It didn’t matter how low Duffy felt, Alice always made him feel good. When she saw him, she put her hand quickly to her mouth. Her skin went a little paler, so that it looked almost oyster colour in the sunlit corridor. Her eyes filled with tears, but that was as far as she would show her feelings.
“Bill Duffy!” she said, “how could you?”
McGuire said, “A real fighting drunk, ain’t he?”
Duffy tried a grin, but it was so painful to him and to look at, he hastily took it off his face. “This ain’t anything,” he kidded; “you ought to’ve seen me when I put Dempsey to sleep.”
“He’s light-headed,” Alice said,, but she put her hand on his arm. “Get him inside quickly, Sam.”
McGuire said, “I’ll be glad to. The way he’s leaning on me, you’d think he’s hurt.”
They took him into McGuire’s little flat. A pleasant four-room box of a place, bright and comfortable. Everywhere, Alice had left something of herself. The neatness, the sweet-smelling flowers, the shine of the stained boards, showed the woman’s hand. Duffy looked round the sitting-room regretfully. Whenever he saw it, he felt a faint hunger. He had never made a secret about it. If McGuire hadn’t married Alice, he would have. The three of them were close linked.
When McGuire got him undressed and into the cool sheets, he relaxed, and the pain that was riding his body gradually began to ease. Alice came in a moment later, fixed his pillow, fussed round him with a scent bottle, and Duffy loved it.
McGuire looked at his watch. “Let the animal sleep,” he said to Alice. “I gotta go and work. Keep away from him. If he gets fresh, call a cop.” Then looking at Duffy, he said, “Take a nap, soldier, I’ll have a little chin with you later.”
Duffy said, “I’ll steal your wife from you.”