his advice that they should leave and apply the standard Monty veil. Instead, ditching the greasy habit of tact she had acquired here over the months, she stood
up.
Even after what she had said, Ian misread the move. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’re going?’
But she walked quickly past him across the room towards the closed door. For a moment, fear of what she might see on the other side paralysed her and she stood in front of it, defeated. Then,
somehow, she forced herself to subdue the dread and reached out and pulled the door fully open. The floor of the corridor was grey tiles and she saw a broad, smudged and broken red line leading
along them, like evening cloud pushed about by wind, as if blood had dropped from one or both of the injured man’s wounds and then been spread by his dragging knees and feet. Perhaps Ralph
had seen something similar, but less clear, on the carpet in the dark. The line of blood led past the Gents and Ladies to the end of the corridor, where a fire exit had been opened. The doors still
stood ajar, and beyond she saw a dark yard.
Before terror could disable her again, she went forward, walking awkwardly, one foot on each side of the red trail, like a child avoiding lines in pavement stones. As she neared the door, she
became aware of Ian again, following a little way behind. He did not speak, perhaps troubled that she was out alone in front.
She stopped at the open fire doors. The yard lay beyond, black and impenetrable except for a little patch immediately ahead, reached by light from the corridor. She thought she could make out
some parked cars, or perhaps wrecks, and possibly a builder’s rubble container, but nothing was clear, and the boldness that had brought her this far suddenly began to shrink, just as her
courage had wobbled inside the club. Although she still worried about the injured man, and felt indignation that everybody except her wanted to ignore what had happened, she could not bring herself
to step out into the darkness of the yards and look for the group. Fear had made a brilliant and total and disgusting comeback. She listened for the laboured breathing but cars were passing not far
away and she heard nothing above their engines. In any case, he might not be breathing at all any longer. ‘Tell Ralph to get his flashlight,’ she said, turning to Ian. She saw then that
Ralph had come into the corridor, too, and was not far behind him, still looking angry and very tense. ‘Or can you put yard lights on? You’re good with switches, Ralph.’
He pushed swiftly past Ian and her and pulled the doors closed. ‘You’ve done remarkably well,’ he said. ‘Best leave it, now, though, don’t you think?’
Ian took her arm to lead her back to the bar. ‘The stuff on the floor,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see it, what it is?’ She had begun to cry.
‘It’ll swab out, no problem,’ Ralph replied.
‘A little water clears us of this deed,’ she said.
‘What?’ Ian asked.
‘A quotation Desmond spouts sometimes.’
‘Now, what about that brandy?’ Ralph boomed, a lovely, mine host smile in his voice.
Ian still had her gently by the arm ‘Yes, come on, Sarah.’ She began to move with him, back towards the bar. ‘What does it mean?’ Ian said.
‘That’s what I wanted you to tell me.’
‘I’m talking about the quotation. What’s it saying – the little water? He’s got some reading, then, your husband. Is he like those detectives in novels, always able
to get a classical reference in when he’s discussing burglaries and money with menaces?’
Ralph put the brandies on the bar. ‘Did you say with water?’
‘No, we were talking about something else.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Sarah hissed at him. ‘I meant swabbing out the blood and swabbing out all trace and memory of what’s just gone on here, Ralph.’
‘Nothing’s gone on here. Whatever happened had happened before they arrived. They were just passing through. That’s obvious. Absolutely nothing took place here.’
‘Ralph, you sound like a hypnotist,’ she said. ‘I want to sit down.’ Ian picked up the drinks and they went back to their table. She took a good gulp of the brandy. It
tasted smooth and helpful. Ralph must have produced his best. This was a special moment. Only a few people were left in the bar and he served them now with whatever they asked for. The place became
almost lively again, in its own seedy way. There was some relieved, edgy laughter from a couple of men she had seen here often before and spoken with briefly once or twice.
For some reason, Ian wanted to continue talking about Desmond, perhaps to take her mind off the injured man and the others. ‘I don’t really get it with you, Sarah. Never have.
Powerful, educated husband, and look at you – Mrs Desmond Iles, nay, Mrs Assistant Chief Constable Iles, down town again among the dross and dawdlers while her better half’s at home
alone sipping Bovril and reading worthy books. How did it happen, Sarah?’
Her mind was still on the dark, outside yard, preoccupied with trying to gauge why she had turned away, and with trying to rediscover her bits of courage so she could try again, but she said:
‘Look, Ian, there’s a hell of a lot about him that’s great, yes, a lot that’s magic.’ She realized she was jumping rather too fast to defend him, as if she felt he
needed it.
‘Don’t I know? You’re not one to pick a nobody.’
‘Ian, I don’t want stupid jokes about Desmond or snide talk.’
‘No, of course, of course. But –’
‘Things can die. Have you ever lived with anybody, I mean for years?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘It can work, obviously.’
Well, look at the Queen,’ he said.
‘Maybe if we’d had kids –’
‘He didn’t want that?’
‘You know that instruction on medicine bottles, “Keep away from children”? Des always says he will.’
‘Yes, but –’
She began to find this conversation painful. ‘Look, Ian, I don’t know why, but I’m here. That’s how it is. Let’s leave it?’ And that’s how it had to be.
Ian was too genial and sharp-eyed to keep on at her. These were a further couple of the qualities that kept bringing her back to him and the Monty, although half a dozen times or more she had tried
to finish it all. He was probably as tough as any of them in the club – but not crooked, he assured her, again and again of that, and she had to believe him – yet he could sense in a
moment how she felt and would be careful not to hurt her. It was a change from home. Des would not hurt her, either, not deliberately, but over the years there had been too many times when he
failed to see what pain he gave, and how bleak and lifeless things between them had become. That damage was done now, was part of her like a scar, and she did not feel committed enough or
interested enough any longer to try to put it right. And so, Ian and the Monty.
She heard Ralph drawing water from the bar tap, and in a moment he came out with a bucket and mop and went to the corridor where the blood trail lay, softly whistling
In a Monastery
Garden.
Perhaps Ian would have been as considerate with any woman he liked going to bed with, but she could convince herself sometimes that it was only for her. She had grown very nifty lately at
persuading herself to believe what she needed to believe, and although that sort of comfort never lasted, which sort did?
All the same, what had happened tonight stirred her uneasiness about the Monty. The disaster she had always feared might have come a little closer. ‘Ian, wouldn’t it be better if we
met elsewhere?’
‘The Monty’s part of me.’
‘It’s got to be dangerous for you – I mean, us two together all the time.’
‘Because they want you, too? I suppose so. Yes, you’re a cracker, Sarah.’