Little Face Read Free Page B

about time he grew out of
this sort of behaviour.
    She took the cigarette from his hand, put it in his mouth, lit it. She
doled out fags medicinally, the way other people did cups of tea. Even
to non-smokers like Simon. He needed this one, though. The first drag
was a relief. He held the nicotine in his lungs for as long as he could.
    `Charlie, listen. . . '
    `I will, but not here. Finish that, then we'll go and get a drink. And
calm down, for God's sake.'

    Simon gritted his teeth and tried to breathe evenly. If he could get
through to anyone, Charlie was the one. At least she would give him
a fair hearing before telling him he was talking bollocks.
    He took a few more drags, then stubbed out the cigarette and followed her into the building. Spilling Police Station used to be the public swimming baths. It still smelled of chlorine, haunted by the memory
of its former self. Aged eight, Simon had learned to swim here, tutored
by a maniac in a red tracksuit with a long wooden pole. Everyone else
in his class had already known how. Simon remembered how he'd felt
when this became apparent to him. He felt it now, at thirty-eight, when
he turned up for the beginning of each shift.
    The weight of his anxiety pulled him down, dragging, sinking.
Again he felt the urge to run, though he wasn't sure if his legs would
take him further into the building or out of it. He had no plan, only a
need to shake himself up, dislodge his fear. He forced himself to stand
still behind Charlie while she had a trivial conversation with Jack Zlosnik, the rotund, grey fur-ball on the desk who leaned where grumpy
Morris had leaned all those years ago, grimly handing out green paper
tickets that said `Admit One'.
    There was no reason to assume the worst-to state, even to himself,
what the worst might be. Alice couldn't have come to serious harm.
There was still time for Simon to make a difference. He would have
sensed it, somehow, if it were too late, would not be so aware of the
present trickling into the past, grain by grain. Still, this was hardly scientific proof. He could imagine Charlie's reaction.
    After an age, Zlosnik was behind them, and Simon forced his feet
to mimic Charlie's, step by step, as they made their way to the canteen,
a big echo-chamber full of glaring strip-lights, the clash of voicesmainly male-and bad smells. Simon's mood made everything appear
grotesque, made him want to shield his eyes against the cheap wood
laminate floor, the piss-yellow walls.
    Three grey-haired middle-aged women in white aprons stood at the
serving hatch, dispensing grey and brown slop to tired, hungry bob bies. One of them slid two cups of tea towards Charlie without moving her features. Simon stood back. His hands wouldn't have been
steady enough to carry anything. A table had to be chosen, chairs
pulled out, pulled back in: mundane tasks that made him impatient to
the point of fury.

    `You look like you're in shock.'
    He shook his head, though he suspected Charlie was right. He
couldn't shift the image of Alice's face from his mind. An abyss had
opened in front of him and he struggled to stop himself falling in. `I've
got a bad feeling about this, Charlie. Really bad. Fancourt's behind it
all, somehow. Whatever he's telling Proust, it's a fucking lie.'
    `You're not exactly the most objective judge, are you? You've got a
thing about Alice Fancourt. Don't bother to deny it. I saw how flustered you were when she came in last week, just from being in the same
room as her. And you look secretive whenever you mention her name.'
    Simon stared purposefully at his tea. Objective? No. Never. He
distrusted David Fancourt in the same way he had two other men in
recent weeks, both of whom had turned out to be guilty. When Simon
proved as much, unequivocally, his fellow officers praised him loudly,
bought him drinks and claimed they'd known he was right all along.
Including Charlie. She'd had no complaints about his lack of