John Harvey - Good Bait

And what proliferated were accusations of black mob rule.

No, not a great time.

‘I’m sorry,’ Karen said, ‘and it’s great, you’re right.’ Leaning across, she gave Carla a hug. ‘And I am really pleased for you, okay?’

‘You better be. ’Cause once this show gets rolling, it’s you I’ll be relying on for on-the-spot research. You realise that? In fact, why don’t I see about getting you taken on as some kind of special adviser? You’d be perfect.’

‘Thanks, Carla.’ Karen held up both hands. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘We’ll see.’

Leaning back, Carla sampled one from a nicely overpriced dish of salted anchovies. Karen looked around for the waiter, refills needed.

‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘if you’re the black in this, who’s the white?’

‘The guy?’

‘Yeah, the guy.’

‘They’re not sure. A lot of names, but nothing yet nailed down.’

‘Names, like who?’

‘Oh, Damian Lewis, that was one. And that guy from The Wire , the cop, you know?’

‘McNulty?’

‘Yeah, him.’

‘The Irish one?’

‘Yes, but he’s not Irish. Well, his mother was, I think. But he’s English. Went to Eton. How much more English can you get?’

‘You’d never know it.’

Carla smiled. ‘Nothing’s what it seems, girlfriend. You should know that by now.’

Karen thought she was probably right. After one more round, the sound around them rising up to the high ceilings and reverberating back down, they decided to call it a night. Go their separate ways.

Her head less than clear and nursing the beginnings of what might be a hangover, halfway towards Holborn station Karen hailed a cab. When she alighted outside her flat some fifteen minutes later, there was a car she didn’t recognise parked a little way down, someone in shadow behind the wheel.

Karen hesitated, thought for a moment about going over, banging on the car window, showing her warrant card, but why bother? Just someone sleeping it off.

Fishing her keys from her bag, she went, without hurrying, up the steps towards the front door. As the key turned in the lock she heard the sound of a car door closing, steps approaching.

‘Thought you were never coming home. Thought I’d be stuck there all night.’

Alex. Alex Williams. Holding what looked suspiciously like a bottle of single malt.

‘Auchentoshan.’

‘What?’

‘How you say it, apparently. Aw-ken-tosh-an. At least, that’s what the guy in Oddbins told me.’

‘And he’d know.’

‘Doubt if he’s been north of Luton in his life.’

Karen had fetched two glasses; tumblers, but heavy bottomed enough to be close to the real thing.

There was a standard lamp with a shade in an odd colour of lime green in one corner; a small anglepoise on one of the shelves near the stereo. The curtains were drawn across, shutting out the London night.

With a choice of the one easy chair or a two-seater settee which abutted it at right angles, Alex had taken the chair. A low table sat between, cluttered with several unopened brown envelopes, the previous week’s Highbury and Islington Gazette , a book of short stories by someone with the unlikely name of Maile Meloy, and a letter from Karen’s mother in Jamaica. Karen dumped them all on the floor and set the glasses down in their place.

Alex swivelled the stopper from the bottle, leaned forward and began to pour.

‘I shouldn’t, you know,’ Karen said.

‘On the wagon?’

‘Just the opposite.’

‘Heavy night?’

‘Champagne cocktails at One Aldwych, if you please.’

‘Date? Celebration?’

‘Not a date. My friend, Carla.’

‘That’s the actress, right? I met her once. Some party?’

‘God, that was years ago. How on earth d’you remember?’

Alex smiled. ‘Collect information, store it away, it’s what I do.’ She tapped a finger against her temple, pushed a hand up through her short crop of hair. ‘All here, in the hard drive.’

Karen sat back, glass in hand. ‘You’re lucky. All I’ve got in there is mush.’

‘You say.’

The whisky was bright, not peaty, slightly sweet and went down a dream.

‘So what do you think?’ Alex asked.

‘About what?’

‘This.’ Alex held up her glass.

‘It’s good. Very good.’ She lifted the bottle. ‘Not heard of it before. More of a vodka drinker, I suppose.’

‘It was Roger introduced me to this. Couple of Christmases back.’

‘How is he? Roger?’

‘Fine. Off to Whitby with the kids. Bit of a half-term ritual. Stiff sea breezes and walks along the pier. Thinks it’s character forming.’

Karen laughed. Carla aside, it was with Alex, she supposed, that she felt most relaxed. Alex herself certainly looked relaxed enough, feet tucked up beneath her, wearing what seemed to be her usual off-duty outfit of blue jeans and a denim shirt, worn out and unbuttoned over a pale lavender vest. Her coat she’d shucked off the minute she came through the door.

In comparison, Karen, still in her glad rags, felt overdressed.

‘I guess,’ Alex said, leaning forward again to top up their glasses, ‘I should have brought something to go with this. Something for ballast. Fancy crisps, at least.’

‘Oh, wait. Wait.’ Karen jumped up, heading for the kitchen, then wished she hadn’t moved quite so fast. ‘I’ve got crisps out here. Sea salt and something or other. Two for one in Tesco. And there’s salami in the fridge. At least, I think there is. And cheese.’

She scurried round, unwrapping, finding plates, ferreting out a jar of olives from where it had got trapped behind the Tabasco and the soy sauce. When she turned, Alex was there, standing in the doorway. Just leaning, leaning sideways against the frame, one foot crossed over the other, hands by her sides.

‘Need some help?’

The light from overhead was catching the red in her hair.

‘No, thanks. It’s okay, I’m fine.’

From nowhere, Karen wanted to touch her hair.

Alex smiled: stayed where she was.

Pearl of her skin.

Karen fumbled a fork and it clattered to the floor.

‘It’s okay,’ Alex said, taking half a pace forward. ‘Leave it where it is.’

Karen caught her breath. And then she was touching her, touching her hair, the crown of her head, the ends where they tapered softly down towards her neck. The corner of her mouth. Then kissing her.

Oh, Christ!

Alex’s hand on her breast.

When Karen woke it was past four. A line of sweat zigzagged, dry and crystalline, from her navel to the hollow of her neck. Beside her, one arm raised up towards her face, Alex slept. Mouth slightly open, a faint whistle of breath.

Karen needed to pee.

As she swung her legs round from the bed, Alex stirred.

‘It’s early,’ Karen said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

But when she returned, Alex was sitting up, pillows propped at her back, smiling sleepily.

‘Get you something?’ Karen asked. ‘Juice? Tea?’

‘Juice would be great. Thanks. And then tea.’

‘Peppermint? Builder’s?’

‘Peppermint.’

Karen brought it all to the bed on a tray and climbed back in.

‘Thank you.’ Dipping her head, Alex kissed her on the shoulder.

‘What for?’

A grin on Alex’s face. ‘The tea, of course. What did you think?’

It felt strange, the two of them, sitting there like that after what had gone before. Strange, Karen thought, but somehow natural. Natural yet strange.

‘You make a habit of this?’ Karen asked.

‘With you? I’d have remembered.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘I know. And, no, not exactly.’