The Beast Must Die by Nicholas Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

anything more just then. There’s no doubt she was seen near our village soon after the ‘accident’, and there’s not much doubt that George lives in Gloucestershire. You see the point? If she hadn’t something to conceal, the natural thing would be for her to have said, ‘Oh, whereabouts in Glucestershire? I’ve got a friend who lives there.’ Of course, it might be simply an intrigue with George that she’s wanting to conceal. But I doubt it. Girls like her are not coverd with guilt and confusion nowadays by that sort of thing. What else but the fact that she had been in the car when Martie was killed could have made her go suddenly silent at the mention of Gloucestershire?
    ‘Yes,’ I went on. ‘In a little village near Cirencester. I’m always meaning to go back there, but I’ve somehow never quite managed.’
    I didn’t dare mention the name of the village. That might have scared her off altogether. I watched her pinched nostrils and the strained withdrawn look in her eyes for a moment. Then I began to talk about something else.
    At once she started chattering away faster than ever. Relief will loosen anyone’s tongue. I felt oddly grateful and friendly towards her for that moment of self-exposure and laid myself out to please. Never in my wildest dreams have I imagined myself giggling and exchanging coy glances with a film actress. We both drank a goodish amount. After a bit of this, she asked me what my Christian name was.
    ‘Felix,’ I said.
    ‘Felix?’ She wiggled the tip of her tongue at me – ‘roguishly’ is the word, I believe. ‘I think I’ll call you “Pussy”, then.’
    ‘You’d better not, or I shall refuse to have anything more to do with you.’
    ‘You do want to see me again, then?’
    ‘Believe me, I don’t intend to lose sight of you for a long time,’ I said. The opportunities for tragic irony are becoming quite alarmingly plentiful; I mustn’t get into the habit of it. There was a good deal more of this kind of badinage, which I won’t embarrass myself by writing down. We’re dining together next Thursday.

27 July
    LENA IS NOT such a fool as she looks – or rather, as people of her appearance are assumed to be. She certainly gave me a nasty shaking-up this evening. It was after the theatre. She asked me to come in for a final drink – I’d taken her back to her flat. She was standing by the fireplace, rather pensive, and suddenly she swung round to me and said point-blank:
    ‘What’s the idea of all this?’
    ‘The idea?’
    ‘Yes. Taking me around and spending your money? What’s on your mind?’
    I stammered out something about the book I wanted to write – getting ideas – the possibility of writing one suitable for film adaptation.
    ‘Well, when are you going to get started?’
    ‘Started?’
    ‘That’s what I said. D’you know, you’ve not said a single word about this book yet. Where do I come in, anyway? Am I meant to be the pen wiper, or what? I’ll not believe in this book of yours till I see it.’
    For a moment I was paralysed. I felt she must somehow have guessed what I was after. Staring at her, I thought I saw something like apprehension, distrust, fear in her eyes. Then I wasn’t sure if it was that. But still, I think it was sheer panic which made me say:
    ‘Well then, it wasn’t just the book. It wasn’t the book. When I saw you in that film, I wanted you. The loveliest thing. I’d never seen –’
    The fright she’d given me must have made me sound exactly like the confused, timid lover. She raised her head , her nostrils distended, a different look on her face.
    ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I see … Well?’
    Her shoulders drooped towards me. I kissed her. Ought I to have felt like Judas? I didn’t, anyway. Why should I, though? It’s a business deal, give and take, we’ve both got something to gain by it. I want George and Lena wants my money. I realise now, of course, that the scene she was staging about the book was