Hanlon walked around the electric barrier leading to the steep ramp that dropped down to the subterranean concrete yard at the back of the huge basement kitchen. Outside the kitchen doors, she looked upwards. It was like being at the bottom of a wide, square well, and she could see the evening sky above her, framed by safety railings.
The fire doors were propped open and the silver links of the metal fly screen hung down, obscuring her view of the kitchen. Hanlon parted the chain with her left hand, careful not to snag the bandaged cast on her right wrist or her handbag in the metal curtain, and walked through into the kitchen.
The steel links jangled quietly and percussively as they parted in front of her.
She shook her head to free her hair, which had caught in a couple of the tangled links of the chain. She stood stock still, unable to move, momentarily transfixed by the sight of Fuller in front of her.
When you are faced with a sight you simply do not expect, you don’t feel alarm or shock: it’s a what-on-earth-is-happening sensation. The brain is trying to assimilate what the eyes are telling it.
Hanlon was having one of those moments.
Fuller was the last person she had been expecting to see that evening. After dominating her professional life for nearly a month, for once, she simply hadn’t thought about him. But here he was. She stood in her short, shimmery dress, holding her handbag, dressed for her formal evening out, and stared. She had even put make-up on, dragged a comb through her protesting thick hair and sprayed a discreet amount of perfume over herself. And here was Fuller.
The philosophy lecturer was standing looking towards the door and Hanlon, who was framed by the silvery backdrop of the fly screen, as if she had just walked on stage. His skinny jeans and Calvin Klein underpants were down around his ankles. His sweatshirt and T-shirt lay in a crumpled heap by his feet.
His eyes stared imploringly at Hanlon.