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Authors: Charles Williams
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back,” she said, and closed the sliding door.
My skin was dead white and drawn up in a thousand whorls and wrinkles like the pictures of fingerprints, and my teeth went right on chattering. The door slid back and she was holding a glass half full of whisky. I drank it.
“All right,” she said. “Out you come. If you collapse before you get in bed I’ll never be able to lift you.”
She handed me a towel and took one herself. It felt as if we were tearing my skin off. She led me into the bedroom. The bed was turned down. She pushed me into it and covered me. She went out and came back almost immediately with another drink. She held it to my lips. My teeth beat like castanets against the glass, but I managed to swallow the whisky.
“Poor Irish,” she said. She clicked off the light, leaving only the faint illumination from the doorway to the living room. Then I saw she was undressing. She tossed the sweater, skirt, and slip across a chair, and sat down to remove her stockings. The room began to swim in big circles. She tossed the last garment onto the chair and slid in beside me.
“This may help,” she said. She gathered my head against her breasts, and a long smooth thigh slid up and over my leg and entwined with it as she held me pressed to her in every place we could touch. “It’s just a chill. It’ll go away.”
I struggled against the blackness that was trying to engulf me.
“Easy, Irish,” she said soothingly. “Just go to sleep.”
The walls of the room swam by again. I tried to get my arms round her, but I went on shaking.
“You can’t,” she said gently. “You know you can’t.”
She was right. I couldn’t. I made one more futile grab at the edge of the precipice and then fell, and went on falling through darkness.
Six
It was like waking up in another world. I sat up and looked around, almost as stupidly as if I had a hangover. In spite of the oversized bed, it was a very feminine room. Some light sifted in through the pale rose curtains that covered the wall at my left. The rug was a soft ivory in color, and the sliding doors of the clothes closet were full-length mirrors. The bed itself had a satin-covered headboard, a gold spread folded down at the foot of it, and a Dacron comforter. At either side were small night tables that held matching rose-shaded lamps with ebony bases. On the one at my left there was a white telephone, and tossed carelessly across it a black eyeshade of nylon or silk with an elastic band. It was warm and very quiet except for the faint and occasional sounds of traffic somewhere below. Across from me, by the dressing table with its wing mirrors and clutter of jars and bottles, was the door to the next room. It was closed..
It opened in a few minutes, and she peered in. When she saw I was awake, she smiled, and came on in. She was wearing black Capri pants and a white shirt, and she was barefoot. The light hair was carelessly tousled, and she looked as big and vital as a Viking’s dream.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Rum-dum,” I said. “As if I had a hangover.”
“You probably have. I think I poured a pint of whisky into you.”
“I really went out, didn’t I?”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead,” she said. “No food for four days except two cans of corned beef, and then nine hours soaked to the skin in freezing weather.” She sat on the side of the bed and put her hand on my forehead. “Any fever?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Where am I?”
“Seventh floor of the Lancaster Apartments, 2110 Beechwood Drive. Apartment 703. It’s four-thirty p.m. Friday, and you’ve been asleep for eleven hours. You’re safe here. Nobody saw you come in, and we can’t be heard through the walls.”
“Is there any chance they saw you last night?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They were too intent on you. And even if they did, they couldn’t have got my license number. I didn’t turn my lights on until I was a block away.
My skin was dead white and drawn up in a thousand whorls and wrinkles like the pictures of fingerprints, and my teeth went right on chattering. The door slid back and she was holding a glass half full of whisky. I drank it.
“All right,” she said. “Out you come. If you collapse before you get in bed I’ll never be able to lift you.”
She handed me a towel and took one herself. It felt as if we were tearing my skin off. She led me into the bedroom. The bed was turned down. She pushed me into it and covered me. She went out and came back almost immediately with another drink. She held it to my lips. My teeth beat like castanets against the glass, but I managed to swallow the whisky.
“Poor Irish,” she said. She clicked off the light, leaving only the faint illumination from the doorway to the living room. Then I saw she was undressing. She tossed the sweater, skirt, and slip across a chair, and sat down to remove her stockings. The room began to swim in big circles. She tossed the last garment onto the chair and slid in beside me.
“This may help,” she said. She gathered my head against her breasts, and a long smooth thigh slid up and over my leg and entwined with it as she held me pressed to her in every place we could touch. “It’s just a chill. It’ll go away.”
I struggled against the blackness that was trying to engulf me.
“Easy, Irish,” she said soothingly. “Just go to sleep.”
The walls of the room swam by again. I tried to get my arms round her, but I went on shaking.
“You can’t,” she said gently. “You know you can’t.”
She was right. I couldn’t. I made one more futile grab at the edge of the precipice and then fell, and went on falling through darkness.
Six
It was like waking up in another world. I sat up and looked around, almost as stupidly as if I had a hangover. In spite of the oversized bed, it was a very feminine room. Some light sifted in through the pale rose curtains that covered the wall at my left. The rug was a soft ivory in color, and the sliding doors of the clothes closet were full-length mirrors. The bed itself had a satin-covered headboard, a gold spread folded down at the foot of it, and a Dacron comforter. At either side were small night tables that held matching rose-shaded lamps with ebony bases. On the one at my left there was a white telephone, and tossed carelessly across it a black eyeshade of nylon or silk with an elastic band. It was warm and very quiet except for the faint and occasional sounds of traffic somewhere below. Across from me, by the dressing table with its wing mirrors and clutter of jars and bottles, was the door to the next room. It was closed..
It opened in a few minutes, and she peered in. When she saw I was awake, she smiled, and came on in. She was wearing black Capri pants and a white shirt, and she was barefoot. The light hair was carelessly tousled, and she looked as big and vital as a Viking’s dream.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Rum-dum,” I said. “As if I had a hangover.”
“You probably have. I think I poured a pint of whisky into you.”
“I really went out, didn’t I?”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead,” she said. “No food for four days except two cans of corned beef, and then nine hours soaked to the skin in freezing weather.” She sat on the side of the bed and put her hand on my forehead. “Any fever?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Where am I?”
“Seventh floor of the Lancaster Apartments, 2110 Beechwood Drive. Apartment 703. It’s four-thirty p.m. Friday, and you’ve been asleep for eleven hours. You’re safe here. Nobody saw you come in, and we can’t be heard through the walls.”
“Is there any chance they saw you last night?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They were too intent on you. And even if they did, they couldn’t have got my license number. I didn’t turn my lights on until I was a block away.
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