Tags:
Fiction,
Literary,
General,
Science-Fiction,
Fantasy,
Classics,
Young men,
City and Town Life,
Glasgow (Scotland),
British Literary Fiction,
Artists,
Working class
out. The mansion was a square three-storey building with outhouses and a conservatory at the sides. The enclosing larches, hollies and rhododendrons gave it a secret look, although the windows were lit, music resounded and many cars were parked on the gravel near the porch. The front door was open, but Sludden pressed the bell before leading his party into the hall. This was heavily magnificent, terrazzo tiled and oak panelled, with a pair of black marble columns separating a space where the staircase began. A small figure looked out of a door on the right. It was Gloopy. He was shorter and fatter than Lanark remembered, his hair was streaked with grey and he wore a silver lame jacket. He said, “There you are, Sludden. Leave the coats in here, will you?” The room was hung with paintings of fruit and lobsters in gilded frames. There was an oval table in the centre nearly covered by coats and scarves. As Lanark helped Rima remove her coat Gloopy gazed at him with a grin and said, “Hello, hello! So you’ve arrived after all. You’d have been here sooner if you’d come with me.”
“Is this your boardinghouse?”
“It’s not mine in the sense of owning it. I suppose you could call me the concierge.”
“What’s a concierge?”
“Why must you be nasty to me? I haven’t hurt you.”
“You don’t understand our mystery man, Gloopy,” said Sludden, who was straightening his tie at a mirror. “He’s never nasty. He’s just very very serious all the time. Where’s the revelry tonight?”
“We’re in the downstairs drawing room.”
The interior walls and doors of the house seemed soundproof, for nothing could be heard in the hall but the click of their feet on the tiles, yet the opposite door opened into a crowded room where couples were dancing to loud jazz. The people were the kind who visited the Elite, though the girls were more exotically dressed and Lanark noticed a few elderly men in dark business suits. He took Rima’s hand and led her onto the floor.
He couldn’t remember enjoying music before but the rhythm excited him and his body moved to it easily. He kept his eyes on Rima. Her movements were abrupt yet graceful. Her dark hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she was smiling absentmindedly. The record came to an end and each stood with an arm round the other’s waist. Lanark said, “Will we do that again?”
“Yes, why not?”
Suddenly he stared across the room, his mouth open. A table laden with food and drink stood in the curve of a bay window and a girl sat on the edge chatting to a stout spectacled man. Lanark muttered, “Who is the girl—the big blonde there in the white dress?”
“I don’t know. One of the camp followers, I suppose. Why has your face gone that colour?”
“I’ve met her before.”
“Oh?”
“Before I came here—before I came to this city. I know her face but I can’t remember anything else.”
“Does it matter?”
“How can I speak to her?”
“Ask her to dance.”
“Do you mind, Rima?”
“Why should I?”
He hurried through the crowd to the table and reached it as the music started. The girl was sipping from a glass while the stout man laughed heartily at something she had said. Lanark touched her shoulder. She set the glass down and let him lead her onto the floor. She was a vivacious girl with gaudy makeup and a rich brown tan. Lanark held her urgently and said,
“Where have I seen you before?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I couldn’t say.”
“I think I know you well.”
“I doubt it.”
“I killed you, didn’t I?”
She stepped violently back from him and said, “Oh my God!” People stopped and looked. She pointed at Lanark and said loudly, “How’s this for party conversation? We’ve just met and he asks if he killed me once. How’s that for small talk?” She turned to an onlooker (it was McPake) and said, “Take me away from that bastard.”
They joined the dance, McPake winking at Lanark as they