A Game of Proof

wrist. A bedroom door was open and a child’s voice called from within.

‘Mum? Has that lady gone?’

Sharon poked her head around the door. ‘Yeah, it’s OK, Wayne. Everything’s fine.’ Then, without looking at him, she led the way into her own bedroom. Her workplace. As he shut the door softly behind him, she kicked off her shoes and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her face was hidden by her hair. He stood and watched.

When her blouse and bra were off he hadn’t moved. She looked up, questioning. ‘What?’

‘Go on. All of it. Then you can do me.’

‘Pig!’ She unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it and began to peel off her tights. There was nothing provocative about the way she did it. Her manner was sullen, angry, brusque. ‘What the fuck you doing here at this time of night anyhow?’

He laughed. ‘What the fuck is exactly it. I was working late so I thought you could too.’

When she was naked she began, sulkily, to unbutton his shirt. He ran his fingers down her back and sides as she did so. His caresses evoked no response. She undressed him as though she were changing a nappy. ‘You’re a right bastard you are, Harry Easby.’

‘Am I?’ When he, too, was naked he shoved her backwards onto the bed, and climbed on top of her. ‘Then let’s see just how much of a bastard I can be, shall we?’

Afterwards he lay on the bed beside her, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift upwards towards the ceiling. She was curled away from him on her side. He patted her rump.

‘At least you give value for money.’

‘What money? You pig, you don’t pay.’

‘No, but if I did.’ He fished a fag from his packet and tossed it over to her. ‘Here.’

Sullenly, she put on a dressing gown, and lit the cigarette. ‘You staying long?’

‘For a bit. I’ve got some questions to ask you.’

‘Oh yeah. Funny way you’ve got of going about it.’

‘It’s my job.’ He gestured towards his groin. ‘Don’t get cheeky, you’ll stir him up again.’

‘Fat chance.’ The first hint of a smile crossed her face. ‘What questions, then?’

‘How’d it go with the reporter?’

‘Her?’ Sharon took a long drag on her cigarette and looked away, warily. ‘All right. She asked her questions, I answered them.’

‘So? What happens next?’

‘She writes her story, I suppose. That’s what journalists do, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had one.’ Harry laughed at his own coarse wit. ‘What about the telly though — did she talk about that?’

‘She said she’d have to talk to some people. Editors and such, I don’t know.’

‘And then what? They make a film of you and the kids? And your clients too?’

‘Don’t be stupid. They’re not interested in them.’

‘Aren’t they? I bet they are.’ He smoked thoughtfully, watching her. ‘I could be in it. As a star performer, I mean.’

‘Men!’ She flipped his limp penis derisively with the hand that held the burning cigarette. ‘Star bag of shit more like. Come on, what are these questions? Or is it just about the journalist and that’s it?’

‘No.’ He got out of bed, put on his underpants and trousers, and took an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside the envelope were two photofits. He spread them out on the bed. ‘I wanted to ask you about these.’

She peered at them incuriously. ‘Yeah, what about them?’

‘Do you recognize the man in the picture?’

‘They’re the same feller then? Meant to be?’

‘The same lad, yeah.’

Sharon looked more closely, comparing the two, and her initial lack of interest began to fade. Harry watched her long blonde curls slide across her shoulder as she moved her head.

‘It is a bit like a feller I know, yeah.’

‘Oh yeah. Who’s that then?’

She considered him, cautiously. ‘I don’t know that I should say.’

He snatched her wrist swiftly, squeezing so that it hurt. ‘Ah, but you should, you see, Sharon. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘Let go me hand, then.’ She pulled, but his grip tightened.

‘Who is it? Tell me.’

‘A mate of Gary’s.’

The grip loosened. ‘Name?’

‘An Irish lad, calls himself Sean. Nasty piece of work.’

Harry let go her wrist, and sat watching her intently. ‘Good girl, got it in one. So tell me, Sharon. How do you know him?’

She laughed. ‘Same way I know you, as it happens. All’t bloody same, you men.’

‘He’s one of your clients?’

‘Was, yeah. Not any more.’

‘Why not? What happened?’

She got up, flicked her ash into a glass, and began to pace slowly by the window. ‘If I were a doctor, I couldn’t say, could I? They have clients, and they’re supposed to keep it all secret, aren’t they? Confidential.’

‘Yes, but you …’

‘I have clients too, even if some don’t pay as they should.’ She glanced at him scornfully. ‘But anyhow, that feller in them pictures, I reckon he needed a doctor as much as he needed me.’

‘Why? He wasn’t diseased, was he?’ Harry squirmed, feeling his groin for any unaccustomed aches or itches.

‘No, not like that. But he couldn’t do it proper. Unlike you, it has to be said.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, there was something wrong with him. He could get it up, see, but he couldn’t do it. No sperm, nothing like that.’

‘He couldn’t produce sperm?’

‘No.’ She tossed her head, drawing deeply on her cigarette. ‘Believe me, I checked. He wore a condom, but it were empty. I gave him a hand job, and — nowt.’

Harry stared, then began to laugh. ‘But … poor bugger!’

Sharon shuddered, and stubbed her out cigarette. ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t so funny at the time, believe you me. That feller there …’ she nodded at the photofits ‘… is built like Arnold bloody Schwarzennegger and he’s got the mind of a fucking terminator as well. He could put you through that wall with one hand. Only there’s one part of his body that don’t work so well, see — his dick! It’s just dry and hard and drives him mad. And guess who he blames for that?’

Harry was still laughing. ‘His mother? Tony Blair?’

‘It’s not funny, Harry. He blamed me. I tell you, I thought I wasn’t going to get out of this room alive. He’s a fucking psychopath, he is.’

‘He threatened you, you mean?’

‘Threatened me? He had his hands round my throat.’ She shook her head, upset by the memory. ‘Anyway, what you after him for?’

‘He’s … a suspect in a murder case.’ Harry sobered. ‘So when did you last see this Sean?’

‘About a year ago now. Thank God. If I never see him again it’ll be too soon.’

Harry put on his shirt. ‘There you are, Sharon, you see. I knew you had something for me that couldn’t wait. That’s why I came.’

She watched him fumble for his socks and shoes. ‘Oh yeah. Why you came. Sure.’

He stuffed the photofits back into the envelope and put on his jacket, favouring her with what he imagined was a triumphant, sexy grin. ‘Thanks kid. You made my night.’

Sharon watched from the landing as he went downstairs and out of the front door. Then she switched out the