Pushing past him, I opened the door. Sally was sitting on the quilted seat of the laundry basket, her skirt raised to her waist. Her bare legs were crossed around the hips of a young Spanish photographer whom we had met briefly at the Arts Laboratory. His unzipped trousers had slipped around his thighs, and his strong hands had pulled down the bodice of Sally’s dress to expose her breasts. With their awkward and almost abstract movements, he and Sally seemed to be rehearsing a pornographic circus turn in which they somehow swapped their clothes during an intense sex act. As he sucked at her right breast Sally kissed his forehead, her strong legs drawing his penis into her. Seeing me, she held the Spaniard’s shoulders and gave me a frank and happy smile.

While I drove back to Shepperton I thought of Sally’s affection for me and her thousand kindnesses towards the children. Deep affection and the most casual disloyalty coexisted, separated by that tolerant smile. I remembered seeing the Vincents making love in their tired way on Sunday afternoons in Lunghua, and Mrs. Vincent’s knowing eyes when she saw me watching her through my curtain. I could almost believe that Sally had deliberately exposed herself to me, urging me to take the next step in my unsentimental education. I had been drawn to Sally because she offered a key to this strange decade, but the only stable element in Sally’s world was instability. By isolating my emotions, by separating feeling from action, I might perhaps even learn to enjoy Sally’s infidelities.

I thought of her near-drowning at Brighton beach, when she had allowed me to bring a second wife back from the waves. I could still feel the sombre power of the dark rollers striking my thighs and chest as I waded into the deep water where death ran and the black foam through which I had dragged her onto the shingle.

Images of pain and anger floated free, like the billboards advertising the endless deaths of the murdered President, messages of violence and desire that alone could assuage the bereaved.

I sped on past the oncoming headlights, crossing the moonlit Thames to where Shepperton lay asleep in my children’s dreams.

The Kingdom of Light

10

THE KINGDOM OF LIGHT

“Think of LSD as the kaleidoscope’s view of the eye.”

While Dick spoke I sat in my study by the open French window, looking down at the glass of water in my hand and the sugar cube exposed beside the BBC tape recorder. A sinister glitter rose from the foil wrapper.

“Dick, are we ready?” I asked over my shoulder. “This is starting to feel like a suicide attempt.”