‘Have you done this to Billie?’ she said filling the kettle. Her hands trembled. She was fumbling.
‘You mean her face? Marianne, she was bitten by a dog. That’s what I wanted —’
‘In Paris?’
‘In…’ he caught himself. ‘Doesn’t matter where.’
‘She looks like… un fantome, like a ghost.’
Marianne leaned against the blinding brightness of the bench, sizing him up. Billie came in, her eyes following the cats.
‘I have to pee,’ Billie murmured.
‘Down the hall,’ said Scully. ‘You remember.’ He watched her go.
‘I can’t help you, Scully. You know I never liked you. Such a woman with… un balourd like you.’
‘I won’t even pretend to know what that means.’
‘No, you never did pretend. Such a simple man’s virtue.’
‘Tell me about the park today.’
Marianne’s hoarse laugh was a tiny sound in that bleached space. ‘Scully, you are losing your mind.’
‘Yeah, I’m tired and mean and desperate.’
‘I can call the police. You are a foreigner, remember.’
‘Oh, I remember.’
Marianne reached for a pack of Gauloises and lit up shakily. She smiled.
‘Share the joke, Marianne.’
‘Oh, Scully, you are the joke.’ She dragged hard on the cigarette and blew smoke over him. ‘So you are all alone.’
‘You know, then.’
‘Scully you are the picture of a drowning man. I do not have to know.’
‘Where is she?’
‘If I knew do you really believe I would tell you? My Gahd!’
The kettle began to stir.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Scully’s skin crawled. A cold anger percolated through him.
‘I figured you were a little nasty, Marianne, but I thought deep down you were probably human.’
She laughed.
‘Listen to me. Try to listen to me,’ he breathed. ‘Forget about me. Forget about Jennifer and the baby and what I’m going through. I have a sick —’
‘Baby?’ Marianne’s glossy lips parted. ‘She’s pregnant?’
‘She didn’t tell you, then.’
Marianne waved her fag non-commitally. ‘It’s ’er body, Scully.’
‘Of course it’s her fucking body. You think I need a night-school course on sexual politics? Do I need permission to be worried out of my bloody mind? I didn’t call the cops, no private detective, I go softly, softly and play the game but I’m sick of playing the game, you hear me?’
He kicked a stool across the floor and watched it cartwheel into the wall, jolting shiny implements from their hooks in a horrible clatter. He saw the whiteness of his own fists and the way Marianne had edged into the corner and he thought of Mylie Doolin and the men who did this all the time. She was afraid and he felt the power. He remembered Irma and the ferry. Oh yes, he was capable of anything — he was no different.
‘I always believed you beat her, Scully,’ she said feebly and then with more defiance. ‘The working man out of his depth… the charming woman with ’opes for something better. Did you beat her much, Scully? Were you rough in bed, were you ’ard on her, Scully?’
Scully forced his hands into his pockets. The kettle began to boil and he felt the sinews locking up in his arms as he listened to her warming to it, sucking on her fag, getting into her stride.
‘You are a basher, aren’t you, Scully? Tell me about your face, your very sad eye. It makes me think of beasts, you know.’
He heard the toilet flush and thanked God Billie hadn’t heard all this. Christ, at least he’d spared her that.
‘This is just entertainment for you, isn’t it?’ he said, choking. ‘Like… that’s all it’s ever been. An amusement. The quaint girl from Australia, the one with the clear skin and sun-bleached clothes with all her dreams and optimism and the way she looked at you like you’re a queen or something. Your little salon with your wonderful accents and all that fucking confidence. You played with her. You took her under your wing for fun, to see what would happen.’
‘You were like a stone on ’er, Scully, an anchor on ’er neck, and now you blame me —’
‘I wouldn’t blame you for anything except not caring enough to tell her the truth. I heard you, Marianne. You beefed her up to her face, got her excited, told her she was a genius and laughed behind her back. She was just the other primitive. Only she didn’t see it. Not even afterwards. She was so keen, so impressed. You kicked the shit out of her and she thanked you for it.’
Marianne sighed. ‘Why did you come to Europe, Scully?’
‘For her,’ he said. ‘Both times.’
‘It’s very touching,’ she said doubtfully.
No, he thought, it’s fucking pitiful.
Both of them flinched when the phone rang. Marianne clutched the benchtop, nails shining, and let it ring until the answering machine kicked in. Scully knew the voice.
‘Why don’t you answer it?’ he murmured.
‘I have visitors,’ she hissed.
The message was breathy and urgent, the French way too fast for him.
Dominique. He reached for the phone but Marianne kicked the socket out of the wall.
‘She does not need to talk to you.’
Scully took a step back from her, his fists hanging off his arms. He saw a pulse in Marianne’s throat. Then Billie came in behind him. She pressed against him, held him round the waist and he felt the heat of her through his clothing, across the flush of his fury.
‘Marianne, I need a doctor. I’m here because Billie’s got a fever. Will you please, please give me a number. Someone who has English, someone close.’
For a while Marianne stood there, arms folded as though to keep herself together. Scully felt the lightheadedness of real hatred. He was almost disappointed when she reached over to the Rolodex and flicked through it with trembling hands.
‘I will call,’ she murmured. ‘It will be faster for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, unable to refrain.
Forty-one
‘YOU SAW THE PAPERWORK ON the dog?’
The doctor already had a syringe out. Billie lay on the table, face averted. Scully stood by her, his hand on the radiant nape of her neck.
‘Yes.’
‘You read Greek?’
‘I had a Greek reader with me.’
‘This is Flucloxacillin,’ said the doctor tapping the syringe, his silver specs glinting under the lights. His accent was American but his body language was European. He even pouted like a Frenchman. ‘This should get it, this and the course of tabs. When was her last tetanus shot?’
‘At five. I have the certificate.’
Billie inhaled sharply and squeezed his hand. Scully felt sweat settle in his hair.
‘There you go, Billie. Not so bad, huh? Here, Dad’ll help you with your jeans.’
Billie rolled carefully onto her back, blinking back tears.
‘She’s brave,’ said Scully, for her benefit.
‘You’re South African?’
‘No.’
Scully kissed her hand, let her lie there a moment while the doctor disposed of his tray.
‘Five days, you say.’
‘Yes. I had to use steri-strips.’
‘Well, you could have done worse, I guess. Lucky the big one’s above the hairline.’
‘Yes.’
‘Gimme your address again,’ he said, hovering at his desk.
Scully gave him the old St Paul address, suddenly suspicious.
‘You see out of that eye?’
‘Most of the time.’
‘How’d it happen?’
The doctor came back with some fresh dressings. Billie squirmed as he sponged away the clear seepage of her puckered wounds.