Ritual. Part 8

'Stay,' said Velma. 'I promise I won't frighten you again.'

'I don't know,' Charlie demurred.

'Your son will be okay. He's a big boy now, isn't he?'

'Fifteen.'

'Well, then,' purred Velma, turning him around and kissing his nose. 'He's almost big enough for me.'

Charlie opened his fingers and his shirt dropped on to the floor.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

He woke up and there was bright fall sunshine criss-crossing the ceiling like the reflection on a fishing pond. He rubbed a crust of sleep from his eye and then turned over. Velma was lying with her back to him, still breathing deeply. The room reeked of s.e.x and Obsession. Charlie reached over and gently untangled Velma's hair.

Beside the bed, the electric clock read 7:07. Martin had been very tired last night; he was probably still asleep. If Charlie dressed and went back to their room, Martin may not even realize that he had been away all night.

Charlie wasn't guilty about having gone to bed with Velma. He was divorced, he could go to bed with anybody he wanted. But he did feel that it might upset Martin, seeing how close Martin was to his mother. He pulled at a curl in Velma's hair and Velma opened her eyes and looked at him sideways and smiled.

'It's morning,' he told her. 'I have to go.'

'No breakfast special?'

'I think I'm just about plumb wore out,' Charlie said in an Uncle Tom accent.

'That's hard to believe,' said Velma, and turned around to admire him with eyes that were still gla.s.sy from dreams.

For the first time, Charlie noticed a deep sickle-shaped scar, just where her right breast met her chest. The scar was pale pink, and it had obviously healed well, but it looked as if something had actually taken a good sized piece out of her muscle. He didn't like to be over-inquisitive. When you met people on the road, you had to accept that they tell you as 86.much or as little about themselves as they wanted; truth or lies; and that you had to take them for what they were. But he touched Velma's scar very lightly with his fingertips, and he asked her the question with his eyes.

'Self-inflicted,' smiled Velma.

'What does that mean?' Charlie asked.

'What do you think?'

Charlie shrugged. His guess was that Velma had stayed with a violent boyfriend just one night too many, and that he had cut her or burned her or whatever it was that violent boyfriends did these days.

'I think it's none of my G.o.dd.a.m.ned business,' he said.

'It could be,' said Velma. 'You know all about the Celestines, don't you?'

Charlie stared at her. 'The Celestines? You're the second person who's mentioned the Celestines to me in a couple of days. I never heard of them before. Didn't they come from New Orleans or something?'

'Originally they came from New Orleans, yes; but now they're all over.'

'I still don't have any idea of what they are, or who they are,' Charlie admitted.

Velma said nothing for a moment. Then she climbed out of bed, and approached the dressing table, inspecting her naked body in the mirror. She laid one hand over the scar on her chest, and closed her eyes. 'You feel hostile towards them.'

'I don't know anything about them. How can I possibly feel hostile towards them?'

Velma opened her eyes and looked at him in the mirror. 'Do you always feel hostile towards things that you don't understand?'

Charlie swung back the covers. 'I'd better get back to my son. If I get back now, he'll still be asleep.'

'You mean he won't realize that his father has been away all night?'

'Something like that.' Charlie reached for his crumpled pants.

'Does it make you feel guilty, spending the night with a woman you picked up in a bar?'

'Not at all.'

Velma came over to him, still naked, and b.u.t.toned up his pants for him. Then she kissed him on the lips, and laughed.

'I know that some Celestines run a restaurant at Alien's Corners,' said Charlie.

'That's right,' said Velma. 'So you do know something.'

'I don't get this,' Charlie told her irritably. 'It's like some kind of guessing game. Do you know what the Celestines are?'

'Of course. They're like a society, a club. Every now and then they get together and they eat a special dinner.'

'Le Reposoir, they meet there,' said Charlie, and Velma nodded.

Charlie said, 'The way we got together last night, was that accidental, or was it arranged? I mean, was it arranged by somebody else? Were we supposed to get together?'

'You could say that,' she said. He knew now that she was mocking him.

'Do you mind telling me who arranged it, and why?'

'Are you feeling used?' she teased him. She turned her back on him and for a split second he saw a mental Polaroid of last night's lovemaking, Velma biting his shoulder, Velma sitting on his face, grinding herself into his mouth. Vicious, harsh, dangerous s.e.x; s.e.x with teeth and blood and fingernails.

He b.u.t.toned up his shirt, b.u.t.toned the cuffs. 'I don't know what this is all about,' he said, trying to keep his voice steady. 'I don't think I want to know what this is all about. I'm going back to my room and then I'm leaving. If you want some money - here -' He reached into his back pants pocket and took out fifty dollars in ten dollar bills.

Velma shook her head. 'I don't want your money. I've already been paid.'

Charlie seized hold of her wrist and twisted her around. Instantly, she slapped his face, hard, and he let her go. They stood glaring at each other, and panting. A crimson handprint gradually appeared on Charlie's cheek.

'Somebody paid you to pick me up and screw me?' he asked her incredulously.

'I was trying to help you, that's all,' said Velma. I was trying to make you understand.'

'Understand what? I mean, what's the connection? You, me, Le Reposoir, these Celestine people. What the h.e.l.l is it all about?'

Velma was calm. 'You approached them, didn't you? The Musettes?'

'You know about that?'

'I know the Musettes. They called me. They were under the impression that you knew something about the Celestines and that you were anxious to join them.'

Charlie stared at Velma, narrow-eyed. 'Now, wait a minute. I went to Le Reposoir because I wanted to eat there, that was all.'

Velma dressed and Charlie watched her, feeling completely perplexed. If the Musettes had believed that he knew what the Celestines were, and that he wanted to become one of them, why hadn't they invited him to join when he had visited Le Reposoir yesterday? And why on earth should they have gone to the trouble of finding out where he was staying after he had left Alien's Corners, and paying for Velma to take him to bed?

Velma lifted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s into her bra, and fastened it. 'You'd better go down to see your son. You don't want him to think that you're the kind of man he'd rather not have for a father.'

Charlie checked his watch. 'Okay. You're right. But stick around. Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes' time and we'll have breakfast together.'

'I never eat breakfast.'

'Well, I have to. You can always toy with a cup of coffee.'

Velma said nothing as Charlie went to the door. He opened it, and stood there for a moment simply looking at her. 'Ten minutes then,' he said.

Charlie went to the reception desk first of all, to see if there were any messages for him. The bell captain smirked, and said, 'One from your wife, Mr McLean. She wants you to call her back.'

'When did she call?'

'Maybe eleven last night, sir.'

'Didn't you put her through to my room?'

'You weren't in your room, sir.' The smirk grew wider.

'Not right then, no. But my son was.'

The bell captain's eyes blinked an almost imperceptible negative. 'There was no reply, sir. We did think of putting the call directly through to you, but we considered that you might not appreciate it too much, not right then, sir.'

He walked through the unkempt gardens of the Windsor Hotel and through to his room in the annexe. When he got there, he found that the door was wide open, and that there were two black maids in there, one cleaning out the bath and the other making the bed. The bedside radio was playing 'The Girl From Ipanema'.

'Pardon me,' said Charlie, 'did you see my son here this morning?'

The maid who was making the bed looked up slowly and shook her head. 'No, sir. This room was empty this morning.'

'But he was sleeping here. A boy of fifteen, brown hair. Light blue windcheater and jeans.'

'No, sir. This room was empty. There's some luggage here, sir, but that's all.'

Charlie opened the closet and there was his own overnight case, as well as two of his shirts hanging on hangers, just where he had left them. But there was no sign of Martin's case, nor of any of Martin's clothes. Skit, thought Charlie, / left him alone last night and now he's run away. I failed him 90.when he was a kid and Fve failed him again. Now what the h.e.l.l am I going to do?

He went into the bathroom. Martin's toothbrush was gone, and there was no sign of any farewell message written on the mirror with Crest. Back in the bedroom, the maids had almost finished. They were performing their last ritual of laying out fresh books of matches and luridly coloured postcards of the Windsor Hotel photographed in the days when the gardens hadn't looked like a snakepit.

'Was there a note anywhere?' Charlie asked them. 'A piece of paper with a message on it?'

The maids made a desultory attempt to look through their black plastic trash bag. 'No, sir. Nothing like that.'

Charlie took one last look around, and then went to the reception desk. The bell captain was picking his teeth behind his hand.

'My son,' said Charlie.

'I'm sorry?' the bell captain asked him.

'My son was in 109 but he's gone.'

The bell captain eyed him steadily. 'Your son?'

'I left my son sleeping in 109 last night, but now he's not there.'

'Your son was sleeping in 109?'

Charlie smacked his hand flat on the desk. 'Do you have to keep repeating everything I say? I want to know what time my son checked out of here, and if he told anybody where he was going.'

'Your son sure didn't check out of here, sir.' 'You mean he left without anybody seeing him?' 'No, sir, I mean your son sure didn't check out of here. The reason being that he never checked in.' 'What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?' The bell captain looked back at him dispa.s.sionately, with the face of a man who has spent a lifetime dealing with irritable customers and pays them about as much attention as he would to a few exhausted wasps, buzzing around in a jelly-jar. 'You checked in here at 5:45 yesterday evening, sir?'

'That's correct.'

'At that time, sir, you were alone.'

'What? What is this? I mean, what kind of ridiculous joke are you trying to play here? I booked in yesterday evening with my fifteen-year-old son, and if you look at my registration card you'll see that I've included his name. Charles J. and Martin S. McLean.'

The bell captain reached under the counter and slid out a narrow file drawer crowded with registration cards. He rifled through them until he came to the M-Me section, and tugged out Charlie's registration card. 'This is the one, sir. See what it says?'

Charlie stared at the card in horror and disquiet. It read nothing more than Charles J. McLean, 49 West 24th Street, New York, NY 10010. Fastened to the card was an impression of his American Express card, and that was all. There was no doubt that the writing on the card was his. He even remembered how the pen had almost run out of ink halfway through, and how he had squiggled it hard on the bottom of the card to start it flowing again. There were the squiggles, just as before. But what had happened to Martin's name?

'I don't even pretend to get this,' said Charlie harshly, giving back the card. 'But my son arrived here with me last night, and yesterday evening before I went to dinner I left him in 109. This morning he's gone - no message, no nothing - that's not like him at all.'

'Do you want to talk to the manager about it?' asked the bell captain.

'Yes, call him. And there's somebody else I want to talk to, too. Ms Velma Farloe. I don't recall her room number, but she should still be there now.'

'Ms Velma Farloe? I'm sorry, sir, but I can tell you right off the top of my head that there's n.o.body by that name 92.staying here. There's Mr Fairbrother in 412, but that's about the nearest.'

'Is this some kind of G.o.dd.a.m.ned stupid joke?' Charlie roared, and an elderly couple who had just appeared out of the elevator stared at him in shock and alarm.

'Mr McLean,' the bell captain retorted toughly, 'I've got to warn you to keep your voice down. Shouting isn't going to get anybody anyplace.'

Charlie leaned across the desk and jabbed at the bell captain's uniformed chest with his finger. 'You listen to me, wise-a.s.s. I came here last night with my son Martin and I spent the night here with a lady called Ms Velma Farloe while my son slept in 109. This morning my son is gone and so is Ms Farloe. All I need to know from you is when my son left and where Ms Farloe is. Otherwise I'm not just going to talk to the manager, I'm going to talk to the police.'

The bell captain lifted both hands in taunting surrender. 'I'm sorry, Mr McLean. What can I tell you? There's no record of your son having arrived here. There's no sign of him now; and there's no sign of Ms - what did you say her name was?'

At that moment the manager arrived. He was tall, vague, distant, with a drawling Bostonian accent and a flaccid double chin like an elderly pelican. He listened to Charlie's story as if Charlie were trying to sell him a new brand of industrial floor cleaner. His dry, rutted fingernails played an impatient tattoo on the countertop, and then at last he said, 'I'm sorry, sir. I can't help you. If there's no hotel record that your son checked in here, and if there's no record that Ms Furlough checked in here either .. . well, you can understand our position.'