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Maguire was there, in one of the plain-brick rooms, sitting on a chair surrounded by packages and boxes. An unshaded bulb threw a halo on to his thi
Maguire looked up from his calculations.
'Glassy,' he said. He always used that nickname.
Ro
'Come on in,' said Henry B. 'Good for a game?'
'Don't look so serious,' soothed Maguire, 'this is just merchandise.'
A kind of numb horror drew Ro
Climax Erotica, the cover read, Full Colour Pornography for the Discriminating Adult. Text in English, German and French. Unable to prevent himself he began to look through the magazine, his face stinging with embarrassment, only half-hearing the barrage of jokes and threats that Maguire was shooting off.
Swarms of obscene images flew out of the pages, horribly abundant. He'd never seen anything like it in his life. Every sexual act possible between consenting adults (and a few only doped acrobats would consent to) were chronicled in glorious detail. The performers of these unspeakable acts smiled, glassy-eyed, at Ro
He closed the magazine and glanced at another pile beside it. Different faces, same furious coupling. Every depravity was catered for somewhere. The titles alone testified to the delights to be found inside. Bizarre Women in Chains, one read. Enslaved by Rubber, another promised. Labrador Lover, a third portrayed, in perfect focus down to the last wet whisker.
Slowly Michael Maguire's cigarette-worn voice filtered through into Ro
'You had to find out sooner or later,' he said. 'I suppose it may as well be sooner, eh? No harm in it. All a bit of fun.'
Ro
'Horrible,' was all he could say. 'Horrible. Horrible. Horrible.'
He kicked a pile of Bizarre Women in Chains, and they toppled over, the repeated images of the cover sprawling across the dirty floor.
'Don't do that,' said Maguire, very quietly.
'Horrible,' said Ro
'There's a big market for them.'
'Not me!' he said, as though Maguire was suggesting he had some personal interest in them.
'All right, so you don't like them. He doesn't like them, Dork.'
Dork was wiping cream off his short fingers with a dainty handkerchief.
'Why not?'
Too dirty for him.'
'Horrible,' said Ro
'Well you're in this up to your neck, my son,' said Maguire. His voice was the Devil's voice, wasn't it? Surely the Devil's voice, 'You may as well grin and bear it.'
Dork guffawed, 'Grin and bare it; I like it Mick, I like it.'
Ro
'We're all known villains here,' the organ was saying, 'and we've got nothing to lose if we're caught again.'
'Nothing,' said Dork.
'Whereas you, my son, you're a spit-clean professional. Way I see it, if you want to go gabbing about this dirty business, you're going to lose your reputation as a nice, honest accountant. In fact I'd venture to suggest you'll never work again. Do you take my meaning?'
Ro
Ro
He went home to Bernadette that night and told her a lie about being mugged in the street. She was so consoling, it made him sick to be deceiving her, but he had no choice. That night, and the night after, were sleepless. He lay in his own bed, just a few feet from that of his trusting spouse, and tried to make sense of his feelings. He knew in his bones the truth would sooner or later become public knowledge. Better surely to go to the police, come clean. But that took courage, and his heart had never felt weaker. So he prevaricated through the Thursday night and the Friday, letting the bruises yellow and the confusion settle.
Then on Sunday, the shit hit the fan.
The lowest of the Sunday filth-sheets had his face on the front cover: complete with the ba
He stood in the newsagents, staring at his own face, and knew his personal Armageddon was on the horizon. Shaking, he read the terrible lies inside.
Somebody, he never exactly worked out who, had told the whole story. The pornography, the brothels, the sex-shops, the cinemas. The secret world of smut that Maguire had masterminded was here detailed in every sordid particular. Except that Maguire's name did not appear. Neither did Dork's, nor Henry's. It was Glass, Glass all the way: his guilt was transparent. He had been framed, neat as anything. A corrupter of children, the leader called him, Little Boy Blue grown fat and horny.
It was too late to deny anything. By the time he got back to the house Bernadette had gone, with the children in tow. Somebody had got to her with the news, probably salivating down the phone, delighting in the sheer dirt of it.
He stood in the kitchen, where the table was laid for a breakfast the family hadn't yet eaten, and would now never eat, and he cried. Not a great deal: his supply of tears was strictly limited, but enough to feel the duty done. Then, having finished with his gesture of remorse, he sat down, like any decent man who has been deeply wronged, and pla