Half Moon Chambers (8 page)

"That's okay. I often walk it."

"When you can."

I opened my mouth. I'd done a good
camouflage
job at the gallery. Yes, he'd seen me
doubled
up and swearing for a moment, but that
could
simply have been my frustration at having to
chase
his sorry arse through the corridors. I'd
pulled
it together after that.

"All right," he said, cutting across the
beginning
of my protest. He came to stand in front
of
me. "You don't look the forthcoming type, so I'm
going
to hazard a guess. You've been injured
--
on
duty
, I should think
--
and you're not better yet. Not
supposed
to run around. Let me give you a hand up
the
stairs."

"Thanks, but I live on the twentieth floor. I'm
not
your problem."

"Then is there somebody else you can call?
Where's Brad Pitt?"

"In Los Angeles where he belongs. Seriously
,
I'll manage. Go home."

I must have misheard his reply. I thought I'd
caught
the words
a beautiful smile
, but he'd been
turning
away from me to glance into the stairwell,
and
it was no more than a whisper. He didn't look
the
type for compliments. "Look," he said. "It's my
fault
that you had to run. Come on
--
just a few
flights
, then I'll feel like we're quits."

Even one flight turned out to be almost
impossible
. I took hold of the rail with my right
hand
, and I put my left arm round his shoulders
when
he told me to. That would have hurt
with
Brad Pitt, who was a good two inches taller,
but
Rowan was my own height. A comfortable reach.

He wrapped an arm round my waist, and somehow
the
feel of his palm closing on the base of my
ribcage
made my eyes prickle with tears, as if I
hadn
't been touched in months. As if that part of me
had
been made to fit there. The hem of my sweater
rode
up as he adjusted his grip, and the direct
contact
made it even worse. I had no idea why I
was
so painfully aware of him...

Except that I hadn't been touched in months,
had
I, outside of the most impersonal medical care.

I bit my lip and concentrated on taking one stair at
a
time, but it didn't do me any good. He was much
stronger
than I would have guessed from his build.

He took hold of the wrist I had draped over his
shoulder
. Between that and the arm round my
waist
I felt secured, anchored to him. He put a powerful
heft
behind each effort I made for myself, and in
this
way we managed the second flight, the third
and
the fourth. He began to warm up with the
exercise
and I felt his heat like a wing extended
round
me, and that was a pure pleasure, but the
change
in his scent
--
tiny, almost subliminal
--
drove
sudden impure visions into my head. Jack
had
proved to me forcibly that I was still alive
down
there. Since then, though, what with pain,
drugs
, and what I could now admit was a good
case
of crushing depression, the beast had gone
back
to its cave.

Its restlessness now was pure reflex. Any
human
contact would have done it. Certainly I
didn
't fancy this skinny lad hauling me upstairs
now
. It was just awkward, and I hoped the rising
tide
of tension was one-sided, palpable only to me.

He shot me a dark sidelong glance, and I
knew
that it wasn't. "Are you okay? Do you need a
break
?"

I did, but I couldn't afford one. If I stopped, I
wouldn
't start again. I shook my head and ploughed
on
, my grip slipping with cold sweat on the
banister
. The rhythm of his body against mine was
hypnotic
. He moved with a compact resilience that
told
me he could do this for as long as I needed
him
to. He wasn't even breathing hard...

We reached the next landing, and I was
almost
grateful for the sudden wash of cold
sickness
that took me, killing the nascent arousal
stone
dead. This was what happened when I
pushed
it too far. I should have taken the break. I
halted
, shuddering. Maybe I could get rid of him
before
worst came to worst. "Let me go. I'll be all
right
from here."

"We're not even quarter way. Let me help you
a
few more flights."

I detached myself from him. It was hard
--
I
didn
't want to unwrap his warm arm. I stumbled
away
, as far into a corner as I could get. "Sorry.
Stay back."

Usefully, it had been one of the days for
staring
at food, not eating it. All I could do was
cough
and choke until my eyes streamed. I was
distantly
relieved
--
Bauhaus or Brutalist, it didn't
look
better with puke on it, not that my fellow
occupants
seemed to share that view on a Saturday
night
. Rowan took a step toward me and I gestured
him
back. He folded his arms and waited patiently,
and
a few moments later through a roar of static I
heard
the thunk of the lift in its shaft. I straightened
up
. Rowan held out a tissue for me, and I took it
shakily
. "Oh, thank God for that."

"Is that the lift starting up?"

"Sounds like it. Press the button, will you?"

I went to stand beside him. I had the pain
-
induced
gagging more or less under control but the
concrete
walls were waltzing round me, and all I
wanted
was a locked door behind me and
oblivion
. After an alarming squeal of metal cables,
the
lift doors pinged and opened. "Thanks," I said
roughly
. "You've been really good. But I can
manage
now."

"I'd be happier if I saw you to your door."

I didn't have the strength to argue. Our silence
in
the lift's confined space should have been
awkward
, but I was too busy holding faintness at
bay
, and avoiding my own gaze and his in the
shadowy
, cracked mirror. The lift deposited us
right
outside my flat
--
its constant rattle had been
one
of the reasons I'd got the place so cheap
--
and
I dug in my pocket for my keys. When I looked up
,
Rowan, good as his word, was turning away. He
gave
me a quick smile over his shoulder. "
Think
I'll take the stairs," he said. "Don't fancy trusting
my
luck to that metal coffin again. Look after
yourself
, okay? I'm sorry I couldn't help you
--
about
Goran Maric, I mean."

I was being rude. Social graces weren't high
on
my agenda at the moment, but he'd gone to a lot
of
trouble for me. God knew what I must have
looked
like, slumped on the steps outside with my
resident
tramp. He could have just walked by.

"Hang on a second. Do you want a cup of tea or
something
?"

It sounded so ridiculous, a line from a bad
porn
film. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, that
uncertain
smile of his lingering. "I'm okay. I'd
better
get going."

I didn't wonder at his refusal. I'd been more
or
less unpleasant to him since the first second
we
'd met. No wonder I wasn't Bill Hodges' first
choice
for public relations. "Look," I said, "I'm not
the
guy they normally send out to do interviews,
okay
? I'm sorry I told you to grow a pair."

The smile became definite, a bit sardonic,
very
charming. "It's all right. You're meant to say
things
like that, aren't you? To get people to talk."

"No, we're really not. You've been watching
too
much TV."

I went inside, leaving the door open behind
me
. Weariness was pulling at me, and I didn't
really
care, in its cold grip, whether he followed
me
or not. I tried to remember what I'd used to do
when
people still visited me
--
Jack, of course, my
sister
, even Phil when he wanted money or a bail-
out
. The kettle would be a good start.

"Wow," Rowan said softly behind me. "This
is
... bleak."

I paused in the kitchen doorway. It wasn't yet
quite
dark, and out of habit I hadn't switched on the
overheads
. I lived so far above the city that
lingering
daylight found me here even when night
had
fallen in the streets below. The flat occupied a
corner
site, so two sides were open to that lucid
northern
light, uniquely piercing even when grey
and
full of sleet. I'd had a clear-out in here at the
same
time as I'd tackled my desk at work. There
had
been too many things for me to fall over, too
many
boys' toys, like the electric guitar I'd always
wanted
but never learned to play. Now it was
really
just me and the light. "I like it this way," I
said
, then went to fill the kettle, annoyed with
myself
for having felt the need to defend my tastes
even
that far.

I made tea in two mugs, listening to the wet
snow
lash against the glass. If the weather
worsened
, soon the buildings below me would
white
out and I'd be isolated in my little cube of
sky
. The tower would sway on its moorings, tiny
vertiginous
shifts I'd been told were perfectly
normal
, the concrete flexing so it wouldn't break. I
enjoyed
both these prospects. I was now regretting
my
hospitable impulse, and I hoped my visitor
would
finish his tea fast and go, so I could sway in
the
blizzard and white out my own brain in pills
and
booze.

When I came back into the living room, he
was
looking at the one photo I had hung on to, a
nice
portrait of my sister Jane and her kids. He
was
smiling faintly at it, and I remembered
suddenly
that everyone did
--
that no-one could
resist
her sweet grin. "Is this your family?"