Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

She was disappointed; she wanted to tell someone the good news.

The thrill of having found Harvey’s apartment wore off, and she felt depressed. Her thoughts returned to the danger that faced her of a future with no money, no job, and no way to help her mother.

To cheer herself up she made brunch. She scrambled three eggs and grilled the bacon she had bought yesterday for Steve and ate it with toast and coffee. As she was putting the dishes in the dishwasher, the doorbell rang.

She lifted the handset. “Hello?”

“Jeannie? It’s Steve.”

“Come on in!” she said happily.

He was wearing a cotton sweater the color of his eyes, and he looked good enough to eat. She kissed him and hugged him hard, letting him feel her breasts against his chest. His hand slid down her back to her ass and pressed her to him. Today he smelled different again: he had used some kind of aftershave with an herbal fragrance. He tasted different, too, sort of like he had been drinking tea.

After a while she broke away. “Let’s not go too fast,” she panted. She wanted to savor this. “Come in and sit down. I have so much to tell you!”

He sat on the couch and she went to the refrigerator. “Wine, beer, coffee?”

“Wine sounds good.”

“Do you think it will be okay?”

What the hell did she mean by that? Do you think it will be okay? “I don’t know,” he said.

“How long ago did we open it?”

Okay, they shared a bottle of wine but didn’t finish it, so she replaced the cork and put the bottle in the refrigerator, and now she’s wondering whether it has oxidized. But she wants me to decide. “Let’s see, what day was it?”

“It was Wednesday, that’s four days.”

He could not even see whether it was red or white. Shit. “Hell, just pour a glass and we’ll try it.”

“What a smart idea.” She poured some wine into a glass and handed it to him. He tasted it. “It’s drinkable,” he said.

She leaned over the back of the sofa. “Let me taste.” She kissed his lips. “Open your mouth,” she said. “I want to taste the wine.” He chuckled and did as she said. She put the tip of her tongue into his mouth. My God, this woman is sexy. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s drinkable.” Laughing, she filled his glass and poured some for herself.

He was beginning to enjoy himself. “Put some music on,” he suggested.

“On what?”

He had no idea what she was talking about. Oh, Christ, I’ve made a slip. He looked around the apartment: no stereo. Dumb.

She said: “Daddy stole my stereo, remember? I don’t have anything to play music on. Wait a minute, I do.” She went into the next room—bedroom, presumably—and came back with one of those waterproof radios for hanging in the shower. “It’s a silly thing, Mom gave it to me one Christmas, before she started to go crazy.”

Daddy stole her stereo. Mom’s crazy—what the hell kind of a family does she come from?

“The sound is terrible, but it’s all I’ve got.” She turned it on. “I keep it tuned to 92Q.”

‘Twenty hits in a row,” he said automatically.

“How do you know about that?”

Oh, shit, Steve wouldn’t know Baltimore radio stations. “I picked it up in the car on the way here.”

“What sort of music do you like?”

I have no idea what Steve likes, but I guess you don’t either, so the truth will do. “I’m into gangsta rap—Snoop Doggy Dogg, Ice Cube, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, fuck, you make me feel middle-aged.”

“What do you like?”

“The Ramones, the Sex Pistols, the Damned. I mean, when I was a kid, like really a kid, punk was it, you know? My mom would listen to all this cheesy music from the sixties that never did anything for me. Then, when I was about eleven, suddenly, bang! Talking Heads. Remember ‘Psycho Killer’?”

“I sure don’t!”

“Okay, your mother was right, I’m too old for you.” She sat beside him. She put her head on his shoulder and slipped her hand under the sky blue sweater. She rubbed his chest, brushing his nipples with her fingertips. It felt good. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

He wanted to touch her nipples too, but he had more important things to do. With a huge effort of will he said: “We need to talk seriously.”

“You’re right.” She sat up and took a sip of the wine. “You first. Is your father still under arrest?”

Jesus, what do I say to that? “No, you first,” he said. “You said you had so much to tell me.”

“Okay. Number one, I know who raped Lisa. His name is Harvey Jones and he lives in Philadelphia.”

Christ Almighty! Harvey struggled to keep his expression impassive. Thank God I came here. “Is there proof he did it?”

“I went to his apartment. The neighbor let me in with a duplicate key.”

That fucking old homo, I’ll break his scrawny neck.

“I found the baseball cap he was wearing last Sunday. It was hanging on a hook behind the door.”

Jesus! I should have thrown it away. But I never thought anyone would track me down! “You’ve done amazingly well,” he said. Steve would be thrilled by this news; it lets him off the hook. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I’ll think of something,” she said with a sexy grin.

Can I get back to Philadelphia in time to get rid of that hat before the police get there? “You’ve told the police all this, have you?”

“No. I’ve left a message for Mish, but she hasn’t called yet.”

Hallelujah! I still have a chance.

Jeannie went on: “Don’t worry. He has no idea we’re onto him. But you haven’t heard the best part. Who else do we know called Jones?”

Do I say, “Berrington”? Would Steve think of that? “It’s a common name.…”

“Berrington, of course! I think Harvey has been brought up as Berrington’s son!”

I’m supposed to be amazed. “Incredible!” he said. What the hell do I do next? Maybe Dad would have some ideas. I have to tell him about all this. I need an excuse to make a phone call.

She took his hand. “Hey, look at your nails!”

Oh, fuck, what now? “What about them?”

“They grow so fast! When you came out of jail, they were all jagged and broken. Now they look great!”

“I always heal fast.”

She turned his hand over and licked his palm.

“You’re hot today,” he said.

“Oh, God, I’ve come on too strong, haven’t I?” She had been told this by other men. Steve had been kind of reticent ever since he came in, and now she understood why. “I know what you’re saying. All last week I was pushing you away, and now you feel like I’m about to eat you for supper.”

He nodded. “Yeah, sort of.”

‘That’s just the way I am. Once I decide for a guy, that’s it.” She bounced up out of the couch. “Okay, I’m backing off.” She went into the kitchen nook and took out an omelet pan. It was so heavy she needed both hands to lift it. “I bought food for you yesterday. Are you hungry?” The pan was dusty—she did not cook much—so she wiped it with a dishcloth. “Want some eggs?”

“Not really. So tell me, were you a punk?”

She put down the pan. “Yeah, for a while. Ripped clothes, green hair.”

“Drugs?”

“I used to do speed at school whenever I had the money.”

“Which parts of your body did you pierce?”

She suddenly remembered the centerfold on Harvey Jones’s wall, of the shaved woman with a ring through the lips of her cunt, and she shuddered. “Only my nose,” she said. “I gave up punk for tennis when I was fifteen.”