The Absolutist Page 3

  “Of course,” he replied, fishing a tin box out of his pocket that looked as if it had been with him since childhood, opening it and handing me a perfectly rolled cigarette from a collection of about a dozen. His fingers were dirty, the lines on his thumb heavily defined and darkened by what I decided was manual labour. “You wouldn’t see better in a baccie’s, would you?” he asked, smiling, indicating the cylindrical precision of the smoke.

  “No,” I said, admiring it. “You’re a dab hand.”

  “Not me,” he said. “It’s the wife who rolls them for me. First thing every morning, when I’m still about my breakfast, she’s sat there in the corner of the kitchen with a roll of papers and a packet of gristle. Takes her only a few minutes. Fills the box for me, sends me on my way. How’s that for luck? There’s not many a woman would do that.”

  I laughed, satisfied by the cosy domesticity of it. “You’re a lucky man,” I said.

  “And don’t I know it!” he cried, feigning indignation. “And what about you, Tristan Sadler?” he asked, using my full name, perhaps because I was too old to be addressed with the familiarity of “Tristan” but too young to be called “Mr.” “Married gentleman, are you?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Got a sweetheart back in London, I suppose?”

  “No one special,” I replied, unwilling to admit that there was no one who was not special either.

  “Sowing your wild oats, I expect,” he said with a smile, but without that leering vulgarity with which some older men can make such remarks. “I don’t blame you, any of you, of course, after all you’ve been through. There’ll be time enough for weddings and young ’uns when you’re a bit older. But, my Lord, the young girls were thrilled when you all came home, weren’t they?”

  I laughed. “Yes, I expect so,” I said. “I don’t know really.” I was beginning to grow tired now, the combination of the journey and the drink on an empty stomach causing me to feel a little drowsy and light-headed. One more, I knew, would be the ruination of me.

  “You have family in Norwich, do you?” asked Mr. Miller a moment later.

  “No,” I said.

  “First time here?”

  “Yes.”

  “A holiday, is it? A break from the big city?”

  I thought about it before answering. I decided to lie. “Yes,” I said. “A few days’ break, that’s all.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have picked a nicer place, I can tell you that,” he said. “Norwich born and bred, me. Lived here man and boy. Wouldn’t want to live anywhere else and I can’t understand anyone who would.”

  “And yet you know your accents,” I pointed out. “You must have travelled a bit.”

  “When I was a pup, that’s all,” he said. “But I listen to people, that’s the key to it. Most people never listen at all. And sometimes,” he added, leaning forward, “I can even guess what they’re thinking.”

  I stared at him and could feel my expression begin to freeze a little. Our eyes met and there was a moment of tension there, of daring, when neither of us blinked or looked away. “Is that so?” I said finally. “So you know what I’m thinking, Mr. Miller, do you?”

  “Not what you’re thinking, lad, no,” he said, holding my gaze. “But what you’re feeling? Yes, I believe I can tell that much. That don’t take a mind reader, though. Why, I only had to take one look at you when you walked through the door to figure that out.”

  He didn’t seem prepared to expand on this so I had no choice but to ask him, despite the fact that my every instinct told me to leave well alone. “And what is it, then, Mr. Miller?” I asked, trying to keep my expression neutral. “What am I feeling?”

  “Two things, I’d say,” he replied. “The first is guilt.”

  I remained still but kept watching him. “And the second?”

  “Why,” he replied, “you hate yourself.”

  I would have responded—I opened my mouth to respond—but what I might have said, I do not know. There was no opportunity anyway, for at that moment he slapped the table again, breaking the tension that had built between us as he glanced across at the wall clock. “No!” he cried. “It’s never that time already. I’d best get home or the missus’ll have my guts for garters. Enjoy your holiday, Tristan Sadler,” he said, standing up and smiling at me. “Or whatever it is you’re here for. And a safe trip back to London when it’s over.”

  I nodded but didn’t stand up. I simply watched him as he made his way to the door, turned for a moment and, with a raised hand, exchanged a quick goodbye with J. T. Clayton: Proprietor, Licensed to Sell Beers and Spirits, before leaving the bar without another word.

  I glanced back at White Fang, lying face up on the table, but reached for my drink instead. By the time I finished it, I knew that my room would be available to me at last, but I wasn’t ready to go back yet, so I raised a finger in the direction of the bar and a moment later a fresh pint was before me: my last, I promised myself, of the evening.

  My room at Mrs. Cantwell’s boarding house, the infamous number four, was a bleak setting for the apparently dramatic events of the previous night. The wallpaper, a lacklustre print of drooping hyacinths and blossoming crocuses, spoke of better, more cheerful times. The pattern had faded to white in the sun-bleached square facing the window, while the carpet beneath my feet was threadbare in places. A writing desk was pressed up against one wall; in the corner stood a washbasin with a fresh bar of soap positioned on its porcelain edge. I looked around, satisfied by the efficient English understatement of the room, its brisk functionality. It was certainly superior to the bedroom of my childhood, an image I dismissed quickly, but less considered than the one I had furnished with a mixture of thrift and care in my small flat in Highgate.

  I sat on the bed for a moment, trying to imagine the drama that had played out here in the small hours of the morning: the unfortunate Mr. Charters, wrestling for affection with his boy, then struggling to retain his dignity as he became the victim of a robbery, an attempted murder and an arrest all within the space of an hour. I felt sympathy for him and wondered whether he had even secured his desperate pleasures before the horror began. Was he part of an entrapment scheme or just an unfortunate victim of circumstance? Perhaps he was not as quiet as David Cantwell believed him to be and had sought a satisfaction that was not on offer.

  Rising slowly, my feet tired after my day’s travelling, I removed my shoes and socks and hung my shirt over the side of the chair, then remained standing in the centre of the room in trousers and vest. When Mrs. Cantwell knocked on the door and called my name, I considered putting them on again for the sake of decorum but lacked the energy and anyway, I decided, it was not as if I was indecent before the woman. I opened it and found her standing outside carrying a tray in her hands.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Sadler,” she said, smiling that nervous smile of hers, honed no doubt by years of servility. “I thought you might be hungry. And that we owed you a little something after all the unpleasantness earlier.”

  I looked at the tray, which held a pot of tea, a roast-beef sandwich and a small slice of apple tart, and felt immediately grateful to her. I had not realized how hungry I was until the sight of that food reminded me in a moment. I had eaten breakfast that morning, of course, before leaving London, but I never ate much in the mornings, just tea and a little toast. On the train, when I grew hungry, I found the dining car pitifully understocked and ate only half a lukewarm chicken pie before setting it aside in distaste. This lack of food, coupled with the two pints of beer in the Carpenter’s Arms, had left me ravenous, and I opened the door further to allow her to step inside.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, hesitating for a moment before looking around as if to ensure that there was no further sign of the previous night’s disgrace. “I’ll just lay it on the desk here, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Cantwell,” I said. “I wouldn’t have thought to bother
you for food at this time.”

  “It’s no bother,” she said, turning around now and smiling a little, looking me up and down carefully, her attention focused for so long on my bare feet that I began to feel embarrassed by them and wondered what she could possibly find of interest there. “Will you be lunching with us tomorrow, Mr. Sadler?” she asked, looking up again, and I got the sense that she had something that she wanted to discuss with me but was anxious to find the appropriate words. The food, while welcome, was clearly a ruse.

  “No,” I said. “I’m meeting an acquaintance at one o’clock so will be gone by the late morning. I may head out and see a little of the city if I wake early enough. Will it be all right if I leave my things here and collect them before catching the evening train?”

  “Of course.” She hovered and made no move to leave the room; I remained silent, waiting for her to speak. “About David,” she said eventually. “I hope he didn’t make a nuisance of himself earlier?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “He was very discreet in what he told me. Please, don’t think for a moment that I—”

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “No, I don’t mean that. That business is behind us all now, I hope, and will never be mentioned again. No, it’s just that he can sometimes ask too many questions of servicemen. Those who were over there, I mean. I know that most of you don’t like to talk about what happened but he will insist. I’ve tried speaking to him about it but it’s difficult.” She shrugged her shoulders and looked away, as if defeated. “He’s difficult,” she said, correcting herself. “It’s not easy for a woman alone with a boy like him.”

  I looked away from her then, embarrassed by the familiarity of her tone, and glanced out of the window. A tall sycamore tree was blocking my view of the street beyond and I found myself staring at its thickset branches, another childhood memory surprising me by how ruthlessly it appeared. My younger sister, Laura, and I gathering horse chestnuts from the trees that lined the avenues near Kew Gardens, stripping their prickly shells away and taking them home to string into weapons; a memory I dismissed just as quickly as it had arrived.

  “I don’t mind so very much,” I said, turning back to Mrs. Cantwell. “Boys his age are interested, I know. He’s, what … seventeen?”

  “Just turned, yes. He was that angry last year when the war ended.”

  “Angry?” I asked, frowning.

  “It sounds ridiculous, I know. But he’d been planning on going for so long,” she said. “He read about it in the newspaper every day, following all the boys from around here who went off to France. He even tried to sign up a couple of times, pretending to be older than he was, but they laughed him straight back to me, which, to my way of thinking, sir, was not right. Not right at all. He only wanted to do his bit, after all, they didn’t need to make fun of him on account of it. And when it all came to an end, well, the truth is that he thought he’d missed out on something.”

  “On having his head blown off, most likely,” I said, the words ricocheting around the walls, splattering shrapnel over both of us. Mrs. Cantwell flinched but didn’t look away.

  “He wouldn’t see it like that, Mr. Sadler,” she replied quietly. “His father was out there, you see. He was killed very early on.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. So the accident at the threshing machine was fiction, after all.

  “Yes, well, David was only just thirteen at the time and there never was a boy who loved his father as much as he did. I don’t think he’s ever got over it, if I’m honest. It damaged him in some way. Well, you can see it in his attitude. He’s so angry all the time. So difficult to talk to. Blames me for everything, of course.”

  “Boys his age usually do,” I said with a smile, marvelling at how mature I sounded when in truth I was only her son’s elder by four years.

  “Of course I wanted the war to end,” she continued. “I prayed for it. I didn’t want him out there, suffering like the rest of you did. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you. Your poor mother must have been beside herself.”

  I shrugged and turned the gesture quickly into a nod; I had nothing to say on that point.

  “But there was a part of me, a small part,” she said, “that hoped he would get to go. Just for a week or two. I didn’t want him in any battles, of course. I wouldn’t have wanted him to come to any harm. But a week with the other boys might have been good for him. And then, peace.”

  I didn’t know whether she was referring to peace in Europe or peace in her own particular corner of England but I said nothing.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for him,” she said, smiling. “And now I’ll leave you to your tea.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cantwell,” I said, seeing her to the door and watching for a moment as she scurried down the corridor, looking left and right at the end as if she didn’t know which direction she should go in, even though she had most likely lived there for nearly all her adult life.

  Back inside my room, with the door closed again, I ate the sandwich slowly, conscious that to rush it might upset the fragile equilibrium of my stomach, and sipped the tea, which was hot and sweet and strong, and afterwards I began to feel a little more like myself. I could hear occasional movements in the corridor outside—the walls of my room were paper-thin—and resolved to be asleep before any of my neighbours in rooms three or five returned for the night. I could not risk lying awake: it was important to feel refreshed for the day that lay ahead of me.

  Setting aside the tray, I stripped off my vest and washed my face and body in cold water at the sink. It quickly dripped down upon my trousers so I pulled the curtains, turned the light on and stripped naked, washing the rest of myself as well as I could. A fresh towel had been laid on the bed for me but it was made from the type of material that seemed to grow wet very quickly and I rubbed myself down with it aggressively, as we had been shown on our first day at Aldershot, before hanging it over the side of the basin to dry. Cleanliness, hygiene, attention to detail, the marks of a good soldier: such things came instinctively to me now.

  A tall mirror was positioned in the corner of the room and I stood in front of it, examining my body with a critical eye. My chest, which had been well toned and muscular in late adolescence, had lost most of its definition in recent times; it was pale now. Scars stood out, red and livid across my legs; there was a dark bruise that refused to disappear stretched across my abdomen. I felt desperately unattractive.

  Once, I knew, I had not been so ugly. When I was a boy, people thought me pleasant to look at. They had remarked as much to me and often.

  Thinking of this brought Peter Wallis to my mind. Peter and I had been best friends when we were boys together, and with thoughts of Peter it was but a short stroll to Sylvia Carter, whose first appearance on our street when we were both fifteen was the catalyst for my last. Peter and I had been inseparable as children, he with his curly rings of jet-black hair, and me with that unhelpful yellow mop that fell into my eyes no matter how often my father forced me into the chair at the dinner table and cut it back quickly with a heavy pair of butcher’s scissors, the same ones he used to cut the gristle from the chops in the shop below.

  Sylvia’s mother would watch Peter and me as we ran off down the street together with her daughter, the three of us locked in youthful collusion, and she would worry about what trouble Sylvia might be getting herself into, and it was not an unjustified concern, for Peter and I were at an age when we talked of nothing but sex: how much we wanted it, where we would look for it, and the terrible things we might do to the unfortunate creature who offered it.

  During that summer we all became most aware of each other’s changing bodies when we went swimming, and Peter and I, growing older and more confident in ourselves, attracted Sylvia’s teasing stares and flirtatious remarks. When I was alone with her once, she told me that I was the best-looking boy she had ever seen and that whenever she saw me climbing from the pool, my body sleek with water,
my swimming trunks black and dripping like the skin of an otter, I gave her the shivers. The remark had both excited and repelled me, and when we kissed, my lips dry, my tongue uncertain, hers anything but, the thought passed through my mind that if a girl like Sylvia, who was a catch, could find me attractive, then perhaps I wasn’t too bad. The idea thrilled me, but as I lay in bed at night, bringing myself off with quick, dramatic fantasies that were just as quickly dispelled, I imagined scenarios of the most lurid kind, none of which involved Sylvia at all, and afterwards, spent and feeling vile, I would curl up in the sweat-soaked sheets and swallow back my tears as I wondered what was wrong with me, what the hell was wrong with me, anyway.

  That kiss was the only one we ever shared, for a week later she and Peter declared that they were in love and had decided to devote their lives to each other. They would marry when they were of age, they announced. I was mad with envy, tortured by my humiliation, for, without realizing it, I had fallen desperately in love; it had crept up on me without my even noticing it, and seeing the pair of them together, imagining the things that they were doing when they were alone and I was elsewhere, left me in bitter twists of anguish, feeling nothing but hatred for them both.

  But still, it had been Sylvia Carter who had told me when I was an inexperienced boy that my body had given her the shivers, and as I looked at it now, beaten and bruised from more than two years of fighting, my once-blond hair a muddy shade of light brown and lying limply across my forehead, my ribs visible through my skin, my left hand veined and discoloured in places, my right prone to the most inexcusable shakes and shudders, my legs thin, my sex mortified into muteness, I imagined that if I were still to give her the shivers they were more likely to be spasms of revulsion. That my companion in the railway carriage had thought me beautiful was a joke; I was hideous, a spent thing.

  I pulled my shorts and vest back on, unwilling to sleep naked. I didn’t want the sensation of Mrs. Cantwell’s well-worn sheets against my body. I couldn’t abide any touch that might suggest intimacy. I was twenty-one years old and had already decided that that part of my life was over. How stupid of me. Twice in love, I thought as I closed my eyes and placed my head on the thin pillow that raised me no more than an inch or two from the mattress. Twice in love and twice destroyed by it.