‘To do that the zip would have to be undone.’ Walker moved one hand from the wall to her legs, below the hem of her dress.
‘After the zip was undone, then I would pull it over your head. Then —’
‘And then I would undo the buttons of your shirt, your belt.’
Walker moved his hand up between her thighs, feeling her skin become softer and softer until it attained that softness that can never be remembered because it is impossible to imagine anything so soft, because there is nothing to compare it with, to store it alongside. Their lips touched for a moment. Then Walker felt her hand on his wrist, pushing it away from between her legs.
‘No,’ she said, ducking beneath his other arm, smoothing down her dress. In prison he had heard stories like this many times, stories that ended in rape and hate. Walker took up the position Rachel had occupied, leaning back against the wall, his hands hanging by his side. She came towards him, kissed him on the lips.
‘You understand?’ she said.
‘No, yes. No.’
‘But you understand?’
‘No,’ he said.
Malory lived — ‘as far as he lives anywhere’ — in a beach house a couple of hundred miles up the coast. Rachel gave Walker a set of keys and he drove there the next day. A storm was building, the sun flinching in and out of clouds. The house was sparse and expensive, built mainly out of windows. Rugs on wood floors, white walls.
Despite everything Rachel had told him it was difficult to form an impression of Malory from the evidence of his home. There was furniture, a few records, books — not enough of either to suggest any passion for music or reading. There were a few pictures on the walls, none of which he paid much attention to — except for a framed Victorian photograph. It was of a man sitting in a chair, wearing a heavy sepia suit, eyeglasses. Walker wondered who it was and moved closer to read the small caption in the right-hand corner: ‘Unknown Self-portrait’. Walker stepped back and gazed at the face of this strange ghost, captivated by the closed logic of the picture. Who was he? A man who looked like this. . But who was he?
Walker moved away from the sad old photograph and went round the rest of the house. It was a place dominated by the absence of everything except light and places to sit or move around. In the study he went through Malory’s files and desk. Rachel had said that if he was away his secretary came in once a week to take care of all his personal affairs, and in a desk drawer he found credit card statements and bills. From these he was able to trace his movements up until three months ago; since then there was nothing. The last payment was to a car rental firm in Durban. Walker made a note of the company’s name and went round the house once more. No flowers or ornaments, only the vista windows looking out over the ocean heaving silently.
Back at his own apartment he called the rental company and asked if they had any information about a car rented three months ago by –
The woman cut him off there and said she couldn’t possibly deal with queries like that on the phone. As soon as he put the phone down it rang beneath his hand: Rachel. Her voice.
‘Did you find out anything?’
‘Not really. What about this secretary — could I speak to her?’
‘No point at all. She’s been with him for fifteen years. He likes her because she never asks any questions. He won’t have told her anything about where he is. Like I told you, he’s a very secretive man. Pathological. You almost had to use the Freedom of Information Act to get his birthday out of him.’
‘Yes.’
‘So what will you do next?’
‘I suppose I’d better start looking for him.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The only lead we have is that rental firm. I guess I’ll head to Durban.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘As soon as I can.’
‘But I’ll see you before you go?’
‘I hope so,’ he said.
They met later that night, in a bar with candles and no music. Walker ordered beer, bought one for a guy he knew who was sitting at the bar. Rachel drank red wine that looked thick and sleepy in the candlelight. In the curved darkness of her glass Walker saw a reflection of both their faces, dancing, swaying, settled. She handed him the documents that she needed Malory to sign. Walker glanced through them.
‘About money,’ Rachel said.
‘We can take care of that when I get back.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘The money is no problem.’
Rachel finished her wine. ‘Let’s pay and go down to the sea,’ she said.
They walked to the beach, listening to the crash of waves. In places the receding tide had left still pools of water that reflected the stars so perfectly it seemed they were breaks of clear sky in a beach of cloud. Jumping across them was like leaping over the sky itself. Every now and then headlights from the coast road probed out to sea. In the distance they could see the hazy spars of the Bay Bridge. Clouds slipped past a moon that was barely there. They threw a few stones into the sea, listening out for the faint splashes. A ship’s lights blinked in the middle of the darkness and then disappeared.
‘And nothing is but what is not,’ said Rachel.
‘Was that a quote?’
‘Shakespeare. I forget which one.’
‘William probably,’ said Walker.
They sat and waited, looking out at the dark ocean. Rachel said she should be getting back. Walker turned towards her.
‘I have a present for you,’ she said. ‘Here.’ She held out her fist and dropped a thin silver chain into Walker’s palm.
‘Maybe it will bring you luck,’ she said. ‘Keep you safe.’ Walker remembered a comic strip he had read as a kid: ‘Kelly’s Eye’. As long as Kelly wore this jewel around his neck he was indestructible. Each week ended with him walking out of an incredible explosion or twenty-car smash-up, naked except for the stone around his neck and a tattered pair of shorts which were also indestructible.
‘Let me put it on for you.’
Walker bent his head and felt her arms reach around his neck, fiddling with the clasp. Her mouth was near his. This was the moment when they could have kissed but it passed.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes. Sorry, I never know what to say when I’m given a present.’
She smiled — ‘Let’s get going’ — and they began making their way back up the low cliff to her car.
‘There’s something else as well,’ she said when she had unlocked the car door. She reached over to the passenger seat and handed Walker an envelope. In it was the photo that had been taken at the party. Or part of it anyway: it had been cut in two and the half he held showed Rachel, almost in profile, holding the wine glass in both hands as if she were praying.
‘To remind me you exist?’ Walker said.
‘Maybe.’
‘What about the other half?’
‘I keep that. To remind me that you do,’ she said. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘No. It’s five minutes from here, that’s all.’
They were both eager to be on their own now, wanting the leaving to be over with, knowing that everything between them would have to wait.
‘Is there anything else I can do?’ Rachel said finally, standing by the open door of the car.
‘No. I’ll call you.’
‘Be careful, won’t you?’
Walker said yes, yes he would. He watched her drive off and waited for the tail lights to disappear from sight before heading home himself.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a three-day drive to Durban and Walker set off the next day. He crossed the Bay Bridge and headed up the coast. He had just passed Malory’s house when a white mist rolled in from the sea, enveloping the road. He slowed to a crawl, winding down the window and feeling the air clinging damp to his skin. The mist thinned and he looked out at a zinc sky, pale sea rolling calmly on to white sand, grey-white gulls dotting the beach. When the mist closed in again, all he could see was the lighthouse glow of cars heading towards him.