The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [40]
The blond man saw him and gave a giggle. ″We′ve got an audience,″ he said in a high voice.
The other man turned his head quickly, and they both stopped moving.
Sarah said: ″It′s only my husband. Don′t stop, you bastards, please.″
The dark man seized her hips and began to jerk more powerfully than before. The three of them lost interest in Julian. Sarah said, ″Oh yes,″ again and again.
Julian turned away. He felt weak and sickened; and something more. It was a long time since he had seen that rutting look on Sarah′s face. He could not help but be aroused by it. But the trace of sexual excitement was faint and uneasy.
He collapsed in the armchair again. They were making louder noises now, as if to mock him. His self-respect was demolished.
So that was what she needed to turn her on, he thought spitefully. It wasn′t my fault at all. Bitch, bitch. Julian′s humiliation turned to vindictiveness.
He wanted to humiliate her, as she had him. He would tell the world about the cow and her sexual tastes, he would—
Christ.
Suddenly he was thinking very clearly. His head felt as if he had just taken a long draft of cold champagne. He sat still for a few seconds, thinking fast. There was so little time.
He opened the darkened glass door of a cupboard against the wall and took out his Polaroid camera. It was loaded. He fitted the flash attachment quickly, and checked that there were bulbs. He set the focusing mechanism and the aperture.
The voices from the bedroom turned into shouts as he jumped up the stairs. He waited outside the bedroom, out of sight, for a moment. Sarah made a noise deep in her throat which gradually rose in pitch and loudness, a long, almost childlike cry. Julian knew that noise from the days when he had been able to make her do it.
As Sarah′s cry turned into a scream Julian stepped into the room and raised the camera to his eye. Through the viewfinder he could see the three bodies moving in unison, their faces screwed up with exertion or ecstasy, their hands wildly grabbing fistfuls of flesh. Julian pressed the shutter, and there was a momentary, bright flash. The lovers did not seem to be aware of it.
He moved two steps closer, winding the film on as he went. He lifted the camera again and took a second shot. Then he moved sideways and took a third.
He went quickly out of the bedroom into the living room. He scrabbled in a drawer and found an envelope. There was a book of stamps beside it. He tore out twenty or thirty pence worth of stamps and stuck them on the envelope. He took a pen from his jacket pocket.
Where could he send it to? A piece of paper fluttered down to the ground, having been dragged out of his pocket with the pen. He recognized it as the scrap on which he had written Samantha′s address. He picked it up.
He wrote his own name on the envelope, then addressed it care of Samantha at the address on the scrap. He ripped the exposed film in its paper wrapping out of the camera. He had bought the camera to photograph paintings. The film produced negatives as well as instant prints, but the negatives had to be immersed in water within eight minutes of the exposure. Julian took the film to the kitchen and filled a plastic bowl with water. He drummed his fingers on the draining-board in an agony of impatience while the image took form on the celluloid.
Finally he returned to the living room, the wet film in his hand. The dark man appeared at the bedroom door.
There was no time to put the pictures in the envelope. Julian dashed for the front door, and opened it just as the dark man caught up with him. He smashed the camera viciously into the man′s face and leaped out of the door.
He raced up the street. The dark man was naked and could not follow. Julian stuffed the negatives in the envelope, sealed it, and posted it in the mailbox on the sidewalk.
He looked at the prints. They were very clear. All three faces could be seen, and there was no doubt about what they were doing.
Slowly,