Of course she remembered. She did now, now she recognized the voice. She could even picture him standing there, bulky, telephone to his ear, his mouth. “And was that why you phoned?” she said, smiling a little. “Because you thought I wouldn’t be here?” She was surprised at how pleased she was that he had.
“No,” he said, and then, “Is it too late for you to meet me for a drink?”
It was only when she put down the phone that Hannah realized she didn’t know exactly where the Polish Club was; she hoped the taxi driver would.
She had changed outfits three times waiting for the cab to arrive, reverting finally to what she had been wearing when Resnick phoned, a soft gray cotton round-neck top over recently washed blue jeans, black shoes, flat and comfortable, on her feet. Front door open, she lifted a stone-colored linen jacket from the coat rack in the hall.
Resnick was waiting for her when she arrived, moving from the shadows at the top of the steps as her taxi drew away.
“You found it okay?”
“The driver did.”
“You’ve been here before?”
Hannah shook her head.
The elderly man with white hair brushed back and a blue blazer, buttons shining, looked up at Resnick as he signed Hannah in, Resnick avoiding the questions in his watery blue eyes.
“Look,” Resnick said; he had stopped her in the hallway beyond the desk, hand barely touching her arm. She was vaguely aware of deep red wallpaper, framed photographs, music from another room. “There are people here I know, I can either introduce you or …”
“Or we can hide in a corner.”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
Hannah smiled back. “I’m not the hiding type.”
Marian Witczak took Hannah’s hand as a doctor might receive a slide on which a rare and potentially dangerous specimen had been prepared. She made the smallest of small talk while Resnick was at the bar and, when he returned, excused herself onto the dance floor. So much for her wanting to see me on the arm of a beautiful woman, Resnick thought.
Hannah accepted the glass of lager and relaxed against the worn leather seat. “When did that finish?” she asked, looking off in the direction Marian had taken.
“What exactly?”
“Your whatever-you’d-call it. Relationship. Affair.”
“With Marian?”
“Uh-huh.”
Resnick shook his head. “It never started.”
Setting down her glass, Hannah smiled. “Well, that explains the welcome, at least.”
They sat and talked for maybe half an hour, respective jobs, contrasting afternoons, Notts County seemingly as foreign to Hannah as Tunisia was to Resnick.
“You never go to the cinema?”
“Not really.”
“I go to Broadway most weeks, I suppose. They show all kinds of stuff. You know, things you’re not likely to see elsewhere, except on Channel Four.”
“Like films from Tunisia.” Resnick smiled.
Hannah nodded. He looked years younger when he did that, the broadening of the mouth, brightening of the eyes.
“You should go,” she said. “They have some good films. They’re not all Tunisian. And besides …”-smiling-“… they serve good food.”
What had it been, she was thinking, the sauce that he had dripped onto his suit and failed to wipe away? Bolognese? Matriciana?
The call for last orders came from behind the bar. They were on their feet when the accordion swayed into the last waltz.
“Should we?” Resnick said, head angled, fingers reaching again for her arm.
“I don’t think so,” Hannah said.
But once outside she slipped her arm through his and suggested they walk a little. He asked her where she lived and she him. At the junction of Sherwood Rise and Gregory Boulevard, a black-and-white cab came towards them with its For Hire light shining and Resnick stepped out into the road, arm raised.
“Oh, God,” said Hannah as he held open the door. “Your place or mine?”
The cab dropped them off at the end of the Promenade. During the short journey they had said little, Resnick aware of Hannah’s proximity, the sleeve of her jacket almost resting on his thigh, the sounds, faint, of her breathing, the way her hands rested in a loose cradle above her lap, fingers barely touching.
“This is it,” she said, her voice, for that moment unnaturally loud.
Resnick nodded: he had reasons for knowing this street. The houses, tall, to the left as they began to walk along the unmade road, little more than a path; to the right, iron railings and an uneven line of bushes and small trees which separated them from the park.
“I’m at the far end,” Hannah said, “the terrace.”
These houses they were going past, lights muted by curtains or filtered through lace, were semi-detached; small gardens at the front, squares of grass bordered by shrubs or flowering plants. Indistinct, the sounds of voices, laughter, television, dinner parties winding down. Resnick exchanged automatic greetings with a man out walking his dog. As they passed the house where Mary Sheppard had lived, something in the pit of his stomach knotted and turned.
When Hannah paused to ease back the gate which led to the few terraced houses at the end, she saw Resnick’s face, pale in the fall of the overhead light.
“What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
It had been a cold night, far colder than this, and Mary Sheppard had been naked to the waist, next to naked below; Resnick remembered her legs partly raised, arms at extreme angles to the body. The officers who had arrived there before Resnick-Lynn Kellogg and Kevin Naylor had been the first-had covered her with a plastic sheet and then covered that with coats taken from inside the house. Resnick had lifted these back, looked at her with a borrowed torch. Her eyes had been open, gazing up, unseeing, at the moon.
He followed Hannah up the short path towards her front door. When she turned, key in hand, it was almost into his arms.
“You are coming in? Coffee? A drink?”
For a moment he hesitated. “Maybe better some other time.” Regretful, the slow shake of the head.
“You’re sure?” She laid her hand on his, the cold hardness of the key, the sudden warmth of her skin. Resnick didn’t move. Hannah was trying to see his face, read the expression in his eyes. After a moment, she turned and slipped the key into the lock, pushed back the door; there was a light burning, warm orange, in the hall. She looked back, then stepped aside as Resnick followed her in.
There was an old fireplace in the living room, decorated tiles at each side, a vase of dried flowers standing before the matte black grate. Postcards stood on the mantelpiece, a small family photograph in a gray-green frame. A two-seater settee pushed up against one wall, two brightly covered armchairs, cushions on the floor. Not knowing where to sit, Resnick stood.
From upstairs he heard the flushing of the toilet, Hannah’s feet upon the stairs
“What’s it to be?” She had taken off her jacket; he noticed, for the first time, two rings, silver with a glint of color, on the outside fingers of her right hand.
“Coffee, tea? There’s a bottle of wine already open. It’s not too bad. Actually, it’s pretty good.” She was smiling with her eyes.
“Wine sounds fine.”
“Okay.” She flapped a hand in the direction of the settee. “Why don’t you sit down? Put on some music if you’d like. I’ll just be a minute.”
Resnick bent over a small pile of CDs beside the stereo in the corner of the room bearing names, mostly female, that he didn’t know. He looked at the cover of the case that was standing empty, presumably what Hannah had been playing when he’d called. Stones in the Road. Resnick thought he knew some of those.
In the square kitchen, pouring wine, Hannah was amazed at the unsteadiness of her hand. Hannah, what the hell’s the matter with you, she asked? And what on earth do you think you’re doing?
“Here.”
He was still standing there, too big for the middle of the room. When he took the glass his fingers burned for an instant against the edge of her hand.