The Stranger Came (80 page)

'All
the
same
…
I've
done
too
much
walking
…
I'll have
to
sit
down.’

'I
don't
suppose
he'll
be
long,'
the
young
man
said,
taking
it
all
as
a
matter
of
course.
'I'm
watching
television
in
the
kitchen.’
He
gestured
and
when
she
was
inside
shut
the
door
and
started
ahead
of
her
along
the
lobby.
'It's
the
only
warm
bit
in
this
hole.
And
you
could
have
a
cup
of
tea.’
After
all
he
was
friendly.
'Might
make
you
feel
better.’
Kind.
'I
should
be
painting,'
he
was
saying,
'but
it's
hard
some
days.
I
can't
make
myself
get
started.’

She
remembered
the
kitchen,
just
as
untidy,
the
tap
still

dripping.
The
only
difference
was
the
small
portable
television
among
the
dishes
piled
beside
the
bread
bin,
an
unwashed
plate
on
top
and
a
kitchen
chair
set
in
front
of
it.
'It's
not
really
wasting
time,'
the
young
man
said.
'It's like
an
Expressionist
painting
–
all
shot
in
the
studio.
That's
Emil
Jannings
on
there
now.
He's
the
professor.
He's
in
love
and
it's
driving
him
mad.
He
can
still
bring
a
tear
to
your
eye.
Mind
you
so
can
Fraulein
Dietrich
murdering
one
of
those
songs
of
hers
–
assuming
that
is
you're
a
music
lover.’

'Is
that
for
me?'
He
had
run
a
cup
under
the
tap
and
now
was
shaking
it
dry.
'If
I
could
wait
in
his
room.
All
I
need
is
to
be
quiet.’

She
had
hardly
got
herself
seated
when
he
startled
her
by
bursting
in
with
the
cup
held
out.
'Get
this
down
you.
It'll
help.
Can't
stop – don't
want
to
miss
the
end.’
And
he
was
gone.
A
growling
version
of
'Falling
in
Love
Again'
faded
along
the
corridor.

Most
of
the
room
was
taken
up
by
a
bed.
It
was
a comfortless
place.
The
top
sheet
was
drawn
up
over
the
bed.
She
sat
on
a
chair
against
the
wall
looking
at
the
bed.
To
lie
down
on
it
and
close
her
eyes.
Side
by
side
under
a
chest
of
drawers,
there
was
a
pair
of
black
shoes
and
another
of
brown.
Tidy
,
she
thought.
No
mirror.
Nothing
on
the
walls
except
a
calendar.
For
the
wrong
date.
Not
for
this
year.
Some
previous
occupant
might
have
pinned
it
there.
She
was
cold.

The
ringing
of
the
bell
didn't
concern
her.
He
would
have
a
key.
There
were
footsteps
and
the
raising
of
voices
at
the
bedroom
door
and
then
it
opened
and
the
young
Irishman
said,
'I
told
you
he's
not,
but
look
for
yourself.’

The
man's
face
had
been
put
together
but
you
could
see
the
places
it
had
been
broken.
There
was
something
wrong
around
the
eyes
and
at
one
side
of
the
mouth
there
were
little
seams
like
the
marks
of
frowning
where
the
skin
had
been
patched.
He
stared
at
her
and
then
went
back
out
and
there
was
the
noise
of
doors
being
flung
open
all
along
the
corridor.
At
one
point
he
said
something
and
the
young
Irishman
stopped
protesting,
so
that
after
that
there
was
only
the
sound
of
the
doors.

He
came
back
on
his
own
and
stood
looking
at
her.
'This
isn't
your
room?'

'No
.’
Somewhere
behind
her
vagueness
the
idea
offended
her.

'You
live
in
this
flat?'

'No
.’
But
this
time
as
he
waited
she
knew
that
wasn't
enough.
'Have
you
made
a
mistake?'

'That's
what
I'm
trying
to
find
out.’

He
opened
the
wardrobe
and
she
glimpsed
a
jacket
and
some
shirts
on
hangers
and
thought,
so
there
is
one,
seeing
the
mirror
fixed
to
the
back
of
the
door.
He
went
through
the
chest
of
drawers,
lifting
clothes
out
and
putting
them
back
in
place.
When
he
had
finished,
nothing
in
the
room
looked
disturbed.

'Mr
Nobody,
not
even
a
letter.’
When
he
spoke,
only
the
undamaged
side
of
his
mouth
moved.
'What's
he
look
like,
describe
him
for
me.’

She
made
a
movement
of
denial.
He
had
no
right
to
question
her.
She
should
get
up
and
leave.