“Just don’t be sick all over my carpets,” he called after her.
“There’s a sink in the kitchen. Use that.” He was easing the shirt carefully off his shoulders, unaware that she was still behind him, and she stared in horror at the blackened scabs all over his back.
“What happened to you?”
He pulled the shirt back on.
“Nothing. Scoot.
Make yourself a sandwich. There’s bread on the side and cheese in the fridge.” He saw her expression.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said prosaically.
“Bruising always does.”
“What happened?”
He held her gaze.
“Let’s just say I fell off my bike.”
With a contemptuous smile, Olive extracted the candle from its hiding place. They had given up body searches after a woman haemorrhaged in front of one of the Board of Visitors following a particularly aggressive probing of her vagina for illicit drugs. The Visitor had been a MAN. (Olive always thought of men in capital letters.) No woman would have fallen for it. But MEN, of course, were different.
Menstruation disturbed them, particularly if the blood flowed freely enough to stain the woman’s clothes.
The candle was soft from the warmth of her body and she pulled off the end and began to mould it. Her memory was good.
She had no doubt of her ability to imbue the tiny figure with a distinct individuality. This one would be a MAN.
Roz, preparing sandwiches in the kitchen, looked towards the bathroom door. The prospect of questioning Hawksley about the Olive Martin case unnerved her suddenly. Crew had become very annoyed when she questioned him; and Crew was a civilised man in so far as he did not look as if he’d spent half an hour in a dark alley having the shit beaten out of him by Arnold Schwarzenegger. She wondered about Hawksley.
Would he be annoyed when he learnt that she was delving into a case he had been involved with? The idea was an uncomfortable one.
There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge. On the rather naive assumption that another injection of alcohol might make Hawksley more amenable, Roz put it on a tray with the sandwiches and a couple of glasses.
“Were you saving the champagne?” she asked brightly too brightly? placing the tray on the lavatory seat lid and turning round.
He was lying in a welter of foam, black hair slicked back, face cleaned and relaxed, eyes closed.
“Fraid so,” he said.
“Oh.” She was apologetic.
“I’ll put it back then.”
He opened one eye.
“I was saving it for my birthday.”
“And when’s that?”
“Tonight.”
She gave an involuntary laugh.
“I don’t believe you. What’s the date?”
“The sixteenth.”
Her eyes danced wickedly.
“I still don’t believe you. How old are you?” She was unprepared for his look of amused recognition and couldn’t stop the adolescent flush that tinged her pale cheeks. He thought she was flirting with him.
Well dammit! maybe she was. She had grown weary of suffocating under the weight of her own misery.
“Forty. The big four-o.” He pushed himself into a sitting position and beckoned for the bottle.
“Well, well, this is jolly.” His lips twitched humorously.
“I wasn’t expecting company or I’d have dressed for the occasion.” He unbound the wire and eased out the cork, losing only a dribble of bubbly into the foam before filling the glasses that she held out to him. He lowered the bottle to the floor and took a glass.
“To life,” he said, clinking hers.
“To life. Happy birthday.”
His eyes watched her briefly, before closing again as he leant his head against the back of the bath.
“Eat a sandwich,” he murmured.
“There’s nothing worse than champagne on an empty stomach.”
“I’ve had three already. Sorry I couldn’t wait for the sirloin. You have one.” She put the tray beside the bottle
