Then he saw her. She was coming up the stairs, her hand on the banister rail, a red and blue scarf on her head, and her shabby overcoat dark with rain. She looked at him, white-faced, and her eyes big and frightened.
‘Hel o,’ he said huskily. ‘This is where we came in, isn’t it?’
She didn’t say anything. He saw her eyes shift from him to the gun. He realised he was still pointing it at her, and he hurriedly lowered the barrel.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not moving.
‘My arm’s bad,’ he said. It was extraordinary how her presence had suddenly given him a new lease in life. The sight of her seemed to lift him above the fever that was devouring him. ‘Are the cops outside?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ she said, ‘A man died.’
‘Aren’t they looking for me?’
‘It’s the accident,’ she repeated, and began to move slowly and warily up the stairs. ‘Do you want me to look at your arm?’
He tried to grin.
‘It’s past being looked at. It’l have to come off.’