Festival of Fear (14 page)

Then, for one long moment, there was quiet. Only the traffic from North End Road, and the sound of a 747 rumbling overhead, on its way to Heathrow.

More like a wooden marionette than a man, Peter walked stiff legged to the front of the train. He felt shocked and breathless, but wildly exhilarated, too. The driver was just climbing out of his cab. He had left the rest of the doors closed, so that the train's passengers were trapped inside, staring anxiously out to see what had happened. The drunk had lost his battle to stay upright, and was reclining on the platform on one elbow like a man at a picnic, saying, ‘Shit . . . I don't believe it. Shit.'

Peter went up to the driver. He was gray-faced, and his voice shook. ‘I've only just gone back to work after the last one,' he blurted. ‘I've only just gone back.'

Peter peered down on to the track. Gemma was lying underneath the front platform-side wheel. Her face was covered in red bruises and her dress was soaked in blood. She was staring up at the clouds with an expression of bewilderment, rather than terror. Her right arm had been torn off at the shoulder and the lower part of her right leg was missing.

One of the station staff came running up. ‘Ambulance is on its way,' he announced. Then, ‘You can't stay here, sir. You'll have to stand well back.'

‘That's my fiancée,' said Peter.

‘I'm really sorry, sir, but you'll have to stand well back.'

Peter retreated to the bench at the end of the platform while two more station staff appeared and then, at last, an ambulance crew. The power was switched off and they climbed down on to the tracks. Peter began to wish that he hadn't given up smoking.

As he sat on the bench waiting, he saw some words scratched into the side of the train. HAPPY NOW, PETER? And he began to think that, yes, in a way, he was.

It suddenly started to rain very hard.

Later that evening, after he had talked for two hours to a sympathetic, sandy-haired detective, he went back to Bramber Road and let himself into his flat. It was cold and dark, and the first thing he saw when he switched the light on was Gemma's red angora sweater lying on the couch.

‘Hallo,' he said, under his breath. ‘Anybody home?'

He went into the kitchen. Gemma's white bodies were still hanging in the windows where she had left them yesterday, and he systematically took them down, one after the other, and folded them up. Then he went through to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. It was crowded with jumpers and skirts and jeans and jackets, and the bottom was heaped with dozens of pairs of shoes from Shelley's and Ravel.

He slid open one of the drawers and picked out a pair of white lacy panties. He pressed them against his face and took a deep breath. They smelled of nothing but Comfort softener. She's gone, he thought. She's really gone. It just goes to show you that you
can
make a difference in your own life, you
can
take control, if you're brave enough. All you have to do is open your eyes, take your blinkers off, and see that the people all around you are screwing you rotten. They may smile and clap you on the back and pretend to be your friends, but they're not. And women are the worst.

He went into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, does this look like a murderer to you? No, it looks like a man who was grievously betrayed by the woman who was supposed to love him, and simply started to ask himself the right questions.

He took off all of his clothes and weighed himself. Then he cleared all of Gemma's cosmetics from the bathroom shelf – her cleansing lotion, her Clearasil, her toothpaste, her shampoo. He put them in a cardboard wine box, along with her make-up and everything else in her dressing-table drawers.

After that, he emptied her wardrobe, stuffing all of her clothes into black plastic dustbin-bags. He even went through the kitchen cupboards, removing her Weight Watchers soups and her sachets of green Japanese tea.

The phone rang. He picked it up and said, ‘Who is it?'

‘
Rick. Is Gem back yet?
'

‘Gemma's never coming back, Rick.'

‘
What do you mean? Where can I get in touch with her
?'

‘She's dead, Rick. There was an accident.'

‘
Oh my God. What happened
?'

‘Justice caught up with her, Rick. Justice.'

‘
I don't understand what you're talking about
.'

‘Of course you do. Fucking her behind my back.'

‘
What
?'

‘Don't try to pretend that you're innocent, Rick. It was carved in stone, what you two were doing together. Etched in glass, chiseled in brick. You can't get evidence much more concrete than that, can you?'

‘
I don't know what on earth you mean. Tell me what happened to her
.'

But Peter hung up, and sat back in his chair, smiling smugly. Let him find out for himself, the bastard. Gemma's death would be in all the papers tomorrow. Then everybody would know that all deceitful women have to pay the price.

A week went past and it rained every day, ceaselessly. The following Saturday morning he went to Gemma's funeral at West London Crematorium. He saw a lot of her friends there – Kelley and June and David and all of the people from work – but he didn't see the tall curly-headed Rick. He had probably had the sense to stay away.

After the ceremony – as he walked back along the puddly asphalt path toward the crematorium gates – a young man with short blond hair and glasses caught up with him.

‘We've met before, haven't we?' he said. Then – seeing Peter frown – ‘Robin Marshall, we met at Bill and Gillian's party in Kew.'

‘Oh, yes. How are you?'

‘I've been great, actually. I've just come back from three months in San Francisco. Such a tragedy, Gemma being killed like that. You must be devastated.'

‘Yes. Yes, I am.'

‘She was such a sweet girl . . . always so
graceful
, I thought. I never saw her do anything awkward or clumsy, ever. I saw her fall off a stepladder once, when she was putting up some Christmas decorations. Somehow she managed to turn it into a
jeté
. Landed on her feet –
ta-da
! – light as a fairy.'

Peter nodded. He was struck by the intense blueness of Robin Marshall's eyes. They were almost unreal, like sapphires. He had good cheekbones, a straight nose, and rather sensual lips. His suntan had faded so that he looked as if he were made up for a television appearance.

‘Listen, do you fancy a coffee?' Peter asked. ‘I haven't really had anybody to talk to since Gemma.'

‘Of course. That'd be nice. There's an Italian restaurant just around the corner. The food's only fit for regurgitation but they do a terrific espresso.'

They sat in the steamed-up window of Florentino's with two large espressos, only two feet away from a hugely fat man in jeans and a squeaky leather jacket who was forking up a bowlful of spaghetti Bolognese.

‘You're bound to be feeling disoriented now that Gemma's gone,' said Robin. ‘After all, your choice of partner defines who you are. What you see in your partner, that's you.'

‘I don't know. It sounds heartless, and I miss her like anything, but I feel relieved, in a way. I don't really think that we were meant for each other. I just wish I could have found out some other way.'

Robin watched him from over the rim of his cup. Those deep blue eyes were almost alien, an Atreides from
Dune
. ‘When you say you weren't meant for each other – what do you think was wrong?'

The fat man tore off a piece of bread and pushed it into his mouth to join his churning spaghetti. Peter said, ‘She was absolutely beautiful . . . and graceful, like you say. Everybody else used to say that she was gorgeous, and she was. I loved going out with her and showing her off. But when it came down to it . . .'

‘When it came down to it, what? What was wrong? What was missing?'

Peter didn't know why he felt able to confide in Robin, but he did. He seemed to be one of those few people who instinctively understand what you're feeling, because they've felt the same way.

‘When it came down to it, she didn't – well, she didn't, you know,
excite
me. She didn't turn me on.'

‘Hm,' said Robin, and sipped his coffee. ‘And why do you think that was?'

Peter shrugged. ‘I loved her, as a person. I really did. I was jealous if any other man tried to flirt with her. I mean, like,
burningly
jealous. In the last few days I've been worrying that she was seeing somebody else, and that's been depressing the hell out of me. But I . . . ah—'

‘You didn't find her sexually arousing, is that what you're trying to say?'

‘I suppose it is, yes. I really don't know why.'

Robin was thoughtfully silent, peering down into his coffee cup. Then he said, ‘What about other women? Do you find
any
woman sexually arousing?'

Peter didn't answer, couldn't. He had always liked women, and he had always been curious about women. He had bought jazz mags when he was younger, and masturbated over them. But Robin had come dangerously close to something that he had never dared to ask himself.

‘I, er, yes. Some women. Some particular types of women. Not
all
women. But some women.'

Robin still didn't look up from his coffee cup. ‘Do you think it would be a good idea if you and I were to meet and discuss this some more? You could come to my flat for supper, if you liked.'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘The truth is, Peter, I'm on my own at the moment. The reason I came back from San Francisco – well, I've just broken up with somebody who was very close to me. I'd really appreciate some company. You know – just someone to talk to.'

Peter didn't know what to say, but Robin took a business card out of his wallet and said, ‘Think about it. My home number's on here, too. Next Thursday would be a good day for me.'

‘Thank you,' said Peter. The fat man sniffed yet again, and let out a loud, ripping burp.

He decided to walk home, even though it was nearly three miles and it was raining harder than ever. He needed to think, and he felt that he deserved some punishment, too. He kept his umbrella furled, so that the icy rain lashed against his face, and he couldn't stop thinking about Robin and his Atreides eyes, and those bow-shaped sensual lips.

He reached the junction with Charleville Road. There was a public lavatory in the middle of the traffic island, surrounded by black cast-iron railings. On the side of it, engraved into the brickwork, were the same jagged letters that he had seen before. WHAT ARE YOU, PETER?

He crossed over the busy road and went right up to the wall. Again, the letters were nearly half an inch deep. He pressed his hand against the wet bricks and wondered if he was suffering the first symptoms of schizophrenia. But schizophrenic people hear voices. They don't see messages chiseled into solid stone.

He wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand. He needed a pee so he walked around to the steps that led down to the Gents. As he went down them, a gray-haired man in a damp-shouldered raincoat passed him on the way up, and gave him a wink.

The toilet was smelly and the floor was wet. A thin young man in a threadbare overcoat was washing his hair in one of the basins, while a painfully ribby Jack Russell stood shivering beside him. ‘Spare some change, mate?' he asked, huskily, his hair still soapy and his head still immersed.

Peter was about to open one of the cubicle doors. He found three pounds in his trouser pocket and put it down on the counter next to the young man's dirty green plastic comb. The young man didn't thank him so Peter simply said, ‘There, buy yourself a cup of tea or something,' and went back to the cubicle.

He locked the door behind him. There was no seat on the lavatory and somebody had unraveled all of the toilet paper on to the floor. The walls were covered in drawings and poems and telephone numbers.
If you want the suck of your life meet me here 7:30 Tues 9. I like young black boys with really tight holes. O seasons, O castles! What soul is without fault? Spurs are crap.
There were crude felt-tip drawings of naked women and dozens of disembodied penises with semen flying out of them like machine-gun fire. And then – as Peter looked higher up the wall – he felt a cold, crawling sensation around the back of his neck. Hacked into the tiles was the message WHY DON'T YOU TRY IT, PETER?

He finished and flushed the toilet. He stood in the cubicle for a long time with his hand pressed over his mouth, thinking. Robin had disturbed him deeply, and he had been tempted to say yes when he had asked him around for supper. But he wasn't at all sure of himself yet. Supposing he wasn't really gay at all? Supposing he was grieving for Gemma more than he consciously realized, and was simply looking for help and sympathy and a shoulder to cry on? Supposing – for all of her grace and all of her beauty – Gemma simply hadn't been his type of woman?

He would need to be sure before he saw Robin again. It would be too embarrassing to accept Robin's invitation and then discover that he had made a terrible mistake.

He stayed in the cubicle for three or four minutes, not knowing what to do. But finally he opened the door and stepped outside. The young man in the shabby overcoat was still bent over the basin, almost as if he had been waiting for Peter to emerge. The dog yawned and shook itself.

Peter went up to the young man and stood close behind him.

‘I – ah – I don't suppose you need any more money?'

The young man stopped rinsing his tousled hair, but said nothing.

‘It's just that – well, I've never done anything like this before. Just come up to a total stranger and asked him if he's interested. So I'm not sure if this is the way to go about it.'