only set off their immaculate sky colour. His lashes so close to Jemima's own - for he still held her tight - that she could see them quivering as the sweat ran down the corners of his eyes, were as long as a woman's. His hair, although greasy and falling round his face, far too long for elegance, was dramatically dark and thick.
Kevin John had always looked far more like a young Irish actor than a promising English painter. His father, not half such a handsome man, had in fact been quite well known on the Dublin stage; Jemima fancied that his mother too had been an actress. At this moment he resembled some actor flung out of the Abbey Theatre Company, or perhaps just a member of the company after a hard night.
'Where is she, I said.' It was quite surprising to find that he spoke without a trace of an Irish accent. 'How the hell do I know?'
By way of reply Kevin John simply twisted her arms sharply. Her bag and notebook dropped.
'Find her then.' The stink of his breath was even more offensive than the pain. 'Jemima Shore, Investigator.' The sneer with which he pronounced her name infuriated her.
'Let go of my arms, you drunken slob.' This time Kevin John let go of her arms and gave Jemima a wide swinging blow on the side of her face. The pain of it was so unexpected that tears came into her eyes. Her whole head felt dizzy. As Jemima reeled, he struck her again on the face but harder this time. She staggered. He hit her again and as she felt herself sinking he shouted something which sounded like 'harlot'. Or perhaps it was 'harder'.
'It's no good,' she heard herself saying faintly. He seemed to go on hitting her. Then she toppled or sank onto the carpet.
The next thing she knew Kevin John was kneeling over her. He appeared to be crying or perhaps it was merely the sweat pouring down his face. His breath still smelt terrible.
'Oh, sweet Jesus,' he was saying. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' Now he was crying in earnest. He sat down beside Jemima on the thick carpet, put his enormous handsome head on his arms and started to blubber. Jemima heard words like: 'I love her, I love her,' mingled with apologies, louder cries, and confused insults, of which 'effing whore' and 'tail-wagging bitch' were about the mildest. At any rate the words 'whore' and 'bitch' were prominent amongst them. Dizzily, Jemima wasn't quite sure whether he meant Chloe or herself.
After a bit Kevin John stopped crying, raised his head and stared at her: 'I'm drunk.'
Jemima said nothing.
'Could you be a sweetheart and make me some coffee? I must talk to you.' Jemima rose unsteadily from the floor and held onto the edge of the sofa. She was glad she had not hit her head on the edge of one of Chloe's smart little glass tables as she fell. All the same she wondered what her face looked like as she walked, still unsteadily, her head aching, into the kitchen. She looked out of the window which was at the back of the building. The kitchen had a small modern fire escape attached to it; the door was merely bolted. Chloe had shown her the key, while recommending her not to use it, except in emergency. But Jemima decided that even if the situation demanded escape, she felt far too dizzy.
She peered into the kitchen mirror (there were mirrors everywhere in Chloe's flat). Although there was a large red mark on one side of her face, as though she had slept on it, otherwise it did not look too bad. But the sting and the ache were fierce.
Jemima made some coffee, the one thing she always boasted of being able to do automatically, even half-conscious. Under the circumstances, that was fortunate.
When she came back into the living room, Kevin John was sitting on the sofa. He did not look at her as she placed the mug of coffee beside him. Jemima went and sat in the big white chair near the window, as far away as possible from the sofa; the roar of the traffic below and the occasional sharp little tooting reached her from far away, as though from some remote shore.
'Don't
Kevin John had always looked far more like a young Irish actor than a promising English painter. His father, not half such a handsome man, had in fact been quite well known on the Dublin stage; Jemima fancied that his mother too had been an actress. At this moment he resembled some actor flung out of the Abbey Theatre Company, or perhaps just a member of the company after a hard night.
'Where is she, I said.' It was quite surprising to find that he spoke without a trace of an Irish accent. 'How the hell do I know?'
By way of reply Kevin John simply twisted her arms sharply. Her bag and notebook dropped.
'Find her then.' The stink of his breath was even more offensive than the pain. 'Jemima Shore, Investigator.' The sneer with which he pronounced her name infuriated her.
'Let go of my arms, you drunken slob.' This time Kevin John let go of her arms and gave Jemima a wide swinging blow on the side of her face. The pain of it was so unexpected that tears came into her eyes. Her whole head felt dizzy. As Jemima reeled, he struck her again on the face but harder this time. She staggered. He hit her again and as she felt herself sinking he shouted something which sounded like 'harlot'. Or perhaps it was 'harder'.
'It's no good,' she heard herself saying faintly. He seemed to go on hitting her. Then she toppled or sank onto the carpet.
The next thing she knew Kevin John was kneeling over her. He appeared to be crying or perhaps it was merely the sweat pouring down his face. His breath still smelt terrible.
'Oh, sweet Jesus,' he was saying. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' Now he was crying in earnest. He sat down beside Jemima on the thick carpet, put his enormous handsome head on his arms and started to blubber. Jemima heard words like: 'I love her, I love her,' mingled with apologies, louder cries, and confused insults, of which 'effing whore' and 'tail-wagging bitch' were about the mildest. At any rate the words 'whore' and 'bitch' were prominent amongst them. Dizzily, Jemima wasn't quite sure whether he meant Chloe or herself.
After a bit Kevin John stopped crying, raised his head and stared at her: 'I'm drunk.'
Jemima said nothing.
'Could you be a sweetheart and make me some coffee? I must talk to you.' Jemima rose unsteadily from the floor and held onto the edge of the sofa. She was glad she had not hit her head on the edge of one of Chloe's smart little glass tables as she fell. All the same she wondered what her face looked like as she walked, still unsteadily, her head aching, into the kitchen. She looked out of the window which was at the back of the building. The kitchen had a small modern fire escape attached to it; the door was merely bolted. Chloe had shown her the key, while recommending her not to use it, except in emergency. But Jemima decided that even if the situation demanded escape, she felt far too dizzy.
She peered into the kitchen mirror (there were mirrors everywhere in Chloe's flat). Although there was a large red mark on one side of her face, as though she had slept on it, otherwise it did not look too bad. But the sting and the ache were fierce.
Jemima made some coffee, the one thing she always boasted of being able to do automatically, even half-conscious. Under the circumstances, that was fortunate.
When she came back into the living room, Kevin John was sitting on the sofa. He did not look at her as she placed the mug of coffee beside him. Jemima went and sat in the big white chair near the window, as far away as possible from the sofa; the roar of the traffic below and the occasional sharp little tooting reached her from far away, as though from some remote shore.
'Don't
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