The Sculptress Part 10

Supposing he pa.s.sed out?

"Surely there's someone I can call," she insisted.

"A friend. A neighbour.

Where do you live?" But she knew that. In the flat above, the young policeman had said.

"Jesus, woman," he growled, *give it a rest, for Christ's sake."

"I'm only trying to help."

"Is that what you call it? It sounded more like nagging to me." He was alert suddenly, listening to something she couldn't hear.

"What's the matter?" she asked, alarmed by his expression.

"Did you lock the door after you?"

She stared at him.

"No. Of course I didn't."

He dowsed the lights and padded across to the entrance door, almost invisible in the sudden darkness. She heard the sound of bolts being thrust home.

"Look-* she began, getting off her stool.

He loomed up beside her and put an arm around her shoulder and a finger to her lips.

"Quiet, woman." He held her motionless.

"But-* "Quiet!"

A car's headlamps swept across the windows, slicing the darkness with white light. The engine throbbed in neutral for a moment or two, then the gears engaged and the vehicle drove away. Roz tried to draw away but Hawksley's arm only gripped her more firmly.

"Not yet," he whispered.

They stood in silent immobility among the tables, statues at a spectral feast. Roz shook herself free angrily.

"This is absolutely absurd," she hissed.

"I don't know what on earth is going on but I'm not staying like this for the rest of the night. Who was in that car?"

"Customers," he said regretfully.

"You're mad."

He took her hand.

"Come on," he whispered, *we'll go upstairs."

"We will not," she said, s.n.a.t.c.hing her hand away.

"My G.o.d, doesn't anyone think about anything except s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g these days."

Amused laughter fanned her face.

"Who said anything about s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g?"

"I'm going."

"I'll see you out."

She took a deep breath.

"Why do you want to go upstairs?"

"My flat's up there and I need a bath."

"So what do you want me for?"

He sighed.

"If you remember, Rosalind, it was you who came in here asking for me.

I've never met a woman who was so d.a.m.n p.r.i.c.kly."

"p.r.i.c.kly!" she stuttered.

"My G.o.d, that's rich. You stink to high heaven, you've obviously been in a fight, you plunge us into total darkness, moan about not having any customers and then turn them away when they do come, make me sit for five minutes without moving, try to manhandle me upstairsa." She paused for breath.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she blurted out.

"Oh, great! That's all I need." He took her hand again.

"Come on. I'm not going to rape you. To tell you the truth I haven't the strength at the moment. What's wrong?"

She stumbled after him.

"I haven't eaten all day."

"Join the club." He led her through the darkened kitchen and unlocked a side door, reaching past her to switch on some lights.

"Up the stairs," he told her, *and the bathroom's on the right."

She could hear him double-locking the door behind her as she collapsed on the lavatory seat and pressed her head between her knees, waiting for the waves of nausea to pa.s.s.

The light came on.

"Here. Drink this. It's water." Hawksley squatted on the floor in front of her and looked into her white face. She had skin like creamy alabaster and eyes as dark as sloes. A very cold beauty, he thought.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"Whatever's making you so unhappy."

She sipped the water.

"I'm not unhappy. I'm hungry."

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself upright.

"OK. Let's eat. How does sirloin steak sound?"

She smiled weakly.

"Wonderful."

"Thank G.o.d for that! I've got a freezer full of the flaming stuff. How do you like it?"

"Rare but-* "But what?"

She pulled a face.

"I think it's the smell that's making me sick." She put her hands to her mouth.

"I'm sorry but I really think it would be better if you got cleaned up first. Mackerel-flavoured sirloin doesn't appeal over much."

He sniffed at his sleeve.

"You don't notice it after a while." He turned the taps on full and emptied bath foam into the running water.

"There's only the one loo, I'm afraid, so if you're going to puke you'd better stay there." He started to undress.

She stood up hurriedly.

"I'll wait outside."

He dropped his jacket on to the floor and unb.u.t.toned his shirt.

"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 v.a.g.i.n.a 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 s.h.i.t 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 a.s.sumption that another injection of alcohol might make Hawksley more amenable, Roz put it on a tray with the sandwiches and a couple of gla.s.ses.

"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."