John Harvey: Rough Treatment

“Oh, Christ,” Maria whispered. “Oh, Christ.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

When he did speak it made her jump, his voice so startling after that silence, his man’s voice so different in that room. She looked back at him, not knowing-now that she wasn’t going to faint-what it was that she should do, if she should do or say anything. And if she did, would it do any good?

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Maria Roy didn’t know whether he had spoken again or if the same words were reverberating inside her head.

“We won’t”-a slight pause-”hurt you.”

She moved her fingers around the glass; her mouth was so dry that her tongue seemed to be sticking to it. She knew she was meant to register the word hurt, but what snagged instead inside her brain and wouldn’t let go was we.

We.

She tried to stop herself from looking away, searching; she listened for sounds but heard nothing. Perhaps it had only been something he had said, something to make her more frightened: perhaps he was on his own.

Maria swallowed a little air.

Was that better? If he was on his own?

A smile slid lopsidedly down his face as if he could tell exactly what she was thinking. She knew then that this was not new for him; he was relaxed, through a confidence that came from practice, practice and experience. Why else would he be smiling? Then she heard steps on the stairs and knew that his we had been no lie.

The second man was shorter but still not short; he was wearing a brown suit that was already going shiny and brown shoes that were old but well-polished. He was about the same age as the first-early to mid-forties, Maria guessed. The same age as her husband, but not afraid to show it: not for them the pretensions that sent him off to the studio in zips and colored logos and with sixty-pound trainers on his feet instead of real shoes.

The two men exchanged glances and then the newcomer walked across the room-taking his time, sauntering almost-and eased himself down on to the leather-covered settee.

“Nice place,” he said conversationally. “Got yourself a pretty nice place.”

Maria looked from one to the other, unable to rid herself of the idea that they had broken into her house and now they were going to make an offer to buy it: two men in suits and real shoes.

Despite herself, despite everything, Maria Roy arched back her head and began to laugh.

The three of them were sitting down now. Grabianski in the deep armchair with the Liberty-print covers and Grice back against the far corner of the settee, legs crossed and looking just this side of bored. Maria Roy sat on a straight-backed chair across the room from the pair of them, apex of the triangle. Grabianski had the same mildly amused expression in his eyes and Maria knew he was trying to look up her legs, doing his best to peer between the folds of her silk robe, all the while trying to figure out whether she was wearing anything underneath or not.

She caught herself wondering precisely which pair of knickers she had pulled from the airing cupboard and stepped into. If they were truly, you know, clean. As if she were having an accident. She took a swallow of the J amp; B to keep herself from laughing some more. An accident was exactly what she was having, more or less.

“You want another drink?” asked Grabianski hopefully.

“She doesn’t want a drink,” Grice said, recrossing his legs.

“How do you know?”

“It isn’t that kind of occasion.”

“Well, I want a drink,” Grabianski said, levering himself out of the chair. The buttons of his jacket were unfastened and Maria could see that his body was in shape for a man of his age; no belly starting to strain against his belt. Harold, he worked out three times a week, stupid little weights strapped to his ankles, and still he had a pot belly.

“No vodka,” said Grabianski, disappointed, searching amongst the bottles.

“Sorry,” Maria apologized.

“For God’s sake!” Grice protested. “What is this?”

“We’re having a drink,” said Grabianski amiably.

“We’re in the middle of a burglary, that’s what we’re doing,” Grice said, pressing the heel of one hand hard against his knee.

“We had some people round the other night,” Maria was explaining. “We ran out of vodka and somehow we’ve not got around to replacing it.” What was she doing, apologizing?

“It doesn’t matter,” Grabianski said, leaning towards her reassuringly. “Scotch is fine.” He lifted the bottle. “Scotch?”

Grice grunted and Grabianski poured three whiskies, his own no more than a splash, but still he carried it into the kitchen to dilute it with water. When he came back, neither of the others had moved.

“Can we get on with this?” Grice complained.

Grabianski gave him his drink, handed Maria hers and sat back down. “Relax,” he said. “We’ll get it done. What’s the hurry?”

He wished Grice would take a walk, go and look at the rest of the house, go and steal something for heaven’s sake. He thought then it might be all right for them, himself and the woman-what had she said her name was, Maria? Legs that seemed to go on forever. He bet that if she were wearing anything under that robe at all, it was one of those skimpy pairs you could cover with the palm of one hand. Christ! He could feel himself starting to sweat. Smell it. Look at her, staring back at him, reading his mind. What he was thinking: she knew what he was thinking.

Maria Roy was thinking that at any moment the phone would ring and it would be Jerry or Cynthia wanting to know where she was, where they were. Or Harold, maybe, the great Harold himself calling to apologize and say he’d be there to pick her up after all, drive over together.

Except, she remembered, the shorter one, the one rubbing at his knee joint as though he were getting twinges of rheumatism, arthritis, something, had disconnected the phones.

“Finish up the drink,” Grice said to his partner. “It’s time we got down to business.”

Grabianski nodded, sipped a little scotch and water and got to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he said, smiling.

Maria knew he was looking at her.

“No,” said Grice, on his feet also and moving towards the door.

“Let her help out,” said Grabianski. “Save wasting time turning everything upside down.”

“You think she’s going to do that?”

“Sure. Why not? As long as we’re going to take it anyway.”

Not for the first time Maria wondered if they were for real. Maybe it was some elaborate joke set up by one of Harold’s friends: a couple of out-of-work actors offering something a shade more sophisticated than a singing telegram. What would they have called it back in the sixties? A happening. Well it was that right enough. She stood up and for a moment the hem of her robe caught against the inside of her thigh. Grabianski’s mouth fell open and he stared. She hadn’t had that effect on Harold for so long she couldn’t remember.

“This I don’t believe,” said Grice from the doorway. Maria Roy finished her second glass of scotch and put the glass on the seat of the chair. “Maybe I should lead the way?”

She knew Grabianski would be close behind her and she knew how tightly her robe clung to her when she climbed the stairs.

“There’s just one thing more,” Grice said. The jewelry and the cash and the credit cards had been packed into one of the set of matching soft leather cases they had bought on last summer’s trip to the Virgin Islands. Her two fur coats were folded over Grabianski’s left arm.

“What’s that?” Maria asked, but the expression on Grice’s face told her that he knew. They both knew, she could sense it. How did they know about the safe?