Peter Robinson - Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

It was true that Banks still seemed tied to his past, to his marriage, but she could have handled that. It was also something that would have waned in time. Everyone had emotional baggage, including Annie herself. No, she thought, the reasons for what she did were within herself, not the job, not Banks’s past. Intimacy had felt like a threat to her, and the closer she had got to Banks, the more she had felt suffocated and tried to pull away.

Would it be like that with every man she met? Was it to do with the rape? Possibly, she thought. Or at least partly. She wasn’t sure she would ever completely get over that. What happened that night had certainly damaged her deeply. She didn’t think she was beyond repair, just that she had a long way to go. She still had occasional nightmares, and though she had never told Banks this, sex had sometimes been an effort for her, had even hurt at times. Sometimes the simple act of penetration, however consensual and gentle, had brought back the surge of panic and the feeling of sheer powerlessness she had first experienced that night. Sex certainly had its dark side, Annie knew. It could be demonic, close to violence, pushing you into dangerous and vaguely imagined desires and dark areas, beyond taboo. It was no wonder, then, she thought, that the idea of sex was so often mentioned in the same breath as violence. Or that sex and death were so intimately linked in the words and works of so many writers and artists.

Annie finished her milk and tried to laugh off her morbid thoughts. Still, they seemed to be the only kind she had at night, alone and unable to sleep. She put the kettle on for tea and went into the living room to browse through her small video collection. In the end, she settled on Doctor Zhivago, which had always been one of her favorite films, and when the tea was ready, she lounged on the sofa in the dark with her steaming mug, legs tucked under her, and gave herself up to the haunting theme music and the epic story of love in a time of revolution.

Banks walked down the stairs and tried to shake off his sense of disappointment. It was just as well, he told himself; the last thing he needed right now was to make a fool of himself over yet another woman. And Michelle had her own demons, whatever they were. Everyone did, it seemed. You couldn’t get to a certain age without attracting a lot of clutter. But why did it always have to get in the way? Why couldn’t you just shrug it off and get on with life? Why was misery so easy to embrace and joy so bloody elusive?

Just around the corner from the flats, he stopped to light a cigarette. Before he got his lighter out of his pocket, he felt something thud into him from behind. He staggered forward and turned to face whoever had hit him. He got only a quick glimpse of a pug nose and piggy eyes before a blow to the face upset both his vision and his balance. Another blow knocked him to the ground. Next he felt a sharp pain in his ribs and a kick to his stomach made him retch.

Then he heard a dog barking and a man’s voice shouting beyond the walls of pain, felt rather than saw his attacker hesitate, and heard him whisper, “Go back where you came from, or there’ll be more of that,” before he ran off into the night.

Banks got to his knees and felt sick, head hanging on his chest. Christ, he was getting too old for this kind of thing. He tried to stand, but his legs still felt too wobbly. Then a hand grasped his elbow and he managed to get to his feet.

“Are you all right, mister?” Banks swayed and took a couple of deep breaths. That felt a little better. His head was still spinning, but his vision had cleared. A young man stood beside him, Jack Russell terrier on a leash. “Only I was just taking Pugwash here for a walk and I saw two blokes setting on you.”

“Two? Are you certain?”

“Yes. They ran off toward the city center.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “That was very brave of you. You saved my bacon.”

“Is there anything else I can do? Call you a taxi or something?”

Banks paused to get his thoughts in some sort of order, then he looked toward the flats. “No,” he said. “No, thanks. I’ve a friend lives just over there. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re certain.”

“Yes. And thanks again. Not many people bother to get involved these days.”

The young man shrugged. “No problem. Come on, Pug-wash.” And they wandered off, the man casting a couple of backward glances as he went.

Still a bit wobbly, Banks made his way back to Michelle’s flat and pressed the intercom. A few moments later her voice crackled into the night air. “Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s me, Alan,” said Banks.

“What is it?”

“I’ve had a little accident. I wonder if…”

But before he could finish, Michelle buzzed him in, and he made his way up to her door. She was already standing there, looking concerned, and she came forward to help him toward the sofa. Not that it was necessary, but he thought it was a nice gesture.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Someone jumped me. Thank God for dog walkers or I’d probably be in the river by now. Funny, isn’t it? I thought I was going to end up in the Nene all those years ago and I almost ended up there tonight.”

“You’re rambling,” Michelle said. “Sit down.”

Banks still felt a bit dizzy and nauseated when he sat down. “Just give me a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Michelle handed him a glass. “Drink,” she said.

He drank. Cognac. A good one, too. As the fiery liquor spread through his limbs he started to feel even better. His mind came into sharper focus, and he was able to assess the damage. Not much, really. His ribs felt tender, but he didn’t feel as if anything was broken. He looked up and saw Michelle standing over him.

“How do you feel now?”

“Much better, thank you.” Banks sipped some more Cognac. “Look,” he said, “I’d better call a taxi. I don’t feel very much like driving in this condition, especially not after this.” He held up the glass. Michelle tipped in more from the Courvoisier VSOP bottle, and poured herself a generous measure, too.

“Okay,” she said. “But you must let me see to your nose first.”

“Nose?” Banks realized his nose and upper lip felt numb. He put his hand up, and it came away bloody.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Michelle said, leading him toward the bathroom, “but I’d better clean you up and put something on it before you go. There’s a small cut on your lip, too. Whoever hit you must have been wearing a ring or something.”

The bathroom was small, almost too small for two people to stand without touching. Banks stood with the backs of his legs against the toilet bowl as Michelle used a damp facecloth to wipe away the blood, then looked in the cabinet and came up with some TCP liquid antiseptic. She put a small swab of cotton wool over the top of the bottle and tipped it up, then carefully applied it to his lip. It stung, and the acrid smell made him gasp. Michelle took the cotton wool away.

“It’s all right,” he said.

She dropped one bloodstained swab into the waste bin and prepared another. Banks watched her face close to his, the look of concentration as she applied the cotton wool, tip of her tongue nipped between her teeth. She caught his eye, blushed and looked away. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her body, smell the Cognac on her breath.

“Go on,” she said. “You were going to say something.”

“It’s just like Chinatown, ” Banks said.

“What do you mean?”

“The film, Chinatown . Haven’t you seen it?”

“What happens?”

“Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut by Roman Polanski, and Faye Dunaway, well… she does what you’re doing now.”