‘The loft,’ she said at last, and broke away from him. ‘This wasn’t what I had in mind.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘No!’ She was firm.
On the stairs she stumbled again, but this time clumsily turned her head to avoid another kiss. They continued up to the first landing with his arm around her; then, as she opened her mouth to explain about the step-ladder, he kissed her again. She struggled, but half-heartedly, giggling, and tried pushing him away.
‘Oh, get off!’ But she didn’t mean it; she was fighting against herself more than him. ‘Brian’ll be here any minute.’
‘He’ll be ages. These rooms need doing as well, don’t they?’
‘All of them,’ she said, ‘but—’
Already he had opened the nearest door, the one leading into her bedroom. Inside, he stopped in admiration. ‘Like a film star’s! Design all this yourself, did you? You could do this professionally, you know. Make a mint o’ money.’
‘The spraying’s going to make a mess of it, isn’t it?’
‘The carpet’ll have to come up.’
‘The bathroom, too. It’s a wooden floor under those tiles. Oh, God, why did this have to happen to ruin everything?’
She held him close but with her head turned away, not wanting him to notice that her eyes were wet, but placing his finger under her chin he gently raised her mouth to Ills. Their kiss was long, at first quiet and comforting, but then growing increasingly more urgent, their tongues darting at each other, teasing, daring… He slipped the raincoat off her shoulders and draped it over the chair, then dropped his own leather jacket on top of it. Next her sweater, sliding his hard hands beneath it, caressing her bare skin and still kissing her as slowly he eased it over her breasts and helped her out of it.
The tattoo over his stomach shocked her back to her senses — a flower design, in itself harmless, but what was she doing naked on her own bed with a man who’d had himself decorated in this way, vandalising his body? But by then it was too late to draw back. She felt his weight as he shifted on to her, and his leg pressing between here; yes, and hers parting willingly because she wanted him, hungered for him, tattoo or not.
In those moments it didn’t even matter to her who he was. His body was hard and muscular, serving her purposes, arousing her to.. to…
Oh no, he was going on. He wasn’t finished yet. Oh, my God, it’s not over. Please God it’s not over.
Dorothea awoke with a start at the sound of footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs — light, mincing footsteps. Brian, she thought, horrified. Brian! But how the hell did he get into the house?
She was lying naked on the bed with Pete next to her, flat on his back, snoring, and that hateful tattoo above his navel trembling each time he breathed in. The duvet! She reached for something to cover herself, but it was all in a heap on the floor, everything tangled up together. As she scrambled for her robe, a sharp pain hit her behind the eyes. They’d fallen asleep, she realised through her panic; now she’d woken up with a headache, a dry mouth, a beast of a hangover!
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
‘Brian! Stay out!’ she shouted, desperately trying to disentangle the robe. But she heard the doorknob turning hesitantly. ‘Brian — no!’
Slowly the door opened and Kath stood there, wide-eyed. She was in her school clothes with her bag over her shoulder. A ribbon held her long hair back from her face. Her expression was grave, like marble, as she understood what she was witnessing.
Kath’s hand had never left the doorknob. Before Dorothea could say anything — could even think of anything to say — she had backed quietly out and closed the door behind her. Then came the rapid sound of her footsetps as she ran downstairs, and the slamming of the front door, which echoed through the entire house.
13
By the time the action committee meeting at Worth Road police station was brought to an end that afternoon, they had reached agreement on several recommendations. At Mary’s insistence — and despite some hesitation from Bill Jenkins about how realistic their targets were — they agreed that all schools and hospitals were to be inspected immediately for bloodworm infestation and work begun on treating the timber; meanwhile other public buildings were to be closed until their turn came.
To protect the public, a leaflet and poster campaign backed up by TV announcements was to be instituted. People living in older property would be offered guidance on examining and spraying their own houses. Those with relatives or friends with whom they could stay in the country were advised to leave London as soon as possible, particularly if they had children; their house-keys should be deposited at their nearest police station.
Even while they were discussing these provisions, reports came in of incidents at a famous old hotel near Euston Station and a snooker hall approximately half a mile away. As Evan marked the locations on his map, it was obvious to everyone present that the menace was spreading across London like an ink blot. It was only a matter of time before it reached London University, the West End and Whitehall.
It was at this point that Mary’s friend Derek Owen repeated his view that they would get nowhere without more specimens for detailed study. ‘Bloodworms in particular,’ he insisted. ‘With so many in evidence, surely I’m not demanding-the impossible?’ Guy supported him and, for the second time, offered to do something about it himself. It was an offer which Evan took up without hesitating, and for the next ten minutes he and Guy immersed themselves in a discussion of the best way to approach the problem.
Mary shuddered at the mere thought of the risks they’d be taking. At that table she was the only one who had actually encountered giant bloodworms face to face and knew what they were like, though Guy had glimpsed them briefly all those weeks ago. Derek was right, she thought; they did need specimens.
The atmosphere of that room in the police station was beginning to get on her nerves and she didn’t linger once the meeting was over. With a quick smile which was meant for Evan — though she couldn’t be sure whether he saw it or not — she slipped out and went down to her car, which was parked in the rear yard. Later that afternoon she’d have to put the action committee’s proposals to the borough councillors and attempt to win their support, but she calculated she just had time first to inspect the temporary offices which had been allocated to her department.
It should have been a ten-minute drive, but in fact it took her double that time to get there because of the traffic. From the look of some of the cars with families packed inside and heavy luggage on the roof-rack, the exodus had already started without any prompting from the committee.
At last she turned into Shoreham Road and drove slowly along, trying to identify the building. It was council property, previously used for evening classes, but she’d never been there before and she felt a twinge of fear as she drew up outside. A double-fronted Victorian house with large bay windows, it looked just the sort of place the beetles seemed to favour.
It had been inspected, though; she’d been assured of that. Simpkins himself had brought a team down to give the whole house a thorough going-over before the furniture was brought in. As an emergency measure, the most obvious danger points had been treated with a strong insecticide lacquer spray, with a more thorough fumigation scheduled for the weekend.
it’s pretty bleak,’ her assistant Adrian greeted her as she went in. He was carrying several boxes of stationery through the bare hallway towards the stairs. ‘They’ve given us the big front room on the first floor. Parks and Amenities have the back, with the borough engineer’s lot in the rest. Oh, and Housing’s on the ground floor.’