GBH by Ted Lewis

inside light combines with the harshness of that outside to diffuse and at the same time double her image in the double glazing of the glass between the two sources of illumination. And my present alcoholic vision doesn’t help in clarifying her appearance.
    Thoughts of why she’s here, what she’s doing, seem frozen by the surprise at being presented with her vision.
    She stands there motionless, looking into the apparent emptiness of the room for any signs of life.
    I press another switch, and, just for the moment, I don’t move. Just in case.
    A section of the window slides open, letting in the cold night air. For a moment, she just stands there; then she steps forward, into the room.
    I press the switches again. The window closes, and so do the curtains.
    She stands still, a foot in front of the curtains.
    “Do I have to say, coming, ready or not?” she says.
    I slip the gun into my jacket pocket, then step away from the wall. She looks down into the well at me.
    “So,” she says. “You saw the Bond movie, too.”
    I still don’t say anything.
    “I’m not standing on a hidden trapdoor or anything like that, am I?” she says. “Or is it the crocodile’s night off?”
    I move forward to the foot of the steps. She still doesn’t move.
    “What are you doing?” I say to her.
    “Waiting,” she says.
    “Waiting?”
    “To be offered a drink.”
    “Here,” I say to her. “What are you doing here?”
    She shrugs.
    “I don’t know really. I was walking on the beach.”
    I look at her, not saying anything.
    “I often walk on the beach when I can’t rest. Mablethorpe’s only a mile from here if you walk along the beach.”
    “But what are you doing here?”
    “I saw your light. I was going to turn round and walk back, but I saw your light.”
    “How did you know it was mine?”
    “Yours is the only house here.”
    “You knew where I lived?”
    “Of course,” she says. “Eddie told me.”
    “Why should he tell you that?”
    She looks at me. I begin to mount the stairs.
    “You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?” she says.
    I reach the top of the steps and pick up my drink off the top of the piano.
    “Why did Eddie tell you where I lived?”
    “No reason. Except to impress me, I suppose; I can’t think why.”
    I take a sip of my drink and look at her.
    “He’s impressed by you,” she says. “So I suppose he thought I would be.”
    “But you’re not.”
    She shrugs.
    “Then why come?”
    “I told you; I saw your light. I thought I might be offered a drink. I mean, as you tried to pick me up. As it happens …”
    She walks over to the window, then stops, turns to face me.
    “Or do I get to go out through the front door this time?”
    “The drinks are over there,” I tell her.
    She looks at the shelving, then crosses the floor between me and the silent flickering of the TV set and begins to make herself a drink.
    “Don’t you have any lemon?” she says.
    I don’t say anything.
    “Vodka’s not the same without a slice of lemon.”
    “Why didn’t you ring the bell?” I ask her.
    “I did,” she said, dropping some ice into the glass. “You had the music on loud. You do remember the music?”
    She walks over to the fireplace and stands in front of the unlit logs that have been set in the grate.
    “I don’t believe you,” I tell her.
    “What, particularly?”
    “People don’t walk on the beach at night.”
    “Only first thing in the morning?”
    I look at her.
    “I’ve seen you. A couple of times. Once you sat on an old tank. Another time I saw you climb up on to one of those pillboxes and sit on top of that.”
    “I’ve never seen you.”
    She shrugs.
    “It’s a big beach.”
    I go over to the drinks and pour myself another.
    “One thing I have noticed about you,” she says.
    “What’s that?”
    “You drink every drink as though you need it.”
    “You notice a lot.”
    I go over to the TV, switch it off, then walk just beyond it to the panel of switches on