No Business of Mine

She pulled away from me, her eyes glassy with terror, ran her fingers through her thick red hair.

“You don’t understand,” she said, her husky voice off-key, cracked. “I killed him! Do you hear, Steve? I killed him!”

I went cold, tried to say something, but succeeded in making only a croaking noise.

She suddenly jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Before she reached it, I caught hold of her. She struggled to get away, but I held her. We stared at each other: both of us scared now.

“You killed him?” I said. “For God’s sake, Netta!”

She collapsed against me. I smelt lilac in her hair.

“They’ll get me now, Steve,” she said, moaned against my chest. “I’ve kept out of their way until now, but they’ll get me for this.”

I felt cold sweat on my face. I wanted to run, get the hell out of here, leave her. This was murder; this wasn’t something I could fool around with and pass over to Corridan if I made a mess of it. This was murder. I gripped her arms, tried to think. Maybe the moments of happiness this kid had given me two years ago helped to bridge the horror I felt. Maybe that thought stopped me from running out on her.

“Take it easy,” I said, holding her close. “What we need is a drink. Have you any Scotch in the place?”

She shuddered, clung more tightly. “It’s in there,” she said. I knew where she meant. I pushed her gently away, sat her on the bed.

“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“No!” she exclaimed, her voice shooting up. “You mustn’t leave me. Steve! You mustn’t leave me.” She caught hold of my wrist, her nails bit into my flesh.

“It’s all right,” I said, trying to stop my teeth chattering. “I’ll be right back. Take it easy, can’t you?”

“No! You won’t come back. You’re going to run out on me. You’re going to leave me in this mess. You’re not to, Steve! You’re not to!” She began to cry again, then suddenly she put her hands to her face and screamed wildly.

The sound went through my head like white-hot wires. I was stiff with fright. I snatched her hands away, smacked her face hard, knocking her backwards across the bed.

I stood over her. “Shut up, you little fool,” I said, trembling, sweating. “Do you want someone to come here with that in there?”

She stopped screaming, looked up at me, her eyes empty; one side of her face red where I had hit her.

“I’m coming back,” I went on. “Stay still and don’t make a sound.”

I crossed the passage, went into the sitting-room. He was still there, small, defenceless, pathetic. I looked down at him, feeling bad. I looked at his worn suit, at his shabby boots, at his thick ribbed socks that hung in wrinkles. I looked at the terror in his eyes, the twisted mouth. I reached down, patted his arm.

Clutched tightly between his finger and thumb was a scrap of paper. I bent closer, gently pulled it from between his fingers. It was a glossy scrap of paper-a piece torn from a photograph. I stared at it, puzzled.

A bluebottle walked across one of his fixed eyes, then buzzed around his blood. I shivered, put the scrap of paper in my vest pocket, went to the cupboard by the fireplace and found a full bottle of Scotch. I carried it and two glasses into the bedroom, shut the door.

Netta was lying face down across the bed. Her skirt had nicked up and I could see an inch or so of bare thigh. Bare thighs mean nothing to a guy in a moment like this. Her thigh meant less than nothing to me.

I poured a. big shot of whisky into both glasses, noted my hand was no steadier than an aspen leaf. I drank the liquor; it went down like water, hit my stomach; a moment later, I felt alive again.

I leaned over Netta, pulled her up.

“Come on,” I said, “get this down into you.”

I had to feed it to her. Her hand made mine look like a rock. She got it down, gagged, then stopped crying. I gave her my handkerchief, gave myself another shot of Liquor, put the bottle down.

“Have a cigarette,” I said, pushing one between her trembling lips, took one myself, lit both.

I sat on the bed, at her side.

“You have to talk, and talk fast,” I said. “I’ll help you if I can. I don’t know what game you’ve been playing or why, but if you’ll give it me straight, I’ll do what I can for you. Now, shoot.”

She dragged down smoke, pressed back the mass of red hair that was hiding her face. She looked pretty bad. Dark shadows circled her eyes; her nose seemed pinched. She had lost a lot of weight since last I saw her. Worse still, she had a blank, crazy expression in her eyes that scared me. I didn’t like that expression. The rest of her looks were bad, but nothing rest and sunshine couldn’t put right. But the blank expression was something else: I had seen it in the faces of the French girls after days of air strafing or after we’d rescued them from some Hun. It was that kind of expression.