into the Park. You should be able to lose the fuzz among the trees, or if you can’t, get together an’ act the courting couple. Nothing puts the fuzz off like courting couples – the fuzz is a mass of sexual frustration brought on by working shifts an’ too much overtime . . .’
Good old Mossy, I thought. Whatever happens, he’s in the clear. Innocently sitting in a parked car is no crime . . . Still, it was good of him to oblige, particularly with Dickie, a thin cadaverous youth with the air of an apprentice bullfighter, till he opened his mouth and spoke a few words of broad Cockney.
‘Right, then.’ Mossy gently started the engine and rolled away down Belvoir Road, keeping the revs down to be as silent as possible. There was just the hiss of tyres on the wet lamplit road.
I dropped off first, feeling the touch of rain on the back of my neck. Looking ahead, I saw the car stop again for just a moment, and the white flash of Hermione’s mack under a street-lamp. There was a strong impulse to hurry, to catch her up and ask pointlessly what was going on. Then I saw the flash of Mossy’s brake-lights, as he parked. Somewhere in front, Dickie must be fiddling with the back-door lock of Abbeywalk.
I nipped in sharp through the gateway and under the trees; and bumped straight into Hermione. Before we’d got our breath back, there came Dickie’s low whistle.
‘Let’s go arm-in-arm,’ whispered Hermione. ‘Practise being a courting couple.’ She giggled, but it was the giggle of nerves.
So we went, arm-in-arm, snuggling together against . . . what?
There was the open door, with the black briefcase jammed half-way through it, glinting in a stray ray of a distant street-lamp. Hermione slipped through. As I followed, my foot caught the briefcase and kicked it right across the floor. I snatched at the door behind me just in time. It was on the point of closing; it nipped my fingers painfully. As she went across to grope for the briefcase, her feet echoed hollowly on the floor-boards, and somehow I sensed cellars below.
‘Upstairs first,’ said Hermione. I followed her out of the scullery door, by the light of her torch. Through a large, empty kitchen, where a tap dripped like an off-beat clock, into a hall with filthy black-and-white tiles.
It was at this point that all fear left me. I felt a great surge of confidence. Almost as if I was among friends. C’mon, I tried to warn myself. Wise up. This is a dreadful house; people have died here, maybe been killed.
But it was no use. My confidence rose in great waves. I was invincible; I was the master of my soul; master of the universe. Of course, I should have grabbed Hermione and run then. But all I did was follow her.
I watched her climb the staircase, by the light of her torch and mine. I saw, so clearly, the beauty of her long, slender legs, the smoothness of the calf-muscles, moving as soft as cream under the black nylon stockings. From the dead-straight seams I knew she must be wearing stockings, and not tights. Somewhere, under the concealing folds of that raincoat, there must be opulent patches of white flesh. I began to want to see those patches, very much. And I could see no reason why I should not see those patches, very soon. What was there to stop me? We were alone . . .
On the landing, Hermione turned. She said, harshly, triumphantly, ‘This will show the bastards!’
‘Which bastards?’ I said, without interest. Under her open coat, I could see her skirt, and under her skirt, the luscious near-flatness of her belly. I should soon sample that, now, too.
‘The bastards at the City Toy Museum. They’ve kept me in my place for long enough. Just because I’m young. And a woman. When we solve this, they’ll have to notice me. I want the deputy-director’s job. They’ll have to sack him. He’s away ill half the time. I’m not having him standing in my way.’
She turned to carry on up the stairs. Her raincoat swung back, displaying the small sharp points of her breasts. On, blind Hermione, you think you’re going on to fame and glory. You don’t know what you are walking into. Somewhere ahead, there will be a bed. Maybe an unmade bed, or just a bare urine-stained mattress. So much the better, proud, beautiful Hermione. I