mentioned in passing her mother and father with whom she had
lived in those far-off days and she had also mentioned her mother's
death soon after the war. The father would have been working as a
professor, whatever that meant, certainly that he'd be away from home.
Mix could imagine Gwendolen letting Reggie in, taking him into the
kitchen for a cup of tea--snob that she was--while they talked about the
abortion, her need for it and his ability to perform the operation. Perhaps
she couldn't afford the fee Reggie asked, but Mix couldn't remember
reading anywhere that he evercharged ...
Approaching the house where Danila lived, at two minutes after eight,
he found her waiting for him just inside the frontgate. This didn't please
him, as it was too much of a sign of desperation. He would have
preferred her to keep him waiting,even if it had been half an hour. But
now she was with him, dressed up to the nines as his gran used to say,
in skin-tightleather trousers, a frilled shirt, and a fake leopard-skin
jacket. Just like Ruth Fuerst, he thought, and he wondered if Fuerst had
looked like this, skinny and dark and sharp-featured. He tried to recall if
he'd ever seen photographs of her. They walked up to Ladbroke Grove
and the Kensington Park Hotel.
He loved KPH, not because there was anything special about it but
because all those years ago Reggie had used it. It was historic. They
ought to have a sign up telling the clientele thatit had once been the local
of west London's most infamous killer. But when you had people
ignorant enough to pull down Rillington Place and destroy all signs of
that celebrated site,what could you expect?
"You're very quiet," said Danila, a vodka and blackcurrant in front of
her. "Kayleigh'd want to know if the cat had gotyour tongue."
It was an unpleasant reminder of Otto. "Who's Kayleigh?"
"The girl who does the evening shift at the spa. She's my friend." When
Mix made no reply, she said eagerly--or desperately?--" I had my fortune
told today."
Mix was going to say he'd no time for that and it was a load of rubbish
when he remembered reading how Nerissa patronized faith healers,
fortune-tellers, and had some guru. Besides, he half believed in ghosts
now, didn't he? "I reckon there maybe something in it. There's lots of
things we don't know, aren't there? I mean, some of them'll turn out to
be scientific all along."
"That's exactly what I say. Madam Shoshana at the spa does mine.
She's the boss but she's a soothsayer too, got all sorts of qualifications,
letters after her name and all."
"What did she say?"
"You mustn't laugh. My fate's bound up with a man whose name starts
with a C. And I thought, I wonder if it's achap who does the pedicures at
the spa. He's called Charlie, Charlie Owen."
Mix laughed. "It might be me."
"Your name begins with an M."
"Not my surname."
"Yeah, but that's an S."
"No, it's not. I ought to know. It's C, E, double L, I, N, I."
She stared into his face. "You're kidding."
"D'you want another drink?" he said.
On the way back to Oxford Gardens he bought two bottles ofCalifornia
white, cheap-offer bin ends, in the wine shop. They drank it on her bed
and afterward Mix didn't think he acquitted himself very well. But what
did it matter? They were both drunk and she wasn't the sort of girl for
whom you felt you had to put up a good performance. Outside her door,
the floor and the ceiling rocked like the waves of the sea, rising and
sinking and quivering. Heading for the stairs, clutching the banisters,he
stumbled and nearly came to his knees, his jacket falling forward over
his head. Adjusting it as best he could and starting down, he passed a
man coming up who stood back, unmistakably flinching at a blast from
his breath. Another tenant, his fuddled mind conjectured, Middle
Eastern chap, sallow face, black mustache, they all looked the same. He
didn't look back to see the Middle Eastern chap pick up a small white
card
lived in those far-off days and she had also mentioned her mother's
death soon after the war. The father would have been working as a
professor, whatever that meant, certainly that he'd be away from home.
Mix could imagine Gwendolen letting Reggie in, taking him into the
kitchen for a cup of tea--snob that she was--while they talked about the
abortion, her need for it and his ability to perform the operation. Perhaps
she couldn't afford the fee Reggie asked, but Mix couldn't remember
reading anywhere that he evercharged ...
Approaching the house where Danila lived, at two minutes after eight,
he found her waiting for him just inside the frontgate. This didn't please
him, as it was too much of a sign of desperation. He would have
preferred her to keep him waiting,even if it had been half an hour. But
now she was with him, dressed up to the nines as his gran used to say,
in skin-tightleather trousers, a frilled shirt, and a fake leopard-skin
jacket. Just like Ruth Fuerst, he thought, and he wondered if Fuerst had
looked like this, skinny and dark and sharp-featured. He tried to recall if
he'd ever seen photographs of her. They walked up to Ladbroke Grove
and the Kensington Park Hotel.
He loved KPH, not because there was anything special about it but
because all those years ago Reggie had used it. It was historic. They
ought to have a sign up telling the clientele thatit had once been the local
of west London's most infamous killer. But when you had people
ignorant enough to pull down Rillington Place and destroy all signs of
that celebrated site,what could you expect?
"You're very quiet," said Danila, a vodka and blackcurrant in front of
her. "Kayleigh'd want to know if the cat had gotyour tongue."
It was an unpleasant reminder of Otto. "Who's Kayleigh?"
"The girl who does the evening shift at the spa. She's my friend." When
Mix made no reply, she said eagerly--or desperately?--" I had my fortune
told today."
Mix was going to say he'd no time for that and it was a load of rubbish
when he remembered reading how Nerissa patronized faith healers,
fortune-tellers, and had some guru. Besides, he half believed in ghosts
now, didn't he? "I reckon there maybe something in it. There's lots of
things we don't know, aren't there? I mean, some of them'll turn out to
be scientific all along."
"That's exactly what I say. Madam Shoshana at the spa does mine.
She's the boss but she's a soothsayer too, got all sorts of qualifications,
letters after her name and all."
"What did she say?"
"You mustn't laugh. My fate's bound up with a man whose name starts
with a C. And I thought, I wonder if it's achap who does the pedicures at
the spa. He's called Charlie, Charlie Owen."
Mix laughed. "It might be me."
"Your name begins with an M."
"Not my surname."
"Yeah, but that's an S."
"No, it's not. I ought to know. It's C, E, double L, I, N, I."
She stared into his face. "You're kidding."
"D'you want another drink?" he said.
On the way back to Oxford Gardens he bought two bottles ofCalifornia
white, cheap-offer bin ends, in the wine shop. They drank it on her bed
and afterward Mix didn't think he acquitted himself very well. But what
did it matter? They were both drunk and she wasn't the sort of girl for
whom you felt you had to put up a good performance. Outside her door,
the floor and the ceiling rocked like the waves of the sea, rising and
sinking and quivering. Heading for the stairs, clutching the banisters,he
stumbled and nearly came to his knees, his jacket falling forward over
his head. Adjusting it as best he could and starting down, he passed a
man coming up who stood back, unmistakably flinching at a blast from
his breath. Another tenant, his fuddled mind conjectured, Middle
Eastern chap, sallow face, black mustache, they all looked the same. He
didn't look back to see the Middle Eastern chap pick up a small white
card
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