A Demon in My View by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online

only shows Indian films. Or there’s Radclyffe Park. They have concerts in Radclyffe Hall.”
    “Christ,” said Jonathan. “Better make up your mind to it, Tony, there’s nothing to do but drink. This place, the Dalmatian, the Hospital Arms, the Grand Duke. What more do you want?”
    But before Anthony could answer him, a woman had flung into the pub and was leaning over them, her fingers, whose nails were very dirty, pressed on the table top. She addressed Brian.
    “What the hell are you doing, coming here without me?”
    “You were asleep,” said Brian. “You were dead to the world.”
    “In the rank sweat,” remarked Jonathan, “of an enseamed bed.”
    “Shut up and don’t be so disgusting.” She levelled at him a look of scorn, such as women often reserve for those friends of their husbands who may be thought to exercise a corrupting influence. For that Brian was her husband Anthony was sure even before he waved a feeble hand and said, “My wife, Vesta.”
    She sat down. “Your wife, Vesta, wants a drink. G. and T., a big one.” She took a cigarette from her own packet and Dean one from his, but instead of holding out his lighter to her, he lit his own cigarette and put the lighter away. Turning her back on him, she struck a match and inhaled noisily. Anthony regarded her with interest. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties and she looked as if she had come out without attempting to remove the “rank sweat” of Jonathan Dean’s too graphic description. Her naturally dark hair was hennaed, and strands of the Medusa locks—it was as wild and unkempt as her husband’s but much longer—had a vermilion metallic glint. A greasy-skinned, rather battered-looking face. Thin lips. Large, red-brown, angry eyes. A smell of patchouli oil. Her dress was long and of dark dirty Indian cotton, hung with beads and chains and partly obscured by a fringed red shawl. When Brian brought her gin she clasped both hands round the glass and stared intensely into the liquid like a clairvoyant looking into a crystal.
    Three more beers had also arrived. Jonathan, having directed several more insulting but this time ineffectual remarks at Vesta—remarks which seemed to gratify rather than annoy her husband—began to talk of Li-li Chan. What a “dish” she was. How he could understand those Empire builders who had deserted their pallid, dehydrated wives for oriental mistresses. Like little flowers they were. He hoped Anthony appreciated his luck in sharing a bathroom with Li-li. And so on. Anthony decided he had had enough of it for the time being. Years of living in hall and rooming houses and hostels had taught him the folly of making friends for the sake of making friends. Sooner or later the one or two you really want for your friends will turn up, and then you have the problem of ridding yourself of these stopgaps.
    So when Brian began making plans for the evening, a mammoth pub crawl, he declined firmly. To his surprise, Jonathan also declined, he had some mysterious engagement, and Vesta too, suddenly becoming less zombie-like, said she was going out. Brian needn’t start asking why or who with and all that. She was free, wasn’t she? She hadn’t got married to be harassed all the time and in public.
    Anthony felt a little sorry for Brian, whose spaniel face easily became forlorn. “Some other time,” he said, and he meant it.
    The sun was shining and the whole afternoon lay ahead of him. Radclyffe Park, he thought, and when the K.12 bus came along he got on it. The park was large and hardly any of it was formally laid out. In a green space where the grass was dappled with the shadows of plane leaves, he sat down and reread Helen’s letter.
       
Darling Tony, I knew I’d miss you but I didn’t know how bad it would be. I feel like asking, whose idea was this? But I know we both came to it simultaneously and it’s the only way. Besides, neither of us is the sort of person who can be happy in a clandestine