Hidden Faces

I

The afternoon editions of the evening papers were on the streets. The sounds of traffic, of people laughing, of the paper-boy calling headlines, floated into the remoteness of the café. Tucked away in a side street off the Boulevard Adolphe Max, it seemed removed from all life that went on around it, like an eddy at the edge of a stream.

Kale sat in the farthest corner from the door. Here he sought his refuge, alone in a dark place where his face was not known, would be neither noticed nor remembered. It was a curious place. The only light came through dirty windows that faced out onto the street, the floor was unswept and the tables and chairs rocked on uneven legs. Half a dozen people sat at tables on their own, staring gloomily into drinks that they made last for hours, or watching the flickering screen of the crackling black-and-white television set on the far wall. The sound was turned down, but the second-hand pictures of other people’s worlds held a remorseless fascination, were company for lonely souls.

An old woman with short, dirty-grey hair sat behind the battered zinc bar, staring into space, puffing periodically on an evil-smelling cheroot. Kale stared despairingly at the newspapers in front of him. He had bought them all. This day and the day before. Scrutinising every column inch of words he did not understand. Searching but never finding. There was nothing that even remotely suggested a story about the missing child. Not even on the shootings at the Rue de Pavie. It was as though none of it had ever happened. He was discovering a quiet, quite alien desperation in himself, a need to know that his existence made a difference to the world, that the things he did had consequences. Here, in this city that was strange to him, where he knew no-one and no-one knew him, it was as though he did not exist at all.

A quality of nightmare about the last days haunted him. It was a time when he had discovered things in himself that he had never known were there, things that confused him, frightened him. His values, if he had ever had any, his relationship with the life that went on around him, had altered beyond his understanding. He was like a man who, having thrown a pebble into a pool, sees the stone vanish without breaking the surface of the water. There are no concentric rings spreading out to infinity, no evidence that he has thrown the pebble. Would such a man, perhaps, begin to doubt his very existence? Would he then dare to look into the pool for fear that there might be no reflection?

He pulled on the last inch of his cigarette and blew the grey smoke back out through nicotine-stained teeth. Why had he not killed the child? The opportunity had been his for the taking. And why, after only two days, had the killings in the Rue de Pavie died in the public consciousness. The papers should be full of it, as they should be full, today, of the child’s disappearance.

He had bought the English newspapers, too, at a large newsagent’s in the centre of the city. After the second day, nothing. The front pages had been given over again to the election; the Prime Minister speaking in Edinburgh, the Leader of the Opposition making an important policy statement on immigration designed to win votes. Why had he not killed the child?

His mind drifted back to the hospital rising above him in the darkness, to the sudden flood of light from the downstairs window that had caught him like a rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car. He had seen the child looking down at him in the reflected light, seen the recognition in her eyes. Even then, after the light had gone, he had not thought of drawing back. It had not occurred to him to fight the almost irresistible drag of the currents that drew him towards the vortex. He had moved around the house, forcing a window and climbing into the pitch darkness of the kitchen. It must have been then that he had heard the first whispers of guilt. Something in the warmth, the smell of stale cooking, a scrap of blue ribbon lying on a work surface by the door. Something that reminded him of when he was a boy.

In the hallway, night lights glowed faintly along the wall and his heart leapt at the sight of a figure watching him from the far end. It was several seconds before he realised that it was his own reflection that watched him from a mirror on the wall. He had stood staring at the mean, cheap, dirty figure, unable to move, to draw his eyes away from it. For just a moment he thought he saw his mother’s face peering back at him out of the darkness. He had never seen the resemblance before. It was uncanny.

The spell had been broken then by the sound of soft footsteps somewhere in the house. They fell like blows upon him. Was it fear that had made him turn on his heels and run? Back through the kitchen, out again into the cold night, the window left open behind him.

In the darkness he stumbled through the snow in despair. And as he came around the house he saw her, a shadow in the night, running down the steps, a coat clutched around her, a woollen hat pulled down on her head. She had glanced in his direction, but had not seen him, and had run on across the terrace. She slipped and fell. He heard her sobs as she picked herself up and ran out of sight down the driveway. He might have followed. It would have been easy then. But he had not.

A policeman came into the café, a black cape across his shoulders, and Kale tensed. The policeman cast an eye around the figures at the tables. Was it only Kale’s imagination that the man’s eyes rested longer on him? He stared back out of sullen, hateful eyes and the policeman turned away to buy a pack of cigarettes. He exchanged a few words with the grey-haired woman and then went out without a backward glance.

Kale finished his beer, and left fifty francs in the saucer and went out into the street. He scuffed along the pavement close to the wall, away from the boulevard, turning left into the Rue Neuve and along to the Place de la Monnaie. A great weight had settled on him. He stopped to light a cigarette and looked up to see the man he had followed to the hospital. Bannerman was crossing the square only fifty metres away. Kale stood fixed, watching as the man climbed the steps and pushed through the great heavy swing doors of the Post Office. It all came back to him. The knowledge of what he must do. He might almost have cried, something he had not done since he was a child. But then, that would have been a weakness, and he could not afford to discover yet more weaknesses in himself. He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket and felt the slip of paper he had drawn from the left luggage locker. Just three words. They almost burned his fingers.

II

Bannerman stepped into the warmth of the IPC building. There was still a rawness in his bones and he felt a slight shiver crawl across his skin. A fine, cold sweat formed over his forehead. He passed the reception desk. The telephone girl did not look up from her magazine. In the press bar he sat on one of the high stools and leaned forward on his elbows breathing noisily. The barman raised an eyebrow. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Whisky.’

He clutched the glass eagerly and poured its golden warmth over his throat. ‘Another.’

‘We are making every effort to find her.’ Du Maurier’s words came to him, crisp in the cold air as they walked across the street from the inn to the car. The sun had been rising over the tops of the trees that were sculpture against the pale sky. ‘But there has been none of the attendant publicity you might expect. It would help. Someone might have seen her. But if the story got out... Well, the politicians are afraid that the whole case would be resurrected by the press.’ Bannerman’s breath had drifted like mist into the early morning.

‘And you think you will find her alive?’

There had been a look of shame on du Maurier’s face. ‘No,’ he said.

‘And I suppose nothing of what happened here last night will reach the papers either. At least, not through you.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what about me?’

‘I can’t stop you. Others perhaps, but not me.’

Bannerman drained his second glass, dropped some coins on the counter and went back out past the telephone girl to the lifts. The whisky had restored a little of his strength and numbed the hurt.

Mademoiselle Ricain looked up in surprise as he came into the office. She was embarrassed and stood up. ‘I... Monsieur...’ she stuttered. ‘Your office in Edinburgh has been trying to reach you for nearly two days. And...’ she fumbled among some papers on her desk, ‘...a man called Platt. He has phoned several times, as has Mademoiselle Robertson.’

He sat down and glanced across at Palin’s empty desk. ‘Where’s Palin?’

Mademoiselle Ricain blushed. ‘He... he’s gone back to London.’ Pause. ‘You look terrible, Monsieur.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere. For God’s sake sit down. You make me nervous fluttering about like that.’

Her face flushed again and she sat down. She slipped a sheet of paper into her typewriter and began typing furiously.

Bannerman took an envelope from his pocket. It had been so easy. After du Maurier dropped him he had gone straight to the Post Office at the Place de la Monnaie and presented Gryffe’s card. The girl behind the counter had not given him a second glance, but returned within a minute with the envelope he now held in his hand. Perhaps he should have felt more excitement than he did, but the child still filled his thoughts. He tried to feel detached, to remain unaffected. Why should it matter to him? But it did. Then he thought, let it feed your anger. Let it make you angry so that you want all the more to get at those responsible. If he could not channel it into something positive, then the sorrow was always there, waiting to well up and choke him.

He looked at the postmark and stamp on the envelope. It came from Switzerland and it had been posted at the beginning of the month, nearly two weeks ago. He slit it open. There were two sheets of paper clipped together. The top sheet was letter-headed, a firm of chartered accountants in Geneva — Fouquet, Maxim and Schmidt, 50 Rue des Quartiers. It was addressed to M. Robert Gryffe, and the letter was brief and in English.

The sheet below listed purchases, sales, overheads, in columns of figures down the right-hand side. It showed a pre-tax profit for the three months of one and a half million pounds with a rolling total for the first nine months of nearly five million pounds. Further returns were expected.

Bannerman was stunned. He ran his eyes up and down the figures. Just numbers on a sheet of paper. But they meant so much. Sales, purchases and overheads were not itemised, but that would come. He had a start, the first inkling of what it was that Gryffe had been involved in. He was oblivious to Mademoiselle Ricain’s typing, to the late afternoon sunshine that slanted into the office across his desk, to the film of sweat on his forehead. He reached for the phone and dialled rapidly.

‘Edinburgh Post.’ The line was good and clear across all the miles.

‘News desk.’

Gorman, the Post’s news editor, was preparing the schedule for the news desk secretary to type before the five o’clock conference when the phone went. He was harassed. It had been one of those afternoons. Five dead in a fire in Maryhill in Glasgow, the Prime Minister’s conference before an election rally to be held later in the Usher Hall. Then there was a Nationalist MP claiming a political motive behind a burglary at his home. Important documents on the Nationalists’ election strategy were missing, he was saying. There were two reporters off with flu. And, of course, there had been the diary markings of the daily round of press conferences that the Parties insisted on giving in the run-up to polling day. But if he was to stop and think about it, this was the way Gorman liked it.

‘David!’ he barked, as a copy boy dropped long, ragged-edged sheets of pink paper on his desk. A young reporter with a thick dark moustache and a broken nose ambled across the newsroom. Gorman held out the sheets of pink paper. ‘That’s the PA copy on the fire. You’d better check it and see if they’ve got anything we haven’t.’

‘Not a chance,’ the reporter grinned and ambled back to his seat clutching the sheets from the wireroom.

Gorman’s phone rang. He lifted it and said wearily, ‘News desk.’

‘Gorman?’

‘Speaking.’ Then, ‘Neil?’

‘The same. Look, I’m in a hurry, I...’

‘Hold it, hold it! Where in God’s name have you been, Neil? Tait’s been looking for you for the last two days, ever since Slater’s girl went missing.’

‘You know about that?’ Bannerman was surprised.

‘Yes, they told Tait. But he won’t use anything on it. He’s been going spare, and I have been getting the heavy end of the stick, I can tell you. Where have you been?’

‘Busy. I don’t have time to go into it. I want a number from my contacts book.’

Gorman interrupted irritably. ‘Look, I think you’d better talk to Tait.’

‘No way. I’m through talking with Tait. I guess he didn’t tell you I was leaving the Post?’

The words dropped into Gorman’s confusion like lead weights. For a moment he could not think of anything to say, then blurted lamely, ‘You’re joking.’

‘No. There isn’t much room in my life for jokes these days. We had a little disagreement in Brussels, Tait and I. But I don’t suppose he would tell you about that either. When I’m through with this story I’m getting out. However, that is neither here nor there. I need that number. A guy called Hector Lewis. He’s got a small business in Geneva that does company searches among other things. I must get in touch with him tonight. The book’s in my desk.’

‘Hold on.’

Gorman made his way across the newsroom. In the last week he had found himself missing the familiar sight of the cantankerous Bannerman sitting at his desk chewing cigars and being thoroughly objectionable to all around him. It did not seem possible that he might not be back. He was good to have around. If you were a news editor, then he might make life pretty difficult for you, but there was a safe feeling knowing that he was there. Damn Tait with his brash bad manners and his tantrums and the knives that he kept sharpened for his staff. He was killing the Post as surely as if it were a ship he was steering onto the rocks in a cruel sea. You could not afford to lose people like Bannerman. He was not the first, neither would he be the last. When, Gorman wondered, would his turn come? Soon, he suspected.

He lifted Bannerman’s contacts book from its drawer and returned to the news desk. He picked up the phone. ‘I’ve got your number, Neil.’ He read it over, hesitated, then asked, ‘What will I tell Tait?’

‘Tell him to stick it up his arse.’

‘Can I quote you?’

‘Please.’

‘Good. I shall enjoy that.’

As he hung up the door behind flew open and Tait stood in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled up, clenched fists on his hips. ‘Any word of Bannerman yet?’

Bannerman had started dialling again almost before Tait had got his door open. He listened to the shrill single rings in his left ear and became aware that Mademoiselle Ricain was still typing away at the desk opposite him. What could she be typing? There was only himself and Palin working out of this office. And Palin was gone.

‘Vous cherchez?’ The voice crashed into his thoughts.

‘Hector Lewis, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Moment.’ A line got plugged through the switchboard. ‘Lewis.’

‘Hector, it’s Neil Bannerman.’

You could almost hear Lewis running the name through his head in the split second before he responded, ‘Neil! Good to hear from you. How are you?’

‘Let’s skip the formalities, Hector. You still do company searches?’

Lewis guffawed heartily at the other end. He was a man you could not offend. ‘Same old Neil Bannerman. Yes, I still do the occasional search for old customers like yourself. But I’ve been branching out a bit lately. Doing a nice line in PR now.’

‘Another martyr to presstitution?’

‘Ha, ha, that’s a good one. I must remember that.’

‘It’s not original.’

‘But nothing is nowadays, Neil. Nothing is.’

Bannerman continued dryly, ‘I need some information on a company called Machines Internationale. I have reason to think it might be registered in Switzerland. Possibly Luxembourg, but probably Switzerland.’

‘A pleasure, sir, a pleasure. What do you want to know?’

‘Everything. Director, associated companies if any, capital, line of business. And if you do turn up any companies I’d like the gen on them too.’

‘Something big?’

‘None of your damned business.’

‘Ha, ha. No, you’re quite right. Discretion is the key word. But it’ll cost you. My time is more valuable these days.’

‘Oh sure, the time you spend on your backside while you delegate the donkey work to your little army of diggers.’

‘Right in one, Neil. Right in one. Life is so much sweeter when one can reap the rewards from the labours of others. Where can I reach you?’ Bannerman gave him his office number and the number at Slater’s flat. ‘And what are you doing in Brussels?’ Lewis asked.

‘Shelling sprouts.’

‘That’s good. Ha, ha. Very droll. It wouldn’t be anything to do with the shootings at the beginning of the week?’

‘I told you. Mind your own bloody business.’

‘Good, fine, right. How soon do you want this stuff?’

‘Just as soon as you can get off your fat arse and start digging.’

‘And goodnight Vienna. Ha, ha. Right, good. Give my love to, eh... well, whoever. I’ll be in touch.’

Bannerman hung up and leaned back in his seat. He was not happy at having to use Lewis. He would rather have gone to Switzerland himself, but that would have taken time. And Lewis was good. But he was a vicious bastard. Somewhere behind all that ersatz affability and good humour was a hidden sack of poison. The sharp ring of the phone startled him. He snatched the receiver. ‘Bannerman.’

‘Neil, it’s Sally. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. God, I’ve been so worried. You know about Tania?’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Where have you been? I thought maybe you’d gone back to Scotland. They phoned me early the morning after it happened. I tried to get you at the Rue de Commerce, but there was no reply. You haven’t heard anything, have you?’

‘No.’ There was a long silence on the line that perhaps seemed longer than it was.

Then Sally said, ‘Can we meet?’

Bannerman wiped the perspiration from his forehead. ‘I’m tired, Sally. Maybe tomorrow.’ There was another silence and then he heard the phone click and go dead at the other end. He dropped the receiver back in its cradle and leaned forward on his elbows, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. The typing stopped and he looked up to find Mademoiselle Ricain watching him. He stared back, almost without seeing her. Suddenly he said, ‘Would you do me a favour, Mademoiselle?’

‘Well, yes,’ she answered hesitantly.

‘It’s all right, I just want you to phone Richard Platt at the Belge Soir and tell him I’ll be in touch tomorrow. I’m going home now. When you’ve done you might as well knock off too.’ She nodded, expecting Bannerman to rise and take his leave. But he sat on, still looking at her. She grew more self-conscious and dithered before reaching for the phone. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘About Palin. I embarrassed you.’

‘Oh...’ she said, not sure about how to respond. ‘He... he probably deserved it. I... he wasn’t a very nice man.’

‘No.’ Bannerman stood up. ‘What are you typing?’

She blushed. ‘Nothing. That is... nothing important.’ Bannerman nodded, leaned over and took the sheet of paper from the typewriter. The typing was neat and accurate. ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.’ About thirty lines of it. Bannerman smiled and laid it on her desk.

III

The muffled ring of the telephone reached Tania on the landing. It seeped through her drowsiness like a light seen through a fog on a dark night. She was only vaguely aware of it though she knew it was there. It was not until it stopped that she awoke fully to the gnawing, hungry ache in her belly and the cold that gripped her like a vice in the darkness. Another night. Was it the second or the third? She was losing track of time now.

She looked up at the skylight and saw stars in the blackness of the sky. There was no longer any fear in her. She thought she heard Death on the steps, thought she saw its dark shadow make its stealthy approach. But it didn’t matter any more. She would almost have welcomed it. She was not certain why she was here. Her memory of the face caught in the light below her window was fading. Her flight from the house into the deserted streets, the snow that fell through the light of the street lamps, the empty bus terminus. The fingers of her memory had numbed and were no longer able to hold onto these things.

The landing lamp suddenly came on, flooding a pain of light into her head. With the shock of it, she remembered the horror of that moment on the bus when she could not pay, when the conductor had begun to shout and she could not say what it was she wanted to say. It came like the sudden flare of a struck match and died as quickly, leaving only a slow flame that flickered hopelessly, making little impression in the vastness of her misery. She still remembered that first night in the brick bin shelter, the cold and the smell of rottenness and the scurrying of unseen rats. She closed her eyes against the harshness of the light and heard slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. Perhaps this, at last, was Death.

Bannerman had got the taxi to drive up the Rue de Pavie, past the house where Gryffe and Slater had been shot. It lay in darkness, empty and desolate, like the street itself. At the top he got out and went into a general store on the corner. An old man served him and sold him a loaf, some cheese and two litres of red wine. As an afterthought he also bought a carton of milk. The old man gave him a thick, brown paper bag to carry the things away in and the taxi whisked him back through the snow-bound city as the stars came out hard and clear overhead.

In the Rue de Commerce, Slater’s car stood by the kerb. Three inches of snow lay on the roof and the bonnet, its coat of frost glistening in the lamplight. He climbed out of the taxi, paid the driver and watched it slither cautiously away down the street. The weight of his tiredness was enormous. How could he even think about things or put them in their proper perspective until he had had some sleep? He would have a hot bath first, then take some bread and cheese, wash it down with the wine and go on drinking the wine until he didn’t care any more. Then he would sleep forever.

The stairs and the landings were all so depressingly familiar now. And it was a long climb for weary limbs.

He almost didn’t see her huddled in a corner on the opposite side of the landing. It was only the slightest sound that made him turn as he was slipping the key in the lock. Her eyes were open and staring up at him. There was no hint of recognition, no reaction. He opened the door and slid his bag inside and crossed the landing to crouch over her. Her face was drained of colour and her dark eyes were ringed and sunk deep in her head. He lifted one of her limp hands and was shocked by its coldness. ‘My God!’ The words came in a breath like mist in the lamplight.

Very carefully he lifted her in his arms and carried her across the landing and into the house. He kicked the door shut and staggered through the half-light in the hall and into the living room. He laid her gently on the settee and lit the fire before switching on a small table lamp and drawing the curtains. Her breathing seemed shallow. He sat on the settee beside her and unbuttoned her coat. All the time her eyes never left him. He took each of her hands in turn and rubbed them briskly between his. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ he said. But in her first response since he had found her, her hand clutched at his sleeve and she shook her head. ‘You need a doctor,’ he said firmly. She shook her head again and he saw that look in her eyes that he had seen before.

He sighed and thought about it. ‘Have you eaten?’ Again she shook her head. ‘All right, I’ll give you some hot milk to start with. Will that be okay?’ This time she nodded and he thought he saw a little smile about her lips.

He was anxious and confused and again stricken by the uncertainty that this child brought him. He knew he should get a doctor, but equally he knew she would not have it. At least not right away. He pushed the coffee table aside and pulled the settee nearer the fire. ‘I’ll heat your milk.’

In the hall he found the bag where he had dropped it by the door, and took it into the kitchen. He found a saucepan in a cupboard, poured in some milk from the carton and placed the pan on a high gas. Perhaps she should have a hot bath. The worst was not knowing the right thing to do. When it was yourself you didn’t care too much. You mistreated yourself. You did the wrong things, you drank, you defied your doctor’s orders. But when it was someone else, you felt somehow a responsibility that you never felt for yourself.

He found the switch for the water heater on the wall by the kitchen door and switched it on. Then he remembered the suitcases in Slater’s bedroom. She should change into fresh, warm clothes. Her coat and dress had been cold and damp to the touch. He found the suitcases and began to go through the child’s things. There was a heavy woollen dressing gown and a pair of pyjamas. He found a small pair of slippers and took out a pair of Slater’s socks.

Tania felt the warmth only superficially. It was on her skin, but inside the cold was still there. It dulled her thinking, misted the window through which she looked out on the world. Only a tiny corner of it was clear and through it she saw Bannerman, smelled him, felt him.

She had never really had any contact with the world outside herself, always the observer. Somehow Bannerman bridged that gap, or at least she felt that he might. They were just a touch away. She had wanted it so much from her father, but he had never tried. He had never wanted to. Wisps of thought drifted in her mind. When she reached for them they dispersed like smoke and she gave up trying. She heard Bannerman in the kitchen and was aware of him going through the room and into her father’s bedroom. Presently he came out again and returned to the kitchen, then he was there beside her helping her up into a sitting position.

She tried very hard to bring herself up out of the mist. The glass was in her hand and he was bringing it up gently to her lips. The milky hotness of it washed away the badness in her mouth and she felt it going down, down, warm, almost sensuous. Its warmth was spreading and she felt the cold receding before it. For the first time in many hours she shivered. There was a soothing of the gnawing in her stomach and she became acutely aware of her hunger. The mist was at least clearing. She looked up to find Bannerman watching her with concern.

‘That better?’ His voice came close and soft. She nodded. He held up a bundle of clothes and she recognized her dressing gown. ‘I’ve had these warming in front of the fire for you. If you feel able you should change out of the clothes you’re wearing. They’re pretty damp.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction. She managed a weak smile and nodded. ‘I’ve put the water heater on. The water should be ready in about fifteen minutes. I think probably a hot bath would do you good. Then we can eat.’

They sat eating in silence in front of the fire. The bread and cheese was dry, but the wine was good. Tania had never been allowed to drink wine before and she found its taste a little bitter. But it filled her with a feeling of sleepy well-being and warmth, like the warmth that had spread so deliciously through her body in the bath. He had had to help her change and she had sensed his embarrassment.

He had been uncomfortably aware of the beginnings of puberty in the child, the slight swellings that would become her breasts, the fine down between her legs. There was nothing sexual in his discomfort, but it had been disconcerting. Now his own fatigue was catching up with him again. In all his concern for the child, he had forgotten his own weariness, his own desperate need for food and sleep. His bath would have to wait until tomorrow.

He finished eating and drank some more wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. Suddenly she got onto her knees and leaned forward, drawing a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown. He felt its coolness on his forehead as she mopped away the fine beads of perspiration.

He caught her hand. ‘I’ll have to tell them you’re here.’ Almost immediately there was fear in her eyes and she shook her head vigorously. He said, ‘It’s all right. It’s just so they can stop searching. It’s only fair. No-one’s going to take you away tonight.’ He did not wait for a reaction, but turned and lifted the phone down beside him and began dialling.

‘Police Judicial.’ A woman’s voice.

‘Inspecteur du Maurier.’

‘Ne quittez pas.’ A phone lifted. ‘Du Maurier.’

‘You’re still there. I didn’t really expect to get you at this time. Have you no home to go to?’

‘What do you want?’ Du Maurier sounded irritable.

‘The child is here, God knows why. We’ll probably never know. She was waiting on the landing when I got back.’

Tania watched Bannerman darkly. She would not let anyone take her away again. She wanted to be with Bannerman always. She examined him closely while he spoke. She saw his weariness, the perspiration that had broken out again across his forehead, the cuts across his right-hand cheek. There was a hardness about his face, something a little frightening. But she knew, too, that he was capable of great gentleness. ‘And this time I want one of your men at the clinic night and day till she leaves,’ she heard him saying, and became aware of her heart pounding.

He hung up and smiled at her, ‘It’s all right,’ he said, and he got up from the floor to slump into the softness of the settee. She detected his hesitation in saying what was on his mind. Then he came out with it. ‘Tomorrow. Sometime tomorrow you... you’ll have to go back to the clinic. But it’ll only be for a day or so and then we can go back to Scotland.’

She had known it would come, but knowing in advance could not stop the flood of anger and hurt. It was always what they wanted. Did no-one ever think about what she wanted?

She flew at him, clenched fists beating against his chest, the cry of her agony on her lips. Bannerman had not been prepared for it. The fists hurt him, tiny blows raining across his chest and shoulders and face.

He tried to catch her arms, but fear of hurting her made it difficult. Finally he got his arms around her so that her arms were pinned at her sides and he hugged her to him and felt the sobs that racked her small body. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he was saying, and then felt sick as he remembered hearing her father say that to her.

She was still struggling, but her strength was diminishing rapidly. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said breathlessly, ‘we’ll talk about it. We’ll work it out.’ The struggling subsided with a whimper and her head fell onto his shoulder with her face turned away from him. He rocked her gently to and fro. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he whispered. ‘God, I don’t want to hurt you.’ Something inside him snapped. A kind of iron self-control that had made him invulnerable for so long. But it had grown brittle with the years. His own voice sounded odd to him. ‘Somewhere there’s a little girl,’ he was saying, ‘only three or four years older than you. She’s my... I’m her father. I’ve never seen her. I could pass her in the street and I wouldn’t know it. She maybe even thinks that someone else is her father. I don’t know. I just know that there’s a part of me in her. A part of me...’ He turned his head a little and saw that she was asleep. Maybe she hadn’t heard any of it. Perhaps it was better that she should not know.

Slowly he moved her over so that she lay along the settee on her side and he got up and went through to the bedroom to get a duvet. He laid it across her and looked down on her face. It was almost pretty in repose. He stooped to kiss her cheek lightly and went through to his room.

IV

The morning had almost gone when Bannerman turned over and opened his eyes to the sunlight that filled his room. He craned his neck round to see Tania standing by the window staring out across the rooftops. She turned and smiled. ‘Good morning,’ Bannerman said, and returned her smile.

She looked vastly better than she had the previous night. He looked at his watch. It was nearly midday. ‘God, I’ve been out a long time. Have you been up long?’ She shook her head and held up one finger. ‘An hour?’ She nodded. She was dressed and there was a little bit of colour about her cheeks. ‘You must be starving.’ She grinned and walked, almost ran, to the door, and indicated that she wanted him to follow. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. I’m not dressed.’ She shrugged.

He laughed and felt a great pleasure in simply laughing. ‘On you go. I’m not a pretty sight first thing in the morning.’ She nodded her agreement and he threw the pillow at her. It struck the door as she closed it quickly behind her.

There was still a stiffness in his limbs as he climbed out of bed and felt the cold air touch his skin. When he dressed he went through to the living room and saw a lump of bread and a piece of crumbling cheese set out for him on the coffee table, with the last half litre of wine and a glass. At the other side crumbs of bread and cheese gave evidence that she could not wait for him.

‘Well, thank you, Tania.’ He sat down and tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth. He looked at the wine and smiled reproachfully. ‘The wine was a nice thought, but honestly, after the excesses of last night I couldn’t really face it. You didn’t have any, did you?’ She nodded with a mischievous little smile in her eyes. ‘I can see I’m going to have to watch you. But you’re right. Bread and cheese is a little bit dry on its own. Could you go a coffee?’ She nodded vigorously in response and followed him eagerly into the kitchen.

There was milk enough to make the coffee half and half. He spooned sugar and coffee into two mugs and watched the milk and water come to the boil in a pan over the gas. He felt good. He could not remember having slept so well for long enough. It was the first morning in many that he had arisen with a lightness about him, with a delight in anticipation of the day ahead. But he was being careful not to let it blot out everything else. The future still lay like a black, ominous cloud on his horizon. He knew that to taste the goodness of life and then lose it was worse than never having tasted it at all.

It was the same for the child and he felt it as much for her as for himself. This was the false peace, the calm before the storm, or perhaps the eye of tranquillity at its centre. It was an ephemeral thing, but he did not want its lack of permanence to spoil it while it lasted.

‘Here.’ He handed her a mug and they drank it in silence, enjoying its sweetness and hotness. He should make her aware of it too. He said, ‘Later we’re going to have to talk about the future.’ He saw her face cloud. ‘But right now we’re not even going to think about it. We can spend the next few hours finding out a little bit more about each other.’ She tilted the mug back to hide her face and he could not detect her response. When she lowered the mug she smiled as though he had not spoken, and he wondered what she was thinking.

The doorbell rang and brought a sudden, tense silence into their world. They exchanged glances and her eyes said, don’t answer it. He sighed and lowered his head so that he did not have to see her. He placed his mug on the work surface and went out of the kitchen.

He felt something like relief when he opened the door and found Sally standing smiling at him. But there was still a residue of annoyance at the intrusion. ‘What do you want?’

The smile left her face and it coloured with anger. ‘I came to apologise,’ she said frostily. ‘For being short with you on the phone last night. But now I don’t think I’ll bother.’ She turned quickly and Bannerman grabbed her arm.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got company.’

Her eyes flashed a strange dark emotion. ‘Oh, I see. Then I’ll not disturb you.’

Bannerman held her arm still. ‘Not that kind of company,’ he said and smiled in spite of himself. ‘It’s Tania. She was waiting on the landing when I got back last night.’

All her antagonism dissolved and she let her head drop a little. ‘Then I will apologise. I’m sorry. Is she all right?’

‘Well, come in, for God’s sake.’

She came into the hall and he shut the door behind her. ‘She’s okay. A bit weak. She should see a doctor, but she wouldn’t let me call one last night. She must have been through a hell of a lot.’ They stood in the half dark, an uneasiness between them that neither of them really understood. Suddenly Sally laughed.

‘I’m so glad. That she’s well. I don’t think I’ve had much sleep in the past couple of nights.’

‘You’d better come in and say hullo.’

‘Will she be all right?’

‘I don’t know.’

They went into the living room and Tania was standing at the kitchen door.

‘Hullo,’ Sally said. ‘I see you two have made friends.’

There was an awkward silence, almost as though Tania resented Sally’s presence. And Bannerman saw that Sally knew it and was hurt by it. He stepped forward and placed his hands on the child’s shoulders and crouched down so that his eyes were on a line with hers. ‘Look, Tania. The whole world isn’t against you. Even if it seems that way. It’s pretty hard for us all to make our way. It’s harder for you and it’s going to take a special kind of courage to come through it. I think maybe you’ve got that courage. But you’re still going to need all the friends you can get, all the love you can gather. Life’s pretty hostile. You need some kind of buffer against it and you’re going to have to start trusting the people that love you.’ She stared back at him, her face a blank mask. It was impossible to know what she was thinking, as it was so often with her. Bannerman stood up. ‘How about we all go for a walk?’ He glanced back at Sally. His words could almost have been meant for her as well.

She said, ‘That would be nice.’ Then he turned his eyes back to the child. He heard the clock ticking, and his own breathing. Her eyes looked deep into his with a disconcerting penetration and then they dropped a little and she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

It was a day full of promise, the sun pale and round in the vast blueness of the sky above the city. The air was crisp and nippy and your eyes watered in it if you ran.

Bannerman, Sally and the child walked briskly to keep warm, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves, down the Rue de Commerce, turning into the Rue Belliard. They crossed the Boulevard du Regent where the road shone wet and black with the salt, and the traffic threw out a spray of dirty black slush. Down Lambermont and into the Parc de Bruxelles. The seeds of happiness lay in them all, but there was, too, a restraint, so that the happiness was locked inside them.

Sally suggested they build a snowman, but the snow was too crisp and dry. It was Bannerman who threw the first snowball, gathering a handful of snow where the sun had been for some hours. Sally was still trying in vain to build her snowman while Tania watched uncertainly. The child saw the snow that Bannerman had scooped up and he put his fingers to his lips before he threw it and caught Sally on the shoulder. The snow burst in a spray over her face and she wheeled around, anger in her eyes. Then she saw that Bannerman was grinning, and that Tania was pulling in her mouth to stop from smiling. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘If that’s the way you want it. Come on, Tania, we’re not going to let him get away with that, are we?’

She stooped quickly to grab a handful of snow that broke into a white cloud in the air as she threw it. Bannerman laughed. ‘You need to get it where the sun’s been on it.’ He threw another and Sally ducked so that it flew over her head. She grabbed Tania’s hand and they ran to where the sun slanted down through the trees across the virgin snow.

‘Like this,’ she said, showing Tania how to cup it between her hands and compress it into a ball. Then she yelled as another burst on her knee. She stood up quickly and hurled her snowball at Bannerman. He side-stepped easily, slipped and fell heavily on his side. He felt the snow in his shoes and burning the side of his face. He saw the black railings of the park and the outline of grey and biscuit-coloured buildings against the sky. Trees overhead and the sound of laughter. Sally’s fine clear voice, and another. He rolled over and saw Tania, her face reddened by the cold and bright with the laughter that came from her like music. He was not sure if he had ever heard anything so good. The child’s laughter was joyous and unrestrained, honest and simple, and in that moment, almost painful in its sweetness.

A snowball burst on his forehead, stinging his skin and bringing tears to his eyes. He heard footsteps crunching across the snow and Tania was there, standing over him, her laughter coming in short bursts of pleasure. She raised a hand and threw her snowball. It broke on his chest and he yelled and she dropped on her knees, her arms around his neck, life and laughter pulsing through her small, clumsy body. He hugged her and got to his feet, lifting her clear of the ground and spinning her round and round until the world swam and he had to stop. They both fell into the snow and Tania lay on her back breathing hard and laughing at the sky. Bannerman saw Sally crouched a few yards away in the snow. She grinned at him and tilted her head to one side.

He scrambled to his feet, brushing snow from his coat and trousers. ‘I’m soaked. What do you say we eat?’ Tania had stopped laughing and he saw that she was gazing up at him with a clear, bright light in her eyes. And his own happiness muddied a little as he wondered if it was in him to condemn her to a life in an institution.

Two hundred metres away, across the snow and the gravel paths, beyond the trees, the figure of Kale in a dark coat stood watching. The skin on his face was smooth and shiny in the cold, touched with yellow. Thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. It was a face without expression, apart from the eyes. They were the same dark eyes that had watched life pass by them, as you watch the rain and wind sweep down your street from the safety of your room, through glass. It did not touch you. Inside you were safe. But mostly these were eyes that revealed more than they took in. Eyes that betrayed the bitterness behind them, the bitterness that life had nourished so cruelly. Eyes that filtered out all the good things, like darkly tinted glass, so that all things seemed without light or colour.

At first Kale’s mind had shrunk painfully from his new reality, as your eyes do when you come out of a dark place into the light. In the dazzle he had been temporarily blinded. A kind of madness had seized upon him. But gradually his awareness had returned, slowly, and not without hurt. Now all things were clear, and the bitterness that had once shone in those black eyes were replaced with an emptiness. They say a man cannot change, but that is not true. There are many things that can change a man. It can be a gradual thing, or it can come in a blinking of the eyes, a blinding light in which God is revealed.

With Kale the change had begun with three words on a scrap of paper, but the change itself, the core of it, had come from within. Whatever it is that makes us what we are, it is not an external thing. It is inside. And it is from there that the light comes, when our eyes are opened. The glass is tinted on the inside and it is we who tint it.

And so Kale stood watching, through the trees, three figures in the snow. He heard them laughing, their voices in the stillness of the winter morning. He felt drawn to them, wanted to share their laughter. But he had long since passed out of their world into his own dark place. He could look back, but never return. A small, silent tear ran from the corner of his eye. He would not, could not, kill the child.

V

Platt battered out the final page of his copy, checked it, sorted out the blacks and called for a copy boy. A spotty youngster with a shock of red hair snatched it from his tray and headed for the news desk. Had there been a hint of contempt in the boy’s cold, green eyes?

The news room was buzzing with activity in the last minutes before the copy deadlines for the final edition.

Platt lit a cigarette and puffed on it nervously. He was through for the day and he felt badly in need of a drink. But there were still things to be done. He was both excited and a little edgy. It worried him that Bannerman should simply have disappeared like that for two days. Then last night there had been the phone call from Mademoiselle Ricain. Bannerman would phone him today. The call had not come. It had crossed his mind more than once that Bannerman would not keep his word, that when it came to the bit he would not share the story. Why should he? After all, Platt had contributed little or nothing so far, and Platt knew that his fears about Bannerman’s intentions derived from the hatching of his own shabby plots. He smiled a little at the thought of putting one over on him.

Bannerman had asked him for background on Jansen and Lapointe. But he had gone further than that. The hours he had spent searching through the records at the Tribunal de Commerce had repaid him handsomely. At last he had something to trade with Bannerman. He had bargaining power. He felt the first mutterings of his ulcer. With fumbling fingers he opened the bottle of lozenges he used when his stomach gave him trouble. He crunched one quickly until it was a powder and let it mix with his saliva before swallowing it. In a gesture that had become second nature to him he took a grubby red handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow. Hesitantly he reached for the phone and dialled.

Tania kept her eyes on Bannerman as he flicked through the drawings. She averted them only when he looked up, and then she felt embarrassed. It had been Sally’s idea to show him the drawings. Her father had not packed them and they were still in the folder beneath her bed.

They all sat around a small table by her bedroom window where the late afternoon sun streamed in to warm their skin. She could not remember ever having felt such pleasure, such warmth. She wanted to be with him always, to touch him, to feel his breath on her face. She sensed, too, his own happiness and it had not escaped her notice the way he and Sally looked at each other, even if they were not fully aware of it themselves. It did not make her jealous, and she was vaguely surprised at that. Perhaps she loved them both, and perhaps they loved each other. But with that extraordinary perceptiveness that she took for granted she was aware that they were reluctant to admit it.

Today had been the best day she had ever known, there had been none of the frustration. It was something wonderful to her. She glowed inside with it. They had eaten in a bistro not far from the park in the Boulevard de l’Empereur, where they had had cold chicken salad and a dry, white wine. Their faces glowed red from the cold and the exertion and they ate in silence, pleased just to look at one another and smile. After, they had walked back to the flat across the park.

Bannerman gathered all the drawings together. ‘They’re quite astonishing.’ He looked at Tania, waiting until she lifted her eyes to look back at him. ‘You have a marvellous talent,’ he said. ‘We can maybe get these published when we get back to Scotland. Would you like that?’

She wasn’t sure. They were such private things. She only wanted people she loved to see them. Perhaps Bannerman sensed her uncertainty. He said softly, ‘They say everything that you cannot say with words. They can tell the whole world that you’re a real person, that you see and feel and need like everyone else. And you should tell as many people as you can. It’s a way of getting out of yourself.’ She smiled and reached for his hand. He took it and squeezed it and tensed inside as he made a difficult decision.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket slung across the back of his chair and took out a folded sheet of paper. ‘I have a copy of one of your drawings.’

Without looking at Sally he felt her sudden anxiety. She had remained very quiet since the meal, but now her presence was very strong beside him. He stole a glance at her and saw the doubt in her eyes. He was not sure himself. A fine perspiration moistened his palms as he unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the table. The child looked at it, almost carelessly, nodded slowly, and her face took on that now familiar expressionlessness.

‘Do you remember it?’ Nothing. He waited a long time before asking, ‘Do you know who it is?’ Again nothing. Sally’s hand came on his wrist.

‘Don’t,’ he heard her saying. But still he persisted.

‘Look at me, Tania. There are things that it is important for me to know.’ Her eyes seemed to be looking straight through him. ‘This is the man that killed your dad, and the other man, isn’t it?’

The quiet in the room was unbearable, and the clock ticked heavily to lend weight and depth to it. Then she nodded suddenly and looked away. ‘All right, all right,’ he said and he took her hand again and squeezed it tightly. It felt limp and small. ‘Just one more thing, just one. Would you... would you know him if you saw him again?’

He felt her hand tighten around his and saw the fear in her eyes. And he misunderstood. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He can’t harm you now.’ But still her fingers pressed into his hand and she shook her head savagely, frustration welling inside. How could she tell him? I have seen him, I have. She pulled her hand free and stubbed her finger several times on the drawing on the table in front of her. Then she nodded, two, three, four times and felt something like despair as she saw Bannerman’s confusion.

It was Sally who brought sudden understanding, sudden relief. ‘My God, she has! She has seen him again.’

Bannerman glanced at her for a moment and then back to the child and he saw that it was true. ‘But how...? When...?’ And then it dawned and he felt a strange sense of horror pricking his skin. ‘At the hospital.’ Where else could she have seen him? ‘Is that why you ran away?’ Her lips parted as though she were about to speak.

The telephone rang through in the living room and startled them all. Yet none of them moved. It was a quickening of the heart which you could not see. ‘I’m sorry,’ Bannerman said and he stood up and went through to the other room.

Sally smiled with a false cheerfulness and pushed her chair back noisily. ‘How about coffee?’ she asked brightly. ‘I’ll go and make some. Do you want to help?’ Tania didn’t move. ‘That’s all right, I’ll get it.’ Sally bustled quickly out of the room and Tania heard Bannerman’s voice in conversation with someone on the other end of the phone.

For her the day was going, the glow fading like the sun slowly sinking behind the rooftops. She knew that Bannerman would take her back to the hospital now. She had known it all day, but had pushed the thought aside, out of reach, out of sight. Wasn’t that the key to survival? The ability to grasp life’s happinesses when they came without worrying what tomorrow might bring, even if you know it will be sadness. How else can man survive when he lives with the knowledge of certain death at the end of life?

Whatever the future held for her, nothing could erase the memory of this day. She knew, or at least she felt she knew, that Bannerman would always be there, to help her through the difficult times, and surely he would not abandon her now. Didn’t he need her, too? It was something she couldn’t fully understand, but it brought back a bit of lightness to her spirit and she consoled herself with the thought that there would always be tomorrow and with the new day the possibility that she would see him again. He would keep her safe from... him.

She looked at the drawing and wondered why she had not drawn the face. She had forgotten that she had been interrupted before she finished. Would Neil be pleased, she wondered, if she drew the face now? But she had a better idea. Something that would say more. She tore a strip of paper off the foot of one of her drawings and reached for the pencil. It was always difficult for her to come to terms with words on paper. She squeezed the pencil tightly until her fingers went white and she began, with great difficulty, to sort out the letters in the right order. It was strange how, when she drew, the pencil rested easily between her fingers and flew across the page with such fluidity. Now the letters formed themselves clumsily, and the effort of it drained her. When she finished it felt as though it had taken hours. Three words. Quickly, nervously, she folded the paper, got up and hurried round the table, slipping the note carefully into the right hand pocket of Bannerman’s jacket. Then she ran her hand over the softness of the brown cord and put her face close to it, smelling Bannerman from it.

When he left the room, Bannerman was depressed, irritable. He felt guilty at having produced the drawing. The child deserved more than that. And yet it had confirmed many more things for him beyond doubt. There might even have been more. He snatched the phone. ‘Bannerman.’

‘Platt here. I’ve been waiting for your call.’

Bannerman had an immediate picture of Platt, fat and sweating, dabbing his brow with that red handkerchief of his, greasy hair forming in little ringlets about his thick, short neck. ‘Well?’ he said.

Platt was taken aback. ‘Well, I thought you might have something for me. You disappeared for two days. I thought maybe...’

‘Then you thought wrong. There’s nothing new.’

Platt’s mouth was dry when he said, ‘I’ve... I’ve been doing some digging of my own.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I’ve come up with something quite interesting.’

Bannerman sensed the other man’s nervousness. ‘What?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Perhaps,’ Platt said, ‘we should get together and, you know, compare notes. Don’t you think it’s time you came clean with me? We should be able to work something out to our mutual satisfaction.’

Bannerman sat down and lit a cigar. It was just possible Platt did have something, but then he might just be trying it on. And even if he did have something, it was likely that he would not realise its full significance.

‘Hello. Are you still there?’ Platt’s voice was anxious.

Bannerman decided to call his bluff. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in our meeting, Platt. If you’ve got something to tell me, tell it now. Otherwise forget it. I’ve got more important things on my mind.’

Platt was losing and he knew it. ‘Look, Bannerman, it’s time we laid this thing on the line.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘No, no, wait.’ Platt dabbed his forehead and glanced furtively around the newsroom. He cupped his hand round the mouthpiece. ‘I... I’ve been looking at the company records of both Jansen and Lapointe. It’s an absolute jungle. It took me a long time to piece together the relationship between all the companies. That’s Lapointe’s handiwork. He’s a master of company law. He can put companies together and take them apart again like a kid with building bricks. It all looks legit, but if you start from the basic premise that no organisation ever gets that big without getting involved in something a little shady en route, then things can look a bit different.’

‘Get on with it!’ Despite his tone, Bannerman was interested.

‘Okay, okay. Jansen’s outfit got fat by buying up a lot of smaller companies that were folding under pressure from his competition. Many of them were running into cashflow problems and borrowing from two or three finance companies in the City. And then when things got rough the loans were called in. When the companies couldn’t pay they were bought out by a holding company called La Trasque which, in turn, sold them off to Jansen. Only it turns out that the finance companies and the holding company were all owned by a nominee company, Corniche S.A., trading on behalf of unnamed clients. It wasn’t until about two years ago when Corniche S. A. shut up shop and re-registered in Lichtenstein that it became apparent who was really behind it.’

‘Who?’

‘No-one seemed to notice at the time, but it’s all there to see if you check back through the records. It was Lapointe’s own law firm, through another company which it had set up.’

‘It all sounds very contrived.’

‘Yes.’

Bannerman felt his impatient growing. ‘So?’

‘Well, don’t you see? Jansen put the screws on these companies, and lent them money they didn’t know was coming from him. He turned the screws a little harder and then called in the loans. And when they couldn’t pay he bought them up for a song. All indirectly, of course, through the cobweb of companies that Lapointe had spun for him.’

Bannerman sighed. ‘Well, is that illegal?’

Platt was confused. ‘I... I don’t know. But it’s a bloody good story.’

‘Maybe,’ Bannerman said, ‘you should stick to fires and press conferences on the price of butter. Frankly, how Jansen built his empire doesn’t really interest me.’

Platt was stunned. ‘But I thought you wanted something on them, Jansen and Lapointe.’

‘I only wanted a bit of background. You already got that for me. Look, Platt, I don’t know what the law is in this country, but I doubt very much if the procedure you have described is illegal. Unethical, perhaps, but not illegal. It seems like you’ve wasted your time. I’ll call you.’ He hung up.

Platt replaced the receiver slowly. His breath came in rapid bursts and his mind raced in confusion and anger and humiliation. His face had gone quite pale and he rose unsteadily, picking up his coat and hat and heading for the door.

Bannerman sat for a few minutes thinking about what Platt had told him. It might be of value, it might be worthless. It was impossible to know yet. He reached for the notepad beside the telephone and scribbled down the names of the companies while he still remembered them. Platt said that Corniche S.A. had shut up shop and re-registered in Lichtenstein. Technically, then, it was a new company. He wondered what point there might be in that and, as if to lodge the thought firmly in his mind, he underlined the name in his notes.

He stood up and took a long draw on his cigar as Sally emerged from the kitchen with a tray full of steaming mugs of coffee. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s time we took the child back to the clinic.’ He saw her face harden and he said, almost apologetically, ‘She’s tired, I’m tired. I need time to think.’

Sally laid the tray on the table and looked at him coldly. His mood had changed and she felt angry and bewildered. Angry at his sudden indifference, annoyed at her own failure to respond to him as she would have liked. And then she needed to say the thing she had been keeping bottled up all day. She had been careful to keep herself discreetly in the background, not to impose on the relationship she saw developing between Bannerman and the child. There was a selfishness in the things that troubled her, but she could keep them to herself no longer. ‘I got the job,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow for Rome... It’s my last night in Brussels tonight, Neil. I... I’d like us to go somewhere and talk.’

Her words startled him, took him unawares, and he felt suddenly empty. She had been there, and it had not occurred to him that she might be gone before he had a chance to sort out what he felt about her. He was, perhaps, a little afraid to look inside himself for the answers. How many times had he learned that love was a thing that often you did not recognise until it was taken away from you? But how could he love her? He hardly knew her. He said, ‘All right,’ and turned away to the bedroom.