breath; it had that dead, hospitalic tang. There was something extra, something acrid, in its taste, the taste of headaches and wax.
'I see,' said Mary.
'Don't worry.'
'Why not?'
'You haven't done anything that serious yet, not in the eyes of the law.'
Mary turned away from him. His eyes terrified her: they knew too much. They were a feminine green, narrow and oddly curved at the outside edges. Instead of light they contained only a glint of yellow, a bad yellow, the yellow of urine and fever. Or were these just law's eyes, she wondered, the eyes of authority and change? He stood up. He was shaped into his clothes with the obedient indifference of a shopwindow dummy. Who had put him together, who had dreamed him, the thin wedge of the nose, the perfectly horizontal mouth, the short but innumerable hair? He took out a white handkerchief and waved it lightly.
'You're crying,' he said.
'I'm sorry. Thank you,' said Mary.
'Listen to me. You've started badly. You're going to have to cut away from that kind of life, that kind of people. You don't belong there and they'll just spit you out every time. You'll need a job. You'll need a place. Hang on.' He leaned over his desk and started writing something, very fast. 'You can stay here for a while. I'll call them. If you need help you know where I am. My name's John Prince. I'll put it here.' He straightened up. He held Mary's eye for several seconds. She didn't think that face could ever look puzzled, but that's what it looked. She could tell he was trying to place her in his mind.
'You're trying to place me, aren't you,' she said in fear.
He laughed and said, 'I've got a lot of time for you, Mary.'
Mary and Gavin went back on the Underground. Gavin had made a statement, but didn't want to talk about it. Mary had never travelled on the Underground before, though she'd used the red buses once or twice with Mrs Botham in the past. Gavin gave her laconic warning, and Mary was grateful. He didn't want to talk much on the way back and neither did Mary.
When you considered this world—people winched up and lowered down into the earth in steel cages and speed-fed through the tunnels, with doors cracking shut everywhere, and arctic winds mingling with dusty gasps of fire from the planet's core—it was hard to believe how delicate life was, how breakable things were. Things were easy to break; things were terribly delicate. Evidently Mary had broken the law now, just as the night before she had broken Mr Botham's back. Yes she had—crack, she had broken it for him. It wouldn't have broker, if it hadn't been for her. Trev would get time for this, but so would Mary in her way. Mr Botham's condition was 'most serious', everyone said. Mary agreed, but she thought it could have been more serious: she could have broken his heart or his nerve, and people died of that. But it was still very serious indeed. Mary had heard from Gavin that Mr Botham was a carpet-layer when he could find work. Well, he wouldn't be able to find it now; he wouldn't even be able to look. No one knew if his back would get better again. And he was old, which made it even more serious.
The small house was well aware that things had changed; it didn't like being looked over at a time like this. The expression it wore was vulnerable and strained. There was no one inside, of course. Mrs Botham was at the hospital day and night, by her husband's side; she was drinking more heavily now, or more openly anyway. Mary couldn't stay—really there was nothing to stay with—but she said, 'Why can't you and I stay here and hope they come back?'
He looked at her with reluctance—and with scorn. She knew she shouldn't have said it. 'Be serious,' he said. 'We can't afford to have you here. We never could. We're not—there's no leeway here. Don't you understand?'
'I'm sorry.'
He said, 'Where will you go?'
'Here.' She took out the piece of paper she had been given.
'Christ,' he said.
'He said he'd call them. He said it
'I see,' said Mary.
'Don't worry.'
'Why not?'
'You haven't done anything that serious yet, not in the eyes of the law.'
Mary turned away from him. His eyes terrified her: they knew too much. They were a feminine green, narrow and oddly curved at the outside edges. Instead of light they contained only a glint of yellow, a bad yellow, the yellow of urine and fever. Or were these just law's eyes, she wondered, the eyes of authority and change? He stood up. He was shaped into his clothes with the obedient indifference of a shopwindow dummy. Who had put him together, who had dreamed him, the thin wedge of the nose, the perfectly horizontal mouth, the short but innumerable hair? He took out a white handkerchief and waved it lightly.
'You're crying,' he said.
'I'm sorry. Thank you,' said Mary.
'Listen to me. You've started badly. You're going to have to cut away from that kind of life, that kind of people. You don't belong there and they'll just spit you out every time. You'll need a job. You'll need a place. Hang on.' He leaned over his desk and started writing something, very fast. 'You can stay here for a while. I'll call them. If you need help you know where I am. My name's John Prince. I'll put it here.' He straightened up. He held Mary's eye for several seconds. She didn't think that face could ever look puzzled, but that's what it looked. She could tell he was trying to place her in his mind.
'You're trying to place me, aren't you,' she said in fear.
He laughed and said, 'I've got a lot of time for you, Mary.'
Mary and Gavin went back on the Underground. Gavin had made a statement, but didn't want to talk about it. Mary had never travelled on the Underground before, though she'd used the red buses once or twice with Mrs Botham in the past. Gavin gave her laconic warning, and Mary was grateful. He didn't want to talk much on the way back and neither did Mary.
When you considered this world—people winched up and lowered down into the earth in steel cages and speed-fed through the tunnels, with doors cracking shut everywhere, and arctic winds mingling with dusty gasps of fire from the planet's core—it was hard to believe how delicate life was, how breakable things were. Things were easy to break; things were terribly delicate. Evidently Mary had broken the law now, just as the night before she had broken Mr Botham's back. Yes she had—crack, she had broken it for him. It wouldn't have broker, if it hadn't been for her. Trev would get time for this, but so would Mary in her way. Mr Botham's condition was 'most serious', everyone said. Mary agreed, but she thought it could have been more serious: she could have broken his heart or his nerve, and people died of that. But it was still very serious indeed. Mary had heard from Gavin that Mr Botham was a carpet-layer when he could find work. Well, he wouldn't be able to find it now; he wouldn't even be able to look. No one knew if his back would get better again. And he was old, which made it even more serious.
The small house was well aware that things had changed; it didn't like being looked over at a time like this. The expression it wore was vulnerable and strained. There was no one inside, of course. Mrs Botham was at the hospital day and night, by her husband's side; she was drinking more heavily now, or more openly anyway. Mary couldn't stay—really there was nothing to stay with—but she said, 'Why can't you and I stay here and hope they come back?'
He looked at her with reluctance—and with scorn. She knew she shouldn't have said it. 'Be serious,' he said. 'We can't afford to have you here. We never could. We're not—there's no leeway here. Don't you understand?'
'I'm sorry.'
He said, 'Where will you go?'
'Here.' She took out the piece of paper she had been given.
'Christ,' he said.
'He said he'd call them. He said it
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