Part 22 (1/2)
”O sure. Good to talk to someone who knows what he's talking about.”
”I'd like the key left in the lock of the suite.”
”Now this emotional ingredient, that how you function, Mr. Smith, I mean pardon me for asking this time of night.”
”Morning.”
”Yeah morning.”
”And I'm imposing upon the graciousness of a country citizen. This is an emergency.”
”O sure. Just remembering that. Free the mind of emotional ingredients when looking for profits. I need investment advice. My wife wants to know why you want to spend all that good money getting buried.”
”If you don't mind Norbert, the suite. Flowers and hot punch if you will.”
”Sure, Mr. Smith. Good to hear from you again. Just goes to shows, my whole life I've been getting all emotional looking for a profit. The key will be in the tunnel entrance.”
”In the door of the suite, please.”
”Sure Mr. Smith, anything you want, you know me, boy I'll bet you've got some doll tonight-”
Smith lightly hanging the little ear piece on the fragile hook. Hick turning from the door where he was peering out in the night. At what must be Miss Tomson. That gun makes me nervous. Don't suppose he's ever seen her likes before in tight blue satin, slippered in gold and silver twiddling a pine cone in this vague neck of the woods. He may make bombs in his attic. George Smith tendering a crisp treasury bill.
”Nope stranger.”
Smith taking leave gently on the grey porch. With a thanks a million. Once is enough stranger. And stepping down three steps to the hard path underneath the three great trees at the fork of this road. Turning to look back. The shadow standing in the light of the hall, gun at port arms. People who live in the country like strangers to call out of the blue.
The dirt road goes down winding, twisting and turning. Lights flooding the pa.s.sing woods enclosed in an endless wire fence. A small pond. Up on a hill again faint grave stones of a cemetery. Apples must grow there and drop on the dead in summertime full of flavour. Handfuls of hair round Miss Tomson's head. Turn right at this turn, Miss Tomson, left at the next. Silent cruising through the night. South. Catching up with the storm splas.h.i.+ng down the heavy rain. A rabbit popping on the road, Smith isn't that sweet that rabbit.
”Miss Tomson what were you going to tell me, back there in the bar.”
”It was nothing.”
”Come on tell me.”
”It embarra.s.ses me now.”
”Please tell me.”
'Well. You know when I was working for you. Saw you get all those letters, and the pathetic little set up you had and all, in Golf Street. I can't tell you. Seems too silly. Might make you sore.”
”O.”.
”You'll get sore if I don't tell you.”
”No I won't.”
”I just used to add money to the petty cash box because I thought you were really having it rough. You'd come out and when you thought I wasn't looking you'd take it back into your office and count it and come back looking so pleased because it was more instead of less.”
”I never did.”
”You're getting sore. Real sweet, the way you used to look with that cash box. Even cried one night over my pay check but next morning I thought what the h.e.l.l, this is a jungle, and paid it into my account. Which way do I turn.”
”Go straight.”
Smith slumped back on the leather. The tiny sound of windscreen wipers fanning across the gla.s.s. And down into a valley. A swollen river. Raindrops flickering through the light beams. Across a stone bridge and train tracks into a sleeping town. Spread across a hillside, a hotel, terraces built out on the jutting rock. Car mounting an incline towards a great brown door.
”Smith, where we going can't you see the door's closed.”
”Drive on, it'll open. Watch.”
”Gee.”
Hollowing bubbling sound of Sally Tomson's long black car sliding in out of the dark rain. Three moss green armoured bullion trucks. Vast concrete wasteland. Miss Tomson turning and looking at George Smith. Her hand slowly sliding across the black leather to his. Entwining his fingers. Her face a little flower. As the lids lift up on the eyes. Her voice so soft and low. Saying O and O and O.
In the vast underground garage. Their voices echoing. Smith with a finger raised. Beckoning. Come Miss Tom-son. Cross this chill interior. Your legs. Watch you walk ahead of me through life. To open doors, buy my lamb-chops and pay the milkman.
”Where are we, Smith. This is crazy. I feel they move dead bodies in and out this door.”
”For G.o.d's sake, Miss Tomson.”
”I just was thinking this place is built for death.”
”This way.”
”This elevator is like a little church, Smith.”
In Miss Tomson's eyes, down the steps, at the bottom, is her soul. When she was a little girl she had a little boy friend who looked up her dress every Friday after school to see if anything had changed. Easy joys of childhood.
”Smith.”
”What.”
”I know I said yesh. About a port. In the storm and all.”
”Miss Tomson, what's the matter.”
”Please take me back down. I'm going to try to get back to town.”
”Miss Tomson I can't let you go out in the stormy night again. Might be trees down across the roads.”
”This the down b.u.t.ton.”
”I wish more than anything you wouldn't press it. Wanted to bring you somewhere dry.”
”Smith. I just wish it wasn't you. I just wish that tonight wasn't tonight. Don't be sad. Come on, don't be.”