Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light

She hands him the jeans. 'There. . and now you can She doesn't feel like repeating herself, so she simply points to the door. 'I really mean it. Please.'

He gets up and takes off his trousers. His left ankle is swollen and dark blue, as though he's poured ink over it.

She notices this. 'You made it this far on that?'

'So?' he says, 'What was I supposed to do? Take a taxi?'

'You need to put it in plaster, at least.'

'Fuck that.' He reaches for the jeans.

'Wait a minute.' She fetches a box from the cupboard. She takes a bandage out of it and then she grasps his ankle and moves his foot around. It feels as if she were prising open his leg, but he doesn't let out a peep, he doesn't even move.

She unwinds the bandage with nimble fingers. 'Are they after you?'

'Now what do you think?'

'And when they catch you?

'They'll tie me up here,' and he circles his throat with his thumb and forefinger and sticks out his tongue. 'But like I say, they won't catch me alive.'

'You're not serious.'

He says nothing.

'Are you in for. . Did you. .?'

'I told you, I'm in for shit. No, I didn't kill anybody. If I had, they'd never have caught me. But I was stupid.'

'What are you going to do now? Where are you going to go?'

'We'll see. But I won't make the same stupid mistake twice, I can tell you that right now.'

She winds the bandage around his leg and finishes at his knee. Her head is close to his thigh. Unable to stop

himself, he places his hand on her shoulder.

She jumps back as though he had scalded her. 'Keep your filthy hands off me!'

'Shut the fuck up!' He takes a step towards her, but he can scarcely move his leg. 'I wasn't, I wasn't going to… '

He deliberately turns his back on her and puts on her jeans. They're a bit tight, and he can barely pull them over his bandaged ankle, but otherwise they're all right. He runs some water into the sink and splashes himself. The lump on his forehead has gone down a little, and the wig will hide the scar that runs around to his right temple. He comes back for the wig and puts it on. 'It needs a trim,' he says.

'What'll you think of next?'

'Get me a pair of scissors.'

'No! Please!'

He reaches for the box with the sewing things, takes a pair of scissors, trims some hair off the wig and puts it on again in front of the mirror. How could they possibly recognize him now?

'And now will you get out of here?' she says behind him. 'You should be glad that they haven't caught you yet.'

'Let me worry about that.' She's probably right, though. He's got more than he hoped for here and now he should clear out as fast as he can before they sniff him out, before that uniformed bastard starts thinking about what he saw, or that busybody on the floor below wonders who was talking to her.

But what about this woman? Is she so stupid that she doesn't realize he can't just walk out and leave her? The minute he leaves she'll run to the nearest police station and start talking. He's got to persuade her to go with him. But what if he can't? Or what if she says she will and then starts screaming once they're out in the street? He hasn't thought that one through yet.

He lights another cigarette and sits down. Even if he left her here, gagged her and tied her up, they'd still find her. So he'll have to finish her. . But he doesn't want to do that, and it wouldn't be that much use, because they'd find out something was missing from her wardrobe and then they'd know what to look for.

The woman wants to get up, but he motions her to stay sitting down. "There's something else I've got to tell you.' She lights a cigarette, pulls the chair away slightly and sits down.

'It's funny,' he says, 'but I didn't catch the name of this metropolis of yours on my way in. How far is it from here to there?'

'To where?'

'To the wire.'

'It's a long way. You'd never make it.'

'What, an hour?'

'It depends on how you're travelling.'

'By car.'

'You've got one?'

'I will have.'

'About an hour.'

'Good. We can go!'

'"We"?'

'You're going with me.'

'No! No!' She jumps out of the chair, probably about to run into the corridor and start screaming. He grabs her shoulder and puts his other hand over her mouth. 'Sit down,' he orders. There's a knife lying beside the bread bin, the one she'd used to slice the bacon. He picks it up, tests the sharpness with his thumb. It's not too bad, so he sticks it into the back pocket of his jeans.

'Now look. You're going with me and you're going to pretend that we're together. It'll be OK. If you cooperate. But if you don't, it won't.' He pulls the knife out of his pocket and again runs his thumb over the sharp edge. 'Understand?'

She looks at him, not daring to move. 'You bastard,' she whispers.

He doesn't respond. He's heard some noises outside. Very cautiously, he gets up from the chair and goes over to the window.

It's incredible. How could they have sniffed him out? But there they are. Two of them, with dogs. He jumps back from the window.

'What is it?' she asks, and then she looks out. 'Are they after you?'

He can hear the dogs barking. He's blown it. He's wasted too much time here, hanging around chatting.

'So go,' he hears her say behind him. 'What are you waiting for? Do you want them to find you here?'

'Shut up!'

Where to now? Maybe up to the attic and then on to the roof, but he wouldn't get far with his fucked-up leg. And anyway they've got the place surrounded. He can hear their cars pulling up and he can picture them, each one with a gun in his hand and grenades in his pocket. But they won't get him that easily. It's a good thing she's here. They won't fool him this time. Either he and the woman leave in a car provided by them, or they'll have to carry both of them out of here in coffins.

'What is it?' She's shrieking at him now. 'What are you looking at me like that for? What are you going to do?'

'Shut up!'

'Just get out!' she shouts and she tries to push him towards the door. 'You can't stay here. You're not going to wait until they find you here.'

He hits her across the face. 'Get back, get back in there.' He points to the bed.

She holds her cheek and sobs.

A door slams and they hear feet pounding up the stairs. How many of them have stayed outside? He should keep away from the window now, do something. Barricade the doors. 'Come on!'

She gets up obediently. 'Let me go, can't you at least let me go?' she pleads. 'Maybe they're going to shoot.'

'They won't shoot as long as you're here. Help me with this thing.' He pushes the cupboard that's plastered with photographs and slides it towards the front door.

'Let me go, please, let me go. I haven't done anything to you!'

Only a little bit more effort and the door will be a lot harder to open. Footsteps at the top of the stairs.

'Let me go or I'll scream.'

'Go ahead and scream,' he says. 'Let them know you're in here with me.'

He jams the cupboard against the door. There, now

they're here together. Will the police dare do what they did then? He remembers the moment, the whistling bullets, the groans of the man behind the wheel. His forehead is beaded with sweat. 'Go on — scream!' he says. 'Why aren't you screaming?'

The footsteps stop outside the door. The buzzer sounds. The dogs are yelping and snarling; they sound ready to chew their way through the door. The buzzer goes again.