Alec Milius Spy Series Books 1 and 2: A Spy By Nature, The Spanish Game. Charles Cumming
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СКАЧАТЬ bathroom is at the far end of the apartment, through the sitting room and down a long corridor that passes the entrance to the flat. The bathroom door is made of light wood with an unoiled hinge that squeaks like a laughing clown when I open it. I walk in and slide the lock. There is a mirror hung above the sink and I check my reflection, seeing tiny pimples dotted along my forehead, which can’t look good in the stark white light of the kitchen. The rest of my face is blanched and I push out my lips and cheeks to bring some colour back into them. Once a little red flush has appeared, I go back outside.

      Walking towards the sitting room, I steal a look through the door of their bedroom, which Katharine has left open after her shower. This is the most basic sort of invasion, but it is something I have to do. There are clothes, shoes, and several issues of The New Yorker strewn on the floor. I walk farther inside, my eyes shuttling around the room, taking in every detail. There is a fine charcoal sketch of a naked dancer on the wall above the bed, and a discarded bottle of mineral water by the window.

      I go back out into the corridor and hear the distant running of water at the kitchen sink. Katharine is washing up. There is another bedroom farther down on the right side of the passage, again with its door open. Again I look through it as I am passing, prying behind her back. An unmade bed is clearly visible on the far side, with one of Fortner’s trademark blue shirts lying crumpled on the sheets. An American paperback edition of Presumed Innocent has been balanced on the windowsill, and there are bottles of cologne on a dresser near the door. Is it possible that they no longer share a room? There are too many of Fortner’s possessions in here for him simply to have taken an afternoon nap.

      I walk quietly back to the first bedroom. This time I notice that the bed has been slept in only on one side. Katharine’s creams and lotions are all here, with skirts and suits on hangers by the door. But there are no male belongings, no ties or shoes. A photograph in a gilt frame by the window shows a middle-aged man on a beach with a face like an old sweater. But there are no pictures of Fortner, no snaps of him arm in arm with his wife. Not even a picture from their wedding.

      No noise in the corridor. On a side table I spot a heavy, leather-bound address book and pick it up. The alphabetized guides are curled and darkened with use, each letter covered in a thin film of dirt. I check the As, scanning the names quickly.

      AT&T

      Atwater, Donald G.

      Allison, Peter and Charlotte

      Ashwood, Christopher

      AM Management

      Acorn Alarms

      No Allardyce. That’s a good sign.

      To B, on to the Cs, then a flick through to R. Sure enough, at the bottom of the third page:

      Bar Reggio

      Royal Mail

      Ricken, Saul

      His full address and telephone number are there as well. I have to get back to the kitchen. But there is just time for M.

      M&T Communications

      Macpherson, Bob and Amy

      Maria’s Hair Salon

      Milius, Alec

      Suddenly I hear footsteps nearby, growing louder. I shut the book and place it back on the table. I am turning to leave when Katharine comes in behind me. We almost collide, and her face sparks into rage.

      ‘What are you doin’ in here, Alec?’

      ‘I was just…’

      ‘What? What are you doing?’

      I can think of nothing to say and wait for the wave of anger in her eyes to break over me. In the space of a few seconds, the evening has been ruined.

      But something happens now, something entirely artificial and against the apparent nature of Katharine’s mood. It is as if she applies brakes to herself. Had I been anyone else, there would have been an argument, a venting of spleen, but the fury in her quickly subsides.

      ‘You get lost?’ she asks, though she knows that this is unrealistic. I have been to the bathroom in their flat countless times.

      ‘No. I was snooping. I’m sorry. It was an intrusion.’

      ‘It’s all right,’ she replies, moving past me. ‘I just came to get something to wear. I’m kinda cold.’

      I leave immediately, saying nothing, and return to the sitting room. When Katharine comes back–some time later–she is wearing thick Highland socks and a blue Gap sweatshirt beneath her dressing gown, as if to suppress anything that I may earlier have construed as erotic. She sits on the sofa opposite me, her back to the darkening sky, and fills the silence by reaching for the CD player. Her index finger prods through the first few songs on Innervisions, and Stevie comes on, the volume set low.

      ‘Oh, that’s right,’ she says, as if ‘Jesus Children of America’ had prompted her. ‘I was going to fix us some coffee.’

      ‘I’m not having any,’ I tell her as she leaves the room, and even that sounds rude. She does not reply.

      I should deal with this, do it now. I follow her into the kitchen.

      ‘Listen, Kathy, I’m sorry. I had no right to be in your bedroom. If I caught you looking around my things, I’d go crazy.’

      ‘Forget about it. I told you it was okay. I have no secrets.’

      She tries to smile now, but there is no hiding her annoyance. She is clearly upset; not, perhaps, by the fact that I was in her room, but because I have discovered something intimate and concealed about her relationship with Fortner that may shame her. I do not think she saw me with the address book. Leaning heavily on the counter, she spoons a single mound of Nescafé into a blue mug and fills it with hot water from the kettle. She has not looked directly at me since it happened.

      ‘I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me, what I saw.’

      ‘What?’

      Katharine stares at me, her head at an angle, tetchy.

      ‘I think every married couple goes through a stage where they don’t share a room.’

      ‘What the hell makes you think you can talk to me about this?’ she says, straightening up from the counter with a look of real disappointment in her eyes.

      ‘Forget it. I’m sorry.’

      ‘No, Alec, I can’t forget it. How is that any of your business?’

      ‘It’s not. I just didn’t want to leave without saying something. I don’t want you thinking that I know something about you and Fort and that I’m jumping to conclusions about it.’

      ‘Why would I think that? Jesus, Alec, I can’t believe you’re being like this.’

      We have never before raised our voices at each other, never had a cross word.

      ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

      ‘No, СКАЧАТЬ