John Harvey - Cold Light

She had walked out of the house and he had not heard from her again.

Till now.

From the upstairs window he mourned the slow fading of the light.

Coffee, he ground fine and made strong, drank with a tumbler of whisky at its side. Sliding an Ellington album from its buckled sleeve, he set it to play. The notes on the incident at the Housing Office and Gary James’ interview he had brought with him and he scanned them now, wondering again if it had been right to release him, let him return home. Injuries to a small boy consistent with what? Running smack into a door. Smack into his father’s fist. One of the cats jumped into Resnick’s lap, nudged his fingers with its nose, turned twice and settled, lay a paw across its eyes, and fell asleep. Jimmy Blanton’s bass was rocking the whole band. Exmouth or Exeter? A coach or a sledge? Miles stared up at Resnick resentfully as he was set down on the floor. So easy, the act of sliding a finger behind the envelope’s flap, tearing it open, shaking the contents down into your hand. It was a stagecoach, holly at its windows, snowflakes round its wheels; someone akin to Mr. Pickwick beamed from the driver’s seat and lifted his hat. Forgive me, Charlie? it said inside, and then, below, the words close to falling off the bottom of the card, Merry Christmas, Elaine .

No love, no kiss.

Forgive me.

He heard Alice Skelton’s harsh whispers. How much proof d’you need? Catching them doing it, there in your bed?

It had been someone else’s bed, an empty house, the duvet carefully replaced, pillows slightly overlapping, not quite so. When he had lifted the duvet aside and brought his face close to the center of the sheet, there had been no denying it, the lingering warmth, the tang of recent, hurried sex. The smile upon Elaine’s face when he had seen her leaving, minutes before. That smile. When Resnick brought his hand to his face, as he did now, and closed his eyes, he could taste, deep in the cracks between his fingers, that memory, salt like the sea.

Dana hadn’t given much attention to the compliments being paid her at their Christmas Eve function. Not at first, anyway. The usual remarks about what she was wearing, her hair, her natural contours, the comparisons with Madonna. “Someone’s giving you Sex for Christmas, I’ll bet.” “Come on, Jeremy, you can see, she’s already got it.” For some of them, some of the men she worked with, it came as naturally as breathing. Especially the married ones: all the things they no longer said to their wives. She didn’t even think of it as sexual harassment. She didn’t feel threatened, hardly ever embarrassed; it was constant, within the bounds of the generally acceptable, and even if it did become a little wearing, well, it was better than spending your time with a bunch of yobbos who were likely to break into “Get your tits out for the lads!” at the first opportunity.

The other thing was, she did like to be noticed. And by men. It wasn’t that she flaunted herself in front of them, but it did please her when they knew she was there. As she’d said to Nancy, if you’re never allowed a little sexual repartee, if the flower didn’t attract the bee-well, how was anything ever going to happen? And she had this certain feeling: too much repression was harmful. Tiptoe around each other pretending you’ve got blinkers on, not a word or a glance out of place, and then, suddenly, there’s this guy, can’t control it any longer, hurling you down behind the color photocopier, leaving his unrequited passion all over the floor. “Mmm,” Nancy had said, uncertain, “maybe there’s something in between.”

Well, Dana had thought, when Andrew Clarke, hand just touching her elbow, had guided her out on to the floor, maybe there was.

Andrew was a senior partner, Victorian house in the Park, all the original architraves, things like that. Family car was a BMW, but Dana had noticed recently this little Toyota MR2 in his slot in the parking lot. Red, something to run around in now the days of public school fees were coming to an end. The most provocative remark he’d ever made to her in the office was about the air-conditioning. No, he was scrupulous, correct; she’d never even caught him looking at her as she walked away, admiring her backside.

“Not very good at this, you know. Even though my daughters try to teach me at family parties.”

There were so many crowded on to the small circle of polished floor, it didn’t matter that Andrew Clarke’s attempts to boogie resembled the final struggles of a man trapped in quicksand. In fact, there was something about the earnestness with which he went about it which Dana found almost endearing.

So, when the music switched to some old Stevie Wonder and he pulled her into some kind of smoochy waltz, she didn’t object. Though she was surprised, after a while, to feel something remarkably close to an erection pushing against her thigh.

She was on the steps outside the cloakroom, after one o’clock, when she saw him again. He had on his Crombie overcoat, a little nicked up at the collar, and his car keys in his hand.

“Going home alone?”

It looked like it; Nancy, despite her earlier protestations, seemed to have found congenial company.

“Still in that place on Newcastle Drive, aren’t you? On my way. Why not let me drop you off?”

The inside of the car smelt of leather polish and cologne. She was ready for the invitation to coffee when it came, had determined to say no, the exact tone rehearsed inside her head so as not to offend.

“Yes,” she said. “A quick cup. All right.”

The family, of course, had headed north that morning, getting an early start. “Little place off the Northumbrian coast. Had it for years. Nothing special.” Dana noticed a photograph of Andrew and his sons in front of what looked like a small castle, Andrew and the eldest boy with their shotguns, smiling as they held up dead birds.

“Still …” pressing a large glass of brandy into her hands “… their not being here, affords us a bit of privacy. Chance to get to know one another better.”

When Dana limped out forty minutes later, her bra strap was round her neck, unfastened, her tights were torn, she had lost the heel from one of her shoes. Andrew’s mood had switched from amorous to angry and back again and when finally she had slapped him hard, pushed him clear, and told him to grow up, he had astonished her by bursting into tears.

Back in her own flat, Christmas Day was already two hours old and no sign of Nancy. Dana only hoped she was having a better time than herself. Quickly, she undressed and showered and made herself some camomile tea. Cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV set, she raised a cup to her reflection in the blank screen. “Happy Christmas to you, too.”

At some point she must have woken cold and found her way into her bed, but when she came round beneath the floral duvet at what felt like half-past six, she couldn’t remember it. The digital clock on the floor read 11:07. The telephone was ringing. Dana stumbled towards the bathroom, rubbing the residue of makeup from around her eyes. On the way, she lifted the receiver from the body of the phone and set it down, unanswered. In the mirror she looked fifty years old.

Thirty minutes in the bathroom reduced that by all of five years. Great! Dana thought. Now I look like my mother just back from a fortnight on a health farm. She pulled on a T-shirt, sweater, and old jeans. There were two mandarin orange yogurts in the fridge and she ate them both, washing them down with some stale Evian. Well, Nancy, midday-must be having a pretty good time.

When she remembered the phone, a woman’s recorded voice was instructing her to replace the hand set and redial. The moment she put the receiver back in place, it rang again.