“But I stayed with him, walking slow, in the little cocoon of the umbrella. He shuffled up and down the curb, looking for a cab, and stuck his umbrella impatiently into the air. A black taxi pulled up. We got in and he gave an address, then closed his eyes. Ten minutes later, we were on Ponsonby Terrace, a narrow street with pretty houses. I made a mental note of the address. The rain had turned the streets slick. Gilchrist’s house had blue window-boxes with spiky fall flowers. I followed him up the steps, he switched on the light. In it, he looked old and frail, the face cross-hatched by a million lines, the skull almost visible through the skin. The mustache was white but still thick; the eyes always saved him. They gave the face warmth, and it wasn’t until you’d been seduced, that you saw the malevolent curiosity, the subversive self-obsession. The thing about Geoff I couldn’t put a name on when I was a kid was the charm. “Come in. Please.” On a long table was a lap-top, the screen ...lit up, and next to it a glass bowl with two pale-skinned fish in the water.MoreLessShow More Show Less
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