GBH by Ted Lewis Page A

the brick wall. As I pass the TV, I sway into it, almost knocking it off its stand. I get to the panel and as I’m trying to turn up the heating a few degrees to compensate for the entry of the night air I accidentally activate the movie screen. It begins to descend from the ceiling. I reverse its procedure and it slides back up again.
    “Every possible home comfort,” she says.
    I don’t answer her. Instead I put a cigarette in my mouth, light it, walk a little closer to her. She steps back slightly. I shake out the match, throw it into the grate.
    “Eddie says everybody round here thinks you’re in property or something.”
    “I am.”
    “Eddie doesn’t think so.”
    “Eddie knows nothing.”
    She takes a sip of her drink. I try my hardest to focus on her. In spite of myself I say, “I know you. I know you from somewhere.”
    “God,” she says, walking over to the piano. “Why use that line when you’re in your own house?”
    “Listen,” I say. “I don’t give a fuck about you.”
    “That’s good,” she says. “Because I didn’t come here to get laid.”
    There is a crackling behind me. I couldn’t have shaken the match out properly; flames are rolling up from the newspapers, licking round the logs. Lesley clocks the picture of Jean on the piano.
    “Your wife?” she says.
    “I’m not married.”
    She places her fingers on the keyboard, plays a single chord.
    “What do you do?” she says.
    My focusing is getting worse; there seems to be a triple image of her as she stands at the piano.
    “Property.”
    “Yours or other people’s?”
    The images of her turn to face me.
    “Do you mind if I have another drink?”

THE SMOKE
    H ALES WASN ’ T THE ONE either.
    But Jean had enjoyed herself. The video proved at least that.
    Watching it, afterwards, Jean had gone crazy. She made love as though she’d been touched for the first time. And after that we’d watched the tape again. And after that, again, love.
    The following day I talked to Mickey about Ray Warren.
    “He should have been back by now,” Mickey said. “The funeral was last Thursday. He didn’t have anything to hang around for.”
    “Have you phoned his lady?”
    “No,” Mickey said.
    “Why not give her a ring now?”
    “What, now?”
    “Why not? She might be worried too.”
    I pushed the phone towards Mickey. He took his little black book out and dialled Glenda Warren’s number. I flicked the amplifier so I could hear both sides of the conversation. Glenda came on the line.
    “Hello?”
    “Hello, Glenda. This is Mickey Brice. I’m phoning on Mr. Fowler’s behalf. Ray’s not there, is he?”
    “Ray? No, why?”
    “I mean, he’s not back from Bolton yet?”
    “No, he’s not. Why?”
    “Just business. Mr. Fowler’s got some ideas he wants to talk to Ray about.”
    “Well, he’s not back yet.”
    “When did he say he’d be back?”
    “He said either yesterday or today, depending.”
    “Oh, that’s all right, then. When he gets back, ask him to give us a bell, will you?”
    “Sure, I’ll tell him.”
    “Thanks. Goodbye, Glenda.”
    “That’s all right.”
    Mickey put the phone down. We looked at each other. After a while I said, “Supposing Ray has retired to the sun?”
    Mickey shrugged.
    “If it’s him, he’ll have enough money stacked.”
    “He doesn’t know we’re looking at him.”
    “He could have decided it was time, independent of us.”
    “Well …”
    “There’s two alternatives. Glenda’ll either know or she won’t know.”
    “Ray wouldn’t trust a bird. Not with this.”
    “He might. Ray’s usually a seven-bird-a-week man. He’s been with Glenda eighteen months. Her name’s even on the lease.”
    “In that case she’d have flown with him.”
    “Not necessarily. As I say, there’s two alternatives; if he’s cleared off without her, she’d be mad enough to talk to us; if she knows what he’s been up to, how much money he’s been salting, she’ll be even madder. All