Part 32 (1/2)

”I don't believe I know him.”

”The man who burned up.”

”Somebody got burned?” she said. ”Oh G.o.d, that's horrible.”

”Surely you saw it.”

”No,” she replied. ”We just saw the gla.s.s.”

”And the lights. Philip was talking about the lights.”

”Yes,” she said, plainly puzzled. ”He said the same to me. You know I don't remember any of that. Is it important?”

”What's important is that you're both well,” he said, using the plat.i.tude to cover his confusion.

”Oh we're fine,” she said, looking directly at him, her face suddenly cleansed of its bafflement. ”I'm tired, but I'm fine.”

She reached across to put the coffee cup down and this time the robe fell open enough for Grillo to catch sight of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He didn't have the slightest doubt that she knew exactly what she was doing.

”Have you heard any more from the house?” he asked, taking undeniable satisfaction from talking business while thinking s.e.x.

”I'm supposed to go up there,” Ellen said.

”When is the party?”

”Tomorrow. It's short notice, but I think a lot of Buddy's friends were expecting some kind of farewell celebration.”

”I'd like to get in on the party.”

”You want to report?”

”Of course. It's going to be quite a gathering, right?”

”I think so.”

”But that's just part of it. We both know there's something extraordinary happening in the Grove. Last night, it wasn't simply the Mall...” He trailed off, seeing that her expression, upon mention of the previous evening, had once again become distracted. Was this self-induced amnesia, or part of the natural process of Fletcher's magic? The former, he suspected. Philip, less resistant to changes in the status quo, had no such memory problems. When Grillo turned the conversation back to the party her attention was once more upon him.

”Do you think you could get me in?” he asked.

”You'll have to be careful. Roch.e.l.le knows what you look like.”

”Can't you invite me officially? As press?”

She shook her head. ”There won't be any press,” she explained. ”It's a strictly private gathering. Not all of Buddy's a.s.sociates are gluttons for publicity. Some of them had too much of it too soon. Some of them would prefer never to have it. He mixed with a lot of men...what did he call them?...heavy-duty players. I think, Mafia probably.”

”All the more reason I should be there,” Grillo said.

”Well, I'll do what I can, especially after you getting sick on my account. I guess if there's sufficient guests you could melt into the crowd...”

”I'd appreciate the help.”

”More coffee?”

”No, thanks.” He glanced at his watch, though didn't register the time.

”You're not going to go,” she said. It was not a question, but a statement. The same was true of his response.

”No. Not if you'd prefer I stay.”

Without another word she reached and touched his breastbone through his s.h.i.+rt.

”I'd prefer you stay,” she said.

He instinctively looked towards Philip's room.

”Don't worry,” she said. ”He'll play for hours.” She looped her finger between the b.u.t.tons of Grillo's s.h.i.+rt. ”Come to bed with me,” she said.

She got up and led the way through to her bedroom. By contrast with the clutter outside, the room was spartan. She crossed to the window and half closed the blinds, which lent the whole room a parchment tint, then sat down on the bed and looked up at him. He leaned down and kissed her face, slipping his hand inside her robe and lightly rubbing her breast. She pressed his hand to her, insisting on severer treatment. Then she pulled him down on top of her. Their comparative heights meant his chin rested on the top of her head, but she turned this to erotic advantage, pulling his s.h.i.+rt open and licking at his chest, her tongue leaving wet trails from nipple to nipple. All the while her hold on his hand didn't relax for an instant. Her nails dug into his skin with painful force. He fought her, dragging his hand away to reach for the sash of her robe but her hand was there before him. He rolled off her, and was about to sit up to undress, but she took hold of his s.h.i.+rt, this grip as fierce as its predecessor, and kept him at her side, her face at his shoulder, while she untied the loose knot of the sash one-handed, then threw the robe open. She was naked underneath. Doubly naked in fact. Her groin was completely shaved.

Now she turned her face away, and closed her eyes. One hand still gripping his s.h.i.+rt, the other limp at her side she seemed to be offering her body to him as a plate to be dined from. He put his hand on her stomach, running his palm down towards her c.u.n.t, pressing hard on skin that looked and felt almost burnished.

Without opening her eyes she murmured: ”Anything you want.”

The invitation momentarily flummoxed him. He was used to this being a contract between partners, but here was this woman waving such niceties away, offering him total command of her body. It made him uneasy. As an adolescent her pa.s.sivity would have seemed unbearably erotic. Now it shocked his liberal sensibilities. He said her name, hoping for some sign from her, but she ignored him. It wasn't until he once again sat up to pull off his s.h.i.+rt that she opened her eyes and said: ”No. Like this, Grillo. Like this.”

The expression both on her face and in her voice was like rage, and it unearthed in him a hunger to respond in kind. He rolled on top of her, taking her head in his hands and pus.h.i.+ng his tongue into her mouth. Her body pressed up from the mattress, rubbing so hard against him he was sure there was as much pain as pleasure in it for her.

In the room they'd vacated the coffee cups trembled as though the mildest quake were underway. Dust crept across the table, disturbed by the motion of an almost invisible something which slid its wasted shoulders from the gloomiest corner of the room and drifted rather than walked towards the bedroom door. Its form, though rudimentary, was still too recognizable to be dismissed as mere shadow, yet there was too little of it to deserve the name ghost. Whatever it had been, or was to become, even in its present condition it had purpose. Drawn by the woman who was presently dreaming it into being, it approached the bedroom. There-denied access-it mourned against the door, awaiting instructions.

Philip emerged from his sanctum and wandered through to the kitchen in search of food. He opened the cookie jar, dug for chocolate chip, and headed back the way he'd come, a cookie in his left hand for himself, and three in his right for his companion whose first words had been: ”I'm hungry.”

Grillo raised his head from Ellen's wet face. She opened her eyes.

”What is it?” she said.

”There's somebody outside the door.”

She raised her head from the bed and bit on his chin. It hurt, and he winced.

”Don't do that,” he said.

She bit harder.

”Ellen...”

”So bite back,” she said. He didn't have time to curb his bemused look. Catching it, she said: ”I mean it, Grillo,” and hooked her finger into his mouth, the ball of her hand locked against his chin. ”Open,” she said. ”I want you to hurt me. Don't be afraid. It's what I want. I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break.”

He shook her hold off.