Authors: Frederic Lindsay
His
hands
moved
on
her,
but
she
could
not
see
his
face.
Later
she
woke
and
heard
the
deep
rasp
of
his
breathing
and
felt
the
weight
of
his
leg
across
hers.
At
the
moment
of
entering
her,
he
had
whispered
something
she
hadn't
made
out
and
she'd
thought,
I
can
hardly
ask
him
to
say it
again,
it's
not
the
moment,
and
he
had
gone
in.
She
had
been
afraid
he
wouldn't,
holding
him
to
guide
him
in,
it
had
seemed
too
big
in
all
the
years
it
had
never
seemed
so
large,
and
he
was
in
and
she
thought
of
how
he
would
pull
back
to
prepare
the
noise
of
the
little
packet
tearing
and
the
soft
grunt
and
fumble
of
him
as
he
drew
it
over
himself
but
never
so
large
as
tonight
would
a
sheath
hold
it?
Would
it
have
burst
in
her?
he
was
always
so
careful
pressing
out
the
air
with
his
fingers
so
careful
,
the
thick
brute
came
as
a
stranger
into
the
dance,
forcing
her,
parting
her,
driving,
driving,
driving
in.
Until
she
milked
the
strength
from
it
at
last.
He
had
collapsed
with
his
face
nestled
into
her
and
perhaps
he
had
slept
for
a
moment
for
she
had
felt
the
water
from
his
mouth
dribble
on
to
her
shoulder
and
then
he
rolled
away.
And
startled
her
with
a
noise
she
did
not
recognise
at
first
as
laughter.
'Remember
the
last
night
we
made
love?
I'll
bet
every
woman
at
the
party
got
it
that
night –
except
poor
Janet.
There's
no
justice.’
And
laughed
and
yawned
together.
She
eased
from
under
him
gradually,
intent
upon
not waking
him.
In
the
bathroom
the
small
mirror
above
the
sink
was
not
enough.
She
came
out
and
into
the
guest
bedroom
where
Monty
Norman
had
slept.
She
drew
the
curtains
before
putting
on
the
light.
On
the
inner
side
of
the
wardrobe
door
there
was
a
full-length
mirror.
She
set
it
open
and
stood
naked
before
it.
On
her
left
breast
there
was
bruising
round
the
nipple.
She
turned
her
breast
to
the
light
with
trembling
fingers.
She
twisted
to
glimpse
the
length
of
her
back
and
buttocks.
There
was
no
mark
on
the
white
full
flesh.
She
faced
the
mirror
again
and
parting
her
legs
saw
the
dark
welts
on
her
inner
thighs.
She
hated
the
pink-tinted,
complacent
image
of
her
face
in
the
glass.
What
did
it
have
to
do
with
her
horror,
with
her
fear?
She
had
seen
these
bruises
last
night
and
they
had
not
been
caused
by
Maitland;
they
had
not
made
love for
weeks
and
in
any
case
he
was
a
gentle
lover
who
would
not
do
that
to
her.
She
had
blamed
him
for
accusing
her – yet
how
could
anyone
tell
what
was
behind
that
blankness
caught
in
a
mirror,
frowning
now
as
she
had
seen
it
frown
over
a
menu
for
dinner?
People
slept
defenceless
by
one
another
–
ate
what
the
other
prepared
–
teetered
side
by
side
on
cliff
edges.
Her
body
had
been
marked
in
some
dream.
If
trust
stopped,
there
was
no
safety
anywhere.
Oh,
she
should
warn
him
there
was
malice
in
the
world,
warn
him
to
be
afraid.
Gently
she
touched
the
bruised
nipple,
comforting
herself.
She
raised
her
head
and
saw
Maitland's
reflection.
Her
first
instinct
was
to
turn
and
hold
out
her
arms
to
him,
but
she
was
ashamed
of
her
nakedness.
She
had
not
taken
her
hand
from
where
it
cupped
her
injured
breast,
and
now
saw
her
free
hand
with
an
agonisingly
slow
furtive
movement
creep
across
and
cover
her
sex.
The
face
of
her
husband
watching
seemed
to
her
without
expression,
but
then
neither
his
own
nor
hers
were
flesh
but
only
surfaces
set
side
by
side
in
a
glass.
BOOK
TWO
Chapter 7
Something
to
Tell
You
She
wanted
to
cross
the
road.
The
car,
though,
had
stopped
in
front
of
her
and
now
as
the
woman
got
out
a
traffic
warden
had
appeared
.
'N
ot
here,
dear.
You
not
see
the
double
yellow
line?'
As
Lucy
moved
to
go
past,
the
woman
swung
the
car door
further
open,
blocking
her
way.
'Stopping
on
those
lines
could
cause
an
accident,'
the warden
said.
'They're
there
for
a
purpose,
you
know.’
'Would
you
be
quiet?'
the
woman
said
to
him,
and
to Lucy,
'Don't
go!'
'Are
you
drunk?'
He
pushed
his
face
into
hers
and
sniffed
like
a
dog
on
a
scent.
'If
you're
not
safe,
you
shouldn't
be
in
the
vehicle.’
'I
have
to
talk
to
you,'
she
said
to
Lucy.
'I'm
talking
to
you
.
Are
you
listening
to
me?'
'Not
really,'
she
said
to
him
and
pushed
the
door
of
the
car
shut.
'I'm
going
now
and
that'll
let
you
get
on
with
whatever
you
do.’
His
voice
followed
them,
'I'll
show
you
what
I
do,'
but
it
sounded
plaintive
and
deflated.
She
had
wanted
to
cross
the
road.
Why?
She
was
trying
to
think
about
this,
and
the
woman
was
an
interruption
walking
close
to
her,
too
close.
'There's
somewhere
I
have
to
go,'
Lucy
said.
'I'm
sorry
I
have
no
time.’
'Are
you
all
right?'
the
woman
asked.
And
Lucy
recognised
her.
'Are
you
all
right?'
Sophie
Lindgren
asked.
'I
couldn't,'
she
felt
sick,
'make
up
my
mind
where
I
wanted
to
go.
Stupid
–
I
was
dreaming.’
'Were
you
going
to
visit
the
Trust?'
The
girl
was
new,
of
course,
and
couldn't
know
how
unlikely
that
would
be.
'It's
not
a
nice
day,'
Lucy
said,
looking
around
her.
'Not
a
day
for
shopping.’
She
felt
her
hair
and
the
wetness
of
her
cheeks.
'I've
been
walking
in
the
rain.’
'You
weren't
coming
to
see
me,
were
you?
'
'What
reason
–
Anyway
how
could
I
expect
to
see
you
here?'
Lucy
looked
around.
It
was
a
street
she
did
not
recognise.
'Because
I
live
near
here.
But,
of
course,
you
know
that,'
the
girl
was
saying.
Something about where she lived? Was she trying to suggest she knew where she lived?
'But
you
do!
I'm
sorry.
I
mean,
you
were
there
with
the Professor.’
Lucy
shook
her
head.
'With
my
husband?'
Sophie
Lindgren
indicated,
pointing
along
the
street.
'There
–
just
where
the
terrace
goes
up
a
level.
That's
the
place.
You
can
see
the
windows
from
here.’
And
Lucy
remembered.
The
kitchen
with
the
dripping
tap;
the
cheap
reproduction
pinned
to
a
wall;
the
stale
smell
of
cigarettes.
I went there with Maitland and we met – we met –
'I
could
offer
you
a
coffee,'
Sophie
Lindgren
said.
'It's just
across
the
road.’
There
was
somewhere
she
needed
to
go,
was
supposed
to
go.
She
couldn't
think
because
of
the
girl.
Question
after
question.
'A
drink
then?
That
might
be
better.
You
wouldn't
want to
get
a
chill.’
'I
don't
think
so.’
'But
you
must!
You've
shivering.
You'll
make
yourself ill.’
It
seemed
there
was
to
be
no
peace.
'My
husband
suggested
we
buy
one
of
the
flats.
As
an
investment.
But he's
not
really
a
businessman.’
She
heard
herself
laughing
and
said,
'I
think
I
should
be
going
home.’
There
was
a
place
opposite,
however,
one
of
those
squalid
little
hotels,
and
the
girl
was
insisting.
'After
all
my
dreaming,'
Lucy
said,
'it
seems
I've
decided to
cross
the
road.’
As
she
went
up
the
hotel
steps,
noise
jerked
her
head
round.
On
a
whooping
double
note
the
police
car
sliding
from
a
side-street
posted
its
ominous
clamour
ahead.
Arms
folded
the
warden
stood
across
the
street
watching
them.
The
drink
was
very
sweet.
She
didn't
know
what
it
was, and
wondered
if
Sophie
Lindgren
had
brought
it
without
asking
what
she
wanted.
While
she
was
thinking
about
that,
the
girl
began
to
make
sharp
gasping
sounds.
'I'm
trying
to
picture
May
Stewart's
face,'
she
said,
and her
shoulders
shook
with
the
little
noises
that
although
strange
were
more
like
laughter
than
anything
else.