Red Crystal (23 page)

The doorbell rang and she jumped.

The caretaker?

She wrapped the robe more tightly round her waist and cautiously opened the door.

She blinked in disbelief.

Emilio.

She began ineffectually, ‘I – er – gosh, come in, won’t you?’

He entered and wandered through the flat, peering into the rooms, picking up a couple of her Indian ornaments. ‘Nice.’

She recovered slightly. ‘Well, it’s small, but it suits me.’

He wandered up to her and regarded her gravely. She was suddenly aware of how very dreadful she must look.

He remarked, ‘You’re shivering.’

‘Yes, I feel very cold. I was about to have a bath.’

‘Please …’ He gestured to show that she should go ahead.

‘But you’ve come for your money. I’ll give you a cheque.’

He shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t come for the money.’ His eyes slid away. ‘I come to see if you are okay.’

‘Oh – ’ It was such a simple kindness that she was overwhelmed. She stood stupidly, trying to think of something to say.

He insisted, ‘Please – take your bath.’

‘I can’t light the geyser.’

It took him only a moment to relight the pilot with a match. As the bath began to fill, she followed him back to the main room.

He remarked matter-of-factly, ‘Your eye – it will be very black tomorrow.’

‘Oh dear, will it? Oh dear!’ Victoria ran exploratory fingers round the eye and suddenly felt very ugly and dispirited. ‘You’re right,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve never had a black eye before.’

He stood by the window, looking out, restless, she sensed; thinking of other things. In an effort to pull back his attention she said brightly, ‘Would you like some whisky, Emilio? Or wine? I have some in the fridge.’

His eyes slid round to hers. ‘Giorgio. My name. Not Emilio. And wine, please.’

‘Oh.’ So
that
name hadn’t been true either. But she was so glad to have his company that she took it in good heart and smiled. ‘Giorgio then. A nice name. I’ll get the wine.’

She went into the kitchen and, taking out the wine, made a fumbling attempt to open it and broke the cork. She took the corkscrew and the bottle in to him and shrugged apologetically. ‘Not very good at this, I’m afraid.’

He leant over the bottle, drew out the cork first time and looked up at her, smiling a little. Chameleon-like, the indifference and remoteness had vanished from his face. Instead, the eyes were focused, interested, amused.

She looked away, only too aware of her dirty face and swollen eye. ‘I think I’ll go and have that bath then …’

‘Leave the door open,’ he said, ‘then we can talk.’

‘Er – yes.’ Another kind thought. Victoria was pleased and rather flattered. Perhaps she had misjudged him: he seemed very considerate. She just wished she felt more relaxed in his company. She went into the bathroom and closed the door almost to the jamb, so that only a small crack remained.

The water was so hot it made her shiver as she got in. But the heat was glorious, like a balm, soothing her, creeping slowly through her body, easing the pain. She shouted, ‘This is wonderful!’

He muttered a vague response. She guessed that for the moment he was preoccupied.

When the delicious warmth had penetrated every inch of her blood, she dropped her head back into the water and wet her hair. Sitting up, she let the water drain off her head, and reached for the shampoo.

There was a movement in front of her.

She jumped and let out an involuntary cry.

It was Giorgio. Sitting on the closed loo, leaning forward, offering her a glass of wine. ‘I thought you would like your wine, so – I brought it. You don’t mind?’

He said it as if only someone exceptionally stupid and unworldly would mind. She gaped, horribly aware of her beastly unattractive white body billowing massively out of the water. He must be horrified.

She thought: I’m not going to show a thing. Not a
thing
.

Trying to look calm and sophisticated she drew her knees carefully up in front of her and managed a thin smile. ‘You gave me a bit of a shock.’ She took the wine and drank a great gulp of it.

Completely unembarrassed, Giorgio inspected her colourful legs and asked her how she’d got the bruises. When she had told him, he remarked, ‘These things – they happen. It is a necessary part of the struggle against oppression. Always, people will be hurt when fascists try to exercise their power.’

She had half a mind to point out that it had been the crowd who had crushed her. ‘You feel very strongly about it?’ she ventured.

‘In Italy it is part of our lives, always a danger. Fascism did not die with Mussolini. In Italy the rich are very rich, the poor very poor. The rich exploit the poor completely. You understand? Completely. Politically, economically … In every way. And, to stay rich, they use force. The police. The law.’

He sounded very sure, very knowledgeable. Discussing such things with him made her feel very responsible and wise. She asked, ‘Do you think there’s a danger of it happening
here
, though?’

He gave an infinitesimal shrug and she sensed he was suddenly bored with the conversation. ‘Of course.’

He reached down and, picking the bottle up from the floor, poured himself some more wine. Victoria sat still, feeling awkward. She wished she was liberated enough to sink back into the bath and finish washing her hair.

She stole a look at him. He was watching her again, his eyes sharp and gleaming. She averted her gaze and pretended to soap her feet.

‘Why do you hide your breasts?’

She almost choked. ‘What?’

‘You shouldn’t. They are very beautiful.’

‘No. No, they’re …’ She reached wildly for the shampoo and poured some into her hand.

‘Here, let me help you.’ He knelt beside the bath and lathered her hair. Then he pushed her firmly back until her head was in the water and her hair rinsed. As he guided her up again he caressed her shoulder, then her arm, and finally her breast, murmuring, ‘Very beautiful.’

Victoria sat quite motionless, unable to speak.

He got up and, taking a towel, waited beside the bath. Reluctantly she half stood up and reached for the towel.

‘No, stand up. Let me see you.’

‘No!’ She remained crouched sideways, horribly aware of what gravity did to her body.

‘You don’t like it? You don’t like being as you are?’ He laughed. ‘You must learn to be proud of your body. It is
important
to love your own body. In Italy we like many kinds of woman. And many men, they
prefer
women like you. Here.’ He wrapped the towel round her and pulled her upright. ‘You must love your body,’ he repeated and, leaning forward, kissed her slowly on the lips.

His hand reached under her towel. She froze, not daring to move, in case the moment should somehow evaporate. She gulped as he found her breast again, and, taking it firmly in his hand, kneaded it gently. The towel dropped away and then he was kissing her body, infinitely slowly, travelling each inch as if it were precious and beautiful. She closed her eyes and decided that she didn’t care what he really thought as long as he didn’t under any circumstances stop.

Abruptly he moved away from her and she opened her eyes in alarm. But everything was going to be all right – he was holding his hand out, motioning her to take hold of it and follow him. He led her to the bed and, as she lay down, began to take off his clothes with a deliberate almost teasing slowness.

As last he bent down and began to kiss her again, going over every part of her body with his mouth until she pulled him to her, desperate for him, wanting him with such a powerful longing that even after his weight had sunk, motionless and spent, on top of her she kept him inside her, hugging him, covering his head with kisses, weeping gently, wondering what on earth she had done to deserve a man like this.

T
HE DOORS OPENED
and a stream of Sunday visitors entered the ward bearing flowers, bags of fruit, and children. The noise level rose to a babble.

Nick turned his head and winced.

‘Serves you right for not taking your pills,’ said the nurse mercilessly as she straightened his bedclothes.

Nick had already got the message: taking your own decisions was a criminal offence in this hospital. For what must have been the tenth time, he explained, ‘I’d rather have a headache than feel half alive.’

The nurse retreated, shaking her head. Nick closed his eyes for a few moments only to reopen them and find Chief Superintendent Straughan standing beside the bed.

‘They say you’re going to live,’ said Straughan, without enthusiasm. ‘No thanks to what went on in that mob yesterday.’ He sat down on a chair by the bed and, glancing at the nearest visitors, lowered his voice. ‘Assuming you’re feeling up to it, I’d rather like to have your version of events, if you don’t mind.’

‘My version of the whole demonstration?’

Indicating Nick’s bandaged head, Straughan said angrily, ‘Your version of this bloody fracas.’

From the sound of it, the DCS already knew quite a bit about it. Nick prompted, ‘You’ve been hearing about it, have you, sir?’

The DCS gave him a hard stare. ‘Yes, of course I have! The Special Patrol Group have an officer who says you mashed his face up, then ran off into the crowd without identifying yourself.’

‘And what did he have to say about crushing my head in?’

‘He says he was only trying to arrest you but you put up a fight.’

Nick rubbed a hand over his aching eyes. ‘The first bit’s true, except he was walloping me hard with a truncheon when I twisted his nose. The second bit isn’t true. He got me from behind and I never raised a finger. Wish I had.’ There was no love lost between the elitist Special Patrol Group and the other branches of the Met.

‘God save me from small boys who belong in playgrounds,’ Straughan remarked heavily. ‘I won’t even ask what the hell you were doing in the middle of the crowd when you were meant to be observing from the sidelines.’ He sighed. ‘As if it wasn’t enough of a fiasco.’

Nick felt a ripple of alarm. ‘Oh?’

The inspector’s mouth was a thin line of disgust. ‘It could have been worse, but I can’t imagine how.’ He chucked a newspaper on to the bed. On the front page were two large photographs, one of a person being beaten by a member of the Special Patrol Group, the second of the same person propped against some railings, covered in blood and looking half dead.

Wheatfield.

On page three there was more: a sequence of six pictures, obviously taken with a motor-drive camera, which showed Wheatfield being hauled out of the crowd and cowering under a hail of blows from a truncheon.

The photographs were excellent; the point of the story inescapable. And the journalists had made the most of it. Nick knew that he had been thoroughly outmanoeuvred. It made him feel slightly sick.

‘All the other papers have got at least one picture,’ said Straughan wearily. ‘On the front page, of course.’

Nick tapped the pictures. ‘This is why I asked to see you.’

‘Yes, so they told me.’

‘It was a put-up job. They set it up. This bloke – Wheatfield – was beaten by his friends,
in
the crowd, and
after
the SPG man had hauled him out. I saw them doing it. They kicked him in the face …’

Straughan exhaled slowly. ‘Let me understand this – you are telling me that this customer was injured by his friends to make things look bad for us?’

‘Right.’

The DCS paused, then shook his head. ‘Well, they’ve bloody succeeded, haven’t they? I mean in making things look bad.’

Nick argued. ‘But I
saw
them do it.’

‘Yes, so you did.’ He didn’t look happy about it.

A suspicion began to harden in Nick’s mind. He asked, ‘This is going to be taken further, isn’t it?’

‘Of course.’

‘But?’

‘But it’s your word against these pictures,’ said Straughan briskly. ‘You’ll be believed in the Force – that goes without saying. But outside – they’ll think we’re making up stories to cover our thuggery, won’t they? And they’ll argue that the kick you claim to have seen was in all likelihood accidental, won’t they? They’ll say you were seeing what you wanted to see. Get my point?’

Nick settled his pounding head back on the pillow. He got the point all right, and it was the one he’d suspected he would have to accept all along.

‘Well, at least this sod Wheatfield’s not going to die on us,’ said Straughan, getting to his feet. ‘Apart from a broken nose and an ugly face he’s not badly hurt. They say he’ll be out in three or four days. That’s something at least.’

Nick said a little too quickly, ‘Where is he?’

The DCS gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Never mind that. The best thing you can do is to forget about the whole business for the moment, okay? I don’t want to see you back until you’re fully recovered. Two weeks, three weeks – whatever. You’re no use to me with a sore head. Right?’

As soon as he’d gone Nick rang for a nurse. Eventually the disapproving girl arrived. He asked, ‘Is there someone called Max Wheatfield here?’

She replied waspishly, ‘Did you bring me all the way here just to ask me
that
?’