Inside the front door the house had been as quiet as a grave, and for a few moments more he imagined she might have been away. The housekeeper lived out, for now that factories and the services offered either better money or amore exciting life, servants were almost impossible to find. Decia often complained about this fact, as she did about other things, too.
Then he had heard her laugh. A long, excited, sensuous sound.
He did not remember running upstairs or how long he had waited outside the bedroom door. In his mind he could only picture.the scene captured in the bedside lights like some hideous tableau.
Decia sitting up and staring at him, her naked body like gold in the lamplight, her hair across her shoulders in a way he had never seen before. And the man, openmouthed and transfixed, one hand still thrust against her thigh. He had tumbled from the bed, blurting out senseless, meaningless words, groping for his trousers, falling, and then sobbing with terror as Maxwell crossed to his side.
The worst part of it was that Maxwell had been unable to hit him. Maybe in his heart he had known that if he had once started he would have killed him there and then. The man was paunchy and ridiculous. Not even young, and had been in tears as he had babbled for forgiveness..
Maxwell had slammed the door behind him, hearing the man stumbling. downstairs, the sounds of his feet across the gravel drive, and then silence.
In the. bedroom there had been no sound either. Just her breahing and his own heart pounding into his ribs like a hammer.
‘Why?’ The one word had been torn from him even before he had recovered his reason. ‘In Christ’s name, why?’
Instead of trying to cover her body she had leaned back, her eyes suddenly calm again.
‘Why not? Did you imagine I’d be able to go on living like this without a man?’
Maxwell had turned towards the door. ‘Man? You call that a man?’
She had said, ‘He made — a change.’
Even as he stood stockstill below the twin Oerlikons Maxwell could not believe. She had not ‘been afraid or repentant. Had not even bothered to conceal what she had done, perhaps many times with others.
‘You bitch!’ He had almost choked. ‘You bloody, spoiled whore!’
Still she had not flinched, and when she had spoken her voice had been scathing, taunting.
‘What did you expect? That I could just sit here while you go playing the little hero again? But for this war you’d still be living on my money, pretending to be the retired gentleman, when we both know you were thrown out of the Navy! I’m only surprised they took you in the first, place!’ She had mocked at his anguish. ‘God Almighty, look at you! No wonder we’re losing the war!’
‘I was not thrown out.’ He had heard his excuses pouring from his lips, just as he had told them to himself over and over again. ‘It was an accident. Someone else.
‘Someone else? Oh, it would be. It always is when you make a mistake.’
She had let her shoulders fall back over the pillows, her ‘ perfect breasts firm in the bedside lights.
‘You’re a failure. Just as you’re a failure in bed!’
He had almost fallen on top of her, his eyes blinded with tears and desperation, his hands groping for her as he had pleaded, ‘You’re wrong. You know you are. I’ve had bad luck. I’ve tried to make you happy.’
And all the time she had just laid there, her eyes almost disinterested as she watched his hands running over her shoulders and breasts.
‘You make me sick.’
Everything else had been lost in a blur. Like a film out of focus. He could still hear himself screaming down at her, saw her amused contempt change to sudden fright as he had swung back his arm and then struck her across the mouth. She had rolled on to her side, gasping with pain, only to rock back again as he had hit her once more. How many times he had struck her he could not recall. But he could see her doubled over the side of the bed, her cheeks puffed and swollen, her beautiful lips running with blood.
That last sight had frozen him, chilled his fury as if he had been drugged. Hesitantly, almost timidly he had put one hand on her quivering shoulder.
Before he could speak she had turned and looked up at him, her hair disordered across her bruised face, partly hiding one eye which was already closing from his blows.
‘‘Better now, little man?’ The tears had been running down her face to mingle unheeded with the blood on her lips. Perhaps she had expected him to kill her and no longer cared.
Maxwell remembered only vaguely leaving the house. Even as he made to close the front door he had heard her call after him. Just one word which hung in his brain even now. ‘Bastard!’
The leave had been spent in a small hotel. He had tried phoning her. Had even written several letters and then torn them up. After having her telephone hung up on him he had tried to get drunk. He had almost gone mad in his hotel room, drinking and going over it all again and again. The nightmare had been made worse by the other hotel guests singing Christmas carols, their curious or amused stares as he had sat at his table for an occasional meal. Once he had taken out her picture from his wallet and torn it in half, cursing her and her beautiful body until someone had banged on the wall and yelled, ‘Pipe down, chum! Who’ve you got in there? A bloody tiger?’
The sudden interruption had sobered him, and with pathetic despair he had dropped to his knees, gathering up the fragments of her picture, and had tried to fix them together as he had mumbled her name.
Hunter watched him carefully. He disliked Maxwell but his present mood was almost unnerving. Perhaps he had gone round the bend. It could happen, they said. Or maybe he had heard some bad news.
He asked, ‘Everything all right at home?’
Maxwell turned on his heels like a bullfighter, his face screwed up with sudden anger.
‘You mind your own damn business, right? Do your job and keep the guns in order, that’s all I want from you!’ He swung away and marched violently towards the bridge, his shoes clicking across the worn planking as if he were on parade.
Hunter shook his head and smiled to himself. That was more like it. Better the bastard you knew than some nut case.
Lieutenant de Chair was passing and drawled, ‘Back to normal, I see?’
Hunter grinned. ‘One big happy family.’
The marine lieutenant rested his hands on the guardrail and watched a staff car driving towards the main gangway.
‘Let’s hope it stays that way, old son.’
A marine driver opened the car door and a stocky figure’ climbed out to stare up at the ship’s side, the dull light glinting on his oak-leaved cap and the single broad stripe on his sleeve.
De Chair added quietly, ‘I should tell young Kemp to watch out.’ He walked casually aft saying over his shoulder, ‘Some sort of god has just arrived!’
Commodore Martin Kemp selected an armchair and sat down very exactly. Without his cap he became just as Lindsay had remembered him from the wardroom party at Scapa. Stocky, even heavily built, he looked like a man who took some pains over his appearance. His features were very tanned, so that his keen blue eyes and the few remaining wisps of grey hair stood out as if independent from the rest of the mould.
He said briskly, ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve come bursting in like this. I could have arrived quite unannounced, of course.’
Lindsay watched him impassively. The of course was somehow typical of the man, he thought.
He said, ‘I would be ready to receive you at any time, sir.’
Kemp grunted. ‘Yes. I expect so. Wasn’t trying to catch you out.’
‘Would you care for some refreshment, sir?’
He shook his head. ‘No time.’ He studied Lindsay calmly. ‘But if you feel you would like a drink, don’t let me stop you.’