She almost had to run to keep up with him. “You’re a hot one,” she panted, with a giggle. “I ain’t goin’ to run away—we’ll get there soon enough.”
The boy shuddered, but kept on.
“Look, over there,” Therese said, as they stepped into a dark square, “that’s my joint—where the stairs go up the side of the house.”
The boy said, “Lead the way.” His whole body was tense with listening, but he could hear nothing that alarmed him.
They went up the stairs, and Therese groped her way into her room and fumbled for some matches. “Just wait a second, honey,” she said, “I’ll get the lamp goin’. You’ll be fallin’ over somethin’ an’ hurtin’ yourself.”
The boy felt the bile in his stomach rise. He stood in the darkness with his back to the room, looking down on to the dark square.
The lamp flamed up suddenly and Therese adjusted the wick. She walked over to the window and pulled the faded cotton curtain. “Come on in, handsome,” she said, “an’ shut the door.”
With the light behind him, the boy no longer felt safe. He moved further into the room, and shut the door. He stood looking round uneasily. The unfinished wooden walls were decorated with cheap lithographs, and immediately over the bed was a photogravure sheet of a nude, taken from some magazine. A faded, rather ghastly Chinese screen partially concealed the small bed, and the inevitable Singer sewing-machine stood against the wall.
The boy said, “Put the lamp out.”
Therese threw back her head and laughed at him. “Don’t you wantta see what you’re buyin’,” she said, “or are you coy?”