Incarnate (45 page)

Her lips were twice the size they ought to be, her eye was black and swollen shut, her body was a mass of bruises. It took her minutes of touching herself gingerly and resisting the instinct to bite her lip before she was sure! that her ribs weren’t broken. Martin had done all this to her, Martin as he really was and had warned her he was—and then she saw that he’d ripped the telephone cord out of the wall.

Was he still in the flat? The thought—the fear it seized her with—was worse than the pain. She went through the flat, every step an agony, and flung open all the doors. She was alone. She bolted the front door and limped into the bathroom, expecting the pain to make her sick.

She couldn’t think about last night. Even to begin to think about it made her weep, made her swollen eye sting horribly. She had to get away, that was all she could think of, before he came back.

She must go to her parents. She hobbled into the bedroom. Getting dressed took half an hour, and she didn’t care if the secretaries upstairs heard her cries. Then she remembered that Leon was waiting to hear from her about his proposal. She’d go to him on her way to Kings Cross. He ought to be at work now, it was after ten o’clock. She realized she wanted him to see what had been done to her.

She thought she would fall before she reached the foot of the hill. At least a taxi for hire was passing on Bayswater Road, and screeched to a halt at once. “My God, love, you’ve been in the wars,” the driver said angrily. “Which hospital?”

Molly had to tell her twice that she wanted to go to MTV. “I work there,” she said, which seemed so grotesque she didn’t know whether to laugh or sob. Her mouth reminded her not to do either.

The taxi made a U-turn and sped toward Marble Arch. The driver helped her out onto the MTV forecourt. Molly would have asked her to wait, except that it might take a while to find Leon.

Several reporters piled after her into the lift, almost crushing her until they saw her condition. “That’ll teach you to wear your seat belt,” one said. As she got out on the fourth floor she heard another saying, “I wouldn’t put it past her to have beaten herself up.”

She found Leon in the studio, chatting to a tall man with brush of gray hair at least six inches high. As soon as Leon saw her through the glass he jumped up. He looked appalled and then dangerous as he excused himself and came out to her. “Molly, who did that to you? Those fucking police?”

His assistant had run to her with a chair. “It was Martin,” she said.

“Martin
Wallace
?” She heard him grind his teeth. “Why?”

There was so much anger and despair in that one word that she was nervous about replying. “He lost his temper. He was always telling us he would.”

Leon turned to his assistant, perhaps to get control over himself. “Tell our friend I’ll be a few minutes and then you could get the first-aid box, there’s a dear.” He lost control again as soon as he looked at Molly. “Martin isn’t here yet, I don’t think,” he said, “but when I see him—by fuck, when I do …”

“You mustn’t do anything you’ll regret, Leon. It’s over, that’s all.”

“I won’t regret it, believe me. If I don’t do it for you, I’ll do it for myself. I’ll make sure the bastard stays away from you if I do nothing else. Will you have someone to stay with you in the flat?”

“No, I’m going to my parents.”

“At least you’ll be out of the way, thank God.” He followed her as she limped after his assistant to the nearest dressing room. “Was that what you wanted to tell me?” he said hopefully.

“And that I’d really rather not make that film. You understand, don’t you?”

“You didn’t come here just to tell me that—” He gazed at her bruises when she took off her sweater. “My God, Molly, oh, Jesus.”

“Look, it was my fault as much as anyone’s. I’ll tell you why one day.”

“All right, stay here while I interview this bloody poet. I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can and take you to the station. Half an hour. You can rest on the couch.”

“Thanks, Leon, but I want to get going. The sooner I’m home the better I’ll feel.”

“Martin won’t find you here, I promise.”

“I know.” Nevertheless that was what she was determined to avoid. “I’ll be all right. I got here on my own, didn’t I?” Nothing he could say would persuade her. As soon as his assistant had finished, Molly got dressed with her help and kissed Leon’s cheek before she limped away.

She felt easier once she was out of the building, but not for long. Not only were there no taxis to be had, she now realized she had no clothes to take with her. She would have to go back to the flat. It was after eleven, there would be plenty of people about. There was no reason to suppose Martin would be there; now she thought about it, the key had been in the niche under the steps. She wished she had taken it with her, but surely he wouldn’t come back. In any case, if he did no doubt he would be desperately contrite. He’d better leave at once, that was all.

She limped home, the air smarting her bruised face. Once she reached the shops, there were crowds. She passed W. H. Smith’s and made for the path between the traffic lights, then she grabbed the pole of the nearest to stop herself. Martin was standing on the corner of her hill.

He didn’t look at all contrite. His face was dark with fury—he must have gone back to her flat and found she wasn’t there. His father’s death must have driven him crazy. She limped into the nearest side street for fear that he would see her and come running.

It led to Nell’s. The thought of explaining her state depressed her, but where else except Nell’s could she hide until Martin gave up? She went as fast as she could, she was ringing the doorbell before her pain gave her the chance to realize that Nell would be at work.

She was turning to hobble away when the door opened. It was Susan. “Oh, poor Molly,” the child said. Perhaps she was home from school because it was lunchtime, or perhaps she was ill; Molly was too relieved to care. Susan let Molly in and matched her pace on the stairs. Either she didn’t want to know what had happened or felt she was too young to ask. Her disinterest was so welcome that Molly felt like weeping.

The green room was cool and calming. Susan stood by the couch to show her where to lie down. “Better not have anything to drink just yet,” she said, and Molly marveled at how old the child seemed. She lay down and closed her eyes, and felt safe. She thought that Susan had begun to whisper to her, or perhaps even to sing her a lullaby, as she fell into a peaceful sleep.

46

M
ARTIN
disembarked at Heathrow in the early afternoon. The Customs officers clearly knew who he was, and one kept him waiting while another took his passport away. Eventually they gave it back and let him go, having made sure he understood that he was in the country only by their leave. Their eyes were blank as cameras. So long as he saw Molly first, he didn’t care if they sent him back.

The Underground took most of an hour to get him to Gloucester Road. Daylight made him blink and grin.
On
his way to Kensington High Street he decided he would call Molly as soon as he’d dumped his luggage.

He wished he could have called her from Chapel Hill. But he hadn’t wanted his mother to hear him telling Molly that he didn’t blame her for keeping him away until it was too late. Of course she hadn’t; he’d done it to himself, out of aimlessness as much as anything. He’d begun fiercely to resent her when he had learned that his father was dead, but he’d dealt with that feeling. If he was seeking anything to blame, he would have to start years earlier, pick through the whole unsatisfactory jumble of his life.

He let himself into the mansions and pressed the button to call the lift. The faint squeak of the descending cage caught his throat; the empty sound reminded him how empty his mother’s house was now. He’d held her last night as she wept and he’d wept himself, for her and his father and Larry and lost opportunities. “Come back soon” was the last thing she had said to him. “You have to bring Molly to see me, you hear?”

He hadn’t liked to leave her, though her friends visited constantly, though she had insisted. “You go back to that girl of yours before someone steals her,” she’d said. He hoped to take Molly home soon—perhaps they could find work in America. He no longer felt so inhibited about making films there. He’d realized why his English work was so unsatisfactory: he had been too concerned what his father might think, no longer able to trust his own instincts.

He clashed the gates together, unlocked his door, and went into the bedroom to dump his luggage. Someone, two people, was in the four-poster bed.

The girl’s face peered shocked around the man’s hairy shoulder. She looked remarkably young, especially next to the man’s long white hair. As he turned toward Martin his face went pink, red, purple. “Who the devil are you?” he shouted. “What do you mean by walking in here?”

Martin felt a wild urge to act out the situation as comedy: do a double take, retreat to the outer door to see if the number was right, go to the mirror to see if he was someone else… . But the long-haired man had recognized him. “Oh, I see,” he said contemptuously. “You must be the American.”

“One of them,” Martin admitted as the girl hid her face behind the man’s shoulder.

“I’m assuming you were not told this is no longer your flat. Presumably the message went astray.” He glared at Martin with a coldness that almost managed to seem righteous. “Will you please leave? You can see you are causing embarrassment. If it’s your belongings that concern you, they have been moved. I have no idea where.”

Martin gazed at the couple in the bed he’d shared with Molly, and somehow couldn’t look away until he knew what they meant to him.

“What do you want?” the man spluttered.

“Maybe just to know who you are, since you know me.”

“Never mind who I am. Have the goodness to leave before I call the police.” Then his pride got the better of his caution. “That is who I am,” he said ominously, pointing to a National Theatre poster he had stuck to the wall. “I wrote that and other plays you may .have seen on Broadway. I mean to write a play for television, but by heaven, I won’t be doing so if this is an example of the treatment I can expect from your people.”

“They aren’t my people.” Martin had tired of him. “May I use your phone, the phone?”

“If you must.”

Martin went into the hall and dialed Molly’s number, but it was unobtainable. He knocked on the bedroom door and called, “Enjoy the accommodation,” before heading for Bayswater Road.

When he rang Molly’s bell, there was no reply. The key had gone from its niche under the steps. He rang the bell again, for it made him a little uneasy that the curtains were drawn. Eventually he made for MTV, reminding himself to find out where he’d been rehoused.

Leon wasn’t in his office. Martin looked into his own in case Molly might be there, but there was nothing to be noticed in the room except a faint musty smell. He ought to go up and find out where he was living now, except that he was growing anxious about Molly, he didn’t know why. He went down to the studios and found Leon in the middle of an interview.

Leon caught sight of him through the glass. “You fucker,” Leon mouthed.

He couldn’t be serious. Martin had enough to deal with already without this. “How do you mean?” he mouthed back.

“How do I mean?” Leon was shouting now. He turned to his interviewee, a man with a shock of gray hair: “Look, this isn’t working. Too many interruptions. Let’s do it in the open, all right? Film you in your countryside. I’ll be in touch.” He stalked out while the man gaped after him, and advanced on Martin so violently that Martin had to make himself stand his ground. “What do you want here? Looking for Molly?”

“Sure, if she’s here.” Why should that make Leon shake with rage? Martin was suddenly afraid for her. “What’s the matter. Leon?”

“What’s the matter? You shit, you fucking shit.” He beckoned his assistant with a gesture that came close to scratching Martin’s face. “You saw Molly Wolfe. Know what this bastard just asked me? He asked me if anything’s wrong.”

His assistant, a motherly Cockney who could outswear anyone in the building, gave Martin a single contemptuous glance and grasped Leon’s arm in her large hand. “Ignore him, Leon. He isn’t worth it. Let the police have him.”

“She’d have been better off with Ben Eccles. To think I persuaded her to work with this …” Leon looked as if he could weep with rage. “I need my fucking head examined.”

Martin was losing his temper. “Look here, Leon, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s wrong with Molly?”

“What’s wrong with her!” It was somewhere between a scream and a humorless laugh. “Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with her as far as you’re concerned is that she’s still alive, I should think.”

“Leon,” Martin said as calmly as he could, “I give you my word that I don’t know why you’re talking to me like this. Has Molly tried to harm herself?”

Leon actually screamed. “Has she what? Right, of course, why didn’t I think of that? No wonder she looked such a mess if she had to punch herself in the face until she knocked herself out. All the same, it must have been hard for her to kick herself in the ribs.”

Martin felt as if a band were tightening on his skull. “You’re saying
I
did that to her?”

“I’m saying it? No, you cunt, you turd, you shit. It’s what Molly said.”

For a moment Martin almost felt he might have done everything he was accused of. If Molly believed he had, wasn’t that as bad or even worse? He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Leon seemed to have lost impetus too. “Why did you do it, Martin?” he said almost sadly. “Because she got you back your job? Because she tracked down the cop who killed Lenny Bennett all by herself so that our bosses would have to admit you were right after all? Didn’t you want her to help?”

It was too much all at once. Martin was beginning to wonder if Leon had flipped. “I didn’t know about any of this.”

“She wanted to wait and tell you when you came back. And you never even gave her the chance, did you, you fucker.”