But it seemed that Jack could.
“I’m one of America’s most senior soldiers. Quite a lot of people about the place would like me to be dead. It’s a diplomatic thing. We have an informal understanding with Special Branch.”
Polly still could not accept it. “You come to my house dressed like Oliver North, you have informal understandings with the Special Branch, you carry a gun! I hate people like you. I’ve spent my life protesting about people like you!”
Jack shrugged and smiled his smile.
“So how is it…” Polly continued, “how the fuck is it… that you’re the only man I’ve ever loved…?”
“Bad luck, I guess,” said Jack. Then he drew her back into his arms.
For a moment Polly thought about resisting. She thought about informing Jack that she was not a tap who could be turned on and off, that she did not consort with gunmen. But then he held her and she held him. Their lips met again with even greater passion, it seemed, than they had done a minute or two before. Again Jack could feel Polly’s divine form crushed against him, could feel her hands pulling at the belt of his jacket. Now he really had to see her naked once more. He stood back a little, not so far as to stop Polly from undoing his belt but far enough for him to raise his hands to the buttons of Polly’s nightshirt. Whatever his original plans might or might not have been, he simply had to see her naked again. He would die if he did not. He knew that it was wrong. He had promised himself that what was about to happen was the one thing that would not happen but he didn’t care. He had been mad to imagine that he could control it. He loved her and he wanted her. Nothing had changed.
Now his hands were at the middle buttons of her nightshirt, his eyes straining, waiting to feast themselves on what lay beneath. His face, usually so mature and assured, was suddenly like a boy’s, eager and scared. Polly, too, could hardly restrain herself. She’d opened his jacket and her hands had stolen to the fastening of his trousers. She neither knew nor cared what had brought Jack back to her door; she was happy to give away the past and ignore the future. Her entire life was crammed into the immediate living moment. Jack’s fingers brushed against her skin as her shirt fell open and he felt her shiver gently at his touch. He shivered also, and by no means gently. Polly’s hands tugged at his zip. His whole body felt as if it would explode. He moved his hands from one button down to the next, allowing his fingers to explore the greater freedom that the opening of Polly’s shirt now afforded. Her breasts felt smooth and firm, the skin springy and subtle. He wondered if he could ever let go now that he had them in his hands again.
“You got rid of the nipple ring, then?” he whispered.
“Yeah, everybody started wearing them.”
Polly had a hold of Jack too, her hand deep in his trousers, gripping the straining erection through his shorts. Now Jack’s hands were at Polly’s waist, the final button of her shirt undone, his fingers slipping under the elastic of her knickers. Another moment and all would be revealed.
Then Polly’s phone rang.
44
Peter had remained in the gutter for some time, kneeling in the dirty running stream, imagining himself somehow cleansed and sanctified by the waters of the night. Water has ever had a strong hold on the spiritual side of men’s minds and it was no less the case for Peter, even though his spirit was warped and his mind ill. The rain upon his face and the stream lapping at his knees seemed somehow to lend a new courage and nobility to his resolve. In his unformed fantasies he imagined himself reborn and baptized, a martyr and a saint. He spread his arms, Christ-like, as he knelt. Like Christ he was an outcast, a man alone and, like Christ, he knew a greater love.
But that love had been betrayed.
Peter had resolved upon murder. It just remained to decide who was to die. Would he kill the American? Would he kill Polly? Perhaps he would kill them both, and then himself. But if he killed himself how would his mother cope? Perhaps he would have to kill her too.
He got up, soaked to the skin but warm and happy. He had a purpose, a goal. He could see an end to his emptiness and longing.
Fumbling in his pocket for a coin, he made his way back to the phonebox.
45
Jack and Polly sprang apart. The ringing of the phone came as a shock, totally unexpected; they had been utterly lost in their mutual undressing.
“Who the hell is that?” said Jack, grabbing at his trousers to prevent them from falling down.
“How would I know? I’m not a clairvoyant,” Polly replied, closing her nightshirt. But she did know.
“It’s nearly four in the morning, Polly. Who’s going to ring at such an hour?”
It seemed almost as if Jack was more anxious than she was.
“You tell me. You did.”
After the sixth ring the answerphone kicked in and delivered Polly’s familiar message. Of course Polly knew what was coming next. It would be the Bug. He was out there and he was trying to get in. A great wave of despair swept over her, so strong and so desolate that her knees nearly gave way and caused her to fall. Would she never have any peace from this man? This thing? Was he going to spoil every joyful moment for the rest of her life?
“You fucking whore,” said the machine. “Is he in you right now? Is his fat Yankee dick inside you? Yes, he is. I know he is.”
There was a pause. The line crackled. Polly and Jack did not speak. Jack was too surprised and she was too upset. Then the hated voice of the Bug began again.
“He’s got AIDS, you know. He has. All Americans have, and now he’s given it to you, or else you’ve given it to him, which is all either of you deserves, sweating and grunting like filthy pigs in your sty…”
Polly could no longer contain herself; it was all too much. She began to sob. Great, heartfelt, gulping sobs, dredged from the pit of her stomach. Why her? Why now? Why had she caught the Bug? Was she cursed? She made her way to the bed weeping as she went and sat down, burying her face in her hands, all the pent-up emotion of the evening spilling over into despair. For one joyful moment she had forgotten everything, both past and present pain, but it had been an illusion, she could see that now. She was just not meant for happiness. Even if she did sleep with Jack he would still be gone in the morning and she would be alone. Alone, that is, except for the Bug, who had infected her life and for which there was no cure.
Jack could only look on, his heart hurting for her in her distress. It was unbearable to see her this way. She seemed so helpless, her body shaking with her sobs, her chest, still half naked through the gaping shirt, shuddering jerkily with sorrow.
“What’s he doing to you now, slag?” Peter’s voice filled the room. “Has he come? Has he spunked his stuff into you yet? Maybe he’s beating you up? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Polly? It’s all tarts like you deser-”
Jack wanted very much to meet this unpleasant pest. He crossed the room and picked up the phone.
“Where are you speaking from, pal?” he asked in a friendly, matter-of-fact tone as if addressing an acquaintance. “We could talk about all this stuff face to face.”
“I got my knife back, pal. And I’m going to kill you with it.”
“OK, that’s fine. That’s good. Where are we going to do this thing?” Jack could have been arranging for a couch to be delivered. “I can meet you anywhere. We could get it over with right now if you like. Tonight. Just tell me where to go.”
Down in the box in the street Peter could see that his money was running out. He had only one more coin and he hadn’t yet fixed upon his plan.