back?â
âYou can go back if you like.â
In the old days Linda might have run crying out of the room, but now she sat there white and glacial.
âIt hasnât worked out,â said Ralph.
âNo.â
âIt wasnât my fault. You shouldnât have torn the telephone book.â
âFor the last time I didnât touch it. Do you really think I would have torn your telephone book? What an extraordinary thing to do.â
âWell, who else tore it? I didnât, thatâs for sure. And who mixed up the pages of my novel?â
âI donât know,â said Linda.
He pecked at his food uninterestedly and so did Linda. They werenât really hungry though they had ordered dinner. He put his hand in his pocket and popped a pill in his mouth.
âAre you sure you should be taking these pills like sweets?â she said.
âI need them,â he answered shortly.
The waiter was standing at the far end of the room staring at them. Maybe he was thinking of interfering, protecting Linda from him. He thought he had seen him before somewhere but that surely was not possible.
He passed his hand across his eyes. The people at the next table were laughing and shouting as before: it occurred to him that they too were in the plot, that they had been placed there in order to watch him.
And then quite suddenly they were gone as if they had never been. And he and Linda were alone again.
âWhat happened there?â he asked Linda.
âWhere?â
âThese people. They were there a minute ago and now theyâre gone.â
âMaybe they didnât want to wait. Or perhaps they didnât like the menu.â
âHm.â
Such strange things were happening around him. It was as if they had come to observe him and had left when they had done so.
âItâs all very odd,â he muttered.
âAre you sure youâre all right?â said Linda looking at him keenly.
âOf course Iâm all right. Why shouldnât I be all right?â
âItâs just that â¦â
He felt so tired as if his mind couldnât absorb anything else.
âWeâll have a bottle of wine,â he said decisively.
âAre you sure?â
âOf course Iâm sure.â
He signalled the waiter over and ordered a bottle of Burgundy.
âNot Yugoslav wine?â she said.
âNo,â he said, knowing what she meant. He leaned towards her and caressed her cheek.
âWhat was that for?â
âThe Last Supper,â he said. âThe betrayal. I know that youâre carrying a bug and that everything Iâm saying is being recorded.â
âYour health,â he said, ironically raising his glass to his lips.
âCheers,â she said.
The last time they had been at a party together she had had a long argument with a scholar and with her quick-wittedness had made him appear clumsy and ponderous. And then quite suddenly she had danced with the life that was in her, far more life than he had. Of course he was a Capricorn, remote, ambitious, cold. She on the contrary loved hospitality, wine and food.
But tonight she had left most of her prawn cocktail, and he was sure that she would leave most of her fish when it came, which it was doing now. The waiter bent towards them, servile, white-coated. This place was a trap, a draughty cave, empty and huge. Perhaps it was not a hotel at all, perhaps it was some other kind of building which had been selected for him. In the middle of the night she might take her red case and leave him there. He would have to be vigilant, stay awake, though he didnât feel like doing so.
He drank another glass of the wine defiantly. It looked like blood. Never before had he seen it so clearly and blatantly as blood. He was like a vampire sucking his own blood. He put the glass of wine down on the table quickly spilling some of it, his hands shaking. The waiter looked at him briefly as he