‘It was just an assumption,’ Harry told her, quickly. ‘I meant no offence, and I’m not eager to bring back hurtful memories. But it’s hard to see how I can track this bloke down if no one is able to tell me about him.’
Oh, I’d like to see him get his, Harry, she answered. And I’ll help you any way I can. I just hope I can remember enough, that’s all.
‘You won’t know until you try.’
Where do you want me to start?
‘First show me how you were, or how you thought you were,’ he said. For he knew well enough that the dead retain pictures of themselves as they were in life, and he wanted to try and draw some sort of comparison with Penny Sanderson. In short, he wondered if his necromancer quarry followed a pattern.
From her mind he immediately got back a picture of a tall, dark-eyed, leggy brunette in a mini-skirt, with slightly loose breasts unsupported under a blue silk blouse, and a shapely backside. But there was nothing of character in the picture, her picture, nothing to suggest quality of mind or personality; it was all sensual or outright sexual. Which didn’t fit with his first impressions.
So? How was I?
‘Very attractive,’ he told her. ‘But I think you’re selling yourself short.’
Often, she agreed, but without her customary laugh. Then she sighed, and that was something Harry was used to in the dead. It was the realization of a time and a thing done and finished with, which could never return. But she brightened up at once. And here am I actually talking to a man, and for once not wondering what he’s got in his pants. In the front, and in the back-pocket.
‘Was it always like that, for money?’
And sometimes for fun. I’ve told you, I was nympho. Do you want to get on now?
Harry was embarrassed. She’d given him a stock answer, had obviously heard that question before, often. ‘Was I prying?’
It’s OK, she answered. All men wonder about it, about what goes on in a pro’s mind. But suddenly her deadspeak was very cold. All men except that one, anyway. He doesn’t have to wonder, for he can always find out for himself, afterwards, when they’re dead.
And with that the Necroscope was sure she’d give him all she could. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said.
And she did . . .
It was a Friday night and I went to the dance. Being freelance, my time was my own. I didn’t need a pimp touting for me, taking my money and bringing his friends round for freebies. But the dance was in town and I lived quite a few miles out. After the midnight hour taxis are expensive; Cinders needed her coach home.
That was OK; there are always a handful of likely lads who’ll buzz a girl home on the chance of a grope. And if I liked the guy and if he wasn’t too pushy, maybe he could get more than a grope. A ride for a ride, as the saying goes.
On this occasion I picked the wrong one: no, not our man, but an armful all the same. Once I was in the car his polite, concerned attitude went right out the window. He didn’t know what I was, thought I was just a straight kid but easy meat. He could hardly drive for drooling and wanted to stop in every layby and back alley. I was wearing expensive clothes and didn’t want them ripped up. And anyway I didn’t like him.
He said he knew a place just off the motorway, and before I could tell him I didn’t need it he took the fly-on for Edinburgh. In a layby under some trees he made his move, and got my knee in his soft bits for his trouble! When he could drive again he did, but left me stranded there.
There was a service station a quarter-mile up the motorway. I went there and had a coffee. I wasn’t shaken up or anything, just dehydrated. Too many gin-and-its at the Palace.
But sitting there in this little booth I was joined by a driver. That was how I saw him: a driver. A long-distance man shaking off his weariness with a mug of coffee.