Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

the cotton wool away.

“It’s all right,” he said.

She dropped one bloodstained swab into the waste bin and prepared another. Banks watched her face close to his, the look of concentration as she applied the cotton wool, tip of her tongue nipped between her teeth. She caught his eye, blushed and looked away. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her body, smell the Cognac on her breath.

“Go on,” she said. “You were going to say something.”

“It’s just like Chinatown,” Banks said.

“What do you mean?”

“The film, Chinatown. Haven’t you seen it?”

“What happens?”

“Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut by Roman Polanski, and Faye Dunaway, well… she does what you’re doing now.”

“Puts TCP on it?”

“Well, I don’t think it was TCP – I don’t think they have that in America – but the idea’s the same. Anyway, it’s a very sexy scene.”

“Sexy?” Michelle paused. Banks could see her flushed skin, feel the heat from her cheeks. The bathroom seemed to be getting smaller.

“Yes,” said Banks.

She dabbed at him again. Her hand was trembling. “I don’t see how putting TCP on a cut could be sexy,” she said. “I mean, what happens?”

She was so close to him now that he could feel her breast touching ever so lightly against his arm. He could have leaned the top half of his body farther back, bent at the knees, but he stood his ground. “First, they kiss,” he said.

“But wouldn’t it hurt?”

“It was just his nose that got cut. Remember?”

“Of course. How silly of me.”

“Michelle?”

“What? What is it?”

Banks took her trembling hand by the wrist and moved it away from his mouth, then he put his other hand under her chin and cupped it gently so she was looking at him, her brilliant green eyes questioning but holding his gaze, not looking away now. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest and his knees wobbling as he pulled her closer to him and felt her yield.

Chapter 16

You were late back last night,” Banks’s mother said, without turning from the kitchen sink. “Tea’s fresh.”

Banks poured himself a cup of tea and added a splash of milk. He had expected this sort of reaction. His mother had probably lain awake until two in the morning listening for him the way she did when he was a teenager. He and Michelle had decided that, for many reasons, it was not a good idea for him to stay with her overnight, but even so Michelle had laughed at the idea of his having to go home to his mother.

Ida Banks turned. “Alan! What have you done to your face?”

“It’s nothing,” said Banks.

“But it’s all bruised. And your lip’s cut. What have you been up to?”

Banks turned away. “I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Were you fighting? Was it some criminal you were arresting? Is that why you were so late? You could have rung.” She gave him a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of his chosen career.

“Something like that,” Banks said. “I had a bit of business to take care of. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t ring, but it was so late. I didn’t want to wake you.”

His mother gave him the reproving look she was so good at. “Son,” she said, “you ought to know by now that I can’t get to sleep until you’re home safe and sound.”

“Well, you can’t have slept much these past thirty years or so,” Banks said, and immediately regretted it when he saw the other look she was so good at, the suffering martyr, lower lip trembling. He went over and gave her a hug. “Sorry, Mum,” he said, “but I’m all right. Really I am.”

His mother sniffed and nodded. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you’ll be hungry. Bacon and eggs?”

Banks knew from experience that feeding him would help his mother get over her bad night. He wasn’t all that hungry, but he couldn’t deal with the protests he knew he’d get if all he asked for was cereal. He was also in a hurry. Michelle had suggested he come down to headquarters to search through the mug shots for his attacker. He wasn’t certain he could identify the man, though the piggy eyes and pug nose were distinctive enough. Still, Mother comes first; bacon and eggs it had to be. “If it’s no trouble,” he said.

His mother walked over to the fridge. “It’s no trouble.”

“Where’s Dad?” he asked, as his mother turned on the cooker.

“Down at the allotment.”

“I didn’t know he still went there.”

“It’s more of a social thing. He doesn’t do much digging or anything these days. Mostly he sits and passes the time of day with his mates. And he has a cigarette or two. He thinks I don’t know but I can smell it on him when he comes home.”

“Well, don’t be too hard on him, Mum.”

“I’m not. But it’s not only his health, is it? What am I supposed to do if he goes and drops dead?”

“He’s not going to drop dead.”

“Doctor says he’s not supposed to smoke. And you should stop, too, while you’re still young.”

Young? It was a long time since Banks had been called young. Or felt young, for that matter. Except perhaps last night, with Michelle. Once she had made her decision, dropped her defenses a little, she was a different person, Banks marveled. It had clearly been a long time since she had been with anyone, so their lovemaking was slow and tentative at first, but none the worse for that. And once she threw aside her inhibitions she proved to be a warm and generous lover. Michelle had also been gentle because of Banks’s cut lip and bruised ribs. He cursed his bad luck, that he had to be injured in combat the first night he got to sleep with her. He also thought it was ironic that such physical injuries were so rare in his line of work, yet both he and Annie had been hurt within hours of each other. Some malevolent force working against them, no doubt.

Banks remembered Michelle’s sleepy late-night kiss at the door as he left, her warm body pressed against him. He sipped some tea. “Is the paper around?” he asked his mother.

“Your dad took it with him.”

“I’ll just nip over the road, then.” His father took the Daily Mail, anyway, and Banks preferred The Independent or The Guardian.

“Your bacon and eggs will be ready.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before they’re done.”

Banks’s mother sighed, and he headed out. It was warm but cloudy outside, and looking like rain again. That close, sticky muggy weather he hated. As he entered the newsagent’s shop, he remembered the way it used to be laid out, the counter in a different place, racks arranged differently. Different magazines and covers back then, too: Film Show, Fabulous, Jackie, Honey, Tit-Bits, Annabelle.

Banks remembered his conversation with Michelle in the pub about Donald Bradford and his collection of porn, and wondered if he really had acted as a distributor. While Banks couldn’t imagine Graham slipping a magazine of French fellatio between the pages of The People and putting it through number 42’s letter box, he could imagine Bradford keeping his stock under the counter, or hidden in the back. And maybe Graham had stumbled upon it.