"Sorry for what?" She rolled on to her front and walked towards him on all fours. She pressed her hands flat on his chest and kissed his shoulders, kissed the sweat-stained base of his neck.
"I'm busy downstairs."
"That's OK." She wrapped her arms round his neck. Her hair smelt of cigarillo smoke and something flowery she pressed herself against him, her smooth breasts soft against his arm, and in spite of himself his heart dilated helplessly.
"Becky, please…" She buried her face in his neck and trailed her fingers down his stomach where the muscles fluttered weakly. She pushed her hand inside his trousers. He reached down and took her hand. Held it away from him "No. Not now…"
She sshed him and wriggled her hand out of his grip, put it back inside his shorts. "Becky."
"Ssh it's all right."
She pulled her hand out of his trousers, sat up and rolled the shorts down to her knees, kicked them off her feet, and turned on one knee. She placed her hands flat on the bed and bent over in front of him on the bed her back to him, her hips jacked up in the air. He stared at her, disbelieving, not knowing what to say or do. There was something so primitive about what he was doing so crude. He stood, unbuttoned his trousers and dropped his shorts, kicked them aside and stood behind her. "Move down a bit." He dragged her hips towards him. She leaned forward to help, her chin touching the bed, reaching between her legs to guide him. "I won't last '
"Ssh- it's OK."
He fell forward and kissed her back, her hair was in his mouth, he reached around to find her breasts, his heart expanding hard upward, got his cock inside her, wrapped his arms around her waist, then, suddenly, as clear as a bell on a cold day, he heard her say: "Stop."
He stopped, opened his eyes. She was staring up at him, looking up over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide and serious.
' What?" He trembled with the effort of not moving. "What's the matter?"
"Stop. I've changed my mind."
"You're joking?"
"No is no." She looked at his face. "Honestly, Jack -I mean it."
But it was too late. Something in his stomach, something that was close to opening anyway, broke. He grabbed her by the hair, wrenching her head back; and pushed himself into her as hard as he could, his heart pumping like a pile driver. "Jack!" She let out a sob and tried to crawl away across the bed but he held her. He knew her face was slamming into the bed and that there was blood a line of blood in the corner of her mouth, he saw it but he couldn't stop. She was crying, tears running down her face, but he didn't stop. He didn't stop until he had come. Then he thrust her head back down, pulled out of her and padded into the bathroom where he stood in the shower, his head bent, one hand on the wall, the warm water pouring over his neck, and began to cry.
Carmel Peach hadn't been mistaken about the photographs taken in her house. They were currently on a roll of film, tucked inside a bag, a bag constructed from an old bomber jacket, and lying on the floor in Roland Klare's bedroom.
Klare had spent a long time going through the photography book, in great detail, making copious notes as he worked, listing the things he needed. Now, late in the night, he was consulting the list as he hunted through the rooms for the makings of a darkroom. He had already made his biggest find, earlier this evening: a cumbersome negative enlarger that had been stored for some months behind a pile of magazines. He had found it in a dustbin at the back of a photographer's suppliers in Balham it was cracked and the timer was broken, but in Klare's world nothing, nothing was beyond rescue. Now the enlarger had been resurrected and was safely installed in the bedroom cupboard, the place that was going to serve as a darkroom. It was a big prize.
However, as he continued his hunt through the rooms, through the various boxes and corners of his flat, he was starting to see a problem. Klare collected things quickly, so quickly in fact that he frequently filled up a room within a matter of weeks, and periodically had to have a clear-out, taking everything from one room down to the dump and redistributing what remained in the flat in the cleared space. Sometimes he was careless, got himself agitated and ending up dumping things he hadn't meant to, and now he was starting to think he'd thrown away some of the things that he needed. Although he had a sealed plastic developing tank (this he'd got from the same bin as the enlarger, it looked like a tupperware container and was cracked but mend able make a note of that need some araldite) an old washing up bowl for washing the prints in, tape to light-seal the cupboard and plenty of discarded cat-litter trays that could serve as print-developing trays although he had all this, when he ran an inventory against the list he realized there were still things missing: some print fixer, developer, stop bath, a safelight. As he stared at the list a nervous tic started in the corner of his eye. Stop bath the book said he could make that from vinegar if necessary, but a safelight? A safelight, fixer and developer these were things he could only get from a supplier. Face twitching with frustration, he wandered around the flat muttering to himself, checking and checking again that there'd been no mistake, that there weren't bottles hidden in some dark corner. But no if he was going to get these photos developed he'd have to go down to Balham and maybe even spend some money.
Out of the living-room window the moon was bathing Brockwell Park in silver, but Roland Klare, immensely discouraged now, wasn't interested in the view. He drew the blind, dropped down on the sofa, clicked on the television and sat for several hours, staring at it blankly.
Seventeen.
(23 July)
He went to Shrivemoor. It was the only place to go. He was composed enough to put a suit in the car for the next day, to put the malt whisky into a carrier-bag on the back seat, and to pack most of Penderecki's stash away in the under-stairs cupboard. The video cassettes and the zip disks those he took with him.
The offices were empty. He switched on all the fluorescents, rinsed a mug in the kitchen, filled it with the malt, and went into the SIO's room, where he sat and watched the snake of car headlights down below.
Well, Jack, now look at your pretty little CV…
That was rape. Wasn't it? Everything had been a green light until No. He could turn it inside out, reinvent it, excuse it, but the hard fact remained it had been rape. He had hurt her, her mouth had been bleeding. Maybe it meant she was right, and maybe that was what she wanted, to prove that he was out of control. He sighed and put his head in his hands. There were so many games to play. So many obstacles.
Caffery sat at his desk into the early hours of the morning, facing out of the window, letting himself get drunk on Laphroaig and London tap water while outside the city folded down for the night.
Hal Church got up early and dressed in blue jersey shorts and a T-shirt. "You look like a tourist," he told the mirror. "A middle-aged tourist." He went round the house locking all the windows, set up a lamp on a security timer on the first landing and put his AA card on the dashboard of the Daewoo. He stopped for a moment in the garage, the smell of new paint and varnish overlaid with petrol, the sunlight a crack of white under the roll-up garage doors, the back seat piled with the polystyrene icebox and Josh's old Pokemons. Here he was, an adult, his own child to take on holiday, a wife. He had the sudden aching sense that his life was whistling past him, stirring the hair on his arms it was going so fast. Where did time go where did life go?
By eight the sun was hot in the back garden, the sky a still, absorbent blue, and Josh's paddling-pool had a thin scum of dead insects and grass floating on it. Hal turned it over to drain. "Come on, Smurf." He pulled the Labrador back by her collar, stopping her lapping the water from the grass. "Time for a walk, old girl."