Neon Madman by John Harvey Page A

her doing her best to appear settled and unconcerned. She wasn’t very good at it.
    She was wearing a black dress that seemed to have padded shoulders and a healthy opening at the front. The material clung closely to her chest and she wasn’t wearing a bra. A fold-over belt in the same material pulled the thing in at her waist, allowing it to fall away loosely towards where her feet would have been if she’d been standing up. As it was, it had got carelessly arranged so that there was a nice amount of leg showing. She had small feet inside funny little shoes, with straps that wrapped themselves quite high up her calves.
    One hand rested along her thigh. It seemed long and white and still. Very still. As though she was willing it not to move. The nails were painted dark red and were curved into elongated points. Perhaps they were false.
    I didn’t think it mattered.
    The waves in her hair seemed less pronounced than they had before; some of the bounce had gone out of them. She lifted up her other hand and ran it through one side of her hair. She did it slowly, time after time after time. Nothing else about her moved. Not even her eyes: deep and brown, as could be: staring unblinkingly into the pinkish liquid at the bottom of her glass.
    She stayed like that for more than five minutes; the fingers combing through the hair.
    I wondered if she had forgotten that I was there.
    I set my glass down on the carpet and walked carefully across the room. It was the sort of room that encouraged you to go across it that way.
    I went round behind her and put both my hands down on to her shoulders. I’d done that before; I used it sometimes when I wanted to reassure people. There were times when it was the right thing to do. This wasn’t one of them. Or perhaps it wasn’t the right person—I wasn’t, she wasn’t.
    I felt her body stiffen under my touch; she held herself in tight. Her shoulders pushed backwards and her spine moved forwards into a slight arch. I didn’t have to look to know that her eyes were clenched shut.
    I moved my hands away and walked round where she could see me. It hadn’t been the reaction I had expected. She didn’t look the kind of woman who freezes when she’s touched. Perhaps she was more particular than most who did the touching. Perhaps she was more afraid than I had thought.
    I stood there for a little with my hands in view and what was meant to be a neutral expression on my face. I didn’t want her to think I was about to make any more dumb moves.
    I wanted to say something to get the conversation going, only I wasn’t sure what to say. It didn’t matter. Suddenly she was talking as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
    I stood there and listened.
    â€˜There was a phone call in the very early evening. It was James. I didn’t know who it was at first; I didn’t recognise the voice. The line wasn’t very good, but it wasn’t only that. He sounded worried, frightened. I was surprised. I’d never heard him like that before, not even once or twice when he’s been in a state in the past. It was as if he was physically frightened. As … as though he genuinely believed his life was in danger.’
    â€˜So did you.’
    She looked at me sharply.
    â€˜The first thing you said when you phoned me before was that you thought your husband had been murdered.’
    She nodded. ‘Yes, but although I said the words I don’t think I really knew what they meant. Not physically meant. I don’t even know if I believed them. I just thought something wrong had happened to him. But hearing his voice like that was different. It was as though he was trembling on the brink of some horrible, hurtful thing and desperately wanted to escape.’
    â€˜Could someone have been there with him while he was making the call? Someone who was forcing him to talk to you?’
    â€˜No. I don’t think so. But I do think