Night Film

77

“What’s going on?” asked Hopper, stepping into the living room.

“Have a seat,” I said. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

“Right. The townhouse.”

“Not the townhouse,” said Nora crossly. “The tattoo on your foot.”

He froze, astonished. “What?”

“Ashley’s kirin,” she said. “You have the other half.”

He eyed the door.

“Hopper, we saw it. You lied to us.”

He glared at her, then suddenly darted for the doorway, but I was ready. I grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt and shoved him hard into a club chair.

“That tattoo on your fucking ankle. Start talking.”

He appeared to be too shocked to speak, or else was trying to think up another excuse. After a minute, Nora rose and poured him a glass of scotch.

“Thanks,” he muttered sullenly. He took a sip, staring into the glass. “To know her and then not,” he said, his voice low, “is like serving a life sentence. You see everything at a distance, through thick glass and telephones and visiting hours. Nothing tastes like anything. Bars everywhere you look.” He smiled softly. “You can never get out.”

He raised his head, gazing at us intently, as if remembering we were there. He actually looked relieved.

And just like that, he began to tell us all about her as the rain beat the windows like an army trying to get in.