door and
rang the lowest one of a series of bells. The door growled open on to an
unprepossessing hallway smelling of incense, a steep and narrow
staircase, and a smart new lift, all steel and glasslike his mirror. It took
him up a couple of floors where, to Mix's relief, everything was like itself,
streamlined, glittering, and sleek. Doors opened off the hallway, labeled
Reflexology and Massage and Podiatry. The gym was full of young people
laboring away on treadmills and skiers and stationary bikes. Through a
big picture window he could see girls in bikinis and men looking the way
he wanted to look, either in or sitting round the edge of a large bubbling
Jacuzzi. A thin dark girl in a leotard with an open white coat over it
asked him what h ewanted. Mix had had an idea. He explained his trade
and asked if anyone was needed to service and maintain the machines.
His company would consider taking Shoshana's on.
"It's funny you should say that," said the girl, "because the guy who was
going to do ours let us down yesterday."
"I think we could fit you in," said Mix. He asked what rates the
defaulters had charged. The answer pleased him. He could undercut
that. And he began to think daringly of taking it on privately, strictly
against the company's rules, but why should they find out?
"I'll have to ask Madam Shoshana." She had a falteringvoice and the
bright nervous eyes of a mouse. "Would you like to give me a call later?"
"I'll do that small thing. What's your name then?"
"Danila. "
"That's a funny one," he said.
She looked about sixteen. "I'm from Bosnia. But I've been here since I
was a kid."
"Bosnia, right." There had been a war there, he thought vaguely, back
some time in the nineties.
"I was afraid for a moment you wanted to join," said Danila.
"We got a waiting list as long as your arm. Most of them don't come more
than four times--that's the usual, four times—but they're on the books,
aren't they? They're members."
Mix was interested in only one member. "I'll call you later," he said.
Suppose Nerissa was here now? He wandered along the aisle between
the machines. Small television transmitters hung at head height in front
of each one and all were showing either a quiz show or a very old Tom
and Jerry cartoon. Most were watching the cartoon while pumping or
pedaling away. She wasn't there. He wouldn't have had to look closely.
She stoodout from others like an angel in hell or a rose in a sewer. Those
long legs, that gazelle's body, that raven hair must cause a sensation in
here.
Contemplating going to a film, later a drink with Ed in the Kensington
Park Hotel, the pub Reggie had used and called KPH, he thought of the
figure he had hallucinated on the stairs. Suppose it wasn't a
hallucination but a real ghost? Suppose it had been Reggie? His ghost,
that is. His spirit, doomed to haunt the environs of where he’d once lived.
Mix knew Reggie didn't really look like Richard Attenborough; or like
himself, come to that. He'd looked quite different, taller and thinner and
older. There were plenty of photographs in his books. Mix became very
frightened when he tried to conjure up an image of the man on the stairs.
Besides, he couldn't do it. He just about knew it was a man and not very
young and maybe wearing glasses. Yes, he couldn't have made up the
glasses, could he? They couldn't have been in his mind.
Reggie might have been in St. Blaise House while he was alive. Why
not? Miss Chawcer had escaped him, but he might have come there after
her. Mix, who thoroughly knew the details of Reggie's life after he came to
Notting Hill, pictured her going to Rillington Place, as it then was, for an
abortion, but getting cold feet and running away. A lucky escape. Had
Reggie tried to persuade her to let him do the deed at her ownplace? No,
because he had to get rid of the body. He went there to get her to return
...
Were there ghosts and if so, was it the murderer whose spirit
rang the lowest one of a series of bells. The door growled open on to an
unprepossessing hallway smelling of incense, a steep and narrow
staircase, and a smart new lift, all steel and glasslike his mirror. It took
him up a couple of floors where, to Mix's relief, everything was like itself,
streamlined, glittering, and sleek. Doors opened off the hallway, labeled
Reflexology and Massage and Podiatry. The gym was full of young people
laboring away on treadmills and skiers and stationary bikes. Through a
big picture window he could see girls in bikinis and men looking the way
he wanted to look, either in or sitting round the edge of a large bubbling
Jacuzzi. A thin dark girl in a leotard with an open white coat over it
asked him what h ewanted. Mix had had an idea. He explained his trade
and asked if anyone was needed to service and maintain the machines.
His company would consider taking Shoshana's on.
"It's funny you should say that," said the girl, "because the guy who was
going to do ours let us down yesterday."
"I think we could fit you in," said Mix. He asked what rates the
defaulters had charged. The answer pleased him. He could undercut
that. And he began to think daringly of taking it on privately, strictly
against the company's rules, but why should they find out?
"I'll have to ask Madam Shoshana." She had a falteringvoice and the
bright nervous eyes of a mouse. "Would you like to give me a call later?"
"I'll do that small thing. What's your name then?"
"Danila. "
"That's a funny one," he said.
She looked about sixteen. "I'm from Bosnia. But I've been here since I
was a kid."
"Bosnia, right." There had been a war there, he thought vaguely, back
some time in the nineties.
"I was afraid for a moment you wanted to join," said Danila.
"We got a waiting list as long as your arm. Most of them don't come more
than four times--that's the usual, four times—but they're on the books,
aren't they? They're members."
Mix was interested in only one member. "I'll call you later," he said.
Suppose Nerissa was here now? He wandered along the aisle between
the machines. Small television transmitters hung at head height in front
of each one and all were showing either a quiz show or a very old Tom
and Jerry cartoon. Most were watching the cartoon while pumping or
pedaling away. She wasn't there. He wouldn't have had to look closely.
She stoodout from others like an angel in hell or a rose in a sewer. Those
long legs, that gazelle's body, that raven hair must cause a sensation in
here.
Contemplating going to a film, later a drink with Ed in the Kensington
Park Hotel, the pub Reggie had used and called KPH, he thought of the
figure he had hallucinated on the stairs. Suppose it wasn't a
hallucination but a real ghost? Suppose it had been Reggie? His ghost,
that is. His spirit, doomed to haunt the environs of where he’d once lived.
Mix knew Reggie didn't really look like Richard Attenborough; or like
himself, come to that. He'd looked quite different, taller and thinner and
older. There were plenty of photographs in his books. Mix became very
frightened when he tried to conjure up an image of the man on the stairs.
Besides, he couldn't do it. He just about knew it was a man and not very
young and maybe wearing glasses. Yes, he couldn't have made up the
glasses, could he? They couldn't have been in his mind.
Reggie might have been in St. Blaise House while he was alive. Why
not? Miss Chawcer had escaped him, but he might have come there after
her. Mix, who thoroughly knew the details of Reggie's life after he came to
Notting Hill, pictured her going to Rillington Place, as it then was, for an
abortion, but getting cold feet and running away. A lucky escape. Had
Reggie tried to persuade her to let him do the deed at her ownplace? No,
because he had to get rid of the body. He went there to get her to return
...
Were there ghosts and if so, was it the murderer whose spirit
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