Iris was shocked to see the flat in Oakwood Court. When she’d left it nine weeks ago, every article was in place, every surface shone, the air smelled of lemons and wood. She’d closed the door with a sense of satisfaction and purpose and imagined—as the taxi sped to Victoria Station—some ritual return at the end of August, refreshed and suntanned and ready to tackle life’s challenges.
Now she banged up the lift in rising panic. Guy Burgess had been so cryptic over the telephone, so smug and English, she couldn’t tell if Sasha had committed some unspeakable criminal act or simply went a little too far at a friend’s party, as he so often did. The door, when she rattled the knob, was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped into the foyer, where she gasped in horror.
For an instant, she thought they’d been burgled—ransacked. The few framed pictures had fallen off the walls; the floor was strewn with broken glass. An empty bottle of gin rolled helplessly across the parquet. The air stank of vomit and decay.
Then she thought—Sasha!
Burgess had said he’d left him in the bedroom. Iris picked her way around the broken glass, the bottle, the shoes left in a tumble. She walked down the darkened hallway, past the kitchen and study and the boys’ bedroom, the family bathroom—didn’t look inside any of them. A stink of spoiled milk turned her stomach. The bedroom door hung wide open. Iris hesitated. She hadn’t seen Sasha in a month, not since the catastrophic expedition to the Isle of Wight. She’d spoken to him on the telephone a few times—he’d called down to Honeysuckle Cottage to ask about the milkman and where do we keep the checkbook, she’d rung up the embassy so he could speak to his sons twice a week—but each conversation was veneered in politeness, an almost excruciating formality. Anyway, both times she’d tried to reach him last week, his secretary informed her that he was out.
Until now, she hadn’t thought to worry. Not any more than usual, at least.
Iris gathered herself and stepped into the bedroom.
Sasha was not, as she expected, on the bed. He lay on the floor next to the bed, fully clothed, on his stomach. For a terrible instant she thought he was dead. She cried out and leapt toward him, and yes, for that single instant, everything was forgiven—she loved him—her Sasha! But when she touched his shoulder, he groaned. She noticed a foul, sharp odor. She turned him over and realized he was wet, he was actually lying in his own urine, soaked through the rug beneath him. His eyes fluttered open. He focused on her—smiled—closed his eyes again.
“I knew you’d come,” he said.
“What’s happened, Sasha? What have you done this time?”
“Can’t remember.”
She shook him by the shoulder. “Yes, you can! Burgess said you’d wrecked somebody’s flat. Whose, for God’s sake?”
He started to fall away again, so she gritted her teeth and hauled him upright, propped him against the bed. When she removed her hands, he remained sitting, so she rose and fetched a glass of water from the sink in the bathroom. She turned her face away from the unspeakable mess and set the water glass at his lips for him to sip. The stench made her gag, so she tried to breathe through her mouth. He sipped again.
“Whose flat, Sasha? You have to tell me. Was it hers?”
“Whose?”
“You know who. Miss Fischer.”
He made a lopsided smile and shook his head. “No, no. Got it all wrong, darling. Always did.”
“Yes, I realize that. Whose flat, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just—what? Some stranger, Sasha? I don’t understand. Burgess said—I couldn’t make him out—something about a smashed mirror—Sasha, look at me!”
Sasha, who’d been staring at the hollow of her neck for most of the conversation, now lifted his unsteady eyes to meet hers. “You look good, Iris. Really good. I guess that Beauchamp guy agrees with you.”
“Stop it.”
“No, I’m happy for you. ’Sgood. Take good care of you an’ the boys.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s dead, my love.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Who d’you think? They got her, Iris.” Sasha made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, squinted one eye, and fired it. “Nedda’s dead.”
The telephone rang just as Iris reached for the receiver. The sound shocked her, for some reason, and she couldn’t decide whether to pick it up or wait for the caller to go away.
On the second ring, she lifted the receiver. “Digby.”
“Iris? Are you all right?”
“Oh, God. Philip. I was just about to call you. The most terrible news.”
“I know.”
“I’m so sorry. I know you were friends.”
“It’s damned strange. Just shot on the street, point blank, nobody saw a thing. Scotland Yard’s looking into it, of course. I assume that’s what set him off?”
“Yes. He’s still drunk. I can’t make heads or tails of him.”
“I can bring the boys up, if you want.”
“No, no. I don’t want them to see him like this. Have you learned anything on your end? About the flat, I mean, and what happened.”
Philip sighed, and the noise amplified down the line, so it sounded like a gust of wind. “I’m afraid he’s in a bit of trouble. They’re trying to hush it up, but the girl won’t cooperate, not that I blame her.”
“Girl? What girl?”
“Just some young woman. From what I can gather, your husband and Burgess went to some kind of party at her flat—friend of a friend, she didn’t know them—and became excessively drunk, started smashing the place up, police were called. Burgess is connected everywhere and somehow got them both off without charges, but that won’t last, not if the girl keeps making a fuss.”
“As she should,” Iris said. “The stupid fools.”
She didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind her, not until Sasha’s hand reached out and took the receiver from her hand.
“Beauchamp? That you? Beauchamp, old boy! How are you? Yes, yes, it’s me. Been having a nice time out there by the sea, fucking my wife? Goddamn good lay, isn’t she—”
Iris lunged for the receiver, but he twisted away easily, used his height to his advantage.
“Stop! You drunken idiot! Sasha!”
“What’s that? Pistols at dawn? God, no, old man. You can have her. I’m a goner, anyway, right? Big red bull’s-eye, right smack—”
At last Iris snatched the receiver away. He stumbled and crashed to the floor.
“Philip? Philip? No, I’m all right, I’m fine, he won’t hurt me. He’s just drunk.”
“Iris, I’m jumping in the car this instant, I’m driving up—”
“No, don’t—”
“You’re not staying with him. Iris, do you hear me? Iris?”
“I’m here. Look, I’ve got to take care of him, all right? I’ll sober him up. He’ll be fine, he’ll be very sorry. We’ll get him help. That’s all he needs.” She was crying, for some reason. “All he needs is some help. A hospital or something. Good-bye, Philip.”
“Iris—”
She hung up the receiver and dropped on the floor. She lifted Sasha’s sobbing chest and cradled him—smoothed his tarnished hair—they wept together.
“I’m so sorry, darling,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Iris bathed her husband and settled him into bed in fresh pajamas. Maybe Burgess was smart, leaving him on the floor like that, so he wouldn’t soil the bed. Although the sheets didn’t seem to have been changed in ages, now that Iris examined them. Well, what more harm could it do?
When he was asleep, she cleaned up the mess. She started with all the empty bottles, then found the broom and swept up everything else on the floor. She threw out the spoiled milk, washed the dishes, wiped everything down with vinegar and hot water. Opened all the windows to let in the fresh September air. She put the soiled clothes to soak in the washing tub and sprinkled baking soda on the bedroom rug. Not spick-and-span, but it was a start.