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Authors: Ian Rankin
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chocolate, and a couple of cans of Coke. Another cup of tea finished off the tiny cartons of milk. Rebus lay along the sofa, shoes off, watching soundless television. Candice lay on the bed, fully-clothed, sliding the occasional crisp from its packet, flicking channels. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. He took this as a compliment.
He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the t-shirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.
‘That’s not you any more,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight, Candice.’
Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.
The Doors: ‘Wishful Sinful’ …
A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He’d forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.
‘For this relief, much thanks,’ he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.
She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. ‘Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’ They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.
‘For you,’ she whispered, ‘a couple of sandwiches.’
‘God bless the child.’
‘For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They’ll do till the shops open.’
Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.
‘How am I getting home?’ he asked.
‘I called you a cab.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’ll be here in two minutes.’
‘What would I do without you?’
‘It’s a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’ She closed the window. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn’t leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.
So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.
Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn’t know how many days it had been since he’d had a drink. He wasn’t counting.
He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She’d be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and sawa beauty his cynicism couldn’t touch. Someone in a bar – recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He’d seen too much of love’s obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.
Not that he’d voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.
‘Define romance,’ had been the challenge. And Rebus’s response? He’d picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.
He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.
‘She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she’d see you again.’
‘So what’s the
He must have fallen asleep. The touch of her fingers on his knee brought him awake. She was standing in front of him, wearing the t-shirt and nothing else. She stared at him, fingers still resting on his knee. He smiled, shook his head, led her back to bed. Made her lie down. She lay on her back, arms stretched. He shook his head again and pulled the duvet over her.
‘That’s not you any more,’ he told her. ‘Goodnight, Candice.’
Rebus retreated to the sofa, lay down again, and wished she would stop saying his name.
The Doors: ‘Wishful Sinful’ …
A tapping at the door brought him awake. Still dark outside. He’d forgotten to close the window, and the room was cold. The TV was still playing, but Candice was asleep, duvet kicked off, chocolate wrappers strewn around her bare legs and thighs. Rebus covered her up, then tiptoed to the door, peered through the spyhole, and opened up.
‘For this relief, much thanks,’ he whispered to Siobhan Clarke.
She was carrying a bulging polythene bag. ‘Thank God for the twenty-four-hour shop.’ They went inside. Clarke looked at the sleeping woman, then went over to the sofa and started unpacking the bag.
‘For you,’ she whispered, ‘a couple of sandwiches.’
‘God bless the child.’
‘For sleeping beauty, some of my clothes. They’ll do till the shops open.’
Rebus was already biting into the first sandwich. Cheese salad on white bread had never tasted finer.
‘How am I getting home?’ he asked.
‘I called you a cab.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’ll be here in two minutes.’
‘What would I do without you?’
‘It’s a toss-up: either freeze to death or starve.’ She closed the window. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
He looked at Candice one last time, almost wanting to wake her to let her know he wasn’t leaving for good. But she was sleeping so soundly, and Siobhan could take care of everything.
So he tucked the second sandwich into his pocket, tossed the room-key on to the sofa, and left.
Four-thirty. The taxi was idling outside. Rebus felt hungover. He went through a mental list of all the places he could get a drink at this time of night. He didn’t know how many days it had been since he’d had a drink. He wasn’t counting.
He gave his address to the cabbie, and settled back, thinking again of Candice, so soundly asleep, and protected for now. And of Sammy, too old now to need anything from her father. She’d be asleep too, snuggling into Ned Farlowe. Sleep was innocence. Even the city looked innocent in sleep. He looked at the city sometimes and sawa beauty his cynicism couldn’t touch. Someone in a bar – recently? years back? – had challenged him to define romance. How could he do that? He’d seen too much of love’s obverse: people killed for passion and from lack of it. So that now when he saw beauty, he could do little but respond to it with the realisation that it would fade or be brutalised. He saw lovers in Princes Street Gardens and imagined them further down the road, at the crossroads where betrayal and conflict met. He saw valentines in the shops and imagined puncture wounds, real hearts bleeding.
Not that he’d voiced any of this to his public bar inquisitor.
‘Define romance,’ had been the challenge. And Rebus’s response? He’d picked up a fresh pint of beer and kissed the glass.
He slept till nine, showered and made some coffee. Then he phoned the hotel, and Siobhan assured him all was well.
‘She was a bit startled when she woke up and saw me instead of you. Kept saying your name. I told her she’d see you again.’
‘So what’s the
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