me at last.”
I still stood there like a dummy, and she ran over to me, caught
hold of my arm.
“It’s Netta, Steve,” she sobbed, flung herself in my arms.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off Littlejohn, but I held her, said nothing.
“Take me away, Steve,” she sobbed. “Please take me away.”
I pulled myself together, slipped my arm around her, led her into
the bedroom. We sat on the divan bed, and I let her cry. There was
nothing I could do to stop her.
After a while I said, “Netta, this won’t get us anywhere. Come on,
snap out of it. I’ll help you if I can.”
She pulled away from me, her eyes glassy with terror, ran her
fingers through her thick red hair.
“You don’t understand,” she said, her husky voice off-key,
cracked. “I killed him! Do you hear, Steve? I killed him!”
I went cold, tried to say something, but succeeded in making only
a croaking noise.
She suddenly jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Before she
reached it, I caught hold of her. She struggled to get away, but I held
her. We stared at each other: both of us scared now.
“You killed him?” I said. “For God’s sake, Netta!”
She collapsed against me. I smelt lilac in her hair.
“They’ll get me now, Steve,” she said, moaned against my chest.
“I’ve kept out of their way until now, but they’ll get me for this.”
I felt cold sweat on my face. I wanted to run, get the hel out of
here, leave her. This was murder; this wasn’t something I could fool
around with and pass over to Corridan if I made a mess of it. This was
murder. I gripped her arms, tried to think. Maybe the moments of
happiness this kid had given me two years ago helped to bridge the
horror I felt. Maybe that thought stopped me from running out on
her.
“Take it easy,” I said, holding her close. “What we need is a drink.
Have you any Scotch in the place?”
She shuddered, clung more tightly. “It’s in there,” she said. I knew
where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“No!” she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. “You mustn’t leave
me. Steve! You mustn’t leave me.” She caught hold of my wrist, her
nails bit into my flesh.
“It’s all right,” I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. “I’ll be
right back. Take it easy, can’t you?”
“No! You won’t come back. You’re going to run out on me. You’re
going to leave me in this mess. You’re not to, Steve ! You’re not to!”
She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face
and screamed wildly.
The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff
with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard,
knocking her backwards across the bed.
I stood over her. “Shut up, you little fool,” I said, trembling,
sweating. “Do you want someone to come here with that in there?”
She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one
side of her face red where I had hit her.
“I’m coming back,” I went on. “Stay still and don’t make a sound.”
I crossed the passage, went into the sitting-room. He was still
there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad.
I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks
that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted
mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.
Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of
paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a
glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it,
puzzled.
A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed
around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket,
went to the cupboard by the fire-place and found a full bottle of
Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.
Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up
and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing
to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to
me.
I poured a big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand
was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down
like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.
I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.
“Come on,” I said, “get this down into you.”
I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She
got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief,
gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.
“Have a cigarette,” I said, pushing one between her trembling lips,
took one myself, lit both.
I sat on the bed, at her side.
You have to talk, and talk fast,” I said. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t
know what game you’ve been playing or why, but if you’ll give it me
straight, I’ll do what I can for you. Now, shoot.”
She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that
was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her
eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last
I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes
that scared me. I didn’t like that expression. The rest of her looks
were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn’t put right. But the
blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the
French girls after days of air strafing or after we’d rescued them from
some Hun. It was that kind of expression.
“I killed him,” she said quietly. The whisky had pul ed her together
as I meant it to do. “I heard a sound, crept in there. It was dark. I saw
something move and hit out.” She shuddered, hid her face. “Then I
put on the light.
I was listening, sitting forward, cigarette between my lips,
listening with both ears.
