Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,75
difficult for you.’
She shrugged. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t, even when I told you otherwise. What bothers me more is Rossiter. Seeing him there, stabbed, bleeding… he can be a difficult sod to work for, but my God, he didn’t deserve that.’
‘He’ll be all right. They’ll put a drain in his chest for a couple of days.’
She shifted closer, her legs tucked under her on the sofa, and put a shy hand on his arm. ‘He thanked you, but I haven’t yet. So, thanks.’
Purkiss looked at her eyes, dark in the pale, drawn face. At her mouth, her throat. Through the layers of fatigue he felt a stirring.
Somehow she was closer still. He leant his face in and kissed her forehead, then her mouth. Her lips yielded at first, then responded, pressing back. His hands slid round across her back and up to her hair, drawing her head towards him. Her own arms came up and her hands grabbed at his back, his shoulders, and he broke the kiss to pull at her sweater and drag it off in a cascade of hair which she shook out of her face. Then his hands were on her breasts through her thin blouse and hers clasped his face. She said, ‘Wait,’ rose and tugged on his arm.
He half followed, half propelled her towards the door of the solitary bedroom. Once inside he kicked the door shut and they were clawing at each other’s clothes, tumbling and rolling on the cold bedspread, enveloped in each other’s heat in a raging joy that was so complete it made time cease for hours.
*
She lay naked against his side, her breast pressed against his chest, her hair pushing up under his chin every time he breathed in. Purkiss watched the ceiling, letting the night vision work its way into his retinas.
He hadn’t been expecting it, wondered if she had. The nearness of death no doubt had something to do with it, the need to respond by engaging in the most life-affirming act of all. There had been other women, since Claire, including one with whom he’d become very close until she’d come up against the impenetrable bedrock of his grief. Usually the women ended it, saddened by his distance.
The evenness of her breathing made him wonder if she’d fallen asleep. He said, ‘We should get ready.’
‘No. Not… all that, out there, yet. Not for a few minutes. Let’s be normal for a while.’ She shifted against him, easing herself. ‘Ask me something normal.’
‘All right.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Elle. Not the commonest name nowadays.’
‘A long story. Well, not long so much as dull.’
‘Try me.’
‘First week at university. I was registering for a class. I was asked for my name, and for some reason instead of Louise Klavan – Louise, that’s my name – I said “L. Klavan”. The woman wrote down “Elle”. It sort of stuck.’
‘I prefer Louise.’
‘That’s too bad.’ She pinched his arm. ‘Your middle name. Rutherford. I noticed it when I did the background search on you. What’s that all about? It wasn’t your mother’s maiden name.’
‘My father was an amateur scientist. He wanted me to pursue a career in physics. Like Ernest Rutherford.’
‘You must have been a great disappointment to him.’ He felt her smile against his shoulder.
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
After a pause she said, ‘Now comes the part where I ask you how, or why, you came to join the Service.’
‘And where I give you the usual reasons. A young man’s restlessness and desire for adventure. A bookish intellectual’s wish to serve abstract ideals of freedom and justice. Or the self-indulgence of an immature existentialist who lacks the imagination to seek out normal ways to live a worthwhile life, and chooses a life of danger as a tragic gesture against the void.’
She sat up and drew the covers around herself and stared at him, still smiling, genuine interest in her eyes. ‘I don’t believe any of those apply to you. But clearly you’ve considered them.’
‘Everyone in this job asks themselves sooner or later why the hell they chose it, as you well know.’ He shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. ‘You know what I read at university.’
‘Philosophy, English literature and history, in which you achieved a first,’ she recited. ‘So… I’m guessing it was the history that motivated you? You saw yourself as an agent of history, destined to carry it forward. I’m not being facetious, by the way.’
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t think you were. But you’re