Russell Hoban - Linger Awhile

‘Next time take their ID.’

‘What’s ID?’

‘Driver’s licence, that kind of thing.’

‘What for?’

‘So the police won’t know who it is right off when they find the body. You left her close to here?’

‘Just a few doors down. I could have slung her over my shoulder and taken her somewhere else but I didn’t want to attract attention.’

‘What happened to my anorak?’

‘What’s an anorak?’

‘The jacket you had on when you left my place.’

‘It had some blood on it so I stuck it in a garbage can.’

‘We call them dustbins. Where?’

‘I don’t know. What does it matter?’

‘My keys were in one of the pockets, on a keyring with a little torch that had “Hermes Soundways” printed on it.’

‘What’s Hermes Soundways?’

‘This studio, this place where we are right now. And even if the keys are lost the anorak can be traced back to me, so I’d like to find that dustbin. Where did you go after you left Rose?’

‘I don’t know. After a while there was a big wide street with lots of lights and people and buses.’

‘Oxford Street?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Did you dump the anorak before you got to the big wide street or after?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Where did you acquire the Guernsey, before the big wide street or after?’

‘What Guernsey? Cattle?’

‘The jumper you’re wearing, the sweater.’

‘Man gave it to me, I was cold.’

‘And what did you give him?’

‘What he wanted.’

‘Before big wide or after?’

‘After, I think.’

I was beginning to see a life of endless worry unwinding ahead of me. I could see the classic scene where the police pathologist says, ‘There’s absolutely no blood in this body, and look at those bite marks on the neck.’ I could see them coming down my steps and knocking on my door. I shook myself and pulled myself together. ‘We have to move the body,’ I said. ‘Put some clothes on and let’s go.’

When we got to where Rose was I looked down at her pretty face all pale and dead and I felt sad. I’d turned Justine loose on London and this was the result. The name on her Visa card was Rose Harland. ‘Rose Harland on her Sundays out / Walked with the better man …’ I said as the Housman poem came to mind.

‘Did you know her?’ said Justine.

‘No. Let’s get her out of here.’

Justine picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her up the steps. We propped her up against a wall and while Justine held her there I went to Berwick Street for a taxi. We pretended Rose was drunk and took her to a street near Euston Station where we left her at the bottom of some other steps. There were a few drops of blood on the collar of her jacket so I removed the jacket and put it in my rucksack. I left the empty handbag with her.

Next we searched the streets north of Oxford Street and got dirty and smelly but didn’t find the anorak. ‘Before’ and ‘after’ describe time and space but do not necessarily mean south and north. After an hour or so I realised that our efforts were useless so we went back to my place. Justine was still full of her adventures. ‘I tell you, it was some kind of a rush,’ she said. ‘The world was roaring in my ears and I thought if I didn’t get laid soon I’d drag some passerby into an alley and rape him. I was shivering with the cold and wondering what to do next when this guy came up to me and said, “You look cold.” “What about it,” I said. “I could warm you up,” he said. “Less talk, more action,” I said. We went to his place which was nearby and that’s where I got the Guernsey.’

‘Did you …?’

‘I didn’t harm him. I wore him out with sex but that was all I did. He was OK when I left and sleeping like a baby. I had one more go-around with another man I met — I didn’t hurt him either — and then I came home. Now I’m really hungry.’

I made scrambled eggs for her and she wolfed them down, then she ran to the loo and vomited. ‘Maybe I drank too fast before,’ she said. I gave her some toast and she kept that down. ‘I think what I need now is sleep,’ she said. She undressed and climbed into bed and I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.

Lying there she looked so sweet and pretty that for a moment I felt as I did when I fell in love with her. Everything was different now — our reality was so hedged about with practical detail that I always had the uneasy feeling of having forgotten something important. Nothing would be simple from now on, and I was wondering if I mightn’t be too old for reactivating dead women from videotapes. I went down to the studio but didn’t turn on the lights. I raised the blinds and there was enough light from the street for me to see by. I poured myself some Bowmore’s and added about a thimbleful of water. As my insides lit up I tried to think seriously about life, the universe and everything but only pictures came into my head: Justine with Rose Harland; Justine with Man No. 1 and Man No. 2. As fast as I faded them to black they reappeared with full sound effects.

Someone was coming down the steps: Grace Kowalski. She peered through the glass and then knocked. I couldn’t evade her indefinitely so I opened the door and let her in. ‘Hi, Istvan,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Unsimply,’ I said.

‘Can I have some of whatever you’re drinking?’

‘No vodka,’ I said, and gave her the Bowmore’s, a glass, and some water from the tap. ‘Cask strength,’ I said. ‘Be careful.’

She mixed herself a drink, sampled it, and choked for a while. ‘What happens now?’ she said when she could speak.

‘With what?’ I said. ‘With whom?’

‘With you and your OAP totty. Does she make you feel young again?’

‘That’s not quite how I’d put it, Grace.’

‘That’s where you’d put it, though.’

‘Grace, where is all this anger coming from? It’s not as if you and I are an old married couple.’

‘That’s right, we’re nothing really, are we.’ She finished her drink, choked some more, and went out, slamming the door.

9 January 2004. I saw Justine Trimble commit murder last night. I’d been keeping an eye on Fallok’s place when I saw her come out. In full colour, which was startling. After reaching the street she leaned against a building for a few minutes, and then a woman who was passing spoke to her. Suddenly, before you could say ‘Chow Yun Fat’, Justine had the other woman in a close embrace. They stayed like that for perhaps ten minutes; then the other woman slumped to the street and Justine picked her up, slung her over her shoulder, carried her about half-way down the block, went down some area steps with her, came back up without her and walked away.

I hurried to where she’d left her victim. The woman was young and pretty, white as a sheet and stone-cold dead. Very sad but there was nothing I could do for her so I hurried after Justine. I followed her up Marshall to Great Marlborough Street where she took off her anorak and stuffed it into a dustbin. I retrieved it because you never know. I followed Justine as far as Oxford Street but there I lost her in the crowd. I took no further action because Rightnow is a good dog but Notyet is a safer bet.

10 January 2004. Next day I still hadn’t worked out my next move so I went up to Golders Green hoping for inspiration from Rosalie Chun at Elijah’s Lucky Dragon. ‘My goodness, Chaunce,’ she said, ‘you look as if you’ve seen the Malach ha-Mavet.’

‘Who’s that when he’s at home?’ I said.

‘The Angel of Death.’

‘That’s pretty close to the mark. I think I need something strong, Rosalie.’