Benjamin Black - The Silver Swan

Afterwards, of course, he had to have a toot , and she warned him not to forget to take all that stuff away with him, the needle and the empty vial and the cotton wool and the little bottle of alcohol he was so careful to swab his arm with before injecting himself. Those would be nice things for Billy to happen on when he came home.

That was the evening that she told him about the time in Dr. Kreutz's office when she had drunk the herbal tea and passed out. She had said to Leslie, while she was getting dressed, that she supposed he had got that stuff, the Spanish fly and the dope and so on, from the Doctor-nothing anymore would surprise her about the man she used to think so highly of-and then she heard herself blurting out about how she had woken up on the sofa that day feeling as if she had been hit over the head. No sooner had she spoken than she regretted it. Suddenly, for the first time, it was clear to her what had happened, what she had known without knowing had happened, and her heart froze. So that was the reason her clothes had felt as if they were on back to front. Why, the dirty old… Even though he was half doped Leslie had been listening, and had heard even more than she had said, for Leslie had an ear for such things. He was still in the bed, lying on his back with the sheet pulled up to his chin, like a patient after an operation; it gave her a shiver to see his head where she was so accustomed to seeing Billy's. He swiveled his eyes until the big pupils of them were focused on her, and waited, and of course she had to go on then, though she tried to make light of it. "There must have been something in the tea," she said, with a little laugh that sounded even to her a bit hysterical. She sat down on the bed to fasten her suspenders, her fingers nervously fumbling with the clips. "I suppose it was something relaxing that he gives his clients. I must say, I did have a good sleep." Leslie made no comment, only went on watching her, and then, slowly, he smiled. She knew that smile. It frightened her, though she tried not to show it. "Right, mister," she said, smacking her hands on her thighs and rising smartly to her feet, "you better be off." He made no move to get up, though, only turned his face away and sighed. His long, thin white feet were sticking out from under the sheet.

Again she had the icy sensation in her chest. If Kreutz had knocked her out to take pictures of her, what was he going to do with them?

She found out soon enough. When the morning post was delivered at the salon a couple of days later and she saw the big brown envelope, with the square handwriting on it that looked so innocent, somehow she knew straightaway what would be in it. She had a client on the table-she was getting to be good, really professional, at massage, even though she had no training and had only read it up in a book-but she had to stop immediately and wipe the oil off her hands and open the envelope, though it was addressed to Leslie. When she saw the photograph the blood seemed to drain straight down out of her brain and she almost fainted. She must have caught her breath out loud, for the client, a crotchety, fat old bitch with asthma, lifted herself up on her elbows with her eyes out on stalks to try to see what the picture was of. She turned away and hurried into the cubbyhole behind the curtain and sat down at the desk there and made herself take three or four deep breaths. She had thrust the photo back into the envelope-was it really her?-and though she tried to she could not bring herself to look at it again. She had gone white first, but now she could feel herself turn bright red with shame. How could he, the dirty brute! It was as if a bucket of slops had been flung into her face. Even the things her Da used to do to her when she was little seemed not as bad to her now as the way Kreutz had betrayed her. How could he?

Leslie only laughed, of course, and held the photo at arm's length and pretended to study it as if it was an old-master painting or something, shutting one eye and tilting his head first to one side and then the other. "He definitely has a flair, old Kreutzer," he said. "He should take it up professionally." He grinned. "Photography, I mean." They were in the room in Percy Place, and he was lying on his back on the bed with his jacket still on and one leg flexed and a skinny ankle propped on a knee. There was a summer storm, and the wind was blowing rain in sheets diagonally across the light from the street-lamps. She had bought cheese and a Vienna roll and a bottle of Liebfraumilch for their supper. Leslie was still chuckling. She said it was not funny, and asked if there was nothing he would not laugh at. Could he not understand how ashamed it made her, to see herself like that, with her dress up round her and her legs all over the place and every bit of her on show? "He's made you look quite the doll, I think," Leslie said. "Quite the pinup."

She said she did not look anything of the kind, and that it was only what it was, a dirty picture.

"Oh, I don't know," he said slyly. "I'm sure I could find some connoisseur who'd pay a pretty penny for a framed copy of this."

"Don't you even think about it, Leslie White," she cried.

She knew he was joking about selling it, but even so the very idea made her go hot all over. When she was handing him his glass of wine she could not help glimpsing the photo again, where he was holding it up to the light to study it, and she shivered. Strangely, the worst part of it for her, though she did not say so, was the fact that in the photos her eyes were shut. It made her look like a corpse.

"What was it he gave you, I wonder," Leslie said. "Must have been something pretty good, for you to stay knocked out while he was setting up this little scene." He threw her an impish look, the sharp little tip of his tongue showing. "You're sure you weren't just pretending?"

She did not deign to answer him. The whole thing was disgusting, and yet somewhere inside her, deep, deep down inside her, a small flame flared at the thought of herself sprawled unconscious there on that sofa, on the red blanket, and Kreutz, with the camera round his neck, leaning over her and pulling up her dress and taking off her knickers and parting her knees… Leslie was watching her. He always knew what was going on in her mind. He laid the photograph flat on his chest and reached out a hand to her. "Come here," he said softly. She wanted to say no, that she was too upset, that she felt dirty and ashamed. But in the end, of course, she could not resist him. As he undid the buttons of her dress he hummed under his breath, as he always did, as if she were a job of work he was about to get busy on.

"I want that photo," she said.

"Mmm?"

"I'm going to tear it up. I'm going to burn it."

"He'll have copies. He'll have a negative."

"You could get them from him. Will you do that, for me? Get them and burn them, burn them all?"

"Mmm."

HE THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY THAT KREUTZ WOULD DARE TO TRY TO blackmail him-why else had he sent the nudie photo of D.?-and would have dismissed the whole thing if D. had not kept on at him so. In the end, to shut her up, he had said that he would go round in the morning and call on Kreutz and give him a talking to. He had not expected to keep his promise, yet early the next day-it was early for him, anyway-he found himself bowling up Adelaide Road in the Riley. The storm of the night before had blown itself out, and the sun was shining, and the smell of rain drying on the pavements and the look of the rinsed trees all in full leaf cheered him up. He had stopped at a postbox on Fitzwilliam Square and dropped in the re-sealed envelope with a forwarding address on it, and a girl in a white blouse going past had given him a hot look. He drove on, whistling through his teeth and smiling to himself, with the wind ruffling his long hair.