A Darkening Stain

‘Aha-a,’ we said, tipping our glasses at each other. ‘Just checking there.’

‘I’m flattered,’ she said, sounding the opposite.

‘This ouistiti place…?’

‘It’s run by a guy called Michel Charbonnier.’

‘You know him?’ I asked.

‘He’s a creep.’

‘What sort of a creep?’

‘A sex creep.’

‘Touchy, feely?’

‘Breathey, breathey.’

‘I’ll keep my distance.’

‘I don’t know how you do it, Bruce.’

‘Bring myself to the marks for the Michel Charbonniers of this world?’

‘He’s probably the lighter end of it too.’

‘You’d have liked the guy I was with this evening.’

‘The one who thought you were interesting? I don’t think so. That hotel-barroom mutual back-slapping bullshit isn’t my kind of conversation.’

‘I’ve got to go away tomorrow too…an all-nighter.’

‘With Mr Interesting…on our day off?’ she said, irritated. ‘He must have made a big impression. Where’re you going?’

‘Maybe Grand-Popo.’

‘What sort of an answer is that?’

‘A tricky one.’

‘This isn’t going to be a row but…’

‘I’ve noticed that when one of us isn’t drinking we don’t row.’

‘When I’m not drinking. You’re never not drinking.’

‘If it’s not going to be a row why’s it already sounding like one?’

‘I don’t want it to be a row but…’

‘No more “buts”. You’ve softened me up. Ask your question.’

‘What’s the attraction?’

‘Of the work?’

‘It’s not the money, is it?’

‘Why do you think Bagado likes the work?’

‘Note,’ she said, pointing at the imaginary stenographer, ‘he didn’t answer the question. Bagado, well, Bagado has different motives. He has a sincere belief that he’s acting for the force of good against evil. He’s on a mission, a crusade.’

‘And I just like rummaging in drawers.’

‘Maybe that’s it.’

‘I’m not as cynical as you might think.’

‘Most of the time you seem to be acting for the good.’

‘That sounds like Bagado talking,’ I said.

Silence.

‘You never told me very much and nowadays even less,’ she said.

‘I don’t tell Bagado either. He’s a policeman. I can’t. And anyway, you don’t want to hear.’

‘True.’

‘So what does Bagado say about me?’

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Maybe I’ll withdraw the question then. I get enough unpalatable stuff rammed down my neck all day without having to hear what my friends say about me, behind my back, to my wife.’

‘Not yet, Bruce.’

‘Not yet what?’

‘I’m not yet your wife.’

‘I said wife?’

‘Your slip’s showing. The Freudian one.’

I reached over. She leaned back. I ran my hand up the back of her neck. She resisted. I forced her into a kiss until she broke away.