Shooting in the Dark

story.
     

52
     
    She came down the stairs with a small suitcase. Sam had already put her other bags in the boot of the Montego. He’d given up trying to convince her to stay. What was the point? A woman wants to stay, she’ll stay. He didn’t want to listen to all the bullshit about how she had a life, a job, commitments. Who wants to hear that stuff?
    Oh, sure, he was glad about her having a life. Whaddaya think, he wants to put her in a cage, a museum, suffocate her with love? No, just leave it as it is. Her with her job and her commitments, walking out of the house as an independent being. Going back to big business and blind politics and designer clothes.
    And his injured hand was playing up again. Numb this morning, no feeling in it. The hand standing in for the whole man.
    ‘It’s been good, Sam.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’
    ‘Really. I’ve enjoyed being here.’
    I’m not about to argue. ‘Sure.’ And there’s that smile on his face, designed to win Oscars.
    Dressed for the weather: a three-button mohair coat with the collar up and underneath she’s wearing a tube of a dress in blue silk that creates illusions about the length of her neck. There’s a fur hat at one end and opaque tights at the other, sensible shoes.
    She’s standing close enough now and he has a quick whiff, trying to decide how much of it is her and how much the perfume. It’s like trying to separate the toast from the marmalade once you’ve chewed them up. They go so well together you wouldn’t do it if you could. ‘We’re going to keep in touch, aren’t we?’
    ‘Try and keep me away,’ Sam said, hitting the right note, pacing it like a virtuoso. Competing with rich friends, middle-class sentiments, middle-of-the-road-mystical politics. He’d had a couple of stabs at it when he was young. Now it felt like a strain. Except it was her. And there was no doubt about it: he needed a woman. He took her bag and led her out to the car.
    He unloaded at the other end but didn’t stay. He put the bags and cases inside her bedroom door, to the left, along the wall, so she wouldn’t trip over them. He headed off for a new case, just routine, but it needed organizing.
    She held out her arms and their lips brushed against each other’s cheek. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ he said, backing away, not looking at her in case he saw what he’d done.
     
    The Montego took him to JD’s house without thinking about it. He rang the bell four times and was half-way down the path, leaving, when JD answered.
    ‘I’m disturbing you,’ Sam said.
    ‘Too true. I’m trying to write a book here.’
    ‘I’ll come back later.’
    ‘No, come in, it’s not great literature.’
    They sat and looked at each other. JD was wearing a ragged hand-knitted jumper that came down to his knees. ‘You came to see me,’ he said. ‘So it’s your turn to talk.’
    ‘I just took Angeles home,’ Sam said. ‘So I thought I’d call in.’
    ‘Angeles lives on the other side of town. You can’t use that line. You weren’t in the neighbourhood.’
    ‘I was feeling low, my hand’s playing up and I wanted to talk to somebody who hates the middle classes more than I do.’
    ‘You’re not going soon, then?’
    ‘Going?’
    ‘Leaving me alone to write my novel.’
    ‘If you want, I’ll go,’ Sam said.
    ‘It was a joke. Anyway I’m writing a chapter with deep emotional connotations. Lost love and betrayal. I need inspiration.’
    ‘What d’you think about a grown woman who calls her parents Mummy and Daddy?’
    JD laughed. ‘Yeah. It puts you off. This Angeles?’
    ‘Could be.’
    ‘Signifies emotional immaturity.’
    ‘Or could it be a cultural thing? Like that’s the way they do it in their social group?’
    JD scratched his head. ‘Yeah. Could also be that the group itself is emotionally immature. Might be genetic. For example, there are certain crimes the middle class can’t understand, like rage, say, or the way some people just love fighting, or they go straight for the jugular, can’t wait to get in there and mix it. The middle classes think these things are inexplicable, or they’re mental disorders, or the result of drugs. They can’t understand that some people have violent personalities. They’re blind to it. You can explain it to them, show them examples, but they still don’t understand. D’you like her a lot?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘What d’you look for in a woman?’
    ‘One thing?’
    ‘Yeah, just one.’
    ‘Someone