Time flies, he thought. No: it does not fly; it is flushed away and carries so much with it. Memories stay, though, even when they are unwanted. They are a stain no bleach will fade. An aftertaste.
He was slipping back and forth, his mind awash with images from the past. The beating sun was forgotten as he stood, one hand on the bottle within his pocket, and remained unyielding and unaware of the glares from obstructed passers-by. He was in the cool woods again, and their dark smells were choking his brain.
He looked behind him, at the crowd and scurry of the street with its towering two-deckers and beetling cars. Impossible to tell if it were following.
The Wildwood was here, in the city. Wolves in the alleyways. A fairy catching a train. He laughed harshly, and lurched into motion again.
She was waiting for him when he dragged himself to his door that night, there on the landing.
He caught his breath at the sight of the raven hair, the pale cheek semi-lit by the dim bulb overhead, and in that moment he sobered entirely, an entire evening's alcohol obliterated in an instant.
Then she turned, and the fearful wonder, the budding joy, twisted and burned to ash. It was that bloody girl again. Maybe she'd left her lipstick behind. The alcohol began to trickle back into place, fuzzing the edges of his mind.
'Mike! There you are.' The use of his Christian name was forced, an unfamiliar word in her mouth.
'Here I am.'
He reached the top of the stairs, breathing hard, and painted on a grin which might well have been a leer. His grinning muscles were not exactly overused these days.
'Good timing. I just got here. I was trying to remember if it was this floor.' She was diffident, nervous, and looked away from him as she spoke.
'It's late,' he said with gruff gentleness; a last-ditch effort to be decent.
'I know.' She gestured to the shut door. 'Can I come in?' He shrugged. So be it.
He winced at the mess inside, threw on a low light and kicked a cushion out of the way as he went to the window and opened it wide. For a second or two he stared down and out at the teeming city, the orange street lights and the eyes of cars. He wondered where the wolves were tonight, where that Wyran was, if it was here at all and his mind was not just playing games with itself.
A cough. He turned, smiling apologetically. 'Sorry, I was wool-gathering. Sit down. Have a drink'
She sat on the edge of the big sofa. He meandered his way to where the bottles stood on the dresser, thought better of it, sighed and took a seat. Here we go, he thought.
Young. She looked painfully young sitting there in her city clothes, her shiny shoes and sheer tights, a smart jacket. And a briefcase, for God's sake, resting on her thighs like a secret weapon. Had she been working to this time?
Black hair, thick, just touching her shoulders. Big eyes, dark, under brows that would be heavier if she didn't pluck them. A round face with a snub nose and well-painted lips. Not a businesswoman. More like a business child. He tried to remember what she had been like under the power dressing. He had a vague impression of white curves, softness. Breasts bordering on the large. He had laid his head between them, almost content for a while.
She was talking to him.
'...don't make a habit of that sort of thing, and then when you didn't call or anything, I thought that—'
'Why did you leave in the middle of the night?'
She hesitated. In the low light, he thought she flushed. 'You were drunk. You were talking nonsense, about trees and fairies and cats. And then you began talking gibberish, like a foreign language. I was scared. I thought maybe it was Gaelic or something. I thought I'd hopped into bed with some kind of lunatic.'
Unwillingly he smiled again, and this time she returned it. 'Did we actually...?'
'No. You were too drunk. It was sort of sweet. You apologized over and over.'
'I see.'
Silence, but for the city noises. He suddenly wanted this girl to stay with him, to see out the night. But there was another indignity.
'I've forgotten your name.'
The eyes flared briefly, a flash of temper. He expected her to get up and go, but instead she said quietly: 'Clare.' He nodded.
'I wrote it down, and my number. I left it beside the bed.'
'Why did you come back?' he asked, too tired to beat around bushes.
'I don't know. To see if you really were a lunatic, I suppose.'
They looked at each other, strangers ashamed of past intimacy. And yet that, oddly enough, lent an air of companionship to the room.
'How about that drink?' Michael asked, as if he were requesting a truce. She shook her head. 'I'll have some coffee, though.' For the first time, the briefcase descended from her lap.
She was twenty years old. Her accent spoke of expensive schooling and her smell of expensive perfume. He let her talk, conscious of his own bedraggled appearance, hoping she would not notice the bulge of the empty bottle in his coat pocket or the bulge of the stomach over his belt. Vanity, he thought wryly, is an irrational thing.