Peter Corris - Torn Apart

That's it. I'm back in London and the offer still stands. Go well, Angie

I didn't like the sound of that. A military background suggested the IRA or the Ulster lot, murderous bastards both, at their worst. Surely Patrick hadn't involved himself in that crazy sectarian business. The trouble was, the more I found out about him the more I realised that I hadn't really known him at all.

I replied to Angela, thanking her and saying I didn't know when I was next likely to be in London, but extending a similar invitation to her in Sydney. It felt vaguely ridiculous, having a penpal at my age, but there was something comforting about it as well.

Nothing much to do except wait for the packages from the UK. A search for Frank Szabo would have to stay on hold until I had the gun. It was still dark outside and I fooled around with the alarm, making sure that the sensor lights worked and that I knew how to deactivate the system and keep the code in my head separate from my PIN and the other numbers we live by these days.

I took my meds, poached two eggs and ate them and collected the paper. I was on my second cup of coffee and reading through the letters when the doorbell sounded. Unlikely that Frankie Szabo would ring the bell. Maybe it was the overseas packages-they wouldn't fit in the letterbox and the postie sometimes took the trouble to ring before dumping them on the doorstep. I used the peephole: my visitor was Sheila Malloy.

I opened the door.

'Good morning,' she said. 'Surprised?'

'Very.'

I stepped back and she came in. She was wearing a navy pants suit in some silky material with a short jacket that emphasised the length of her legs and her height. Her hair had a bronze shimmer in the early morning light. Her suede bag and shoes matched her suit. She looked confident, relaxed and healthy, as though she'd slept well.

'There's more to talk about,' she said as we moved down the passage.

'Is there?'

She stopped when she reached the living room and took in the well lived-in decor. 'You don't like me, do you?'

'I don't know you. Impossible to say.'

'Do I smell coffee?'

I waved towards the kitchen and we went through. There was enough coffee in the percolator for a couple of cups. I got another cup from the cupboard and poured.

'Milk?'

'Please.'

'Be a bit cool.'

'Microwave it. I'm not a purist.'

I smiled at that. I freshened my cup, added milk to hers, and put both in the microwave. She sat at the bench in the breakfast nook and I waited to hear the cigarettes come out and the click of the lighter. Didn't happen.

'Very domesticated,' she said. 'You live alone?'

'Sometimes.'

She laughed. 'I'm glad Paddy had a mate… at the end. He wasn't good at keeping friends and mostly they weren't worth keeping.'

I brought the cups over and sat. 'How did you find me, Sheila?'

'Come on, anyone can find anyone these days, you should know that. But there's no mystery-my agent knows you.'

'Agent?'

'Belinda O'Connell. You contacted her to trace some actor you were after. I'm an actress-actor, as we have to say these days.'

Maybe that accounted for the changeability. It did for the familiarity. I realised that I'd seen her in an ABC TV series with a legal theme that had held Lily's and my attention for a few episodes. And I recalled that Harvey Spiegelman had plated a minor part as a lawyer. She smiled as she saw recognition dawn on me. She got up and struck a pose, leaning on the bench.

'The prosecution is tilting at windmills…'

I drank some coffee and nodded. She sat down and stirred her coffee. 'Yeah, the poor woman's Sigourney Weaver.'

'You weren't Malloy then. But Harvey, I remember, was still Spiegelman.'

'Right. Sheila Lambert, stage name. I've fallen on hard times since then. There aren't many parts for women with years on the clock. Harvey's doing it tough, too. He was never much of a lawyer or an actor and I just brought him along to our meeting for ballast.'

'You're not smoking.'

'I'm quitting.'

I wondered if that was true or just part of the act for today. She leaned forward to push her cup away on the table and the top of her jacket gaped open. She wasn't wearing a blouse or a bra and I could see the shape of her small, firm breasts. I'd been celibate for longer than I cared to remember and I felt a stirring. I couldn't tell whether the movement was a come-on or not, but she surprised me with what she said next.

'I want to see where he died.'

'For Christ's sake, why?'

She shrugged; I tried not to look, but the movement stiffened her nipples under the tight jacket.

'The man was a huge part of my life and he damaged me. I damaged him, too. Call it closure. D'you think that's sick?'

I was aroused and confused. I stood and she slid out from her seat and moved towards me, touching my arm.

'Show me.'

We went through the door to the back bathroom. I'd had it cleaned, hadn't replaced the shower curtain, but some of the rings still hung there. Patrick's head and body had taken the full force of the blasts but there were a few chips on the tiles where stray pellets had struck. The space was white, sterile, dead-no blood, no bone, no tissue. Nothing.

She leaned against me. 'I thought I'd feel something but I don't. This is creepy. You look so much like him and I loved him so much for so long. Off and on, I mean. God, I'm going to end up telling you my life story.'

The hard shell had well and truly cracked and for a minute we stood still. I was thinking about Patrick and I was sure she was, too. I guided her back to the kitchen.

'I'm a good listener,' I said. 'Look, would you like a drink? A toast to Patrick? It's a bit early but…'

She smiled and stayed close to me. 'It's later somewhere. I'd like that. It's been a while since I drank wine in the morning but why not? I wish…'

'What?'

'I was going to say I wish I'd met you before Paddy. What a dumb thing to say. Sorry.'

I got a bottle of white from the fridge and poured. We both sat and touched glasses without speaking. She took a decent slug of the wine and smiled at me. She had small, even teeth and her eyes crinkled with the smile. She did everything gracefully and I wanted badly to touch her. I was suddenly aware of my scruffy appearance.

'I'm glad you came,' I said. 'Hard to put it into words, but.. .'

'Try, why don't you?'

I reached out and covered her smooth hand with my battered paw. We stood. I knocked my glass over and the wine spilled. I put my arms around her. We stood in a tight embrace. I thought I could hear her heart pounding. I could definitely feel mine.

She said, 'I thought I came just to talk, but now I'm not sure. Without knowing it I think maybe I came for this.' She pressed close against me and her hand went down to my erection.

We made love in the tangled sheets and blankets I'd left after my sleepless night. Her body was smooth, lean and pale and she was athletic and inventive with it. I found myself almost fighting to get my share of the pleasure and we were sweaty and panting when she shoved a pillow under her rump and pulled me down and into her. We fucked hard, and I don't know who came first. We rolled apart, gasping. Sweat beaded her upper lip and I wiped it off with a finger.

She laughed. 'Yes, that happens when it's good. Not very chic.'

'Chic's overrated.'

She traced the scar line from my bypass, not much more now than a series of discolourations. 'There's a difference. Shit, I didn't mean

…'

'It's okay. We were both in the grip of something a bit weird.'

'Are you sorry?'

'No.'

The room was cold. The heat we'd generated was fading and I clawed up the sheet, jerked the blanket free of the tangle and covered us. The desire she'd triggered in me was still there and I pulled her close and wrapped my arms around her. She felt my unshaven chin.