shoulder and put it on the table by the front window.
'Silly habit,' he said. 'But I always carry it with me. You never know.'
Sandra laughed. 'That's the sign of a true professional. Do sit down, Robin. Can I get you a drink?'
'Yes, please, if it's no trouble.'
'None at all. Gin or scotch? I'm afraid that's all we've got.'
'Quite all right. Scotch'll do fine.'
'Water? Ice?'
'No, just as it comes, for me, please.'
Sandra poured his drink, mixed herself a gin and slimline tonic, then sat in the armchair opposite him. He seemed more shy than he usually did in The Mile Post, as if he was embarrassed to be alone with her in the house, so Sandra broke the ice and asked him if he'd done anything interesting over the weekend.
Robin shook his head. 'Not really. I did take a ride to the coast on Sunday, but it clouded over there, so I couldn't get any good shots.'
'What about the evenings?' Sandra asked. 'Don't you go to clubs or concerts?'
'No, I don't do much of that. Oh. I drop in at the local for the odd jar, but that's about all.'
'That's not much of a social life, is it? What about girlfriends? Surely there must be someone?'
'Not really,' Robin answered, looking down into his drink. 'Since my divorce I've been, well, a bit of a hermit, really. It wouldn't feel right going out with anybody else so soon.'
'It's not as if you're a widower, you know,' Sandra argued. 'When you get divorced it's all right to go out and have fun if you feel like it. Was it mutual?'
Robin nodded hastily, and Sandra sensed that he felt uncomfortable with the subject. 'Anyway,' she said, 'you'll get over it. Don't worry. I'll just nip upstairs and fetch the projector.'
'Would you like me to help?' Robin offered awkwardly. 'I mean, it must be heavy.'
'No, not at all,' Sandra said, waving him back onto the sofa. 'They're all made of light plastic these days.' Robin was gazing at the books on the shelves by the fireplace when Sandra came back down with the slide projector.
'Here it is,' she said. 'It's easy to work. Do you know how?'
'I'm not sure,' Robin said. 'Outside of cameras I'm not very mechanically minded. Look,' he went on, 'I've got those slides back, the ones I took at the Camera Club. Would you like to see them? You can show me how to set up the machine.'
'Why not?'
Sandra set up the projector on the table at the far end of the room and fetched the screen from upstairs. She then drew the curtains and placed it in front of the window. Finally, she showed Robin how to switch on the power and fit the slides he gave her into the circular tray.
'It's automatic,' she explained. 'Once you've got it all set up you just press this button when you want to move onto the next slide. Or this one if you want to go back. And this is how you focus.' She showed him the controls.
Robin nodded. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I think I would like some ice and water with my whiskey after all.'
Sandra moved forward to take his glass.
'No, it's all right,' he said. 'I can get it myself. You set up the show.' And he went into the kitchen.
Sandra adjusted the height of the projector and turned off the light. Robin came back with his whiskey as the first slide zoomed into focus.
It really was quite remarkable. The model was sitting with her legs tucked under her, gazing away from the camera. The lines drew the eye right into the composition and Robin had obviously used one of the 81-series filters to bring out the warm flesh tones. What was especially odd about the whole thing was that the model didn't seem to be posing; she looked as if she were staring into space thinking of a distant memory.
'It's excellent,' Sandra remarked over the hum of the projector. 'I really didn't think a modelling session like that would work out well on slides, but it's really amazing. Beautiful.'
She heard the ice tinkling in Robin's glass. 'Thank you,' he said in a far-off voice. 'Yes, they did work out well. She's not as beautiful as you, though.' Something in the way he said it sent a shiver of fear up Sandra's spine, and she froze for a moment before turning slowly to look at him. It was too dark to see anything except his silhouette, but in the light that escaped from the edges of the lens, she could see the sharp blade of one of her kitchen knives glinting.
Robin was on his feet, quite close to her. She could hear him breathing quickly. She backed away and found herself between the projector and the screen. The projection of the nude model distorted as it wrapped around her figure like an avant-garde dress design, and she froze again as a transformed Robin moved closer.
II
Mick gobbled up another mouthful of pills and went over to the window again. It was dark outside and the tall sodium lights glowed an eerie red the way they always did before they turned jaundice yellow.
Still no sign. Mick started pacing the room again, one batch of amphetamines wearing off and the new ones beginning to take effect. Sweat prickled on his forehead and skull, itching between the spikes of hair. His heart was pounding like a barrage of artillery, but he didn't feel good. He was worried. Where the hell was Trevor? The bastard was supposed to arrive two hours ago.
As the lights yellowed like old paper, Mick got more edgy and jittery. The room felt claustrophobic, too small to contain him. His muscles were straining at his clothes and his brain felt like it was pushing at the inner edges of his skull. Something was going on. They were onto him. He looked out of the window again, careful not to be seen this time.
There was a man in a homburg walking his Jack Russell. He'd been walking that dog for hours up and down the street by the edge of The Green, under the lights, and Mick was sure he kept glancing covertly toward the house. A little further into The Green, where the lights of the posher houses at the other side seemed to twinkle between the leaves and branches that danced in the breeze, a young couple stood under a tree. The girl was leaning against the tree and the boy was talking to her, one arm outstretched, supporting his weight on the trunk above her head. Sure, they looked like lovers, Mick thought. That was the idea. But he wasn't fooled. He could see the way she kept looking sideways at him when she should have been paying closer attention to her man. He was probably speaking into a walkie-talkie or a microphone hidden in his lapel. They were communicating with the dog-walker. And they weren't the only ones. Deeper in the trees, what he had thought to be shadows and thick tree trunks turned into people, and if he listened closely enough he could hear them whispering to each other.
He put his hands over his ears and retreated into the room. He put a loud rock record on the stereo to shut out the noise of the whisperers, but it didn't work; they were in his head already, and even the music seemed part of a sinister plot. It was meant to put him off-guard, that was it. He snatched at the needle, scratching the record, and returned to the window. Vigilance, that was what was called for.
Nothing had changed. The man with the dog was walking back down the street. He stopped by a tree, holding the leash loosely and looking up at the sky as the dog cocked its leg. The couple on The Green was pretending to kiss now.
Perhaps there was time to get away, Mick thought, licking his lips and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He had to get himself ready. They probably didn't even know he was there yet. To escape, though, meant leaving the window for a few minutes, something he couldn't bear to do. But he had to. He couldn't let them catch him unprepared.
He dashed upstairs to Lenny's room first and pulled out the heavy gun from under the mattress; then he went into his own messy room and took all his cash out of its hiding place, a hollowed-out book called The Practical Way To Keep Fit. He had almost a hundred pounds. It should be enough.
Rushing back downstairs, he grabbed his parka from the hook in the hall, shoved the gun and money into its deep pockets and went back to watch from the window. Now he was ready. Now he could take on anybody. The
