Babbington snatched at her handbag and tipped the contents onto the bright rug in front of the fire. He stirred the compact, the keys, the hairbrush, the paper handkerchiefs, the purse, with the toe of one shoe. Then his shoe touched the instruction booklet on how to fit and use the telephoto lens, and finally the small plastic tub in which the second roll of film had been contained before she loaded it.
Like a delicate footballer, he kicked the small tub across the rug with a flick of his toe, then separated the instruction booklet from the litter of other objects. He bent and picked them up, his face gleaming from triumph, suspicion and the firelight. His eyes were hard when he looked at her after opening and reading the booklet. His big hand clenched upon the plastic tub, squeezing it.
"What?" he breathed softly. "My, but you have been an industrious little thing, haven't you." Then his voice hardened once more. "What was the purpose of your photography, Margaret? Where are your holiday snaps?"
She remained silent, quivering like a sapling at the first wind of an approaching storm. She would not prevent her head from shaking, as if to defy him.
"What did you photograph?" he roared at her. She huddled into the chair. He grabbed her arms, bruising them, and dragged her face close to his. She was terrified of the hard chips of light in his eyes, of the mouth that appeared hungry. "Tell me, Margaret — or he dies now. Do you understand me? He dies now!" He flung her dramatically back into the chair, even as she cried out:
"No—!"
"I give you my word — now!" He snapped his fingers, moved towards the door.
"No—!" He did not stop. "I followed you — to a meeting — in the Belvedere!"
He turned on his heel. She heard his breath sigh out like sexual release. It was hot, heady in the room; a place for exotic plants, foetid.
"You have evidence of that meeting?"
She nodded. "Two rolls of film… telephoto lens…"
He moved heavily towards her. "Where are those rolls of film?"
She flinched from his raised hand.
"Posted them—"
He grabbed her chin and jerked her face upwards. His thumb and forefinger pressed her jaw painfully. "Where are they? When did you post them?" He shook her face between his fingers like something utterly fragile and breakable. "Tell me, Margaret. Tell me!"
She blurted out the name of the pension and the time she had posted them. He released her chin at once and glanced at his watch. Then he moved quickly to his desk, snapping on the intercom. He barked orders into it, ending with: "They won't have been collected yet. Yes, of course police IDs for you and whoever you take—! And hurry!"
He flicked the switch and turned to her. She felt something loosen and slide within her; will, resolve, she could not tell. Perhaps even hope. She had made a final move in the game. Left herself open to checkmate. Her hands flitted at her bruised jaw, at her quivering lips. She'd lost everything, everything—
It had been ridiculous to assume she could alter events. Ridiculous from the first. All that mattered, really mattered, had been Paul's life. And he was alive. Babbington had given him back. She looked up as Babbington addressed her.
"Now, you must see your husband, Margaret." He rubbed his hands lightly together, dusting them. "I'm sorry for — well, that's in the past. I had to trick you, even hit you, to save time. I do not have that much to spare. However—" He was buoyant with triumph now, and his cold munificence chilled her more than the streak of sadism and vengeful rage he had earlier shown. " — perhaps now there is a little more time…" He took her arm and helped her from the chair. She felt unreal, a sacklike object being moved. "A pity you know nothing of Hyde's exact whereabouts or his motives — , but I believe you don't know. He's clever enough not to have trusted you." Babbington smiled. They were at the door. She flinched as if anticipating that the dog lurked beyond it. Babbington opened the door. The corridor was empty. "Come," he said. "I'll take you to Paul."
She clung to that statement, blotting out the scene that preceded it. The voice had been almost warm, the hand that held her arm supported rather than imprisoned her. She moved into the fragile fiction with each step on the polished floorboards. She felt her body lean against Babbington for support.
He lied to you then hit you to disorientate you, something announced in her head. You went straight to pieces, to little pieces…
She bit her tongue, as if she had voiced the words aloud. Her father's face, Aubrey's face, Babbington's face — twisted in cruel satisfaction — Paul's face…
Grainy picture. The skull separated from its skeleton by a workman's spade. The skull blown open by Aubrey's accidental bullet. She shuddered and pulled away from Babbington.
"No—" she murmured.
"But here we are," Babbington announced with mocking breeziness. There was someone else there, an armed guard. "This is Paul's room — open the door." The guard turned a key and threw the door ajar. "A pleasant reunion, Margaret, my dear," Babbington said and thrust her forward. The door closed loudly behind her.
Massinger looked up distractedly, as if a stranger had burst in upon some scene of ordinary domesticity. The paperback remained in his hand. The small transistor radio they had provided continued to play. It wasn't food, not the right time for supper, or for the one large Scotch they served him late in the evening.
What, then—?
He felt the shock of recognition. Beneath it, a further shock of his imprisonment was made real to him again. He saw the bruises in the same moment that he observed the open mouth and wild eyes.
Margaret stood by the door, trembling. Pain stabbed in his thigh and hip as he tried to move his injured leg and climb awkwardly from the low bed. He dropped the novel he was reading and heaved himself to his feet, tottering erect.
She moved towards him then. The Handel on the radio changed inappropriately from andante to allegro. Sliding into something that might have been gay. He was disconcerted. She was murmuring, one word over and over again, even as he pressed her against him and felt her whole frame shaking.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…"
He did not understand the need for apology—
And then did, as he brushed her hair, as his hand moved gently to her cheek and she winced at the thought of further inflicted pain. She, too, was a prisoner. She had — yes, she had come to find him. Reckless, narrow-minded, single-minded…
He knew, with a sick certainty, that she had told Babbington everything she knew.
He lifted her face and kissed her very carefully and softly. Resenting the stubble that might pain her bruised jaw. She was looking at him with the face of a child. He sensed her body through the material of his shirt as his arms enclosed her. The fur jacket was wet with melted snow. For a moment, he almost wanted to thrust her away. To make her stand apart from him while he told her what a fool, what a mistake, what a fatal error…
But, she knew it. All.
She had ceased murmuring her apology and simply clung to him, her face against his chest. He looked over her blonde hair at the closed, locked door of the small room. It was as if he could quite clearly see the armed guard posted outside. He brushed absently at her hair, even at the shoulder of the fur coat. Stroking a small animal that could not be blamed.
"It's all right now, it's all right now, my darling," he began softly, gripping her more tightly in the circle of his arms. "It's all right… you're safe. I've been out of my mind with worry about you. It's all right, it's all right…" What she had done, she had done out of love. Killing herself as well as he. He swallowed. "It's all right now, everything's OK…" She was sobbing softly, and swallowed continually. He had to ease her guilt away. "Don't worry. It just got messed up, but — everything you've done, everything you've said or felt, has been honest. Don't blame yourself… it's all right now, all right…"