Echo

'I worked it out. There are five million women in London, but Billy chose you.' He wagged a finger at her. 'Now, why did he do that, Amanda, if he didn't know you? That's what I'd like to know.'

Without warning, she got going with her nails again, and he focused rather unsuccessfully on the frosty blue eyes.

'You're so like my mother. She's beautiful, too.' He struggled upright under the painful prodding of her fingers. 'Not when she's angry, though. She's horrible when she's angry.'

'So am I.' Amanda drew him through the sitting-room door, then pushed him unceremoniously onto the sofa. 'How did you get here?'

'I walked.' He curled up on the sofa and laid his head on the arm.

'Why didn't you go home?'

'I wanted to come here.'

'Well, you can't stay. I'll call a cab.' She reached for the telephone. 'Where do you live?'

'I don't live anywhere,' he said into the cream leather. 'I exist.'

'You can't exist in my house.'

But he could and he did, because he was already unconscious, and nothing on earth was going to wake him.

He opened his eyes on grey morning light and stared about him. He was so cold that he thought he was dying, but lethargy meant he did nothing about it. There was pleasure in passivity, none at all in action. A clock on a glass shelf gave the time as seven-thirty. He recognized the room as somewhere he knew, but couldn't remember whose it was or why he was there. He thought he could hear voices-in his head? -but the cold numbed his curiosity, and he slept again.

He dreamt he was drowning in a ferocious sea.

'Wake up! WAKE UP, YOU BASTARD!'

A hand slapped his cheek and he opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor, curled like a fetus, and his nose was filled with the putrid smell of decay. Bile rose in his throat. 'Devourer of thy parents,' he muttered. 'Now thy unutterable torment renews.'

'I thought you were dead,' said Amanda.

For a moment, before memory returned, Deacon wondered who she was. 'I'm wet,' he said, touching the saturated neck of his shirt.

'I threw water over you.' He saw the empty jug in her hand. 'I've been rocking you and pushing you for ten minutes and you didn't stir.' She looked very pale. 'I thought you were dead,' she said again.

'Dead men aren't frightening,' he said in an odd tone of voice, 'they're just messy.' He struggled into a sitting position and buried his face in his hands. 'What time is it?'

'Nine o'clock.'

His stomach heaved. 'I need a lavatory.'

'Turn right and it's at the end of the hall.' She stood aside to let him pass. 'If you're going to be sick, could you make sure you wipe the bowl round afterwards with the brush? I tend to draw the line at cleaning up after uninvited guests.'

As Deacon weaved along the corridor, he sought for explanations. Dear God, what the hell was he doing here?

She had opened the windows and sprayed the room with air freshener by the time he returned. He looked slightly more presentable, having dried his face and straightened his clothes, but he had the shakes and his skin was the queasy grey of nausea. 'There's nothing I can say to you,' he managed from the doorway, 'except sorry.'

'What for?' She was sitting in the chair she'd sat in before, and Deacon was dazzled by how vibrant and colorful she was. Her hair and skin seemed to glow, and her dress fell in bright yellow folds about her calves, tumbling like a lemon pool onto the autumn leaves of the russet carpet.

Too much color. It hurt his eyes, and he pressed on his lids with his fingertips. 'I've embarrassed you.'

'You may have embarrassed yourself, but you certainly haven't embarrassed me.'

So cool, he thought. Or so cruel? He longed for kindness. 'That's all right, then,' he said weakly. 'I'll say goodbye.'

'You might as well drink your coffee before you go.'

He longed for escape as well. The room smelt of roses again and he couldn't bring himself to intrude his rancid breath and rancid sweat into the scented air. What had he said to her last night? 'To be honest, I'd rather leave now.'

'I expect you would,' she said with emphasis, 'but at least show me the courtesy of drinking the coffee I made for you. It will be the politest thing you've done since you entered my house.'

He came into the room but didn't sit down. 'I'm sorry.' He reached for the cup.

'Please-' she gestured towards the sofa-'make yourself comfortable. Or perhaps you'd prefer to have another go at breaking the antique chair in the hall?''

Had he been violent? He gave a tentative smile. 'I'm sorry.'

'I wish you wouldn't keep saying that.'

'What else can I say? I don't know what I'm doing here or why I came.'

'And you think I do?'