Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light

her hand and pushes her into the flat, closing the door behind him with his other hand.

'You. . you. . Leave at once… or I'll. . '

'Don't be afraid of me,' he says quickly, 'I won't hurt you. Now, get me something to drink.'

'You haven't got a message for me. What do you want?'

'Didn't you hear what I said? I'm thirsty. Can't you get me a glass of water?'

'Over there,' she says pointing to a door. 'If you're thirsty, get yourself a drink and then leave. Otherwise I'm going to start screaming.'

'Thanks, but you're coming with me.'

'No, I'm going to stay here by the door,' she says, raising her voice. 'You can have a drink, but then you have to go.'

'Listen to me,' he says quietly. 'You want to know where I'm from. . I've just escaped from the slammer.' He pushes her in front of him into the room with posters and photographs all over the walls. 'Now I've got to stay here and you've got to stay with me.'

You're mad.'

'If you keep your head and stay nice and quiet, nothing's going to happen to you.' He opens the door. The bathroom is small. There is a blue toothbrush in a yellow glass. 'If you shout. . ' he says, and very lightly he brings his hand close to her throat. He stares for a moment into her eyes, which are wide with terror and, without taking his eyes off her, he turns the glass upside down. The toothbrush tumbles to the floor. He turns on the tap and holds the glass under the stream of water.

'Who are you?' Her voice is trembling.

'It doesn't matter a damn.'

'What do you want? What do you want from me?'

'Nothing!' He was holding a full glass of water. 'I've got to stay here with you for a little while.' He gulps down the cool liquid.

'You can't! There's someone coming to see me soon.'

She's lying, of course. He can see that she's lying. 'Rubbish!'

'There is someone coming.'

'So, you won't answer the door.'

'He has a key.'

'If he gets in, that's his bad luck.'

'You can't stay here,' she repeats doggedly.

'I've had bugger-all to eat since morning. Where do you keep your food?'

'If I give you something to eat, will you go?'

'I'll go,' he promises. 'That's the last you'll ever hear of me.'

She pulls back a pink curtain. There's an electric hotplate on a shelf and beside it a bread bin, a frying-pan, a green saucepan, several tins and a jar of jam. She opens a tiny refrigerator and takes out a hunk of bacon and two eggs. 'That's all I've got.'

'That'll do.'

She turns on the hotplate and sets the frying-pan on it. Then she cuts the bacon into slices and throws it into the pan.

He breathes in the aroma. 'If you don't try anything funny, I won't touch you. Trust me.'

'When did you escape?'

'You don't want to know.'

She breaks the eggs into the sizzling fat.

He swallows impatiently. 'How about a slice of bread?'

She opens the bread bin and pulls out a wretched little slice.

'That's it?'

'It's enough for me.' She fishes out a plate from under the plastic curtain and dumps the contents of the frying-pan on to it. In the other room, she spreads a cloth on a small table. The cloth is white, with a reddish stain in one corner, probably from wine, but it annoys him and he sits so that he can't see it. He lifts a forkful of food to his mouth, but it's so hot it brings tears to his eyes. The bread is as hard as it was in solitary. He knows she was lying when she told him she was expecting someone.

She stands as far away from him as she can. 'When you've finished, you have to go. Really, you do. I beg you.'

'OK, I'll go, but first I need a change of clothes,' he says with his mouth full.

'There's nothing here for you to change into.'

'He's got his own key and he doesn't even leave his socks?'

'Besides, I have to go to the hospital. I'm on duty.'

'Where do you work?'

'In surgery.'

'Great. You can take a look at my leg. It got a bit of a knock as I was getting away.'

'You can't stay here,' she says. 'And anyway, someone is bound to hear us. The walls are like paper.'

'Then we'll have to whisper, won't we?' he says quietly and gives her a look that makes the woman nod quickly. He mustn't frighten her too much, though. He needs her to help him get out of this town, whatever the name of it is, and help him get a car and go with him when he heads for the wire again. 'You wouldn't turn me in, would you?'

'You promised you'd leave!' She was really whispering now.

'I'll be gone by morning. I've got to get out of this gear or they'll be on to me before I'm out of the building.'

Her cupboard is plastered with posters too. Inside there are several skirts, a few brightly coloured dresses, another nurse's uniform and a pair of jeans. One shelf holds tall, neat piles of sweaters and sheets. There are several boxes on the floor of the cupboard, probably shoes.

He takes the jeans off the hanger. Original Levi's. They look as though they'll fit him — the gourmet prison cooking had taken care of that — but the legs will be too short. He looks at one of them. It has a deep hem. 'Let these down for me,' he says.

'They're the only ones I have. I can't afford to replace them.'

'I'll send you a new pair. I'll send you two pairs. The minute I'm out of here.'

'They'll get you sooner or later.'

'Not alive, they won't.' He should have added they wouldn't get her alive either, but he doesn't want to frighten her. He tosses her the jeans and then reaches into the pile of sweaters and picks out one that he thinks looks the least feminine. He takes off his jacket and only now notices that it's torn at the back and stained with blood. He

pulls the sweater on. The sleeves are too short, but he rolls them up. It won't quite reach the top of his trousers, but it'll do. She holds the jeans in her hands, staring at him.

'What are you gaping at? Get on with it!'

She gets up and pulls a box of sewing things from under the bed. Some shoes would come in handy, but he doubts he'll find any here. Even so, he bends down and opens one of the boxes in the bottom of the cupboard. He almost shouts for joy at what he finds. He'd never have thought of this. Now he's beginning to believe he might get away.

'It's real hair,' he hears the woman say behind him. 'Don't take it, please. I have to wear it. I've lost my hair.'

Ignoring her, he stands in front of the mirror and tries on the wig. It's slightly fairer than his own hair and fits him well. It's too long, but a pair of scissors will fix that. Now, with long hair, in these clothes, arm in arm with this bird, he could walk right up to them and ask them the way to the station.

'I'm only borrowing it. I'll send it back to you, special delivery.' He watches her pull out the stitches around the hem of one trouser-leg and feels hopeful. He's got a roof over his head, he's here with a woman he can reach out and touch whenever he wants. As a matter of fact, he can do whatever he feels like with her. He might have been strung up by now, lying stretched out somewhere, stiff and cold. Instead, it's his escorts who are stiff and cold. 'I owe you one. I'll send you things, stuff like you've never seen before.'

'You think so. . What did they lock you up for anyway?'

'For shit,' he snaps. 'I just wanted to get over those hills.'

'That was it?'

'That was enough.'

'I knew someone like that once.' She stops, then adds: 'He was a patient of ours, on the surgical floor. He tried to escape too. They gave him almost two years for it… '

The conversation is going nowhere. 'Have you got any cigarettes?'

She hesitates, then reaches for her handbag on the couch beside her. She hands him a packet and a box of matches.

He lights a cigarette, inhales the smoke hungrily and looks her up and down. Good-looking. A bit skinny, but nice tits. Christ, when was the last time he'd had a woman? But he mustn't scare her. Maybe she'll give in of her own accord. They usually did in the end. But if she starts screaming now, or later when he takes her with him. . No, he mustn't scare her. When it's all over, when he's made it out of here, he'll have all the women he wants.