Looking Good Dead

empty. ‘I liked him; we started going out; my parents liked him; my brother and sister both thought he was lovely – and about a year and a half ago we got engaged. But about the same time I discovered I had a big rival. God.’
    ‘God?’
    She nodded. ‘He found God. Or God found him. Whatever.’
    ‘Lucky Richard,’ Grace said.
    ‘Very lucky,’ she said with a trace of sarcasm. ‘I envy anyone who finds God; how nice to be able to abdicate all your responsibilities to God.’ Suddenly she stood up. ‘You need any more whisky?’
    Grace looked at his tumbler, which was still three-quarters full. ‘I’m fine, thanks – I have to drive.’
    Cleo went out of the room, returned with a full wine glass, and sat back down, much nearer this time.
    ‘He started taking me to a charismatic church in Brighton,’ she said. ‘But it just wasn’t for me. I tried it, because at the time I loved him, but all it did was start pulling us apart.’
    ‘And his solution was to pray even more?’
    ‘Right. Hey, you know you’re quite astute – for a copper.’
    Grace gave her a pointed look, but couldn’t mask his grin. ‘Thanks a lot.’
    She chinked her glass against his. ‘He started making me kneel with him, praying for an hour, sometimes even longer, asking God to make our relationship better. After a while I just couldn’t hack it.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because I’m just not a believer.’
    ‘Not in anything?’

    ‘I spend my days cutting bodies open – you know what I do. I haven’t yet found a soul in any of them.’ She swigged some wine down. ‘Do you believe?’
    ‘I believe in some form of existence beyond death. But I have a problem with religion.’
    ‘That puts us on the same bus,’ she said.
    ‘I saw Colin Wilson’s The Occult on your bookshelf.’
    ‘All that stuff intrigues me. I know you are into that, and that’s fine. You can believe in ghosts, in some kind of spirit world, but you don’t necessarily have to believe in some kind of monotheistic God. Right?’
    Grace nodded.
    ‘I broke it off with Richard six months ago, and he can’t accept it. He’s convinced God will fix it for us. It’s hurt his career too. He spends more and more time praying for God to help him with his cases instead of reading up the briefs. I’m sorry; I look at all the shit that’s happening in the world and mostly it’s caused by people under some kind of delusion about their particular version of God. Sometimes I don’t think Richard’s obsession is that far removed from that of a Muslim suicide bomber. It’s all part of the same damned belief system – that it’s not this life that matters, it’s the next one. What a crap ideal! Shall we change the subject?’
    Grace drank some more whisky. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
    She set her glass down, then removed his glass from his hand and put that down also. She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered into his ear, ‘How about we don’t talk at all for a few minutes?’
    Then she pressed her lips against his. They were soft, so incredibly soft; he breathed in her musky perfume, the smell of her freshly washed hair, felt her soft, sweet tongue deep inside his mouth, felt her pulling him deeper and deeper into her body, as if she was gathering him in like folds of silk.
    And somehow, their bodies entwined, their lips never parting, they were climbing steep stairs – one flight, two flights, he was not counting – he was shuffling across a polished wood floor, then across a deep rug. El Divo were still playing, a soft jazzy song now. Candles, flames guttering, lined the walls, and she was still kissing him, exploring histeeth with her tongue, then the roof of his mouth, then duelling with his tongue, and he felt –
    Oh Jesus, deep fire in his groin – bursting . . .
    An electrical current was running inside his belly, shooting tiny, wonderful sparks through his body. He opened his eyes, saw her pale blue eyes smiling back at him. She was unbuttoning his shirt, and suddenly pressing her mouth, moist and soft, against each of his eyes in turn, and it was as if someone had turned up the current. She kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then his lips, again. Then again.
    It was so good he was hurting.
    Just a few times in the past nine years he had dialled a number in the personal ads in the Argus , and ended up in seedy basements in Brighton. One time he’d had a handjob from a fat Spanish girl. Another time he’d had