Free Light by M. John Harrison Page A

stumbled along the north bank of the Thames, then hid among some trees until he thought he heard a voice. This frightened him again and he ran all the way to Twickenham in the dark and the wind before he got control of himself. There he tried to think, but all that came to him was the image of the Shrander. He decided to call Anna. Then he decided to call a cab. But his hands were trembling too hard to use the phone, so in the end he did neither but took the towpath back east instead. An hour later, Anna met him at her door, wearing a long cotton nightgown. She looked flushed and he could feel the heat of her body from two feet away.
    “Tim’s with me,” she said nervously.
    Kearney stared at her.
    “Who’s Tim?” he said.
    Anna looked back into the flat.
    “It’s all right, it’s Michael,” she called. To Kearney she said, “Couldn’t you come back in the morning?”
    “I just want some things,” Kearney said. “It won’t take long.”
    “Michael—”
    He pushed past her. The flat smelled strongly of incense and candle wax. To get to the room where he kept his stuff, he had to pass Anna’s bedroom, the door of which was partly open. Tim, whoever he was, sat propped up against the wall at the head end of the bed, his face three-quarter profile in the yellow glow of two or three nightlight candles. He was in his mid thirties, with good skin and a build light but athletic, features which would help give him a boyish appearance well into his forties. He had a glass of red wine in one hand, and he was staring thoughtfully at it.
    Kearney looked him up and down.
    “Who the hell is this?” he said.
    “Michael, this is Tim. Tim, this is Michael.”
    “Hi,” said Tim. He held out his hand. “I won’t get up.”
    “Jesus Christ, Anna,” Kearney said.
    He went through to the back room, where a brief search turned up some clean Levi’s and an old black leather jacket he had once liked too much to throw away. He put them on. There was also a cycle-courier bag with the Marin logo on the flap, into which he began emptying the contents of the little green chest of drawers. Looking up blankly from this task, he discovered that Anna had washed the chalked diagrams off the wall above it. He wondered why she would do that. He could hear her talking in the bedroom. Whenever she tried to explain anything, her voice took on childish, persuasive values. After a moment she seemed to give up and said sharply, “Of course I don’t! What do you mean?” Kearney remembered her trying to explain similar things to him. There was a noise outside the door and Tim poked his head round.
    “Don’t do that,” Kearney said. “I’m nervous already.”
    “I wondered if I could help?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “It’s just that it’s five o’clock in the morning, you see, and you come in here covered in mud.”
    Kearney shrugged.
    “I see that,” he said. “I see that.”
    Anna stood angrily by the door to watch him out. “Take care,” he said to her, as warmly as he could. He was two flights down the stone stairs when he heard her footsteps behind him. “Michael,” she called. “Michael.” When he didn’t answer, she followed him out into the street and stood there shouting at him in her bare feet and white nightdress. “Did you come back for another fuck?” Her voice echoed up and down the empty suburban street. “Is that what you wanted?”
    “Anna,” he said, “it’s five o’clock in the morning.”
    “I don’t care. Please don’t come here again, Michael. Tim’s nice and he really loves me.”
    Kearney smiled.
    “I’m glad.”
    “No, you’re not!” she shouted. “No, you’re not!”
    Tim came out of the building behind her. He was dressed, and he had his car keys in his hand. He crossed the pavement without looking at Anna or Kearney, and got into his car. He wound the driver’s window down as if he thought about saying something to one of them, but in the end shook his head and drove off