“He never thought you’d go through with it, you know.”
He didn’t reply. Again, or still, he declined to meet her eyes.
“He never in a million years thought you’d actually do it.”
He made his gaze stay back there in the middle distance, back where Gus and the Maoists sat sulkily at their regular table, their beers going flat in front of them. He said, “If that’s what you want to believe.”
“Why shouldn’t I believe it?”
Nobody seemed to be speaking, over there at the Maoists’ table. An air of torpor hung over it, in sad contrast to the excitement that had once prevailed there: the thrill of conspiracy, the joy of impending major crime. Their cigarettes raised forlorn white flags of surrender.
“Are you saying he’s lying?” she said.
And now he caught Gus looking back over at him, a wounded glance across the room’s smoky width. The big Maoist stiffened with hurt, and hastily looked away. What a mess it all was. What a mess.
“I’m saying he sent me up there with a loaded gun.” Speaking to the space in front of him, to the unfocussed edge of her face. Keeping his voice flat, as if they hardly knew each other. “What did he think I was going do?”
But if they hardly knew each other he wouldn’t be keeping his voice flat, would he? He’d be looking her politely in the eye, and doing his best to be nice.
“What did you do?” she asked him again.
And again he gave her no answer. She was trying hard, you had to give her that. But surely she was almost done now. Surely at any moment she would give up, and go back over to the Maoists. He hoped this would happen very soon. There was only so long he could go on pretending to be uninterested in her face.
“So that’s it then?” she said. “You’re just going to leave him in the dark about it forever?”
He looked down at his hand, at the nearly empty glass in it. He moved the glass round and round on its heavy base.
“And me,” she said with exasperation. “You’re going to leave me in the dark too?”
So now she was exasperated because he wasn’t interested in her. That was rich.
“Gus thinks maybe you had to shoot him more than once,” she said.
He moved the glass round and round, making the liquid swirl in the bottom.
“He thinks there might have been a struggle or something. So then you had to take him somewhere else and dump him. That’s what Gus thinks.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked past her. He saw Gus at the jukebox, sullenly punching in a request. “Well maybe if he hadn’t driven off and left me there,” he said, “he’d know.”
“Want to know what I think?” she said.
For a moment, as Gus turned away from the jukebox, his stung eyes ventured upward, and met Fenton’s again. Then he turned away, and trudged back towards the other Maoists. His jukebox selection began. It was some lady country and western singer, singing a haunting and plangent tune of loss.
“I think he isn’t even dead. I think he probably wasn’t even there. I think you fired that shot into the ceiling or something.”
“Believe what you like. You always have.”
“You’d never kill someone, Fenton. I know that.”
He shrugged. The song on the jukebox was starting to get to him. Any moment now he was going to crack, and look at her face. And what good would it do him to see that? What good would it do him to be reminded of what she looked like from up this close?
He said: “Anyway, he must be overjoyed with the results. I mean, we finally did it, didn’t we? We finally took someone out. And look at the results. No one’s even reported him missing. Nobody even realizes he’s gone.”
The haunting and plangent song of loss went on.
“He misses you, you know.” She said it softly, more softly than he deserved. “Despite … He’s always respected you, Fenton. He still does.”
“That’s why you came over here, is it? To tell me that?”
“The others, they’ve never really been on his level. Intellectually. But you … You and him just clicked. That’s his word for it. You just clicked.”
The song on the jukebox was destroying the last of his resolve.
“He’d so love you to come back,” she said. “He’s through with all that other stuff now. The conspiracy stuff. He knows it was a mistake. He’s ready to go back to how it was before. No operations. Just talk. Debate. Me running the newspaper again. Just like it used to be. He wants you to be part of it. If you walked over there right now, he’d be so happy.”
“But I don’t even believe in it, remember?” An incursion of real feeling heated his face. Ridiculously, he was still looking away from her. “I never did. I was lying the whole time, remember? To get you.” He glanced very quickly at her eyes, and believed he saw compassion in them. Then he looked away again, blushing some more. “And a sterling plan that was. Unless of course you’ve changed your mind?”
“Fenton.”
“No. Of course not. Silly of me to ask.”
“Fenton, you made a mistake. That’s all. Everybody makes mistakes. He forgives you. He’s ready to give you another chance. If you’re ready to give him one.”
“And what about you?” he said. And now he turned to face her fully, to look her abjectly in the eye. “Can you forgive me?”
Well, it had been worth a try, hadn’t it? Not looking at her any more. It had definitely been worth a try. But this was better: looking at her again, reacquainting himself with the finer points of her face, making up for all those foolish minutes he had squandered by looking at other things. Ah, yes: that was what her nose looked like. And her lips, spreading now into a smile of assent. And her eyes: how shiny they still were! And how full of relief – they danced with it, like two candle-flames shivering at your approach, welcoming you back into their fragile ambit.
“I’m sorry,” he extravagantly told her. “I was an idiot. I am an idiot. But that’s all over, I swear. I’m through with all that. Can you forgive me?” He threw lie after lie on to the fire, ready to say anything to keep the moment fuelled, to keep her eyes burning like this. Well, at least this time round he would know there was no hope. Or very little. And that was a form of progress, wasn’t it? That was a distinct sign of character development.
She smiled some more. “Maybe,” she said, reaching for her bag, “you could help me with the newspaper.”
“Maybe I could,” he agreed, reaching for his. “And maybe we could be friends again, if you’ll have me. Proper friends.”
She stood. “That’d be nice,” she said.
He stood too. And, already wondering exactly what she meant by that, he followed her back towards Gus.