he’s going to fight. At that same moment, one of the barmen makes an appearance, gripping a metal bar. The boyfriend steps aside. Mumbles something. A threat. An insult. Ruiz can’t hear the words but he knows the odds have altered; the chemistry changed. The boyfriend points his finger at Ruiz as though marking him for future reference and then slinks off. Inside the pub someone has filled a towel with ice, which the actress has pressed to the side of her face. Ruiz buys her a drink. Scotch. Neat.
“This will settle your nerves.”
He watches her throat move as she swallows.
“My name is Vincent.”
“Holly.”
“You want to call the police, Holly?”
She shakes her head.
“Show me your cheek.”
She lowers the towel. One side of her face is a little swollen. There’ll be a bruise. Her eyes shift past him, searching the floor.
“My bag!”
“What did it look like?”
“It’s black… with buckles.”
Ruiz helps her search. “What did it have in it?”
“Money. My phone.” She groans. “My keys.”
“Does anyone have a spare set?”
“My boyfriend.”
Ruiz makes her put the ice-towel back on her cheek.
“Is there someone you can call?”
“I don’t have any numbers.”
“Maybe your boyfriend has cooled off by now.”
Holly borrows Ruiz’s mobile. The call goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a message. Apologizing. She shouldn’t have to apologize.
Ruiz gets her another drink. She pushes the hair off her face, hooking it behind her ears. Her accent is from the north.
“So you’re an actress.”
Holly eyes him nervously over the rim of her glass. “What makes you say that?”
“I saw you reading The Stage.”
She shrugs. “Someone left it behind.”
Ruiz wonders why she would lie to him.
“I’ve been all sorts of things-a waitress, a receptionist, a dishwasher, a barmaid-I was even a badger.”
“A badger?”
“I was supposed to be a beaver, but they couldn’t find a beaver costume. It was for a building company at a trade fair. Beavers make stuff in wood, you know, like dams.”
“I can see the connection.”
“Good. You can explain it to me.”
She smiles for the first time. Ruiz notices a small silver teddy bear on a chain around her neck; her piercings, one through her nose, more in her ears.
“Has your boyfriend ever hit you before?”
She shrugs ambivalently. “It’s what unites all men.”
“What does?”
“Violence.”
“Not all men are violent.”
She shrugs again and changes the subject.
“What happened to your finger?”
She points to his missing digit, severed just below the first knuckle on his ring finger, a pale stump where the flesh seems to have folded in on itself.
“It was bitten off by a crocodile.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
“It was shot off.”
“How did it happen?”
“You believe me then?”
“Yes.”
“Is being shot more believable than being attacked by a crocodile?”
“We live in England. There aren’t many crocodiles.”
“It’s a long, boring story.”
“It doesn’t sound very boring.”
“It was a high-velocity bullet. I took one in the leg and one in the hand.”
“You were a soldier?”
“A detective.”
Concern flashes across her eyes and just as quickly disappears. She starts a new conversation, jumping subjects. Ruiz feels as though he’s being dragged behind a speedboat bumping over the swells. It’s getting late. He has to make a decision.
“What are you going to do, Holly?”
She shakes her head.
“Do you have anywhere to stay?”
“No.”
“You could come back to my place. Make some calls.”
Holly ponders this for a moment. “You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“You’re divorced.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
Outside the temperature has dropped and a breeze sprung up. Holly pulls on a distinctive red jacket with wooden pegs as fasteners and a hood. Pulling it tight around herself, she waits while Ruiz hails a cab and then slides across the seat.
The driver is listening to the radio. Evening talkback with Brian Noble: “The Voice of the Lord.”
Mersey Fidelity today announced a record profit while the rest of the economy continues to struggle. Isn’t it nice to know that our banks are back in business again? We bailed them out, gave them half a trillion pounds in cash, loans, shares, lucre, dosh, quantitative easing-no strings attached-and now they’re making hay while the rest of us shovel horse manure.
Now I know that Mersey Fidelity weathered the storm better than most of our banks, but I ask you this: Why hasn’t there been one court case, one prosecution, one political resignation, or one apology from a banker? Too big to fail, now they’re cashing in. The lines are open. What advice would you give our banksters?
The cab navigates through Piccadilly, Knightsbridge and along Old Brompton Road. Holly holds on to the side strap as the cab corners, occasionally glancing behind her through the rear window.
Ruiz lives in a three-storey terrace, open plan on the ground floor, bedrooms above and narrow stairs to a loft with his study. The house is too big for him. He should have sold up and moved years ago, but wasn’t willing to abandon the memories.
There is a bicycle partially blocking the hallway. Brand new. Unused. His birthday present from Miranda. She expected him to keep fit by riding along the river. Good luck with that.
“You want a tea or coffee?”
“Anything stronger?”
He opens a bottle of wine and lets Holly do the pouring. He gives her the phone to use.
“I don’t have any numbers,” she says.
