Shooting in the Dark

difficult as possible. All those old sexist notions started invading his consciousness. You listen to Celia and Marie and Janet and you take it all on board and change the way your mind works, alter your whole genetic make-up, then a woman like this comes along. ‘Temporary problem,’ he said. ‘The old bucket’ll last long enough to get you home.’
    ‘You’ll have to look out for a new one,’ she said. She said it like someone who had a bank account. Sam counted to ten.
    ‘OK,’ he said. ‘When I start the engine you’ll hear the knocking sound. When I pull away from the kerb it’ll feel like she’s listing over to the left. These are not things to worry about. The other thing is, the safety belt, as you mentioned, is in fact broken, so you’re not strapped in. But you don’t have to worry about that either, because I’m gonna drive real careful.’
    He started the engine and pulled into the stream of traffic. He glanced across at her. She was facing forwards, a trace of a smile on her lips.
    ‘I don’t think it’s terminal,’ he told her quietly. ‘I’ll book it into the garage. They can usually fix these things.’ She was quiet for a long time. Sam concentrated on getting through the traffic without using the breaks.
    ‘You’re a realist, then?’ she said eventually. Sam had just turned into his street. He cruised up to the gate and parked. She was looking straight ahead. The ghost of a smile was the only thing that gave her away.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said, beginning a laugh that took up all the spaces in the car. ‘Me an’ old King Canute.’
     
    She took his arm and let him lead her along the path to the front door of his house, where she hesitated. ‘I’m not entirely sure about this,’ she said.
    ‘The way round it,’ he said, ‘is for me to move into your house. But I can’t be there all the time and the guy who attacked you is gonna try again.’
    He could see her listening. She was standing on the threshold with her head cocked to one side, leaning into the house. ‘You think you can hear something?’ he asked. ‘There’s no one there. Nothing moving.’
    She followed him into the house. ‘I know that,’ she said.
    ‘I was listening to the silence. I’m used to the silences that I create around myself. Sam Turner’s silences are altogether different. Something I’m going to have to get used to.’
    ‘I’ve got CDs,’ he said. ‘A radio. There’s a television somewhere. You can make as much noise as you like here. There’s no one gonna complain.’
    ‘I don’t believe you’re that insensitive,’ she told him. ‘You think it’s manly to be indifferent to the finer nuances. But it just makes you callous.’
    ‘Social conditioning,’ he said. ‘I was brought up to pull the heads off flowers.’
    ‘Well, don’t do it when I’m around.’ She let him guide her hand to a chair, which she explored quickly and efficiently. She pulled it around to the right and sat down. ‘Just be still and quiet.’
    Sam did as he was told. He closed his eyes and listened. There was nothing to hear. A great ballooning emptiness. From the kitchen a tiny whine, the fridge motor, occasionally giving a cough. And upstairs somewhere a window must be open, setting a door banging against its frame. Rhythmical sound, four beats to the bar, common time.
    ‘What do you hear?’
    He told her about the fridge motor, said it was probably going the same way as the car engine. ‘All the motors and engines in my life,’ he said. ‘They’re getting ready to crack up. The chain on my bike broke yesterday.’
    She held her hands to her ears, made her look like one of the three wise monkeys. ‘And something else,’ he said. ‘I can hear Dora.’
    ‘Your wife?’ she asked. ‘The one who died?’
    ‘Yeah. It was her house. Before I came on the scene. She lived here with her first husband, her kids. Died in the front bedroom.’
    ‘What do you mean, you can hear her? Like a ghost?’
    ‘Kind of. I suppose that’s what people mean when they talk about ghosts. She had a way of being. She was a strong woman before she got sick, had an effect on the physical world. The house feels more like her house than it’ll ever feel like mine. She’s been dead eleven, nearly twelve months, but it’s still her place.’
    When Angeles spoke it was as if her voice came from far off. ‘That’s what I heard when you first opened the door,’ she said. ‘It felt hostile, but maybe it was just