Read Online Full Stop by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A

life rather than copying it from a bestiary. Absorbed in the painting, she hardly registered soft footfalls until they stopped behind her, so close she could hear — she could
feel-
someone’s breath over her right shoulder. She edged to theleft, aware that she had been blocking the approach to the painting and expecting whoever it was to respect the space she had put between them. Instead he moved with her, trapping her between his body and a glass case housing a processional crucifix. She could see his outline reflected in the glass, easily overlapping her own, and for an instant she was paralysed by a claustrophobic sensation of
déja vu
— the memory of a
frotteur
who had pushed up against her on the London Underground. She had been so shocked by the touch of his body on hers, the pressure of his penis pushing into her back on a crowded train, that she failed to react quickly enough and was left shaking and furious when he got off at the next station.
    â€˜Leave me
alone?
,’ she gasped, elbowing the stranger out of her way and hurrying into the next room. Once there she stopped short, flooded by a feeling of inadequacy because she hadn’t actually confronted him. Wouldn’t he just find another victim, some other woman to menace? She hesitated, gripped by indecision, and an attendant approached.
    â€˜Something wrong, miss?’
    â€˜Yes, there was a man –’ She glanced back the way she had come, putting her hand up to her mouth. ‘He — I was looking at a picture when he –’
    â€˜He touch you, miss? Is that what you’re trying to say?’
    â€˜He didn’t — I don’t
think
he touched me. But he was so close.’
    â€˜Would you recognise him?’
    â€˜I — yes, no. I didn’t really see ... Maybe he’s still there.’ She plucked at the sleeve of the attendant’s uniform, pulling her back the way she had come.
    â€˜There he is,’ she said in an agitated whisper, and they both stopped just inside the room.
    â€˜The same guy?’
    Loretta peered through the glass case, not entirely sure. The man was leaning forward, bending towards the painting as though he was short-sighted. His height was about right, she thought, or would be when he straightened, but what about the rest: age, clothes, hair colour? She could summon only thevaguest outline, an impression of someone taller and certainly heavier than herself. There was one way to find out and, pushing aside her doubts, she approached him.
    â€˜Excuse
me.’
    He turned to look at her, his eyes screwed up as though he had trouble focusing. Loretta stepped back, registering with shock the disfiguring blotches on his face, Kaposi’s Sarcoma, the way he leaned heavily on a stick.
    â€˜This the guy?’ The attendant was beside her.
    â€˜No. I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake.’ She gestured helplessly towards him, not knowing how to make amends.
    In a cultured, slightly foreign accent he asked: ‘Is there a problem?’
    â€˜Did you see –’ Loretta stopped, appalled by her tactlessness, certain there was something wrong with his eyes. She knew the disease could do that, in its later stages.
    The attendant said: ‘You wanna make an official complaint?’
    â€˜God, no,’ Loretta said quickly, feeling her cheeks grow red. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again and turned towards the doorway, aware that the museum attendant and the man with the stick were joined together in a tableau of bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, backing towards the exit.
    When she got to the stairs she hurried down them, wanting to put as much space as possible between herself and the scene of her embarrassment. She could not imagine how she had come to make such a terrible mistake. It was obvious now that the man’s sight was affected and he had only been trying to get a better view of the painting ... She