“This is ridiculous. The street lights aren’t out, are they? Your curtains must be closed.”
“Probably.” She pulled open the kitchen drawer.
“I left early this morning.” She felt around the clutter of cotton reels and screwdrivers.
“I think I’ve found it. Have you any matches?”
“No,” he said patiently, ‘otherwise I’d have lit one by now.
Do you keep snakes by any chance?”
“Don’t be silly. I have a cat.” But where was Mrs. Antrobus?
Her cries should have risen in joyful greeting when the key scraped in the lock. Roz made her way back to the door and groped for her briefcase where she kept the matches that she took in to the prison.
She snapped the locks and poked amongst her papers.
“If you can find the sofa,” she told him, ‘the curtains are behind it.
There’s a cord on the left-hand side.”
“I’ve found something,” he said, ‘but it certainly isn’t a sofa.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said cautiously, ‘but whatever it is it’s rather unpleasant. It’s wet and slimy and it’s wound itself round my neck.
Are you sure you don’t keep snakes?”
She gave a nervous laugh.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Her fingers knocked against the matchbox and she snatched at it with relief.
She struck a match and held it up. Hal was standing in the middle of the room, his head and shoulders swathed in the damp shirt she had washed that morning and hung on a coathanger from the lampshade. She shook with laughter.
“You knew it wasn’t a snake,” she said, holding the candle to the spluttering match flame.
He found the cord and swished the curtains back to let in the orange glow from the street lamps outside. With that and the candlelight, the room sprang alive out of the pitch darkness. He gazed about him.
Towels, clothes, carrier bags, and photographs lay in clutters on chairs and tables, a duvet sprawled hail on and half off the sofa, dirty cups, and empty bags of crisps jostled happily about the floor.
“Well, this is nice,” he said, lifting his foot and pr ising off the remains of a half-eaten pork pie.
“I can’t remember when I felt so much at home.”
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, taking the pork pie with dignity and dropping it into a waste-paper basket.
“Or at least I thought you’d have the decency to warn me of your arrival with a phone-call first.”
He reached down to stroke the soft ball of white fur that was stretching luxuriously in its warm nest on the duvet. Mrs. Antrobus licked his hand in approval before embarking on a comprehensive grooming.
“Do you always sleep on the sofa?” he asked Roz.
“There’s no telephone in the bedroom.”
He nodded gravely but didn’t say anything.
She moved over to him, the candle tilted to stop the hot wax burning her fingers.
“Oh, God, I’m so pleased to see you. You wouldn’t believe. Where did you go? I’ve been worried sick.”
He lowered his weary forehead and pressed it against her sweet-smelling hair.
“Round and about,” he said, resting his wrists on her shoulders and running the softest of fingers down the lines of her neck.
“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” she said weakly.
“I know.” His lips brushed against her cheek, but so gently that their touch was almost unbearable.
“I’m going to set fire to something,” she groaned.
He reached down to pinch out the candle.
“You already have.” He cupped his strong hands about her bottom and drew her against his erection.
“The question is,” he murmured into the arch of her neck, ‘should I have a cold shower before it spreads out of control?”
“Is that a serious question?” Could he stop now? She couldn’t.
“No, a polite one.”
“I’m in agony.”
“You’re supposed to be,” he said, his eyes glinting in the orange light.
“Damn it, woman, I’ve been in agony for weeks.”
