profession and marital status, if he insisted. Beyond that let him be just a body.
As it was there was no danger of a confessional. She'd met more talkative paving stones. He smiled occasionally-a short, nervous smile that showed teeth too even to be real-and offered more drinks. She said no, wanting the chase over with as soon as possible, and instead asked if he had time for a coffee. He said he had.
"The house is only a few minutes from here," she replied, and they went to her car. She kept wondering, as she drove-the meat on the seat beside her-why this was so very easy. Was it that the man was plainly a victim-with his ineffectual eyes and his artificial teeth-born, did he but know it, to make this journey? Yes, perhaps that was it. She was not afraid, because all of this was so perfectly predictable...
As she turned the key in the front door and stepped into the house, she thought she heard a noise in the kitchen. Had Rory returned home early, ill perhaps? She called out.
There was no reply; the house was empty. Almost.
From the threshold on, she had the thing planned meticulously. She closed the door. The man in the blue suit stared at his manicured hands, and waited for his cue.
"I get lonely sometimes," she told him as she brushed past him. It was a line she'd come up with in bed the previous night.
He only nodded by way of response, the expression on his face a mingling of fear and incredulity: he clearly couldn't quite believe his luck.
"Do you want another drink?" she asked him, "or shall we go straight upstairs?"
He only nodded again.
"Which?"
"I think maybe I've drunk enough already."
"Upstairs then."
He made an indecisive move in her direction, as though he might have intended a kiss. She wanted no courtship, however. Skirting his touch, she crossed to the bottom of the stairs.
"I'll lead," she said. Meekly, he followed.
At the top of the steps she glanced round at him, and caught him dabbing sweat from his chin with his handkerchief. She waited until he caught up with her, and then led him halfway along the landing to the damp room.
The door had been left ajar.
"Come on in," she said.
He obeyed. Once inside it took him a few moments to become accustomed to the gloom, and a further time to give voice to his observation: "There's no bed."
She closed the door, and switched on the light. She had hung one of Rory's old jackets on the back of the door. In its pocket she'd left the knife.
He said again: "No bed."
"What's wrong with the floor?" she replied.
"The floor?"
"Take off your Jacket. You're warm."
"I am," he agreed, but did nothing, so she moved across to him, and began to slip the knot of his tie. He was trembling, poor lamb. Poor, bleatless lamb. While she removed the tie, he began to shrug off his jacket.
Was Frank watching this? she wondered. Her eyes strayed momentarily to the wall. Yes, she thought;
he's there. He sees. He knows. He licks his lips and grows impatient.
The lamb spoke. "Why don't you..." he began, "why don't you maybe...do the same?"
"Would you like to see me naked?" she teased. The words made his eyes gleam.
"Yes," he said thickly. "Yes. I'd like that."
"Very much?"
"Very much."
He was unbuttoning his shirt.
"Maybe you will," she said.
He gave her that dwarf smile again.
"Is it a game?" he ventured.
"If you want it to be," she said, and helped him out of his shirt. His body was pale and waxy, like a fungus. His upper chest was heavy, his belly too. She put her hands to his face. He kissed her fingertips.
"You're beautiful," he said, spitting the words out as though they'd been vexing him for hours.
"Am I?"
"You know you are. Lovely. Loveliest woman I ever set eyes on."
"That's gallant of you," she said, and turned back to the door. Behind her she heard his belt buckle clink, and the sound of cloth slipping over skin as he dropped his trousers.
So far and no farther, she thought. She had no wish to see him babe-naked. It was enough to have him like
As it was there was no danger of a confessional. She'd met more talkative paving stones. He smiled occasionally-a short, nervous smile that showed teeth too even to be real-and offered more drinks. She said no, wanting the chase over with as soon as possible, and instead asked if he had time for a coffee. He said he had.
"The house is only a few minutes from here," she replied, and they went to her car. She kept wondering, as she drove-the meat on the seat beside her-why this was so very easy. Was it that the man was plainly a victim-with his ineffectual eyes and his artificial teeth-born, did he but know it, to make this journey? Yes, perhaps that was it. She was not afraid, because all of this was so perfectly predictable...
As she turned the key in the front door and stepped into the house, she thought she heard a noise in the kitchen. Had Rory returned home early, ill perhaps? She called out.
There was no reply; the house was empty. Almost.
From the threshold on, she had the thing planned meticulously. She closed the door. The man in the blue suit stared at his manicured hands, and waited for his cue.
"I get lonely sometimes," she told him as she brushed past him. It was a line she'd come up with in bed the previous night.
He only nodded by way of response, the expression on his face a mingling of fear and incredulity: he clearly couldn't quite believe his luck.
"Do you want another drink?" she asked him, "or shall we go straight upstairs?"
He only nodded again.
"Which?"
"I think maybe I've drunk enough already."
"Upstairs then."
He made an indecisive move in her direction, as though he might have intended a kiss. She wanted no courtship, however. Skirting his touch, she crossed to the bottom of the stairs.
"I'll lead," she said. Meekly, he followed.
At the top of the steps she glanced round at him, and caught him dabbing sweat from his chin with his handkerchief. She waited until he caught up with her, and then led him halfway along the landing to the damp room.
The door had been left ajar.
"Come on in," she said.
He obeyed. Once inside it took him a few moments to become accustomed to the gloom, and a further time to give voice to his observation: "There's no bed."
She closed the door, and switched on the light. She had hung one of Rory's old jackets on the back of the door. In its pocket she'd left the knife.
He said again: "No bed."
"What's wrong with the floor?" she replied.
"The floor?"
"Take off your Jacket. You're warm."
"I am," he agreed, but did nothing, so she moved across to him, and began to slip the knot of his tie. He was trembling, poor lamb. Poor, bleatless lamb. While she removed the tie, he began to shrug off his jacket.
Was Frank watching this? she wondered. Her eyes strayed momentarily to the wall. Yes, she thought;
he's there. He sees. He knows. He licks his lips and grows impatient.
The lamb spoke. "Why don't you..." he began, "why don't you maybe...do the same?"
"Would you like to see me naked?" she teased. The words made his eyes gleam.
"Yes," he said thickly. "Yes. I'd like that."
"Very much?"
"Very much."
He was unbuttoning his shirt.
"Maybe you will," she said.
He gave her that dwarf smile again.
"Is it a game?" he ventured.
"If you want it to be," she said, and helped him out of his shirt. His body was pale and waxy, like a fungus. His upper chest was heavy, his belly too. She put her hands to his face. He kissed her fingertips.
"You're beautiful," he said, spitting the words out as though they'd been vexing him for hours.
"Am I?"
"You know you are. Lovely. Loveliest woman I ever set eyes on."
"That's gallant of you," she said, and turned back to the door. Behind her she heard his belt buckle clink, and the sound of cloth slipping over skin as he dropped his trousers.
So far and no farther, she thought. She had no wish to see him babe-naked. It was enough to have him like
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