himself, inside, withered and formless.
He was not himself. His head bumped and pumped. The light, the morning, scorched him.
During the night he had awoken, he didn’t know what time, and had found a girl, a stranger, next to him. Her hip near his chin. Wool, scratching; cold skin. He had pressed his forehead against her thigh. It had cooled him.
And now it was morning. He needed something. Had to stretch his body – that crumpled thing – his mind, his tongue.
Ruby picked up a bar of soap and started to build up a lather. What does Sheldon want? she wondered. What does he want from me? Her toes curled at the prospect. She stared at them and thought, Why am I doing that with my feet?
Vincent stood on the other side of the bathroom door with his hand on the handle. He shouted, ‘You could’ve told me you were having a bath.’
Ruby dropped the soap and covered her breasts. ‘Don’t you dare come in.’
‘I have no intention of coming in,’ he said scathingly. After a pause he added, ‘Why the hell did you bring me here? I’ve had the worst time.’
She gasped at this, her expression a picture, and shouted, ‘I didn’t bring you here.’
‘Well, I didn’t get here on my own.’
His voice sounded muffled, further away now. ‘Do you always live like this?’
She stood up, indignant, and stepped out of the bath. ‘Like what?’
Silence, then, ‘Forget it.’
‘Like what?’
She grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her and pulled open the door. ‘Live like what?’
He was standing in the kitchen, looking inside one of her cupboards. He glanced at her, in the towel. ‘For a minute there,’ he said, grinning, ‘I thought you were a natural blonde. But it’s only foam.’
She yanked the towel straight. With his cut, his pale, white face, the bruises, the suggestion of a black eye, he looked like Frankenstein’s monster. But he didn’t frighten her. She said calmly, ‘Get out of my flat.’
He grimaced. ‘Some hospitality. I have a migraine and all you can do is shout.’
‘Yeah?’ She smiled. ‘Well, I think you should go.’
She returned to the bathroom, closed the door, dropped her towel.
He said, ‘I have a blotch. I’m going blind. You expect me to go when I can’t even see straight?’
She stared at the bath. ‘Well, whose fault is that?’
She picked up her towel and started to dry herself. She heard the cupboard close.
‘Yours. You shouldn’t have paid my bail.’
She rubbed herself vigorously.
‘And lunch. I only get migraines from gherkins.’
‘What?’
‘An allergy.’
She laughed. She was glad that he had an allergy.
He listened to her laughing. Smiled at it. He liked her flat. It was central. He sat down on the sofa, picked up one of the empty vodka bottles, sniffed the neck of it and winced.
Eventually she emerged, fully dressed, made up, her teeth brushed and her hair gelled.
‘I made you some tea.’ He held out a mug to her.
She took it from him. ‘Aren’t you having any?’
He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t keep it down.’
‘Did you try?’
‘I had some water.’
She sipped the tea. It was luke-warm. ‘How are you feeling?’
He shrugged.
‘What are you going to do?’
He shrugged again.
‘Will you go home? Are you up to it?’
He cleared his throat. ‘May I use your bathroom?’
‘Of course you can.’
Once he’d closed the door she shouted, ‘I’m going out in a minute. Should I trust you here alone?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
She put down her mug of tea. ‘Only a trustworthy person would’ve said that.’
Think what you like.’
‘I will.’
She picked up her keys. She was insured. She needed a new stereo, anyway.
Donald Sheldon – self-appointed king of Hackney Wick – was a short, squat man with thick, wavy hair and skin the colour of roasted peanuts. He was drinking a foamy coffee and wore an expensive business suit. Ruby was nervous, had thought too much about meeting him.
‘Am I late?’
He shrugged. ‘Ten minutes. Coffee?’
She nodded. ‘Thanks.’
He maneuvered himself out from behind the table and strolled over to the counter. Ruby watched him. She regularly saw him down at the track. He trained mainly at Hackney, but she was well informed that he ran his dogs wherever he could. She’d often seen him interviewed on SIS, the racing channel.
He returned to the table, carrying her coffee, holding on to its saucer. She looked down at his hands and saw that he wore rings on most fingers but none that seemed like a wedding ring. He sat down again. ‘I’ve seen you at Hackney a lot. You obviously enjoy the sport.’
She nodded.
‘How old do you think I am?’
This question surprised her. She stared at his face, his thick hair, his good tan. She wanted to flatter him. ‘Forty, forty-two.’
He smiled. ‘Forty-eight. I’ve been racing dogs since I was fourteen.’
‘Thirty-four years.’
‘I first went to Hackney when I was five, with my dad. You might get to meet him later.’
She stared at him, bemused, wondering where his dad fitted into the equation.
He smiled fondly, but more to himself than at her. ‘My dad got me my first dog. He helped pay for it by putting his every last penny on Pigalle Wonder in the 1958 London Cup. A great champion: big, but well balanced. Really handsome.’
Ruby put her teaspoon
