together, they were possessed by a peculiar awkwardness, a kind of static charge.
‘I really should stay for a bit, you know,’ Fleming offered hesitantly. ‘You’ve had quite a shock.’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right.’
‘I’d like to,’ he said softly.
‘What?’
‘Stay.’
An attempt at a nonchalant grin smarted on his face. As she held his gaze he noted that her eyes were deep blue. Cool, direct, quizzical.
‘Stay then,’ she said with a shrug.
He frowned. Women are such difficult characters, he reasoned. His inner text demanded that they should be an illusion, nothing more than a thorough but simple physical description. Miller’s appearance certainly fitted his ideal. She was undeniably attractive. Wide-set eyes and high cheekbones; an elegant curve to the jaw framed by a mane of raven hair cut square to the nape of her neck; a bow-lipped mouth, full and sensual. Fleming found it easy to draw up an account with the banal symmetries of detail. But now there was too much depth to his impression of her, and he felt that he already knew her far too well. And it annoyed him that she seemed more at ease than he was.
Miller laughed.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘You look like a lost little boy.’
He suddenly felt horribly inert. He tried to empty his mind, to assume a seductive charm, but it eluded him. He was full of desire but knew that if he was unable to focus on the possibility of simple animal pleasure this urge would quickly vanish.
‘Come here,’ she said.
He went to her but the moment was already lost. Now she had the initiative, and this would never do. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. His lips were cold and he couldn’t help but flinch slightly as she gently stroked his face with her fingers. They pulled away from each other.
‘Look,’ he began, not knowing what to say.
‘I suppose we’re both a bit on edge,’ she offered. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
He offered her a cigarette and for a while they stood smoking in her living room. All at once they reverted to the casual tone of procedure, going over their report of the night’s events and their implications.
‘Marius Trevelyan’s cover is now blown too, of course,’ Fleming remarked. ‘Though maybe this incident could be used to provide what Political wants. You know, a demonstration that the Link is still active.’
‘Yes, but—’ Miller stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray as an odd thought throbbed. ‘What if—’ She shook her head, at once unsure where her thoughts were leading, and broke into a yawn.
‘I’d better let you get some sleep,’ said Fleming.
‘There’s hardly much time for that,’ Miller murmured.
For a moment there was something strikingly vague in her expression, a marvellous vacancy in her eyes. But no, Fleming realised bitterly, she was thinking about something. He suddenly felt the strong urge to be on his own.
‘I’d better be off,’ he told her.
‘Very well then.’
She walked with him to the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For tonight. For dealing with that awful man.’
Fleming walked home through streets strewn with rubble and debris. Piles of bricks here and there, heaps of broken glass swept into the gutters. Scraps of paper fluttered through the smoke-scented air; the morning birdsong trilled harsh and neurotic. He passed a ruined house that was not much more than a scorched shell, yet it revealed part of one wall still intact, with wallpaper, fireplace and a framed print still tacked above the mantelpiece. The city turned upside down, all of its secrets rudely shaken out.
Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem . The rhythm of his stride tapped out its maddening aubade. His mind was hungry for dreams. Reality was always far too complicated. He felt a quiet fury at how action had once more been frustrated by doubts of conscience and official procedure. The hesitation when he’d pointed
‘I really should stay for a bit, you know,’ Fleming offered hesitantly. ‘You’ve had quite a shock.’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right.’
‘I’d like to,’ he said softly.
‘What?’
‘Stay.’
An attempt at a nonchalant grin smarted on his face. As she held his gaze he noted that her eyes were deep blue. Cool, direct, quizzical.
‘Stay then,’ she said with a shrug.
He frowned. Women are such difficult characters, he reasoned. His inner text demanded that they should be an illusion, nothing more than a thorough but simple physical description. Miller’s appearance certainly fitted his ideal. She was undeniably attractive. Wide-set eyes and high cheekbones; an elegant curve to the jaw framed by a mane of raven hair cut square to the nape of her neck; a bow-lipped mouth, full and sensual. Fleming found it easy to draw up an account with the banal symmetries of detail. But now there was too much depth to his impression of her, and he felt that he already knew her far too well. And it annoyed him that she seemed more at ease than he was.
Miller laughed.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘You look like a lost little boy.’
He suddenly felt horribly inert. He tried to empty his mind, to assume a seductive charm, but it eluded him. He was full of desire but knew that if he was unable to focus on the possibility of simple animal pleasure this urge would quickly vanish.
‘Come here,’ she said.
He went to her but the moment was already lost. Now she had the initiative, and this would never do. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. His lips were cold and he couldn’t help but flinch slightly as she gently stroked his face with her fingers. They pulled away from each other.
‘Look,’ he began, not knowing what to say.
‘I suppose we’re both a bit on edge,’ she offered. ‘Aren’t we?’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
He offered her a cigarette and for a while they stood smoking in her living room. All at once they reverted to the casual tone of procedure, going over their report of the night’s events and their implications.
‘Marius Trevelyan’s cover is now blown too, of course,’ Fleming remarked. ‘Though maybe this incident could be used to provide what Political wants. You know, a demonstration that the Link is still active.’
‘Yes, but—’ Miller stubbed out her cigarette, grinding it into the ashtray as an odd thought throbbed. ‘What if—’ She shook her head, at once unsure where her thoughts were leading, and broke into a yawn.
‘I’d better let you get some sleep,’ said Fleming.
‘There’s hardly much time for that,’ Miller murmured.
For a moment there was something strikingly vague in her expression, a marvellous vacancy in her eyes. But no, Fleming realised bitterly, she was thinking about something. He suddenly felt the strong urge to be on his own.
‘I’d better be off,’ he told her.
‘Very well then.’
She walked with him to the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For tonight. For dealing with that awful man.’
Fleming walked home through streets strewn with rubble and debris. Piles of bricks here and there, heaps of broken glass swept into the gutters. Scraps of paper fluttered through the smoke-scented air; the morning birdsong trilled harsh and neurotic. He passed a ruined house that was not much more than a scorched shell, yet it revealed part of one wall still intact, with wallpaper, fireplace and a framed print still tacked above the mantelpiece. The city turned upside down, all of its secrets rudely shaken out.
Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem . The rhythm of his stride tapped out its maddening aubade. His mind was hungry for dreams. Reality was always far too complicated. He felt a quiet fury at how action had once more been frustrated by doubts of conscience and official procedure. The hesitation when he’d pointed
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