Little Fingers! by Tim Roux Page B

snarls. “A heroine and a martyr.”
    “ I am not
dead.”
    “ No-one is
dead, dear. Just hurt. I am just hurt.”
    “ Is that why
you are trying to hurt me?”
    She glances
down at her coffee, and up again. “Yes.”
    “ OK. That's
OK, Mary. It is quite useful my not having any feelings
sometimes.”
    “ But not the
rest of the time.”
    “ No, maybe
not.”
    Her hands are
working around her cup. The coffee is becoming tidal. Her eyes
widen. “Will you have me back?”
    “ Of course I
will.”
    “ Really?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ Why?”
    “ Because I
love you.”
    “ Love is not
enough.”
    (“Oh, for
God's sake!”). “And because you still owe me some
money.”
    “ That all
went weeks ago.”
    “ And
Alice?”
    “ Don't ask me
about Alice.”
    “ OK.”
    “ Don't ever
ask me about Alice!” she repeats vehemently.
    “ I may not,
but everyone else will, unless she has returned home.”
    “ I don't
know. I doubt it. She kept saying she wanted to. Who
knows?”
    “ What do I
tell people?”
    “ Nothing.”
    “ What will
you tell people?”
    “ Absolutely
nothing. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of. If
Alice were a man, people would respect my silence.”
    “ She is a
young girl. If she is not back at home by now, I assure you that
they are not going to be respectful, not Thibault, not Madame, not
the police, not anyone. They are going to want answers,
Mary.”
    “ They are
going to have to want, then. I don't have any.” Her Manchester
accent has slipped back in. I had forgotten her Manchester
accent.
    “ It's up to
you, Mary, but I do not think that silence will satisfy them. They
are going to cut up rough.”
    “ What can
they do? We spent a few days together, then she moved on. It is
hardly a sin is it?”
    “ They will
certainly consider it a sin.”
    “ In that case
they can just fuck themselves!”
    “ Oh well. I
am going upstairs to have a bath. Are you coming?” I take her hand
to lead her.
    She pulls it
away again. "I am going to finish my coffee. I may see you
later."
     
    * *
*
     
    I slip the key
into the lock and the door slams open. I didn't mean to be that
clumsy. There is a scent to the house that I do not remember. It
feels still. The plates are on the table where I left them. I go
over to the cabinet and extract a packet of cigarettes.
    I have not
smoked for a while.
    It feels good,
the smoke edging down into my lungs and lightening up the whole of
my body. I feel myself again.
    I sit back on
the sofa. Now what? So little can happen in weeks, and your life
can be destroyed in 24 hours.
    Where is
Gargoyle? “Gargoyle, where are you?” They must have taken you to
the kennels. After a quick search I find a note by the front door.
“Your dog is with me. Ugly, isn't he? Goes with the name I suppose.
Love (I am sorry), Mary.”
    There is a
knock at the door. It is Sam. I let her straight in. She is taken
aback by the speed with which I open the door.
    “ I am sorry
to disturb you. I know that you have been through a terrible time.
I just felt the need to say hi.”
    “ Come
in.”
    I gesture Sam
through the lobby towards the sitting room.
    “ I am really
sorry about Tom.”
    “ I am sure
you are. You knew him well, too.”
    “ He was the
best.”
    “ Yes, he
was.”
    “ I will miss
him.”
    “ I will keep
him.”
    Sam looks
surprised.
    “ In my
heart,” I explain.
    "I didn't know
you smoke."
    "I
don't."
    “ Will you
come out for a meal with me? We can get drunk. Any excuse to get
drunk”
    “ With my
reputation? Can you afford it?”
    “ I can afford
it. Come on. Let's phone a taxi. Can I use your phone?”
    “ What, for
you to phone a taxi for us to go out?”
    She looks
alarmed. “Yes,” she says hesitantly.
    “ Then do it,
girl.”
    She laughs in
relief. “Where is it?”
    “ Just there.
Don't forget to pay.”
    “ Are you
going to be like this all evening?”
    “ No, I have
finished now. Sorry. It is the shock. I suppose that Mich wants