A Clear Conscience Read Free

wouldn’t it? Imagine anyone paying a prosecutor to lose a case. They’d have to be mad to think there was any need. They lose themselves. Anyway, I was thinking, yellow all over. Let the light in.’
    Ah, my generous girl, he thought, with the dark hair, and the dark flat and a liking for light. Bailey thought of his own current work, more darkness than light, plenty of jokes. A solicitor for the Crown and a senior police officer should never meet like this to discuss the decor of their lives. They had tried to keep their professional roles apart since their personal fortunes were inextricably mixed, half the week at her place, days off in between, half the week at his, in a muddled relationship, full of affection and argument, waiting for a better formula to occur to both of them at the same time. Bailey looked at Helen. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix.
    â€˜Hmm,’he said. ‘Yellow’s a nice colour. Some yellows, anyway.’ The woman he had interviewed this morning had worn a yellow blouse, blood from her broken nose mottling the front. The whole effect had resembled rhubarb and custard. He could not remember the colour of her skirt, only that it was held in her fists as she spoke and her bare arms were patterned with bruises. She loved the man, she said. She did not know why he did this to her. Bailey did not understand why. Even less did he want Helen to understand why.
    Bailey loved Helen. Helen loved Bailey. It was as complicated as that. The thought of either of them raising a hand against the other was as alien as the planet Mars. Making a simple suggestion was dangerous enough. The cat, fresh from a roll in damp grass, rubbed against his calves, leaving a green stain which Helen noticed with satisfaction.
    â€˜But,’ he continued cautiously, ‘whether you paint it yellow or not, you’ll always have a downstairs flat, therefore dark. Won’t you? Why don’t you just get in an odd job man and a spring cleaner? Then you’ll be able to judge what else you really need.’
    She pulled a face and stroked the cat with a bare foot. Bailey had often offered his services as Mr Fixit, carpenter, and, latterly, been rebuffed. He had been hurt by this, sensing in retrospect some tribute to the doctrine of the self-sufficient, liberated woman Helen would never quite be.
    â€˜Are you suggesting my home is dirty?’
    â€˜No, of course not. Only that you don’t have time to clean it. Not clean isn’t the same as dirty. The place gets a lick and a promise at least once a month. Why should you clean it anyway? Liberated women get help.’
    â€˜From other, unliberated women, you mean?’
    â€˜There’s nothing wrong with domestic labour. You never mind helping someone else scrub their house, you just don’t like doing your own. And if you were otherwise unemployed, you’d be glad of the going rate.’
    â€˜Apittance.’
    â€˜Regular employment, a mutually beneficial arrangement and clean windows.’
    She went inside for more wine and another lager for him. The cat followed, licked up the traces of butter on the kitchen floor with noisy enthusiasm. Bailey’s nonchalant figure in the garden was slightly blurred by the dust.
    He was not ornamental. He was infuriating but consistent. He was still slightly more defensive than she was. There had never been a courtship, there had just been an event. If it ain’t broke, celebrate.
    The wine gleamed light golden through a slightly smeared glass; the lager was deep amber. In the evening light after summer rain, the red walls of the living room resembled a fresh bruise. Like the inside of a velvet cave in winter, with the firelight covering all the cracks, it was dull and garish now.
    She could make it corn coloured, all over. Get some good old-fashioned, middle-class chintz. Clean up the cat; forget the blind. Start all over again. Make herself and her home both elegant and