'How d'you mean?'
'The reason you're thinking of moving back.'
'Oh, partly, yes. In a way.'
'I thought he was better. Doing okay. Stable, at least.'
'He is. But cancer, you know, so hard not to think, whatever the doctors say, it's not going to come back. Somewhere else.'
'There's no sign, though?'
'No, not yet No. Touch wood.' She glanced around. The couple who ran the corner vegetable stall were laughing together, lighting up, just for a moment holding hands.
'It's my mum, more.'
She's not ill? '
Lynn shook her head.
'Just works herself up into such a state.'
Resnick finished his coffee; wondered if there were time for one more.
'That's the reason, then? To be near your mother, close?'
Lynn drank some of her cappuccino.
'Not really, no.'
Something had begun pressing against the inside of Resnick's left temple, urgent, hard.
Lynn tried to choose her words with care.
'Ever since what happened.
When I was. taken prisoner. I can't stop, haven't been able to stop myself, well, thinking. '
'That's only natural…'
'I know. Yes, I know. And Petra says… That's my doctor. Petra Carey. She says I have to take time, open myself to it; she says there's a lot I have to talk myself through.'
'like what? '
'Like you.'
Resnick's left eye blinked. If the assistant turned around, he would order another espresso, but, of course, the man continued stubbornly washing down the counter at the other side.
Lynn was speaking again, her voice measured, trying to talk the way she would to Petra Carey if Petra Carey were there.
'Tied up there at night, in the caravan, never knowing when he might come in. Knowing what had happened to that other girl, knowing what he'd done, what he might do. I was scared, of course I was scared. Terrified. Though I knew the last thing I could afford to do was show it. To him. And underneath it all, somehow I'm not sure, I was dreaming a lot of the time, I think I must have been; trying not to let myself fall asleep, but not being able to stop myself-but somehow there was always this idea that it would be all right, that someone no, you – that you would come and God, it sounds pathetic now, doesn't it, hearing myself say this but that you would come and save me.' For a moment, Lynn pressed her face into her hands and closed her eyes.
'Except,' she went on, 'it wasn't always you. It wasn't as straightforward as that. Sometimes, I would think it was you but then when I saw your face, it was my dad.
You were. my dad. ' She shook her head, low towards her hands, which were folded over one another now, beside her cup.
'It isn't even that simple. There are things, other things, I can't, I don't want to say.'
Resnick put one hand over hers, ready to retract it if she pulled away.
'I haven't been able to talk to you,' Lynn said, not looking at him, looking away.
'Not really talk, not since it happened.'
'I know.'
'I just haven't felt comfortable, being with you.'
'No.'
'And it's difficult. So bloody difficult!' With surprise, the assistant looked round at her raised voice.
'And I hate it.'
'Yes,' Resnick said, taking away his hand. And then, 'So this is why you want to go; this rather than your mother, anything at home.'
'Oh, they want me back there, of course. My dad doesn't say so, but my mum, she'd love it. But if it wasn't for this other business, no, I don't think I'd go.'
'And you don't think we could work it out. Somehow, between us, I mean. Maybe, now you've started talking about it?'
'That's what Petra says.'
'That you, we, should talk it over?'
Lynn nodded, still not looking at him.
'Yes.' And when Resnick was silent, she asked him what he was thinking.
'I was wondering why you hadn't felt able to come to me before?'
'You're hurt, aren't you?'
'By that? Yes, I suppose I am.'
'She said you would be. But, I don't know, I just couldn't' ' You were afraid of what I'd say? '
'No. What I would.'
Resnick's intention, that evening, had been to go along to the refurbished Old Vie and listen to the new Stan Tracey Duo. But by the time he'd fed the cats, fiddled around with a smoked ham and stilton sandwich, he didn't seem to feel like going out. Sitting on the back step with a bottle of Czech Budweiser, he found out how Annie Q. Jones was getting on, embroiled in plot and counter-plot in the last fifty pages of Dead Weight. Poor Annie, sapped on the head from behind, going down a narrow side street in pitch darkness at least she had her lover to provide a little comfort in the small hours.
His neighbours, also enjoying the light, pleasantly warm evening, had thrown open their windows and were treating him to muffled television laughter and the smell of chicken frying. Resnick finished his beer, took the book back inside, page at the start of the final chapter folded down, and set off to walk down into the city.
He arrived at the pub in time for the last two numbers. Stan Tracey, bunched over the keyboard, angularly maneuvering his way through 'Sophisticated Lady', taking-the tune into seemingly impossible blind alleys and then escaping through a mixture of finesse and sheer power. Finally, Tracey and an absurdly young-looking Gerard Presencer on trumpet had elided their way along a John Coltrane blues, the audacity ofPresencer's imagination more than matched by his technique.
Just once, in the middle of the trumpeter's solo, eyes closed, Resnick had seen a perfect vision of Lynn, her face, round and open and close to his. And then it had gone. While the applause was still trickling away, he lifted his empty glass and set it down by the end of the bar, nodded towards the landlord, and made his way towards the door.
Back home again. Bud nestled in beside his feet, Resnick finished the book: / know that Reigler has suffered another stroke, but still I'm not prepared for what I find. One side of his body seems totally paralysed, the same side of his face sunken and lined, one dark eye staring out. His speech is slurred, but I get thejist. As confessions go this one's pretty simple and to the point. He nods when he's finished and I switch off the tape that's been resting on one arm of his wheelchair.
Seems he's got one more request.
I don't know why I should raise a finger for him and then I find out what it is.
The gun is in the drawer and I'm careful only to handle it with the gloves I conveniently have in the pocket of my coat. There's a wind got up from the ocean and the temperature has plummeted. There's one shell in the chamber and just a moment of doubt when I think it might be intended for me, but one more look at his wrecked body and I know that's not the case.
The trigger mechanism seems light, though even so, I'm not convinced, the state that he's in, he's going to be able to find enough pressure, but I figure that's his problem, not mine.
I hear the gunshot as I'm climbing into my car, and I guess it's worked out all right. I don't go back. There'll be a call box on my way home and I can pull over and perform my anonymous civic duty. I risk the last ten miles way above the limit. I know Diane's going to have something ready, maybe even something we can eat in bed. and
