Paul Murray - An Evening of Long Goodbyes

Much of the material relating to Gene Tierney is based on Tierneys autobiography, Self-Portrait, written with Mickey Herskowitz (Berkley Books, 1980). The title was inspired by the song An Evening of Long Goodbyes by Rachels, from their album Selenography. With thanks and respect to Rachels. For their support and generosity during the writing of this book, I would like to thank my parents, Christopher and Kathleen Murray, Simon Prosser, Natasha Fairweather, Juliette Mitchell, Sarah Castleton, Andrew Motion, John Boyne and everyone who helped with the early chapters, especially Tim Jarvis, Andrew Palmer and Neil Stewarty Stewart. Neel Mukherjee and Chris Watson provided a home from home and some fine cuisine. Thank you to Miriam McCaul for keeping the world turning and the sun shining.

A black wind was blowing outside the bow window. All afternoon it had been playing its tricks: scooping up handfuls of leaves and flinging them over the lawn, spinning Old Man Thompsons weathervane this way and that, seizing rapaciously at Bels ruby leather coat as she battled down the driveway to her audition. Now and then, from the rear of the house, I would hear it shriek through the bones of the Folly, and Id look up from the TV with a start. If this were Kansas I remember thinking it might have been the beginnings of a terrible Twister; but this wasnt Kansas, and what the wind blew in was worse than witches or winged monkeys. For today was the day that Frank arrived at Amaurot.

It was after four but I was still in my dressing gown, recuperating on the chaise longue in front of an old black-and-white movie that starred Mary Astor in an array of hats. Id been out the night before with Pongo McGurks and possibly overdone it a little, insofar as Id woken up on the billiard table with a splitting headache and wearing someone elses sarong. By now, though, I was feeling much better. In fact, I was feeling particularly at one with the world, supping at a bowl of special medicinal consomm that Mrs P had made for me, thinking that no one wore a hat quite like Mary Astor and then I caught my first sight of him, it: a large, vaguely humanoid shape shifting about behind the glass frieze that looked on to the hallway. It didnt fit any of the shapes that should by rights have been there not Bels slender figure, nor Mrs Ps squat domestic trapezium: this shape was bulky and distended, grotesquely so, like one of those self-assembly Ikea wardrobes Id seen advertised on TV. I raised myself up on my elbows and called out: Whos there!

There was no reply; and suddenly the figure was gone from the glass. I put down my consomm with a little sigh. I am not so vain as to think myself, in the general run of things, any more heroic than the next fellow; still, a mans home is his castle, and when Swedish furniture decides to have a wander through it, one must take the appropriate measures. Tying the belt of my dressing gown and picking up the poker, I stole over to the drawing-room door. The hallway was empty. I cupped a hand to my ear, but heard only the sound of the house itself, like an endless exhalation of air echoing between the high ceilings and wood floors.

I was beginning to think I must have imagined it; but I seemed to remember someone telling me about a rash of break-ins recently, so just to be certain, I continued down the hall. There were plenty of nooks in which a miscreant could hide. Holding my poker at the ready in case he tried an ambush, I checked the library and the recital room slowly twisting the knob, then swiftly thrusting open the door to find nothing. Nothing lurked behind the Brancusi Janus; no one loomed beneath Mothers sprawling poinsettia. On an impulse I tried the double doors of the ballroom: they were locked, of course, as they always were.

Relieved, I was on my way to the kitchen to have a cursory look around and also to see if there was anything by way of biscuits to follow the consomm, when a noise came from behind me. I spun round just as the door of the cloakroom burst open and there, lumbering towards me, was the hideous Shape! Without the benefit of frosted glass between us, it was even more gruesome my nerve quite failed me, the poker freezing mid-swing

Charles! cried my sister, ghosting up suddenly at the Things shoulder.

Haugh, the Thing snarled, before I recovered my wits and caught it a good blow on the temple, sending it tumbling to the floor with a thud which rattled Mothers china collection clear in the next room.

There was a moment of silence. Outside the house the wind snapped and howled.

God, Charles, what have you done? Bel said, hovering apprehensively over the stricken beast.

Dont worry, hes still breathing, I reassured her. Anyway, its no more than he deserves. Breaking into someone elses house like that its a good thing you werent here on your own, Bel, hes a vicious-looking brute.

Thats frank, Charles, she moaned.

Yes, it is, and I wish you hadnt had to see it, but the fact is that this is the world we live in, and

No, you idiot, I mean thats Frank, hes a a friend of mine. Were going out this evening. She knelt down to examine the creatures forehead. If he regains consciousness.

Oh, I said. Through the door I glimpsed Mary Astor dancing a daring Charleston in a mans trilby, and wished not for the first or the last time that I could step into the screen and join her.