‘There will be some talk at the Contessa’s party,’ Aubrey says. ‘Personally, I think it is an improvement.’
Hal spends the next hour in his cabin, typing up the remainder of his article from his various notes. It is a much more pedestrian affair than he might have wished to write, but according to the brief, it is perfect. It has the qualities the readers will be looking for: the pseudo-salacious detail, the whiff of glamour, of larger-than-life personality. He will wire it across to the editor at Tempo when he goes ashore. When he thinks of what he might have put into it. The real history behind the film – which he has only allowed himself to allude to in the most benign way. The darkness veiled by light.
The one good thing about this inane sort of writing is that he has been able to keep all of the secret truths, told to him in confidence, out of the piece. He has written much, yet told little. It is a skill, in its own way.
Afterwards he begins to write a letter to his parents – an attempt to explain everything. It is one thing his living abroad in Rome, never coming to visit. It is another thing to disappear entirely.
Please don’t let on to anyone that you’ve got this. I’ve had to go away for a while . . .
He stops. He can’t send it, he knows. But the act of writing his thoughts down is cathartic in itself. He writes things that he would never dream of sharing with his parents: of his feelings for Stella, of how they have changed him. It is an altogether more eloquent piece than the one he has written for the Tiber.
There is a knock on his cabin door. He balls the letter and shoves it into his suitcase.
‘Come in?’
It is Aubrey Boyd, dressed, Hal sees, in white tie – and yet somehow looking almost exactly the same as he does in his ‘casual’ uniform of linen trousers and shirt.
‘I thought I’d come and give you a heads up, old chap. Things are starting soon, so you might want to get dressed into—’ he gestures worriedly at Hal’s crumpled outfit, ‘something else.’
Hal sits up. ‘I’ll wear my suit.’
Aubrey looks pained. ‘Is it the one you wore last night? At the Casino?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Look – I don’t want to offend, but there might be something else I could lend you.’
So Hal finds himself dressing in Aubrey Boyd’s black tie which, other than being a little too tight in the chest, fits him surprisingly well. He glances in the mirror and experiences a strange moment of dislocation. The character staring back is unfamiliar to him, like an eerily accurate impersonator.
*
There is another knock on the door. Aubrey, coming to see how the suit fits.
He opens the door. ‘Thanks—’
It isn’t Aubrey.
It seems to happen in a fraction of a moment – a span of time far too short for movement. And yet the second before, Truss was several feet away, framed by the doorway. Now, suddenly – unbelievably – his hands are about Hal’s neck. For another distinct moment, Hal is too transfixed by shock to move. And then he begins to struggle. He tries to shout, but his windpipe is being crushed closed: the only sound he can make is a low growl; like an animal in pain. The pressure is incredible, intolerable. And Truss’ face, close to his own, betrays little of the immense effort it must be costing him to exert such pressure. Hal’s hands are on Truss’ wrists: grasping, pulling, scratching – anything to try and tear them away. He should be the stronger of the two – he is taller, broader. Yet there is some magic to Truss’ grip. He cannot break it.
His vision now is clouded with silver fish, with blooms of red. His thoughts feel confused, washing tantalizingly close, and then ebbing away. There is something that he needs to do … but he cannot think what it is. The pain is still terrible, but it is something remote now, almost as though it were happening to someone else.
And then, suddenly, the agony, the awareness, come screeching back in. He is on the floor on his knees, retching, clawing at his neck. The deadly pressure has gone and yet his flesh remembers the fingers, strong as iron bands, pressing into the soft tissue.
He looks up at Truss, who stands over him. He has never been bested in a fight. Truss merely had the element of surprise. If he wanted to – when he gets his breath back – he could knock him to the ground. He could kill him.
‘You may have been wondering,’ Truss says – and there is no strain, Hal realizes, no breathlessness, in his voice – ‘if I have noticed.’ He smiles. ‘Well. I have noticed.’
38