When we get back to Neva’s hotel, I feel awkward. I haven’t forgiven her, but I believe she might not know what she’s done. I know how that feels better than anyone. But now we are alone it doesn’t seem like such a great idea that we are together. There’s a dynamic tension in the air. I smell the subtle perfume of her skin and the aroma makes me feel crazy again. I’m fighting the urge to touch her, for if I do, I know I’ll be lost.
‘Perhaps we should go out to eat?’ I say. ‘Lunch somewhere.’
‘We’d have to keep avoiding cameras every time we step out. So, it’s not a good idea. But if you’re hungry I’ll order room service,’ she says.
She’s right of course, and my suggestion was stupid, but I’m struggling to be alone with her like this. I’m hyper-aware of her as she switches on the television, sits down on the bed, kicks off her shoes and stretches out to watch the news. Her long legs are enticing. I remember them bare. I think of her under me, but my memories of her are more than just the casual lust we sometimes shared. There was a comfort in being in the same room, and now I’m fighting against slipping back into that same sense of ease. She makes me feel safe. Insane as that is.
I sit down in the chair by the dressing table and try to distract myself by watching the television as well.
On the TV, the camera switches from the studio to a location and I sit upright, recognizing Cassandra’s house behind the reporter.
‘Primary school teacher, Cassandra Clementine, is the latest victim of what the press are calling the Redhead Murders…’ the reporter says.
I glance at Neva as pictures of the victims come up on the screen. Her likeness to them is more obvious now I’m in her company. She pays careful attention to the report and listens to the sparse information that we’ve released to the press. They don’t know about the staging of the bodies, just the similarity between the victims.
‘Have you been working on this?’ she asks.
I meet her gaze. ‘Yes.’
She turns the television down and asks me to tell her the details of the case and I weigh up how much I want to tell her. I’m worried that this will distract her from our current mission. Plus, I don’t feel comfortable with sharing what I know from a case I’ve been working on. I admit this to her.
‘Just tell me what you told the reporters then,’ she says.
As this seems like an okay compromise I fill her in.
‘They don’t have red hair,’ she says. ‘It’s strawberry blonde.’
‘The Strawberry-Blonde Murders doesn’t quite have the same ring as Redhead Murders…’ I comment. ‘It’s the way the media thinks: it’s all about selling the story to those vultures.’
I glance at the screen and see that they have different reporters at each of the locations. I feel sick again. These deaths will stay with me a long time. I look at Neva again, hyper aware that this case is connected to her, but unwilling to admit it.
‘You think it’s linked to me, don’t you?’ she asks then as though reading my mind, and I catch myself wondering if she actually can.
‘Do you?’ I say.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘They look like me.’
I nod.
‘But I don’t see the point in killing someone who looks like me, if they want to kill me. Why not just come after me and kill me?’
‘Maybe it’s because you’re so hard to find,’ I say. ‘Or maybe they are doing it to draw you out.’
She looks down at the hand holding the TV remote. She turns the TV off. She stands up, wanders around the room. Her movements are languid. I find it provocative. She sits back on the bed and moves her long legs again, deliberately drawing my eye to them. I feel her eyes on me and raise them to her face. She smiles and it’s subtle and seductive.
What is she playing at?
‘Come and make love to me,’ she says.
I gape at her.
‘Seriously? You think we are just picking right up where we left off?’ I’m so shocked by her suggestion that I can’t stop myself from shaking my head at her. ‘Really Neva. You’ve got some nerve.’
‘You are tense,’ she says. ‘And so am I. It makes sense we relieve each other.’
And now I have no need to distract my raging libido because her cold and calculated summation of our physical attraction to each other is enough to make me aware that it means nothing to her other than fulfilling a need. Can she be as frozen inside as she appears? We are complete opposites. Yin and Yang. I feel a jolt as I find that name sitting there in my head in reference to us two. On that dating site, we’d probably be a perfect match.
‘Have you heard of Yin and Yang?’ I ask her now.
‘Yes, it means—’
‘No, not the definition. The dating site,’ I say.
Neva shakes her head.
‘You’ve never heard of it?’ I ask again.
‘No. Why would I? I’m hardly the sort to look for long-term romance,’ she says.
I weigh up what to tell her without betraying my colleagues. I decide I need to come clean with my suspicions at least.
‘I think whoever this person is, they know you. Or did know you.’
‘What else do you think?’ she asks.
‘How about you tell me what you know?’
‘I don’t know anything. This has only come to my attention since I returned to London.’
I look down at my hands, thinking through my next question. I want to ask her about the things I suspect about the killer, without giving away information that’s confidential.
‘Do you know anyone who is fanatical about old films. Horror ones especially. Like Psycho for example?’
Neva meets my eyes, she frowns slightly as she explores my question.
‘Not obsessed, no. But we were subjected to films that showed death all the time in the house. It was part of the conditioning, a way of making us disassociate from the ones we caused. Our life was like a film unfolding around us, and sometimes we took the role of the killer,’ she says.
‘Did any of your former associates have a grudge against you?’ I ask.
Neva shrugs. ‘We were encouraged to be competitive. That doesn’t inspire friendship. But resentment… grudges. Not really,’ she answers.
I know what she says is true, even though my own recollection of the house is shady. I think for a moment. ‘No enemies among them then?’
Neva looks away as she thinks about this. ‘The Network are hunting me. Any one of their assassins could be responsible for this mess. But if one of them is breaking like this, and has turned sociopathic, then their handler would usually take them out of the field and have them reconditioned at the very least.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I say. ‘So, it might just be that this one is a rogue and has ditched both handler and the Network as they pursue their path for revenge.’
Neva pulls her knees up to her chest on the bed. She drops her head down on them and closes her eyes. She looks vulnerable and confused. I want to go to her. Hold her. But I don’t move.
Is she scared by the prospect of a possible stalker? Is she even capable of fear?
As always, her change of mood surprises me. She goes from cold-hearted seductress to vulnerable child in a matter of seconds.
I’m drawn to her again, and this time I don’t resist. I get up off my chair and join her on the bed. Even as I sit beside her, I wonder, is this some ruse to misdirect and reel me in again? I don’t know. And part of me doesn’t care.
I run my hand over her back as a way to offer comfort. She doesn’t move or object. She remains still and allows me to touch her. And all the time my mind is screaming, You idiot Michael! She knows exactly how to manipulate you!
But I can’t help it: I’m an addict and she’s my drug. I try to force back the memory of my anger against her, but it doesn’t come. It’s gone: washed away on the wave of my susceptibility. I forget all about going cold turkey. All it’s taken her is to crook her finger my way and I’m running back to her. It’s as if she has some kind of invisible cord looped around my heart: one tug and I’m under her spell. Only this rope is more like razor wire and it cuts into me until I think my heart will split in two.
She raises her head and looks into my eyes.
I’m a spy and you’d think I would be able to tell when I’m being used, but I see no guile in Neva’s eyes. What is there, is a reflection of my own raw emotion. Does this mean she feels it too? Can she feel anything at all? If not, then why did she risk capture to come and warn me of the danger?
And that’s when I understand: I love her.
This is a trap, I tell myself, but I know it isn’t.
She takes my hand in hers and I’m plummeted back to the house, where two once-innocent children held hands and found a kinship. We’ve shared these secrets so long – some I still can’t hold in my mind – that maybe, just maybe this is all meant to be.
I feel her hesitate. There’s nothing clumsy now about the way I move closer: something I wanted to do the moment I saw her again. She lets me place kisses over her face and neck. Her eyes are wide and full of emotion. It’s a wonder to see it there mixed in with our mutual lust. Then she’s in my arms and we are wrapped in each other. I kiss her mouth, pushing my tongue possessively between her lips. She gives herself over to the kiss.
I make love to her. It’s not just a mutual relieving of tension as she’d suggested we might give each other. It is intense. Beautiful. A joining that any poet might write better words about than I can.
I bite back the words that threaten to tumble from my lips as I enter her. But my eyes are still on hers and I try to convey it anyway. She rolls back her head, eyes hooded as though she can’t bear to see my defenceless expression. I should be put off by this, but it makes me love her more. When I know she loves me back it will be the biggest victory.
I almost lose my stride as she lets go, crying out. She’s always been controlled before. Then, I’m lost too, grunting and heaving and exploding into her as though it’s been months and not weeks since we were last together.
Neither of us speaks as I roll away from her. Then Neva straightens her clothes, reaches for the hotel phone, and orders room service.
By the time the food and drink arrive, she’s acting like nothing has happened between us. I follow her with my eyes, but now she won’t meet mine. Have I given away too much? Can’t she bear the knowledge that I love her and I’m completely hers? Oh god. I am such a fool to be this much in love.