And pleasure apart, could he really leave now, without knowing what had become of the punter? He had to go down the corridor.
The first door was ajar; he pushed it open and the room beyond was a book-lined bedroom/study. Street lights through the curtainless window fell on a jumbled desk. No Reynolds, no thrasher. More confident now he’d made the first move Gavin explored further down the hallway. The next door – the kitchen -was also open. There was no light from inside. Gavin’s hands had begun to sweat: he thought of Reynolds trying to pull his gloves off, though they stuck to his palm. What had he been afraid of? It was more than the pick-up: there was somebody else in the apartment: somebody with a violent temper.
Gavin’s stomach turned as his eyes found the smeared handprint on the door; it was blood.
He pushed the door, but it wouldn’t open any further. There was something behind it. He slid through the available space,
and into the kitchen. An unemptied waste bin, or a neglected vegetable rack, fouled the air. Gavin smoothed the wall with his palm to find the light switch, and the fluorescent tube spasmed into life.
Reynolds’ Gucci shoes poked out from behind the door. Gavin pushed it to, and Reynolds rolled out of his hiding place. He’d obviously crawled behind the door to take refuge; there was something of the beaten animal in his tucked up body. When Gavin touched him he shuddered.
‘It’s all right . . . it’s me.’ Gavin prised a bloody hand from Reynolds’ face. There was a deep gouge running from his temple to his chin, and another, parallel with it but not as deep, across the middle of his forehead and his nose, as though he’d been raked by a two pronged fork.
Reynolds opened his eyes. It took him a second only to focus on Gavin, before he said:
‘Go away.’
‘You’re hurt.’
‘Jesus’ sake, go away. Quickly. I’ve changed my mind . . . You understand?’
I’ll fetch the police.’
The man practically spat: ‘Get the fucking hell out of here, will you? Fucking bum-boy!’
Gavin stood up, trying to make sense out of all this. The guy was in pain, it made him aggressive. Ignore the insults and fetch something to cover the wound. That was it. Cover the wound, and then leave him to his own devices. If he didn’t want the police that was his business. Probably he didn’t want to explain the presence of a pretty-boy in his hot-house.
‘Just let me get you a bandage – ‘
Gavin went back into the hallway.
Behind the kitchen door Reynolds said: ‘Don’t,’ but the bum-boy didn’t hear him. It wouldn’t have made much difference if he had. Gavin liked disobedience. Don’t was an invitation.
Reynolds put his back to the kitchen door, and tried to edge his way upright, using the door-handle as purchase. But his head was spinning: a carousel of horrors, round and round, each horse uglier than the last. His legs doubled up under him, and he fell down like the senile fool he was. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Gavin heard Reynolds fall, but he was too busy arming himself to hurry back into the kitchen. If the intruder who’d attacked
Reynolds was still in the flat, he wanted to be ready to defend himself. He rummaged through the reports on the desk in the study and alighted on a paper knife which was lying beside a pile of unopened correspondence. Thanking God for it, he snatched it up. It was light, and the blade was thin and brittle, but properly placed it could surely kill.
Happier now, he went back into the hall and took a moment to work out his tactics. The first thing was to locate the bathroom, hopefully there he’d find a bandage for Reynolds. Even a clean towel would help. Maybe then he could get some sense out of the guy, even coax him into an explanation.
Beyond the kitchen the hallway made a sharp left. Gavin turned the corner, and dead ahead the door was ajar. A light burned inside: water shone on tiles. The bathroom.