I walked the nearby lanes in the dark, letting the rain fall on me. No one must see me here, I thought. I put my head down each time a car went by. I could have spent the time drinking in The Horse and Groom, which I passed three times, but then I would have risked being seen. And: If I am seen I will be recognized — they will remember me later and the photo-fit picture of a dripping American would be shown on the news.
Keep this mission secret until the moment of action, I said to myself, and I laughed at my own words.
Then it was eight or so, and I was drenched. The lights were blazing in Greville Lodge. I mounted the steps, smiling, and reminded myself not to smile.
The bell chimed inside, and the door was opened by a woman in a white blouse and black skirt.
“Telegram for Mr. Wilkie,” I said. “I need his signature.”
I had first taken this woman to be Wilkie’s wife, but when she said softly, “Just a moment, sir. I’ll tell him you’re here,” I realized she was a servant.
Stepping softly on the long carpet, I followed her down the hall and into the dining room. It was not until I entered this lovely house that it struck me how ugly I looked. I caught sight of my raw wet face and wild hair in the mirror.
“Something about a telegram—”
The woman twitched when she saw I was just behind her.
Wilkie stood up. He was small and angry, and his size, and the way his standing up hardly mattered, gave him a peculiar fury.
“Who are you?” he said.
The room was warm, and fragrant with food; another mirror, and bright lights and pictures. Eight of them were seated around the table — Slee at the far end. He looked almost amused. He did not recognize me. I knew he was thinking: Wilkie’s got a problem. I watched him as I spoke.
“Message for a man named Slee,” I said.
His face went smooth and bright with anxiety. He started to stand up. There was a twitch in his cheek.
“Sit down,” I said, and drew a pistol out of my pocket.
One woman breathed hard in a pumping motion, nodding and moving her shoulders, and another screamed like a cat. The men were petrified and silent — afraid to do anything because they would reveal the extent of their fear. And the thing was a water pistol I had taken from Jack’s toy box. I held it half inside my sleeve. Just an hour before, in the rain, I had pissed into it, dribbling into the small hole.
I said, “I don’t want to use it, so don’t make me.”
Wilkie was fussing, but more carefully now. He was saying, “See here. If this is a robbery—”
“Shut up,” I said.
I loved the frightened way he backed up and made his mouth square.
“This isn’t a robbery,” I said. “I’m Andre Parent—”
Someone whispered, “Jenny’s husband.”
“And that man, Slee,” I said, pointing with my pistol and making him wince, “has been fucking my wife!”
“That’s rubbish!” Slee said, speaking to a woman across the table, obviously his companion, possibly fiancée.
“While I was away,” I said. I was dripping on the food, my sleeve over the table. I liked the suspense, the way they listened and gave me room. “This bastard came to my house. Messed around with my son, and got into bed with my wife. Yes, you did.”
Wilkie was staring at Slee.
I said, “That’s unprofessional, you slimy fucker.”
“Please calm yourself, Mr. Parent,” Wilkie said. “I can take care of this. Come to my office. We can discuss—”
“Shut up,” I said.
A woman started to cry and so I skipped the rest of my speech and said, “I’ve got a message for you.” I took a piece of paper out of my pocket.
I hated the way Slee glared at me. I guessed he was thinking, I’ll get you.
With my coat steaming and my hair over my eyes and water dripping from my elbows I read the paper.
“ ‘I would like to say in the nicest possible way that I love you in the nicest possible way.’ ”
Slee’s face hardened.
“You wrote that to my wife.”
He said, “What if I did?”
Surprised by his arrogance, I menaced him with the pistol, making him squirm. I said, “Take it,” and handed him the wet paper.
He took it in his fingers like a turd.
“Those are your words on that paper,” I said.
He pinched the paper but said nothing.
“Eat it,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
“I’ll shoot!” I moved nearer him and my big wet sleeve trembled near his face. “Now stick it into your mouth and make it snappy.”
The heavily breathing woman was whimpering, trying to contain her sobs; but they burst through her nose.
Slee put the paper on his tongue and closed his mouth on it.
“Swallow it.”
He hesitated. I jerked the pistol again to startle him. His mouth moved and from the effort of it tears came to his eyes.
“If you go near my wife again, you fucker, I’ll kill you.”
He looked as though he was going to vomit. The others, perhaps realizing they were safe — that my quarrel was with Slee — were very quiet and attentive, except for the whimpering woman. All their worry about my intrusion had changed into a sort of resentment directed against Slee.
He stood up slowly, as I backed towards the door. It was the feeblest show of defiance.
“Sit down,” I said.
I could tell his teeth were locked together.
I took a step towards him and said, “You’re dead, asshole,” and squirted my pistol at him. “You’re history.”
“My eyes!” he shrieked — the suddenness of it alarmed me. He put his hands over his face. But before he could recover and chase me I ran out of the room, I heard someone say, “Is it acid?” I slammed the dining room door so hard the wall shook and there was a series of crashes, like china plates or vases, or perhaps large framed pictures, dislodged and hitting the floor.
I fled into the rain, laughing.
6
Sunday we went to Richmond Park and looked at the deer, and had tea in a drafty old building on the west side of the park. Jenny said, “On my way to the loo I saw a sign saying Bertrand Russell grew up here.”
Jack said, “Who’s Bertrand Russell?”
“A famous man, who was very clever,” Jenny said.
“He was a silly shit, with a filthy mind, who hated Americans,” I said.
“Daddy said ‘shit,’ ” Jack said, trembling with excitement. His lip curled and he said, “Shit!”
On Monday, as Jenny was putting on her coat, I told her I had been to Sevenoaks. I wanted to prepare her.
“I’ve taken care of your friend Slee.”
Leaving out the wild hair, the wet raincoat, and the water pistol filled with urine, I told her what I had done. “Made a fuss” was the expression I used. I did not say that I had ordered him to eat the message, though as I was telling her in euphemisms of the encounter I kept seeing his tears as he choked on the piece of paper, like a young child being forced to eat cold oatmeal.
“Oh, God,” she said, hesitating at the door. “Oh, God. You didn’t. You fool. How could you?”
For a moment I thought she had decided not to go to work. She looked sick, she looked terrified. The craziness of it came to me as I saw her face.