In the general order of things, getting physical was releasing a valve, releasing endorphins, so afterwards you felt that sweet high, halfway between an ache and a caress—by rights, she should be watching Ho’s cack-handed fumbling with a great big grin on her face, at peace enough to lend him a hand even, though the ungrateful little sod wouldn’t thank her. Instead, she still felt wound to full pitch, enough to want to give him another slap. Which wasn’t out of the question, obviously, but might put a strain on the remainder of the evening.
Marcus wasn’t at the bar; he must have gone to the gents, unless he’d snuck off through the side door. Which must have been a temptation for him, but the way things stood, he wouldn’t dare.
That morning, he’d said to her, “You know what that little shit’s doing?”
There were any number of little shits this might have been, but top of the list was always going to be Roderick Ho.
“Cyberstalking you?”
“Well, duh. Apart from that.”
“He’s dobbed you in?”
“Not yet. But he says he will.”
“Bastard.”
“You’ve not heard the half of it. Guess what his price for keeping shtum is.”
Shirley reflected now that it might have been a better idea not to laugh when he told her.
“A night in the pub? That’s it?”
“I’d sooner give him cash.”
“Oh, that is fabulous. Take notes. I’m gonna want to hear all about this.”
“That’s not a problem. You’re coming too.”
“Dream on.”
“’Cause if it’s just me and Ho, who knows where the conversation might lead? Once we’ve run through sport and politics, we might end up discussing our colleagues. Like, you know, who sneaks off early when they think no one’s looking, and who leaves their dirty mugs in the sink.”
“Enthralling.”
“And who snorts coke.”
Shirley dropped her pen. “You wouldn’t.”
“Won’t get the opportunity. Not if you’re there too.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“What can I say? Learned from a master.”
So here she was, here they both were, suffering the company of Roderick Webhead Ho. No wonder she was feeling . . .
But she didn’t want to use “uptight.”
Shirley had been at the dentist’s the previous week, and flipping through a lifestyle magazine in the waiting room had encountered one of those diagnostic quizzes,
And yeah, besides that, so she liked the odd toot, but who didn’t? Tell her Marcus never snorted a line of the old marching powder—Marcus had been Tactical, the squad that kicked down doors, and once you’d tasted that adrenalin high, you’d want another boost, right? He said he never, but he would say that. Besides, it wasn’t like Shirley was an habitual user. It was a weekend thing with her, strictly Thursday to Tuesday.
There was a thump as Roderick Ho sat down. His right cheek was flaming red, and his glasses hung lopsided.
“What you do that for?”
She sighed heavily.
“It needed doing,” she said, half to herself, and wished she were anywhere else.
Though maybe, all things considered, not where River Cartwright was.
River was in a hospital room, standing by a window there was no point attempting to open. It had been painted shut years ago, back when the NHS still ran to the occasional lick of paint, and even if it had opened, the air that would have crawled in would have been thick as soup, with a saltiness that caught the back of the throat, and left you gasping for a glass of water. He tapped the pane, looking down on a covered walkway. The noise was in brief counterpoint to the blipping of one or other of the machines ranged by the bed, on which a gradually diminishing figure lay, making no greater impact on its surroundings than it had done for the past however many months it was.
“You’re probably wondering what I’ve been up to,” said River. “You know, while you’ve been taking it easy.”
There was a fan on the bedside shelf, but the barely wavering slip of ribbon tied to its frame revealed how feeble it was. Several times River had attempted to fix it, this taking the form of flicking its switch on and off. DIY skills exhausted, he settled for nudging the visitor’s chair nearer the draught-zone, and slumping onto it.
“Well, it’s fascinating stuff.”
