Rough Treatment

Fourteen

There were two tramps who roamed the city, both of them big, belligerent men whose clothing flapped away in shreds and patches. When they cursed, most people looked the other way and laughed or tutted. Scarce a day he was on duty, Resnick didn’t pass either of them, both: so visible it was easy to think they were the only ones. Never mind the centers for the homeless, the hostels, bed-and-breakfast families in the disinfected smell of small hotels, the squats; the city council’s plans to build no council houses in the coming year. He tried to remember when he had first been stopped by a young man, hand out-thrust, begging-343 jobs in today’s paper, the placards had read. Why don’t you clean yourself up a bit, Resnick had thought, get yourself one of those? “Spare change,” the man had said. “Cup of tea.” Resnick had made the mistake of looking at his face, the eyes; he doubted if he had been eighteen. “Here.” A pound coin, small, into the cold of the young man’s palm. Now there were more of them, more each day. And still 343 jobs in the paper: audiotypists, VDU skills, computer operators, clerical assistants, lockstitch machinists (part-time).

He indicated, slowed, locked the car and left it at the curb. How many security firms had Millington said there were? Enough to fill half a dozen yellow pages. A lot of people with a lot to lock away, defend. Every Englishman’s right. Put it in bricks and mortar, wasn’t that the saying? Every Englishman’s home his castle. Lloyd Fossey with his electronic moats and drawbridges, television scanners, remote-control.

Safe as houses: another saying.

He turned the key in the lock and as he did so his breath caught and held. Someone was already inside the house.

Resnick stepped into the hall, soft; eased the door back against the jamb, not closed; the keys he slipped into his side pocket. Listening, he wondered what had alerted him, wondered if he had been wrong, imagination conjuring games for him to play. No. Water dripping on to plastic, the bowl in the kitchen sink, the washer he was always meaning to renew. Not that. Where were the cats who should have padded out to greet him, pushing their heads against his feet?

They were in the kitchen, four of them, heads dipped towards their bowls, feeding. What else would have kept them so occupied? Claire Millinder was wearing a different sweater, blue-gray with puffy white sheep grazing across it, the same short skirt over today’s mauve tights, same red boots. She stood watching the cats, can-opener in her hand.

“Hallo.”

The opener flew from her fingers as she turned, one bowl was kicked against another, milk spilt; Pepper jumped inside the nearest saucepan, Miles hissed and sprang on to the tiles beside the oven, Bud cowered in a corner while Dizzy, undeterred, finished his own portion and started on another.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That was the idea.”

Claire stared at him, waiting for her breathing to steady back to normal. Give me his measurements and several hundred pounds, she thought, there’s a lot I could do for the way he looks.

“You thought I was a burglar,” she said.

“I thought you were my wife.”

Resnick coaxed Pepper out of hiding, nuzzled the scrawny Bud behind the ears, the animal’s heart still pumping against its delicate ribs; he dropped handfuls of beans into the coffee-grinder, shiny and dark.

“You’re at home here, aren’t you?”

“This house?”

“The kitchen.”

Resnick took two-thirds of a rye loaf from inside a plastic bag, margarine from the refrigerator. “How about a sandwich?”

“Most men I’ve come across, even the ones who are good at it, good cooks, they never seem really comfortable with what they’re doing. Like it’s some kind of challenge. All those ingredients lined up in order to use; lists of times stuck over the cooker like something from an organization-and-methods seminar.” Claire shook her head dismissively. “It’s not natural.”

“A sandwich?”

“Sure.”

Sandwiches, in Claire Millinder’s experience, were neat slices of wholemeal bread pressed around cheese rectangles or turkey breast, augmentations of tasteless salad and a smear of low-calorie mayonnaise. For Resnick, they were more satisfying on every level: two major ingredients whose flavors were contrasting but complementary, sharp and soft, sweet and sour, a mustard or chutney to bind them, but with the taste all its own, finally a fruit, unforced tomato, thin slices of Cox or Granny Smith.

“May I use your phone?”

“Through there and on the left, help yourself.”

She was finishing the call when Resnick came into the room, two mugs in one hand, plates balanced on the other.

“God! When you said a sandwich, I wasn’t expecting …”

“Here, can you take one of these?”

“Okay, got it.”

“You don’t have to eat it all, you know.”

“No, that’s all right. It looks wonderful.” She eased back into the armchair. “Good job I just canceled my dinner date.”

Resnick looked at her curiously. Tarragon mustard was about to drip over the edge of the plate and automatically he caught it on his finger and placed it on his tongue.

“Steak or scampi with a feller from a building society. All he’ll want to do is talk mortgages and try and smile his way inside my pants. I’m glad for an excuse to be out of it. But not them.”

That’s what I am, thought Resnick: an excuse.

“Sorry.” She tried the coffee. “I didn’t shock you?”

“No.”

“A lot of men, they don’t like women to be outspoken.”

“The same men who cook by numbers?”

She gave him a warm, crooked-toothed smile. “I’ve been mixing with the wrong types, obviously. It’s the job that I do. Everyone expects a commission on everything. It’s all a hustle. No percentage: no sale.”

A car alarm went off somewhere down the street. Miles came across the carpet to sniff the leather of Claire Millinder’s boots and went on his way, disapprovingly. When Rachel had sat there, Resnick remembered, the cats had jumped up into her lap and purred.

“Look, you didn’t mind? I mean, it’s a bit of a cheek, I know …”

“As long as you were here …”

“Not feeding your cats, I didn’t mean that. I meant my still being here when you came home. I should have left with my clients, made sure the house was locked behind me.” She set down her plate on the arm of the chair, crossed one leg over another. “I wanted to snatch some time to myself. I don’t know, it felt good here, sort of … the place I’m living, three or four years old, one of those studio apartments where the bed folds back into the wall and there isn’t room to swing … well, you know what I mean. This is different, a bit shabby, but it’s large, lived-in. You feel that things have happened here.”

With the outside of his shoe, he pushed at the nursery door. Something stopped it and it would open no further.

“That’s it,” Claire repeated, “lived-in.”

Resnick glanced at the phone, willing it to ring. One half of Claire’s sandwich remained untouched. He got up and moved towards the stacks of records. “I’ll put on some music.”

“No. No, don’t”

“Sorry, I thought …”

“I’d rather talk.”

He looked down at her, the crossing and re-crossing of legs, the smile, a little uncertain now. “I think I’d rather not.”

Claire drew a slow breath, lowered her head. For some moments neither of them moved and then, with a nervous laugh, she got to her feet.

“Funny, isn’t it?”

“Funny?”

“Strange. I feel so comfortable here, comfortable with you. All right, I thought, I’ll sit here, talk, relax, get to know him, know you better.” She pressed the palms of her hands together, once, twice. “That’s not what you want”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well …” Claire picked up the plate and her mug and set them on a table. “Best thing is …” She was reaching into her bag. “… I should give you your keys back.”

Resnick shook his head. “No.”

“Someone else from the office …”

“No.” His hand closed over hers, over the keys. “You like the house, you said so. You can sell it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

When he drew his hand away, a splodge of yellow remained near the knuckle of her little finger, mustard.

“Look,” she said at the front door, “you may not want to act on them, but there are some things you could do. To make the place seem a better buy.” Resnick waited. “First off, shift the timer on your heating, waste a little money, leave it on right through the day. People come to a place like this and as soon as they see the size of it, they’ve got these huge bills flashing in front of their eyes-gas, electricity, lined curtains, double glazing. They assume it’s going to be difficult to heat, cold. Surprise them.”

“Second?”

“More money, I’m afraid. Nip into British Home Stores and splash out on a few more lamps. That’ll help to make it look warm, too. Brighter.”

“There’s more?”

“Get a good cleaning person. A professional. I’m not saying regularly, just once, a whole day, two days.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“All of it?”

Resnick held the door for her as she stepped out on to the path. The street lamp elongated her shadow across the patchy grass. The repeated whine of a car alarm, the same as before, different.

“If I’m showing people round, I’ll make sure and phone first.”

“Leave a message at the station.”

“Of course.”

Now that she was outside the house, neither of them really wanted her to go.

“You still think I should drop the price?”

“Maybe not. Not yet, anyway.”

“All right. Good night.”

“’Night. And, listen …”

“No, it’s all right.”

“’Night.”

“’Night.”

He heard Claire Millinder’s footsteps, heard the door of her Morris Minor open and close. The car alarm was still sounding and he wondered how long it would be before someone came to attend to it, the owner or a passing policeman. Claire’s headlights cut a moving arc across the opposite wall and he caught a glimpse of her face before it was gone from sight.

Back in the living room, Dizzy and Pepper were picking their way fastidiously through the remains of her sandwich. Resnick looked at his records, thought about Johnny Hodges, thought about Lester Young, finally couldn’t decide. He walked into the kitchen and opened a drawer and removed the unopened letter from his former wife. Postmark: Abergavenny. He lifted the bowl from the sink, turned to the cooker and lit the gas. The flame licked along one edge of the envelope and held. When it was truly alight, Resnick dropped it into the sink and poked at it with the end of a knife, watching it burn.

The ashes he flushed away until nothing remained.