which she had only noted in passing: the death by fire of twenty-one men, women and children in an arson attack in South London. She didn’t give the reports close scrutiny. There was enough to mourn this gloomy afternoon.
Clem was pale, but tearless. He embraced them both at the front door, then ushered them into the house. The Christmas decorations were still up, awaiting Twelfth Night, the perfume of pine needles sharpening the air. ‘Before you see him, Gentle,’ Clem said, ‘I should explain that he’s got a lot of drugs in his system, so he drifts in and out. But he wanted to see you so badly.’
‘Did he say why?’ Gentle asked.
‘He doesn’t need a reason, does he?’ Clem said softly. ‘Will you stay, Judy? If you want to see him when Gentle’s been in …’
‘I’d like that.’
While Clem took Gentle up to the bedroom, Jude went through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, wishing as she did so that she’d had the foresight to tell Gentle as they drove about how Taylor had talked of him the week before; particularly the tale about his speaking in tongues. It might have provided Gentle with some sense of what Taylor needed to know from him now. The solving of mysteries had been much on Taylor’s mind on Christmas Night. Perhaps now, whether drugged or not, he hoped to win some last reprieve from his confusion. She doubted Gentle would have any answers. The look she’d seen him give the bathroom mirror had been that of a man to whom even his own reflection was a mystery.
Bedrooms were only ever this hot for sickness or love, Gentle thought as Clem ushered him in; for the sweating out of obsession or contagion. It didn’t always work, of course, in either case, but at least in love failure had its satisfactions. He’d eaten very little since he’d departed the scene in Streatham, and the stale heat made him feel light-headed. He had to scan the room twice before his eyes settled on the bed in which Taylor lay, so nearly enveloped was it by the soulless attendants of modern death: an oxygen tank with its tubes and mask; a table loaded with dressings and towels; another, with a vomit bowl, bed-pan and towels, and beside them a third, carrying medication and ointments. In the midst of this panoply was the magnet that had drawn them here, who now seemed very like their prisoner. Taylor was propped up on plastic-covered pillows, with his eyes closed. He looked like an ancient. His hair was thin, his frame thinner still, the inner life of his body - bone, nerve and vein - painfully visible through skin the colour of his sheet. It was all Gentle could do not to turn and flee before the man’s eyes flickered open. Death was here again, so soon. A different heat this time, and a different scene, but he was assailed by the same mixture of fear and ineptitude he’d felt in Streatham.
He hung back at the door, leaving Clem to approach the bed first, and softly wake the sleeper. Taylor stirred, an irritated look on his face until his gaze found Gentle. Then the anger at being called back into pain went from his brow, and he said:
‘You found him.’
‘It was Judy, not me,’ Clem said.
‘Oh, Judy. She’s a wonder,’ Taylor said. He tried to reposition himself on the pillow, but the effort was beyond him. His breathing became instantly arduous, and he flinched at some discomfort the motion brought.
‘Do you want a pain-killer?’ Clem asked him.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I want to be clear-headed, so Gentle and I can talk.’ He looked across at his visitor, who was still lingering at the door. ‘Will you talk to me for a while, John?’ he said. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘Of course,’ Gentle said.
Clem moved from beside the bed and beckoned Gentle across. There was a chair, but Taylor patted the bed, and it was there Gentle sat, hearing the crackle of the plastic undersheet as he did so.
‘Call if you need anything,’ Clem said, the remark directed not at Taylor but at Gentle. Then he left them alone.
‘Could you pour me a glass of water?’ Taylor asked.
Gentle did so, realizing as he passed it to Taylor that the man lacked the strength to hold it for himself. He put it to Taylor’s lips. There was a salve on them, which moistened them lightly, but they were still split, and puffy with sores. After a few sips Taylor murmured something.
‘Enough?’ Gentle said.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Taylor replied. Gentle set the glass down. ‘I’ve had just about enough of everything. It’s time it was all over.’
‘You’ll get strong again.’
‘I didn’t want to see you so we could sit and lie to each other,’ Taylor said. ‘I wanted you here so I could tell you how much I’ve been thinking about you. Night and day, Gentle.’
‘I’m sure I don’t deserve that.’
‘My subconscious thinks you do,’ Taylor replied. ‘And, while we’re being honest, the rest of me too. You don’t look as if you’re getting enough sleep, Gentle.’
‘I’ve been working, that’s all.’
‘Painting?’
‘Some of the time. Looking for inspiration, you know.’ ‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ Taylor said. ‘But first, you’ve got to promise you won’t be angry with me.’ ‘What have you done?’
‘I told Judy about the night we got together,’ Taylor said. He stared at Gentle as if expecting there to be some eruption. When there was none, he went on, ‘I know it was no big deal to you,’ he said. ‘But it’s been on my mind a lot. You don’t mind, do you?’
Gentle shrugged. ‘I’m sure it didn’t come as any big surprise to her.’
Taylor turned his hand palm up on the sheet, and Gentle took it. There was no power in Taylor’s fingers, but he closed them round Gentle’s hand with what little strength he had. His grip was cold.
‘You’re shaking,’ Taylor said.
‘I haven’t eaten in a while,’ Gentle said.
‘You should keep your strength up. You’re a busy man.’
‘Sometimes I need to float a little bit,’ Gentle replied.
Taylor smiled, and there in his wasted features was a phantom glimpse of the beauty he’d had. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I float all the time. I’ve been all over the room. I’ve even been outside the window, looking in at myself. That’s the way it’ll be when I go, Gentle. I’ll float off, only that one time I won’t come back. I know Clem’s going to miss me - we’ve had half a life together - but you and Judy will be kind to him, won’t you? Make him understand how things are if you can. Tell him how I floated off. He doesn’t want to hear me talk that way, but you understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘You’re an artist,’ he said.
‘I’m a faker.’
‘Not in my dreams, you’re not. In my dreams you want to heal me, and you know what I say? I tell you I don’t want to get well. I say I want to be out in the light.’
‘That
