‘Edna. She’s a damn bitch!’

‘Language, Porrick! That’s not the language of a gentleman! You wouldn’t let another man speak that way about your wife, so y’ought not do it yourself.’

The momentary up-turn in Porrick’s mood was suddenly dispelled. A soggy, faintly nauseous depression settled on him. How had he got himself saddled with this detestable fellow? He tried to pull away from Novak’s arm around his neck, but the Yank clung on to him, as if refusing to let him out of his clutches.

‘You stick with me, Porrick! I’ll look after you. I know a place we can go. Girls there will help you forget about Edna. Do whatever you say and never answer back. Whatever you say! You understand me, Porrick?’

‘Where’s your wife? Didn’t I see her leave with Lord Whassisname?’

Novak waved a hand dismissively.

‘You don’t mind?’

‘We’re all grown-ups, ain’t we? Marriage is all very well, but monogamy … She don’t expect it of me and I don’t expect it of her.’

Porrick shook his head dubiously.

‘You’re telling me you’ve never been unfaithful to Edna?’ cried Novak incredulously.

‘There have been … occasions. But I would never dream of telling her about them.’

‘That’s double standards, Porrick. Dolores and me, we believe in being honest with each other. We’re partners, see. In life’s great … you know …’ Novak’s hand described spirals in the night air. To compensate for his inability to conjure up the mot juste, he began whistling. The blasted Al Jolson song again.

Porrick’s mood sank further. The tune brought back to mind the business with Max Maxwell. That had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth all right. Porrick knew very well the grounds of Maxwell’s resentment. But hadn’t the court exonerated him? Charges had been brought and he had been acquitted. From a strictly legal point of view, Porrick was in the clear. As far as the Old Bailey was concerned, that fellow’s death all those years ago was not on his conscience. So what right did Maxwell have to look at him like that?

The thing was the fellow was dead and it was a terrible, unfortunate accident. But there was nothing he could do about it now. And no amount of soul-baring and hair-shirt-wearing was going to bring him back.

So why did he still wake in a cold sweat from dreams of crackling flames and choking smoke?

Once, waking in the grey dawn, with the din of the morning chorus chiding him, he had seen Ted Lapidus’s charred body lying across the foot of his bed. The image had quickly resolved itself into the crumpled sheets kicked down to the bottom of the bed. But that first vision had printed itself indelibly on to his memory. It was with him always, now. A dim shadow lurking behind more pressing preoccupations: the need to keep the punters coming in, to raise cash, to ward off the City regulators, to get the new production with Waechter under way, at all costs to keep the celluloid frames flying through the gate of his projection machines … But no matter how many distractions he sought, no matter how many other flickering images he layered over it, it was always there. The dark inert shape of a man’s flame-blackened body.

The thing was … the only thing was … A drink. He needed another drink. ‘How much further, Novak?’

‘Not far now, Porrick, old chap.’

One of the things Porrick hated about the Yank was his phony way of affecting an English accent.

‘I just want to make a quick stop at our little pied à terre.’

And now he was indulging in phony French. ‘You have a pied à terre?’

‘We do. We find it awfully convenient.’

‘And where is your country seat?’

‘Haw haw! Very funny, Porrick. You got me there, all right! Country seat … I like it. All right, you got me. This ain’t so much a pied à terre as a bolt hole. We all need a place to lie doggo from time to time.’

‘Who do you need to hide from, Novak?’

‘You got me wrong, Porrick, old bean. But sometimes you need a place to do some thinking … You unnerstand? You might find yourself in a tight situation one day. I’d be more than happy to put the place at your disposal.’

Porrick was beginning to have more of a sense of his surroundings. He realized that they had just turned into Dean Street. The window of an Italian restaurant drew his interest. The diners inside appeared happy in the candle glow. A warm smell of food seeped from the open door, where a waiter stood enticing passersby with a wide smile and a constant stream of patter. He offered a rose to every woman that passed.

‘I say, Novak, what about a bite to eat?’

‘Of course, yes. But first … it’s just here, old chap. Come up for a moment and have a snifter. I just need to pick up some money, then I’ll stand you some dinner.’

They came to a door a few paces on from the restaurant.

Novak grinned sheepishly as he put his key in the lock. ‘I say, you’re not going to be a prude, are you, old chap? If you’re going to be a prude, we won’t have any fun at all.’

The narrow stairwell smelled of every variety of fungal rot. Porrick stumbled in the dark. He heard a sharp hiss from Novak, shushing him urgently. It struck him as odd that the Yank should be so considerate of his neighbours. But he did not have time to draw any definite conclusions as to why it should be.

It struck him as odd, too, that the door had been left open, as if there was someone already inside the flat, someone who was expecting them.

TWENTY-THREE

As soon as the lights went on, and the heaving naked male arse was revealed in the blazing glare of electricity, Porrick understood everything.

The arse carried on pumping for a moment. It was an ugly, dispiriting sight. A stark, pale obscenity moving with brutal energy in the shabbiest rented room imaginable.

Novak’s startled oath – ‘What the devil?’ – was enough to bring Lord Dunwich (Porrick remembered his name as soon as he saw his face) to his feet, his sorry aristocratic member bobbing disconsolately, before drooping and shrinking rapidly. His lordship grabbed a cushion and held it in front of him.

The woman, Novak’s wife of course, pulled her skirt down and sat up in the bed. Her expression might have puzzled an observer who didn’t fully grasp the situation. A mixture of annoyance and boredom. She all but rolled her eyes at her husband.

She retrieved a cigarette from the bedside table and lit it. Soon, she was wholly preoccupied by the pleasures of smoking.

‘Now, it’s not what it seems!’ pleaded Lord Dunwich. Porrick had to laugh at that. Despite his loathing for Novak and his wife, he had little sympathy for Dunwich.

‘On the contrary, Lord Dunwich, it’s crystal clear what’s going on here,’ said Novak.

‘I didn’t know …’

‘You didn’t know she was my wife?’

Porrick noticed a flicker of a smile on Dolores Novak’s face. Lord Dunwich had his back to the woman, so he missed this hint of collusion between husband and wife.

Novak showed no sign of registering his wife’s amusement. ‘Please, Lord Dunwich, don’t insult me. Don’t add a lie to the offence you’ve already committed.’

‘No, no. I wasn’t going to say that. I knew. I admit I knew. It’s just that I didn’t think you minded, you see.’

‘Not mind? Why would you think I wouldn’t mind? Because you’re an aristocrat? You forget, I’m an American. We don’t acknowledge droit du seigneur in America.’

Mrs Novak tossed her hair appreciatively.

‘I honestly thought you film people were more lax about these things. I thought you and Dolores had an understanding. Look … may I put my trousers back on? I feel that I’m at something of a disadvantage.’

‘You shoulda oughta thoughta that before you took ’em off!’

His wife’s tongue licked out, as if to taste the acrid flavour of her husband’s histrionic ire.

Porrick had had enough of this. ‘Let him put his trousers on, Novak. I for one am not very comfortable with him undressed like that. In fact, I think I should step outside.’