The Sprouts of Wrath

32

Omally was in a state of near exhaustion. Both mental and physical. He leant Marchant against Jennifer’s front fence and made what efforts he could to straighten his necktie and slick down his hair over the bald spot at the back. He shook the wrinkles from his trousers and gathered up what serviceable lilies remained into a pleasing composition. With unconvincing nonchalance, he pushed open the front gate, walked up the short path and rapped upon the front door. All looked the very picture of normality. Porsche in the garage, downstairs lights on. Presently, in response to his knockings, sounds issued from within, footsteps upon the parquet floor, bolts being drawn.

The front door opened on the chain and Jennifer looked out, cool, sophisticated, composed. “John Omally,” she said in a toneless voice, “I was expecting you.”

Indeed, thought John, as she dropped the chain and reopened the door. “I’ve brought you some flowers.”

Jennifer took the lilies and stared down at them with a face of pity. “They are dying,” she said, “how sad.” This was an unusual feminine response to a present of flowers and one quite new to Omally’s experience. “You’d best come in.” Omally did so, closing the front door behind him. “You would care for a drink I believe.” Jennifer laid the flowers carefully upon the hall table and led John towards the living-room.

He followed with some trepidation, giving the place a thorough scrutiny. Happily, of homicidal packages it was the nursery cupboard of Lafayette Ron’s mother. But it gave him little peace of mind. Something was wrong, although he couldn’t put a name to quite what.

“Do sit down.” Omally sat down. He watched Jennifer from the corner of his eye. She appeared to be having some difficulty locating the drink. She opened the doors of the television cabinet and shook her beautiful head.

“Is everything all right?” John asked. “Can I help at all?”

Jennifer turned upon him with unnatural speed. “Everything is just as it should be,” she said in an icy voice.

“You seem a little, well, lost.”

Jennifer Naylor smiled broadly, but it was a smile equally lacking in warmth. “I am just a little tired, perhaps you would …?”

“But of course, how ungallant of me.” Omally took himself over to the drinks cupboard, and extracted bottle and glasses with slow deliberation. Jennifer stood like a statue in the middle of the room, staring into space. John did not like the look of her one bit. It was more than possible that she was in a state of shock. Whatever she had seen in the gasometer had unhinged that brilliant mind. He would have to tread a very wary path. He decanted two professional Scotches and topped them up with ice. “Here you go then,” he said, approaching cautiously, “gold ones on the rocks.”

Jennifer took her glass and stared into it, rattling the ice cubes. “What do you want here?” she asked.

“A social call,” John lied, “nothing more. It’s a while since I’ve seen you. Here, come and sit with me on the sofa.” He took Jennifer gently by the arm, but she resisted and remained firmly rooted to the spot.

“As you please then.” John sat down before her and sipped his Scotch.

“Do you believe in God?” asked Jennifer Naylor.

Omally glanced over his glass. The emerald eyes fixed him in their stare. “I am a Catholic by birth,” he said slowly.

“You were nothing by birth other than man. Please answer the question.”

John took another sip of Scotch. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I wish to know.”

“Then in all candour I must confess to uncertainty.”

“Uncertainty as to a Divine Creator?”

“There are many doctrines, each claiming to be true, each at odds with the other. I was brought up to recognize one, to follow it without question. I asked questions but no-one furnished me with satisfactory answers. I do not know.”

“You lack knowledge.”

“As do we all, I fear. I exist, of that I am reasonably sure. You exist, what senses I possess inform me of the fact. Above and beyond are realms that greater minds than mine have floundered when seeking to explore.”

“The minds of men,” said Jennifer Naylor. “Pitifully limited.”

“They are all we have, we can only make the best of them.”

“Then you never wish to seek a Higher Truth?”

Omally finished his drink. In his experience, such discussions as this rarely led to a satisfactory conclusion, and when held with attractive women, almost never in the direction of the bedroom. “I have no evidence to suggest that Higher Truth exists,” he said, rising to refill his glass. “In my small experience I consider it better to appreciate that which you have, than to vainly seek that which you will never find.” With that banal homily out of the way, he splashed further Scotch into his glass.

“And that is your philosophy of life?”

John sighed inwardly; all this was quite exasperating. He was getting nowhere. “I am sorry if I cannot furnish you with satisfactory answers,” he said, at length. “If you wish an in-depth theological discussion, then I suggest that Professor Slocombe would be your man. He is one who has dedicated his life to the search for these Higher Truths. In fact if the mood is on you, why do we not go and visit him now? I am sure he’d be very pleased to see you.”

“No!” said Jennifer Naylor. “I have no wish to speak to him!”

“Then I’m sorry, because I can’t tell you what you obviously wish to know.”

“No,” said Jennifer, “you cannot.” With that, she raised her glass to her lips and, to Omally’s amazement, poured the entire drink, ice cubes and all, straight down her throat.

“Here, steady on!” croaked John. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Omally,” said Jennifer, “exactly what are you good for?”

John grinned crookedly. “I wouldn’t have thought you needed to ask.”

The terrible smile once more spread across the woman’s face. “Would you like some sex?” she asked.

“Well,” said John, “now that you ask …”