They lay for some time, wrapped in each other, without having made love, until Bannerman slipped away into a deep alcoholic sleep. Sally looked at the fineness of his features and ran her finger lightly over his face, feeling the roughness of a day’s growth on his jaw. She was glad that they had not made love. It made it easier to pull back, to avoid involvement.
She dressed slowly in the darkness and laid Bannerman’s clothes over the chair by the bed. Something fell from his trouser pocket and landed with a light thud on the carpet. She stooped and searched about and felt a key under her hand. He had forgotten to put the key back under the mat. Quietly she left the room and pulled the door to and slipped down the hall. She opened the front door and replaced the key under the mat and heard footsteps and voices on the stair below. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly two. It had not seemed so long. She shut the door and hurried back into the living room and picked up her book as Slater slipped his key in the lock.
III
The temperature had dropped overnight and the sky was heavy with the threat of snow from the dark clouds that scraped the skyline. The cold, quiet streets were empty in the first light of this Sunday morning, milk bottles standing on doorsteps, Sunday newspapers stuck in letter boxes. The occasional taxi cruised past the grey terraces where the shutters were still closed, curtains still drawn. Brussels was not yet awake. In an hour the first sombre citizens would leave their homes and make their way darkly to early Mass among the flickering candles in ancient churches and the raised incantations of pious voices. A sheet of yesterday’s newspaper fluttered across the Square Ambiorix and in the children’s swing park the swings swayed gently back and forth, a rusted link squeaking erratically.
Slater turned his car into the square from the Chaussée Martel, his daughter seated quietly in the back staring sullenly from the window. She knew her father was nervous, agitated, as he had been so often recently. But this morning she felt more than that. She sensed his fear with a growing trepidation. The pressure of her own unease was building inside her and she became aware that her hands were gripping the edge of the seat so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. Slater caught sight of her face in the rearview mirror and thought, thank God she’s at peace. He could not see her hands. Again he cursed Sally. Of all the mornings for her to call off. The last thing he had wanted was to take Tania with him on this of all visits. Nothing had worked out according to plan. The arrival of Bannerman, Sally’s call-off. He had not been able to face breakfast this morning, and now he felt slightly sick. His heart was hammering away at his ribs and his palms were damp with perspiration.
He wiped them one after the other on his trouser legs and swung the car into the Rue de Pavie. There were cars parked below the Residence Ambiorix, but down the length of the street there was only one other car. It was parked outside Gryffe’s block. Slater pulled up in front of it and switched off the engine. He half-turned towards Tania. ‘You’ll have to stay in the car, little one.’ It was foolish to have hoped that she might accept it, and he watched her in the mirror as the scream rose in her, her face tightening. Both hands clutched at the back of his collar as it broke. He twisted himself in the seat and took both her arms and held them firmly. ‘You must,’ he said imploring her. ‘I can’t take you in. Please don’t start.’
The strength that seemed to seize her when she threw a tantrum never ceased to amaze him and he had to hold her arms so tightly that he was certain it must be hurting her. She wriggled down in the seat and forced one leg up, her foot catching him on the shoulder. He struggled to hold her now, hindered by the back of the seat, dreading the screams that followed each series of deep, breath-catching sobs. ‘For Christ’s sake, stop it!’ he shouted, letting go one arm so that he could slap her hard across the face. Immediately he regretted it. It did no good, he knew. And he watched the red weals spring up raw and vicious across the white softness of her cheek. Her free hand clawed at his face, nails drawing blood above his right eye. He grasped the offending hand and twisted it, holding it away from his face. ‘All right, all right, all right! I’ll take you in. Just stop it, please! I’ll take you in. But you’ll have to stay in the hall.’
Almost immediately he felt a relaxation in her arms, but it was several minutes before the screaming stopped and the sobbing subsided and she lay passively in the seat, pale and breathless.
He turned around to face front and dropped his face into trembling hands and wiped away the sweat. He was shaking all over, breathing in short, uneven bursts. He reached for his cigarettes and lit one, glancing at his watch. It was nine thirty. He glanced along the dead street and thought, there is still time to pull out of this. But it had gone too far now. He had passed the point of no return weeks ago. He cursed his own weakness. You have no stomach for this, he thought, and yet he knew that even this was better than the bleak despair of a future without hope. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and stepped out of the car into the bitter cold wind that blew down the Rue de Pavie. He opened the rear door for Tania and the child scrambled out clumsily on to the cobbles, clutching at her father’s arm. She sensed something dreadful and clung to the only familiar thing she knew. Slater pressed the buzzer and heard it sound somewhere far off inside. They waited a long time in the cold before they heard footsteps approaching and the door opened.
Gryffe looked dishevelled, worn and weary, as though he had not slept. He stared out of red eyes at Slater and then at the child. ‘God, you’re a callous bastard, Slater, bringing your child.’
Slater mumbled, ‘I had no choice. If it could have been avoided...’ But he stopped. There was no reason why he should make excuses to this man. Where once he may have felt pity for him, he now despised him, though even hatred could not smooth over his troubled conscience. Gryffe moved aside to let them in and closed the door behind them. It was dark in the hall, gloomy, the only light coming from a skylight high up above the stairwell. ‘She’ll wait in the hall,’ Slater said, and he prayed that this time she would accept it.
Gryffe nodded curtly. ‘Through here,’ he said and led the way into the back room. His light suit was crumpled and creased and Slater guessed that he had maybe spent the night on a settee or in a chair. He looked back at the child as he closed the door. She seemed almost oblivious to his leaving her, and she was wandering into the cloakroom, attracted by the smell of coats and their softness to touch.
Kale had been awake throughout the night. He had heard Gryffe return shortly after two. First he had gone upstairs and then come back down, and Kale had heard him moving around, pacing between the study and the back room for nearly an hour. At length the house had fallen silent again, though Kale had not heard Gryffe go back upstairs. He guessed that the politician had probably fallen asleep in a chair or over his desk, and he had remained crouched painfully in the darkness, cold and uncomfortable, behind the filing cabinets.
The sound of the buzzer had woken him out of a light, restless slumber and he had heard Gryffe stirring in the back room and then going out to answer the door. Voices in the hall and now both men were coming through to the study from the back room. Kale eased himself up, straightening his stiff, pained limbs. It was still quite dark in the cupboard, the faintest line of grey light below the door. He shone his pencil torch on his watch. Nine thirty-five. Then he located the two revolvers, grasping Gryffe’s heavier Colt in his gloved right hand and slipping the lighter gun into his left-hand coat pocket. He picked his way carefully to the door, all his mental and physical energies concentrated on doing this thing right.