Free Amphetamines and Pearls by John Harvey Page A

dealing with women.
    Sandy let me in wearing a yellow-towelling robe, last night’s make-up and an expression of extreme annoyance. She opened the door and left me framed in the doorway. She turned round and walked back towards the bed, taking off the robe as she went. She got back under the duvet, with nothing on but the make-up and the expression. I closed the door and went over and sat beside her. Her hair lay across the pillow and I stroked it, gently with the tips of my fingers. After a while her own fingers sought mine and pressed them. I moved my hand to the back of her neck.
    Inside the bed it was warm and firm. Gradually she stopped looking annoyed but I couldn’t do much about the make-up. We lay there held close and I wanted to stay.
    â€˜Sandy?’
    â€˜Uum?’
    â€˜A favour or two?’
    â€˜Which?’
    â€˜Two.’
    â€˜Why should I?’
    By way of an answer I pulled her even closer: a while longer wouldn’t hurt. But nothing lasts for ever: not pain, not pleasure: nothing.
    â€˜Sandy?’
    â€˜Uum?’
    â€˜About these favours.’
    â€˜Sod you!’
    She threw back the cover and jumped off the bed. Hands on hips she stood glaring down at me; she looked angry, stark nakedly angry. She was very beautiful.
    â€˜Who the hell do you think you are, Scott Mitchell? You wake me up at this god-forsaken hour of the morning when you know damn well that I’ve been grinding my arse off till past three in the morning. You expect to jump into my bed for free when any fifty other mugs would pay through the nose for the privilege. Then you have the bloody nerve to ask for favours. Huh! Favours! What the fuck do you think you’ve been getting for the last hour? There are times when you make me want to thump you right between your know-it-all eyes!’
    By the time she had finished she was even more beautiful. Legs apart, weight rising up on to the front of her feet in her anger, muscles in her thighs tensed. Fire in her green eyes. Fire in her voice. Imagine her … or, better, don’t. It might not be safe.
    No reply was the easiest and best. Sandy grabbed her robe and stalked off to the bathroom. By the time she returned she was wearing new make-up and a new outfit and I was sitting waiting with two cups of coffee.
    She sat and allowed herself to smile, almost.
    â€˜What do you want, Scott?’
    Okay, I thought to myself, it was going to be all right.
    â€˜First, I’d like to borrow your car till the morning. I have to be in Nottingham later today and then back in London after midnight.’
    Sandy nodded.
    â€˜Is it in the garage?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said, ‘the keys are in the usual place. Just make sure you pay for the petrol this time.’
    â€˜Oh, Sandy, come on …’
    â€˜No, you come on!’
    I made a move towards her and she pushed me away.
    â€˜That’s not what I meant and you know it!’
    I did, but I wanted to keep her in the right frame of mind for the second favour.
    â€˜What’s the other thing?’
    As answer I took the polaroid photo from my wallet and passed it across to her. She put it down beside her cup and looked at it with mild interest.
    â€˜Who is she?’
    â€˜I thought you might know.’
    â€˜You’ve got the picture.’
    I reached for the photograph and propped it against the edge of the saucer.
    â€˜She’s Buffy Thurley. She’s sixteen and she’s run away from boarding school to seek fame and fortune in the bright lights of the big city. At least, that’s what her old man thinks. And he’s prepared to pay a lot of money to prove that he’s right. Then bring her back home to daddy.’
    Sandy looked at the picture, then at me. ‘Do you think daddy is right?’
    â€˜Could be. From the expression in her eyes in that picture I’d say she was stoned up to the top of her sixteen-year-old head when it was taken. But then maybe