Part 20 (1/2)
”You won't leave me, will you?”
The question caught him askance.
”No,” he said. ”I won't.”
”Really?”
”I promised,” Hicks said. ”I promised John and I promised you. I'll stay here for as long as I'm needed.”
She opened the door, he opened his, and they both stepped out.
”Are you hungry, Hicks?”
He had tried several times to persuade her to call him Alex, but she always reverted back to the more formal address.
”I am,” he said. ”What do you fancy? A takeout?”
”No. I've had enough pizza and curry to last a lifetime. I thought I would make something. Dawood basha. Would you like some?”
”I've no idea what that is.”
”Syrian meatb.a.l.l.s. The meat is flavoured and cooked in a tomato sauce. It is very good.”
”Lovely.” He locked the car and walked her to the entrance of the flat. He opened the door and stood aside as she went in. ”Do you need anything?”
”I could use some ghee,” she said. ”I don't have much left.”
”I'll get some.”
HICKS WENT back outside and ambled to the shops on Old Street. He thought about what she had told him. There had been no mention of her boyfriend until then, and, although she had made a joke about it, even Hicks could see that her words were an indication of something that bothered her at a deep level. He was no psychologist, but the diagnosis was, surely, elementary. Her father and then her boyfriend; it wasn't their fault that they had been killed, but their losses had imbued her with a sense of abandonment and an almost const.i.tutional distrust of attachment. It wasn't unreasonable.
Hicks realised how difficult it must have been for her to trust Milton and then, as Milton left, to trust him.
He remembered the comment she had made about the radio and remembered that there was a place that sold cheap electrical goods next to the supermarket. He walked up to it and paused, gazing in through the plate-gla.s.s window. There were vacuum cleaners, kitchen appliances, game consoles and, to one side, a digital radio. The proprietor was in the process of closing up. Hicks opened the door and went inside.
SARAH TOLD HIM TO WAIT IN THE SITTING ROOM.
He did as he was told, inhaling the delicious aromas that were spilling out of the open kitchen door. He smelled cooked beef, sauteed onions, tomato and a confection of spices that he couldn't identify but which, nevertheless, smelled appetising.
Hicks left the digital radio on the table.
Sarah came through after ten minutes. She was carrying two bowls, one in her right hand and the other braced between her elbow and wrist, and, in the other hand, she clutched the necks of two bottles of beer. Hicks sat up straight and took the balanced bowl and one of the beers. The meal was appetising: browned meatb.a.l.l.s in a thick tomato sauce, served with rice.
”This looks good,” he said, slicing through one of the meatb.a.l.l.s with his fork.
”What's that?” she said, nodding at the box on the table.
”It's for you,” he said.
”What is it?”
”Open it.”
She rested her plate of food on the table and took the box out of the plastic bag.
”A radio?”
”You said you missed yours. I thought it might make things a little easier. And, you know, driving with you in the car-I've had enough R&B to last me a lifetime.”
She slid her finger inside the box, pulled back the flap and took out the radio. It was a cheap model, a little flimsy, but she made no comment. Instead, she put it back on the table and turned to him. Her face, usually so severe, became bright and open, and a broad smile revealed her white teeth and the sparkle in her eyes.
”Thank you,” she said. ”You didn't have to do that. You've already done a lot for me.”
”Forget it. I thought you'd appreciate it.”
”I do,” she said. ”It's very kind of you.”
She held his eye for a moment, long enough for him to feel a twist of awkwardness in his gut. Hicks looked into her dark hazel eyes, noticed that he was holding his breath and, perturbed, looked down at the bowl and started to eat. After another moment, Sarah did the same.
THE REST of the evening was very pleasant. Hicks helped Sarah to set up the radio and, after five minutes of frustration trying to interpret a manual that had been put together by someone with only a pa.s.sing familiarity with the English language, they succeeded. Hicks sat down with a second bottle of beer as Sarah scanned through the channels and, with a grin that underlined that she was choosing for his benefit, settled on Absolute 80s.
”I'm not that old,” he complained.
She ignored his protest, waited until the end of the ads and the start of 'Living on the Ceiling' by Blancmange and then went to sit down in the armchair. She reached out for the packet of cigarettes she had left on the table, took one out and reached back down for her lighter.
”John said-”
”He won't mind,” she interrupted, lighting up.
The mood between them was as amiable as it had ever been, and Hicks had no interest in spoiling it over a cigarette or two. He leaned back against the cheap sofa's marked upholstery, took a swig of his beer, and allowed himself to relax.
HICKS OPENED HIS EYES. He didn't know what time it was, nor how long he had been asleep, but he realised, quickly, what had awoken him.
Someone was in the room with him. His view was obscured by the armrest of the sofa, but he could see a shadow in the doorway.
He lay still, but slowly reached his hand beneath the cus.h.i.+on that he had been resting his head upon. His fingers touched the stippled grip of his Sig. He closed his hand around it and threaded his finger through the trigger guard.
The shadow stepped toward the sofa. There was a shaft of sodium-yellow street light that cut through a gap in the curtain, and Hicks could see that it was a woman. It was Sarah. She was wrapped in a sheet. She sat on the edge of the sofa, reached down for the edge of his blanket, pulled it aside, and slithered across the cus.h.i.+ons and leaned down so that she was pressed up against him. He could feel the softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest and the hard angle of her hip as she ground it against his.
Hicks let go of the pistol and sat up.
”Alex?”