Part 39 (1/2)

'. . . ask her what? . . .'

'. . . ask her out . . .'

'. . . because I don't . . .'

'. . . what? . . .'

'. . . I'm not . . .'

'. . . go on . . .'

'. . . in . . . love with her . . .'

'. . . same as you're not with me?'

'. . . what?

'. . . you heard . . .'

'. . . Rebecca, can we? . . .'

'. . . what?'

349.

'. . . talk about this later?'

'. . . why not now?'

'Because!' and I take a deep breath, the first for some time. 'Because I've got other things on my mind. Okay?'

'Okay,' she says. 'Okay, point taken,' and she slips down off the high desk, tugging her long dress, as if she's not quite got the hang of it, crosses the office and sits next to me on the edge of the table.

'Is that a frock you're wearing?' I say.

'f.u.c.k-off it's a frock. It's a dress. How's your head?'

'Oh, you know. A bit sore.'

She reaches into the inside pocket of her coat and pulls out a quarter-bottle of whisky.

'Care for some medicine?'

'Better not.'

'Go on, hair of the dog?'

'It was a different dog. Gin.'

'Och, that's just plain nasty. You do know gin's a depressant, don't you?'

'I think that's why I was drinking it.'

'Hmmmmmmm, self-pity and self-loathing - a winning combination. No wonder women find you irresistible. You're quite the Travis Bickle.' And she takes a swig from the bottle, offers it to me again. 'Trust me, scotch is definitely the way to go.'

'They'll smell it on my breath,' I say, but she reaches deep into her other pocket, and pulls out a packet of extra-strong mints. 'Go on, then,' I say. She pa.s.ses me the bottle and I take a long swig, then pop a mint in my mouth, letting the tastes combine, and we look at each other and smile, and sit there, like school kids, feet dangling off the edge of the desk.

'Of course, you know Alice has been seeing someone else?' I say.

'Uh-huh.'

350.

That guy Neil, the one who played Richard 111 last term, always hobbling around in the student bar . . .'

'The c.u.n.t on crutches . . .'

That's the one. I suppose you knew.'

'Well, I saw him scuttling out of her room a couple of times so let's just say I had an inkling . . .'

'Or a bunchr She looks at me quizzically, 'You know, like a hump, like Richard III . . . ? So why didn't you tell me then?'

'Not really any of my business, is it? Your love life.'

'No. Maybe not,' and I have to confess that, even with all that's happened, and Alice and the knock on the head and everything, that I think about kissing her, tucking the mint to a back corner of my mouth with my tongue, and leaning over and kissing her right now, just to see what would happen.

But the moment pa.s.ses and instead I look at my watch.

They're taking their time.'

'Who?'

The jury.'

'Want me to go and check?'

'Yeah, that would be great,' and she pushes herself off the edge of the desk, and heads for the door. 'Put a good word in for me,' I say.

Till see if I can think of one,' she says, adjusts her dress, and goes, and I'm left alone.

I always get a bit fidgety by myself with nothing to read, especially sat in a vest, but thankfully this office is crammed with books - mostly reference books, but still books - so I pick up the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, which they'd been using as a pillow, and that's when I see it.

On the desk.

A blue clipboard.

On the clipboard are some photocopied A4 sheets. It has Julian the researcher's name handwritten at the top, so I a.s.sume it's just his production notes. He must have brought it with him when they carried me up here, and just left it on 351.

the desk. The A4 sheets aren't particularly interesting - just the names of the team members, a seating plan, list of crew names, all that kind of stuff. But in front of this is an envelope, a thick manila envelope that feels as if it contains two packs of playing cards. I unclip the envelope the clipboard.