Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

She breathed in the fumes, and coughed, before forcing herself to take a sip of amber liquid. It made her cough again. But she liked the way he had taken control of the situation. After her past weeks of freedom, it was somehow reassuring to be told what to do.

She began to gabble, taking great gulps of air between words, and knowing all the while that little of what she was saying made sense. 'Outside on the railings… window… fallen…'

Her voice trailed away and she stared at him, a frightening new idea forming in her brain. What if the girl hadn't fallen out of the first floor window at all? What if she had fallen out of the second floor window?

Out of this flat?

What if this man had pushed her?

He gazed calmly back at her, and, as if reading her mind, shook his head. 'Come,' he ordered, holding out his hand. Meekly, she allowed him to help her up and lead her over to the window. It was smaller than hers, harder to fall out of, and not the sort of window through which someone could easily be pushed. He wrestled it open, letting in a current of cool night air which cut through the mustiness of the room.

'You saw someone out there?' he asked.

'There was a lot of blood,' Sophie said, hanging back, unwilling to look outside. 'But she was still moving.'

'Shall we take another look?'

Sophie took a deep breath and risked it. Nothing stirred except a cat which suddenly darted across the road and beneath one of the parked cars that lined the street. There was no blood. No girl. There were just the railings, and the steps leading down to the basement flat, and the light out there wasn't greenish at all; it was the usual sodium orange.

The fear drained out of her, leaving her legs hollow and weak. He helped her back to the armchair. What an idiot she'd been. She didn't feel any better when she took a longer look at her upstairs neighbour and realized he was rather attractive, even though his breath was bad and his hair was sticking out at all sorts of odd angles and there were dark, puffy rings around his eyes. He was of a physical type similar to Miles. Not so well-groomed, obviously, but long-legged and gaunt, with a fetching air of fatigue.

But now he would think she was neurotic and she had totally ruined any chance she might have had.

Or maybe not. Maybe he didn't think she was a hysterical fool after all. He was nodding sympathetically.

'It could have been Ann-Marie,' he said to himself. 'It was Ann-Marie,' he repeated in a more confident tone. He looked directly at Sophie and smiled. 'It was Ann-Marie you saw, am I right?'

'I thought I saw something,' Sophie said, hesitantly, because she wasn't sure his smile was the most appropriate response in the circumstances. 'But maybe I didn't. Maybe it was me.'

'Maybe it was,' he said. 'And maybe it wasn't. But I should finish your drink if I were you.'

She gulped down too large a mouthful and nearly choked. He patted her on the back until she'd finished spluttering.

'Knock it back, and I'll get you another.'

Sophie could feel the whisky leaving a trail of warmth as it slid down into her stomach. She finished it quickly, and held out the empty glass. He told her to wait a second while he fetched the bottle.

She curled up in the chair again, already feeling more robust, and continued to survey her surroundings. The furniture was shabby, there were threadbare patches in the olive-green carpet, and only someone with severe cash-flow problems, she reasoned, would still be using a manual typewriter when everyone she knew had graduated to laptops; she spotted his Remington over on the table, surrounded by a chaos of books and papers. If he wrote for a living, she thought, then he obviously wasn't doing very well.

He came back with the bottle of whisky. 'Your name's Macallan? I saw it on your mail,' he said, pouring out two large measures before depositing the half-empty bottle on the mantelpiece.

'Sophie,' she said, transferring her glass to her left hand and extending the right for him to shake. He surprised her by lifting her fingers to his mouth and kissing them. It was the gesture of a confirmed romantic, and she decided then and there to hit him with the full version.

'Sophie Antigone Warbeck Macallan,' she rattled off. 'My mother had pretensions.'

He whistled. 'Some name. But it's a remarkable coincidence. My name's Jamieson. Robert Dennis Jamieson.'

Sophie chuckled, though she had no idea why. Now that the fear had subsided, she was feeling lightheaded and a little flirtatious, but if Robert had just made a joke, she didn't get it.

'We have something in common,' he elaborated. 'We both share surnames with famous brands of whisky. Jameson Irish, in my case, though I have an extra "i". But you're The Macallan Single Highland Malt, and that's spelt the same, isn't it? I don't suppose you're any relation? You don't sound Scottish.'

'My father always said our ancestors hid in the hills after Culloden,' Sophie said. 'But I don't think they had anything to do with whisky.'

'Shame,' said Robert. 'What we're drinking, however, is neither The Macallan nor Jameson.' He pinged the side of the glass with his thumb and fingernail. 'This is Tesco's finest blended. But at least it's put some colour back into your cheeks. When I first opened the door, I thought you were a ghost.'

Their eyes met.

Sophie wasn't ready for intimate eyeball-to-eyeball contact. She quickly looked away and laughed nervously. 'You're a writer?' she asked.

There was no reply, so she looked back. She'd thought the question a straightforward one, but he seemed perturbed by it. He was ruffling his already untidy hair with one hand.

'Trying to be,' he said. 'But it's not easy when people like Harry Fisher have got it in for you.'

'Who's Harry Fisher?' she asked.

Robert froze in mid-ruffle, as though only just remembering he had company. 'Oh, just some scumbag editor. But don't get me started on that. Tell me, how are you settling in? Not sleeping so well? Music a little too loud?'

Sophie stared into her whisky, embarrassed. 'I thought it was coming from up here. Now I see that's ridiculous.' She waved a hand at the only music-making equipment she could see: an old radio.

Robert started to laugh. 'You thought it was me? Playing that junk?'

'Yes, but it never really…'

He looked her straight in the eye again. 'Of course it wasn't me.'

'Wasn't…?'

'It doesn't come from here.'

'Then where…?'

'Your place,' he said. 'Down there.'

A rush of air came out of her mouth, making a small, soft noise which sounded like an 'oh'.

Robert took a packet of Marlboro from the table and offered it to her. Sophie shrank back like a vampire being offered garlic.

'I see you don't smoke,' he said, slipping a cigarette out of the pack and lighting up. Sophie decided she had no right to object — she was on his turf, after all — but wondered whether he might be persuaded to kick the habit. It was his first major flaw. Apart from the bad breath, that is, and maybe the two things were connected.

He inhaled deeply, so deeply and intently that for a moment he seemed to be transported.

'The music…' Sophie reminded him.

'Basically it's all good unclean late-Sixties stuff. Hendrix, the Stones, Jefferson Airplane.'

Sophie wondered exactly how old he was. He was surely too young to have been a hippy, but there were fine lines etched into his face, and a sprinkling of grey in his hair.

'All I can hear is the… the Drunken Boots,' she said.

Robert's eyes narrowed. 'Boats , you mean.'

'I found some records,' Sophie explained. 'Rock music records. In my flat, but they weren't mine. They were way before my time.'

He stared down at a worn patch on the carpet. 'You were bound to find out sooner or later. About the music, I mean. And about what you saw.'