Spring by David Szalay Page B

smouldering monitor and staring with something like hatred at Michael’s slack face, his sensuous mouth hanging open as he worked mechanically through the fiddly statistical analysis of his systems. He did not seem to notice that he was on a monster losing spree. That the subscribers were losing money while he still picked up his £200 a week. At such times, his wanting a flat fee seemed sly and even dishonest to James, who was unable to help feeling that this strange man, this hulking idiot in his nylon jacket and milk-­white trainers, had somehow swindled him out of thousands of pounds.
    Michael was spending less time in the office too. He was in later—­sometimes quite late, and looking like he had not slept—­and he left earlier. Indeed, he seemed to have something on his mind. For instance, he had started to stare out the window. That was not something he had ever done in the past, and now he would sit there for minutes at a time, while the Coke hissed in his cup, staring out the window at the East End sky.
    ‘Michael,’ James would say.
    And Michael would not seem to hear.
    ‘Michael! ’
    And finally he would turn his oversized, unkempt head—­exactly the way that Hugo did—­unhurriedly and with a vacant expression in his docile chocolate eyes.
    None of this prepared James for the phone call he received one Monday morning in early November.
    He was out with Hugo when Freddy phoned. This was surprising in itself—­it was not even eight.
    ‘I thought you might want to know,’ Freddy said, with a smile in his voice, ‘that Michael is in police custody.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I thought you might want to know,’ Freddy said, even more slowly than the first time, ‘that Michael is in police custody. I’m not joking.’ He started to laugh. ‘He’s in a cell in Thamesmead Police Station.’
    ‘What are you talking about? Why?’
    ‘You’ll love this. Some sort of sexual assault.’
    A long silence. Then James said, ‘You’re joking…’
    ‘No I’m not! That’s the point. I’m not joking! I just found out myself.’
    ‘How did you find out?’
    ‘Melissa. She sent me a text. I just spoke to her…’
    ‘What did she say?’
    ‘Just what I told you. Michael’s in a police cell, and it’s some sort of sex offence. I don’t know what he did exactly,’ Freddy said. ‘I just thought it was quite amusing.’ He seemed frustrated that James did not share his amusement.
    ‘You’re not joking?’ James said.
    ‘No.’
    ‘What’s Melissa’s number?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I need to speak to her. I need to find out what the fuck is going on.’
    Melissa was on her way to work.
    ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said. She didn’t sound particularly put out. ‘Michael’s in the nick.’
    He was apparently arrested on Sunday morning at the house of a woman who lived a few streets away in Shooter’s Hill.
    The facts emerged at the trial the following summer. What seems to have happened is this—­some time in September Michael was in a supermarket near his home. As he was paying, something startled him and he dropped his money onto the floor. The woman who was next in the queue had helped him pick it up. She smiled at him. Their hands momentarily touched. That was the first time he saw her.
    Starting the next morning, he waited near the supermarket, hoping to see her again. When he did, he followed her home. It was a few days later that she first noticed him. She started seeing him in unexpected places, sometimes far from Shooter’s Hill—­on the tube, in shops in the West End—­and it was obvious that he was following her. When he followed her home and stood waiting outside, she phoned the police.
    The next day they stopped him in the street and issued an informal warning. They told the woman they expected he was ‘scared out of his wits’ by their intervention—­he had looked scared out of his wits when they walked up to him—­and that he would now leave her alone. And he seemed to,