toward the end of the evening, having kept himself to a single glass earlier, he started in on the brandy like there was no tomorrow. Stephen said something to him, nothing too heavy, but Mark just seemed to ignore him.
"Well, they left a little before me, and I didn't know what they were going to do about the driving, whether Stephen was going to drive himself—something I'd hardly ever known him do—or maybe leave the car there and get a lift back with someone else. Anyway, the man whose house it was and I had some business to discuss, which we did for a while, and then, when I left—it must have been half an hour later—I heard all this shouting coming from the end of the drive. And there were Stephen and Mark, standing on either side of Mark's car, airing their dirty linen in public, as you Brits like to say, for all the world to hear."
"All the world being you."
"Exactly. And it was Mark that was doing most of the shouting."
"Can you remember what he said?"
"I certainly do. 'For years all I've been to you is something warm to take home and fuck and now you don't even do that,'—that was one of the choicer bits. Stephen told him not to be so stupid, that he was acting like a spoiled kid, and, of course, that only made things worse."
"They didn't know you were listening?"
"Not then. Stephen said something I didn't hear, turned around and started to walk away. Mark ran after him. Grabbed hold of Stephen and tried to pull him back. Stephen—I don't know, maybe he swung an arm—tried to get Mark off him, anyway. Which was when Mark hit him."
"He hit him?"
"Put two hands together and brought them down on the back of Stephen's neck. Stephen staggered, almost lost his footing, and then Mark hit him again. Next thing, Stephen was on his back, all sort of hunched up, and Mark was bending down and punching him and shouting. 'If you ever do that again, I'll fucking kill you!'"
"What happened then?"
"I coughed and said something limp and ineffectual, like, 'Excuse me, is everything all right?' and that acted like a bucket of ice water. Mark broke off and moved away, and Stephen picked himself up from the ground and brushed himself down and said something like, just a little family squabble. Trying to make a joke out of it. But I could see he had a nasty cut over one eye, that at least. I offered to help him back inside and get it seen to, but he shrugged it off and said it would be fine, and that was about that. Stephen assured me they'd get home safely and everything would be okay. The next time I saw him he didn't mention it and neither did I."
"And you don't know," Helen said, "if that incident was a one off or part of a pattern?"
"I'm afraid I've no idea."
"And there were no other witnesses to this?"
Rouse shook his head. "The argument might have been heard from the house, but the end of the drive's quite a long way off."
"There's nothing else you can tell me," Helen said, "that might be relevant?"
"Relevant, no. But come back and have a look at the Vuil-lards again some time. He's a great painter. You should give him another chance."
From Will's office window, the car headlights progressing along Gonville Place towards the Newmarket Road were like slow-moving blips of yellow blistering through the glass. The snow had started to fall with the failing of the light, slow flakes meandering down.
"This Rouse character," Will said, "he wasn't on the list McKusick gave us at all?"
"Uh-uh."
"You think he just forgot?"
"Selective amnesia, maybe," Helen said.
"He knew if Rouse told his story..."
"We were going to look at him in a different light."
"Another side of his character."
"One he'd managed to keep hidden."
"A violent temper."
"When provoked."
"The worm that turned," Will said.
"Something along those lines."
"What did Rouse quote him as saying?"
"'Do that again and I'll fucking kill you.'"
The words had an uncomfortable echo in Will's mind. "Do that again," he said, "meaning what?"
Helen
"Well, they left a little before me, and I didn't know what they were going to do about the driving, whether Stephen was going to drive himself—something I'd hardly ever known him do—or maybe leave the car there and get a lift back with someone else. Anyway, the man whose house it was and I had some business to discuss, which we did for a while, and then, when I left—it must have been half an hour later—I heard all this shouting coming from the end of the drive. And there were Stephen and Mark, standing on either side of Mark's car, airing their dirty linen in public, as you Brits like to say, for all the world to hear."
"All the world being you."
"Exactly. And it was Mark that was doing most of the shouting."
"Can you remember what he said?"
"I certainly do. 'For years all I've been to you is something warm to take home and fuck and now you don't even do that,'—that was one of the choicer bits. Stephen told him not to be so stupid, that he was acting like a spoiled kid, and, of course, that only made things worse."
"They didn't know you were listening?"
"Not then. Stephen said something I didn't hear, turned around and started to walk away. Mark ran after him. Grabbed hold of Stephen and tried to pull him back. Stephen—I don't know, maybe he swung an arm—tried to get Mark off him, anyway. Which was when Mark hit him."
"He hit him?"
"Put two hands together and brought them down on the back of Stephen's neck. Stephen staggered, almost lost his footing, and then Mark hit him again. Next thing, Stephen was on his back, all sort of hunched up, and Mark was bending down and punching him and shouting. 'If you ever do that again, I'll fucking kill you!'"
"What happened then?"
"I coughed and said something limp and ineffectual, like, 'Excuse me, is everything all right?' and that acted like a bucket of ice water. Mark broke off and moved away, and Stephen picked himself up from the ground and brushed himself down and said something like, just a little family squabble. Trying to make a joke out of it. But I could see he had a nasty cut over one eye, that at least. I offered to help him back inside and get it seen to, but he shrugged it off and said it would be fine, and that was about that. Stephen assured me they'd get home safely and everything would be okay. The next time I saw him he didn't mention it and neither did I."
"And you don't know," Helen said, "if that incident was a one off or part of a pattern?"
"I'm afraid I've no idea."
"And there were no other witnesses to this?"
Rouse shook his head. "The argument might have been heard from the house, but the end of the drive's quite a long way off."
"There's nothing else you can tell me," Helen said, "that might be relevant?"
"Relevant, no. But come back and have a look at the Vuil-lards again some time. He's a great painter. You should give him another chance."
From Will's office window, the car headlights progressing along Gonville Place towards the Newmarket Road were like slow-moving blips of yellow blistering through the glass. The snow had started to fall with the failing of the light, slow flakes meandering down.
"This Rouse character," Will said, "he wasn't on the list McKusick gave us at all?"
"Uh-uh."
"You think he just forgot?"
"Selective amnesia, maybe," Helen said.
"He knew if Rouse told his story..."
"We were going to look at him in a different light."
"Another side of his character."
"One he'd managed to keep hidden."
"A violent temper."
"When provoked."
"The worm that turned," Will said.
"Something along those lines."
"What did Rouse quote him as saying?"
"'Do that again and I'll fucking kill you.'"
The words had an uncomfortable echo in Will's mind. "Do that again," he said, "meaning what?"
Helen
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