Until now, she hadn’t thought to worry. Not any more than usual, at least.
Iris gathered herself and stepped into the bedroom.
Sasha was not, as she expected, on the bed. He lay on the floor next to the bed, fully clothed, on his stomach. For a terrible instant she thought he was dead. She cried out and leapt toward him, and yes, for that single instant, everything was forgiven—she loved him—her Sasha! But when she touched his shoulder, he groaned. She noticed a foul, sharp odor. She turned him over and realized he was wet, he was actually lying in his own urine, soaked through the rug beneath him. His eyes fluttered open. He focused on her—smiled—closed his eyes again.
“I knew you’d come,” he said.
“What’s happened, Sasha? What have you done this time?”
“Can’t remember.”
She shook him by the shoulder. “Yes, you can! Burgess said you’d wrecked somebody’s flat. Whose, for God’s sake?”
He started to fall away again, so she gritted her teeth and hauled him upright, propped him against the bed. When she removed her hands, he remained sitting, so she rose and fetched a glass of water from the sink in the bathroom. She turned her face away from the unspeakable mess and set the water glass at his lips for him to sip. The stench made her gag, so she tried to breathe through her mouth. He sipped again.
“Whose flat, Sasha? You have to tell me. Was it hers?”
“Whose?”
“You know who. Miss Fischer.”
He made a lopsided smile and shook his head. “No, no. Got it all wrong, darling. Always did.”
“Yes, I realize that. Whose flat, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just—what? Some stranger, Sasha? I don’t understand. Burgess said—I couldn’t make him out—something about a smashed mirror—Sasha, look at me!”
Sasha, who’d been staring at the hollow of her neck for most of the conversation, now lifted his unsteady eyes to meet hers. “You look good, Iris. Really good. I guess that Beauchamp guy agrees with you.”
“Stop it.”
“No, I’m happy for you. ’Sgood. Take good care of you an’ the boys.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s dead, my love.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Who d’you think? They got her, Iris.” Sasha made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, squinted one eye, and fired it. “Nedda’s dead.”
The telephone rang just as Iris reached for the receiver. The sound shocked her, for some reason, and she couldn’t decide whether to pick it up or wait for the caller to go away.
On the second ring, she lifted the receiver. “Digby.”
“Iris? Are you all right?”
“Oh, God. Philip. I was just about to call you. The most terrible news.”
“I know.”
“I’m so sorry. I know you were friends.”
“It’s damned strange. Just shot on the street, point blank, nobody saw a thing. Scotland Yard’s looking into it, of course. I assume that’s what set him off?”
“Yes. He’s still drunk. I can’t make heads or tails of him.”
“I can bring the boys up, if you want.”
“No, no. I don’t want them to see him like this. Have you learned anything on your end? About the flat, I mean, and what happened.”
Philip sighed, and the noise amplified down the line, so it sounded like a gust of wind. “I’m afraid he’s in a bit of trouble. They’re trying to hush it up, but the girl won’t cooperate, not that I blame her.”
“Girl? What girl?”
“Just some young woman. From what I can gather, your husband and Burgess went to some kind of party at her flat—friend of a friend, she didn’t know them—and became excessively drunk, started smashing the place up, police were called. Burgess is connected everywhere and somehow got them both off without charges, but that won’t last, not if the girl keeps making a fuss.”
“As she should,” Iris said. “The stupid fools.”
She didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind her, not until Sasha’s hand reached out and took the receiver from her hand.
“Beauchamp? That you? Beauchamp, old boy! How are you? Yes, yes, it’s me. Been having a nice time out there by the sea, fucking my wife? Goddamn good lay, isn’t she—”
Iris lunged for the receiver, but he twisted away easily, used his height to his advantage.