Bloody Passage

‘As I remember, that was quite an evening.’

‘The understatement of this or any other year,’ she said lightly as she spooned ice into my glass.

Fair comment. I’d met her at a party in Almeria thrown by some Italian producer who was making a Western or unreasonable facsimile, up in the Sierra Madre. I was strictly uninvited, pulled in by a scriptwriter I’d met in a waterfront bar, someone I knew barely well enough to exchange drinks with.

The party was a creepy sort of affair. Most of the men were middle-aged and for some reason found it necessary to wear sunglasses even at that time of night. The girls were mainly dolly birds, eager to comply with any and every demand that might lead along the golden path to stardom.

My scriptwriter friend left me alone and belligerent. I didn’t like the atmosphere or the company and I was already half-cut, a dangerous combina-tion. I pushed my way across to the bar which was being serviced by a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and a suit of purest white. His face looked vaguely familiar. The kind of cross between male and female that seems so popular these days. Anything from a manly aftershave advertisement to a second-rate movie and instantly forgettable.

‘Gin and tonic,’ I said. ‘Irish.’

‘You’ve got to be joking, old stick,’ he said loudly in a phony English public school voice, and appealed to the half-dozen or so girls who were hanging on his every word at the end of the bar. ‘I mean, who ever heard of Irish gin?’

‘It may not be in your vocabulary, sweetness,’ I told him, ‘but it certainly figures in mine.’

There was what might be termed a rather frigid silence and he stopped smiling. A finger prodded me painfully in the shoulder and a hoarse American voice said, ‘Listen, friend, if Mr Langley says there’s no such thing as Irish gin, then there’s no such thing.’

I glanced over my shoulder. God knows where they’d found him. A latter-day Primo Camera with a face that went with around fifty or so professional fights, too many of which had probably ended on the canvas.

‘I bet you went over big, back there in Madison Square Gardens,’ I said. ‘Selling programs.’

There was a second of shocked surprise, just long enough for the fact that I didn’t give a damn to sink in, and then his fist came up.

A rather pleasant French voice said, ‘Oh, there you are, cheri. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

A hand on my sleeve pulled me round. I was aware of the dark wide eyes above the cheekbones, the generous mouth. She smiled brightly and said to Langley, ‘I’m sorry, Justin. Can’t let him out of my sight for a moment.’

‘That’s okay, honey,’ Langley told her, but he wasn’t smiling and neither was his large friend as she pushed me away through the crowd.

We fetched up in a quiet corner by the terrace. She reached for a glass from a tray carried by a passing waiter and put it into my hand.

‘What were you trying to do, commit suicide? That was Mike Gatano you were arguing with back there. He was once heavyweight boxing champion of Italy.’

‘Christ, but they must have been having a bad year.’ I tried the drink she’d handed me. It burned all the way down. ‘What in the hell is this? Spanish whiskey? And who’s the fruit, anyway?’

‘Justin Langley. He’s a film actor.’

‘Or something.’

She leaned against the wall, arms folded, a slight frown on her face, a pleasing enough picture in a black silk dress, dark stockings and gold high-heeled shoes.

‘You’re just looking for it tonight, aren’t you?’

‘Gatano?’ I shrugged. ‘All he is is big. What are you trying to do anyway, save my immortal soul?’

Her face went a little bleak, she started to turn away and I grabbed her arm. ‘All right, so I’m a pig. What’s your name?’

‘Simone Delmas.’

‘Oliver Grant.’ I reached for another glass as a waiter went past. ‘You want to know something, Simone Delmas? You’re like a flower on the proverbial dung heap.’ I gestured around the room. ‘Don’t tell me you’re in the movies.’

‘Sometimes I do a little design work, just for the money. When I do what I prefer, I paint water-colours.’

‘And who needs them in this world of today?’

‘Exactly. It’s really very sad. And you – what do you do?’

‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Write, I think. Yes, I suppose you could say I was a writer.’

Langley’s voice was raised behind as he moved into another public performance. ‘Surely we’re all agreed that Vietnam was the most obscene episode of the century?’

I turned and found him in the centre of an eager group of girls. They all nodded enthusiastically. He smiled, then noticed me watching. ‘Don’t you agree, old stick?’ he demanded and there was a challenge in his voice.

I was a fool to respond, I suppose, but the last two drinks were like fire in my belly. I didn’t like him and I didn’t like his friends and I wasn’t too bothered about letting the whole world know.

‘Well now,’ I said, ‘if you mean was it a dirty, stinking, rotten business, I agree, but then most wars are. On the other hand as a participant I tend to have rather personal views.’

There was genuine shock on his face. ‘You mean you actually served in Vietnam?’ he said. ‘My God, how dare you. How dare you come to my party.’

I was aware of Gatano moving in behind me and Simone Delmas tugged at my sleeve. ‘Let’s go!’

‘Oh, no,’ Langley told her sharply. ‘He doesn’t get off that easily. I know he didn’t come with you, sweetie.’ He moved closer. ‘Who brought you?’

‘Richard Burton,’ I said and kicked him under the right kneecap.

He went down hard, but without making much of a fuss about it which surprised me, but I had other things on my mind. Gatano grabbed my shoulder and I gave him a reverse elbow strike that must have splintered three of his ribs.

I wasn’t too sure what happened after that. There was a great deal of noise and confusion and then I surfaced to find myself leaning against the wall in an alley at the side of the house. It was raining slightly and Simone was pulling my coat collar up about my neck.

‘So there you are.’ She smiled. ‘Do you do this kind of thing often?’

‘Only on Fridays,’ I said. ‘My religion forbids me to eat meat.’

‘Have you got a car?’

‘A white Alfa. It should be around here somewhere.’

‘Where do you live?’ I told her and she frowned. ‘That’s forty miles away. You can’t possibly drive that far in the state you’re in.’

‘You could.’ I fished the keys from my pocket and held them out. ‘Nice night for a drive. You can stay over if you like. Plenty of room and bolts on all the bedroom doors.’

I followed this up by starting to slide down the wall and she caught me quickly. ‘All right, you win, only don’t pass out on me.’

I leaned heavily, on her all the way to the car and only passed out when she’d got me into the passenger seat.

When I woke up the following day it was almost noon and she was painting on the terrace using some old oil paints she’d found in a cupboard in the living room. It seemed she liked the view as much as I did. She was still there at sunset. And after that …

Two months – probably the happiest I’d known in years, I told myself as I sipped the drink she pushed across the bar to me.