Sun At Midnight
“The Polar Office will forward any communications, of course.’He was standing in a mid-town phone booth, his bag at his feet, waiting to pick up the express bus for JFK. A hooting stream of yellow cabs and buses and cars poured past him, cruelly glittering in the low sunshine. Rooker frowned into the glare. He still wasn’t sure whether or not to go to England. Prickles of indecision ran down his spine like beads of sweat. In spite of his promise to Frankie it would be easy – too easy – to find a... way not to do it.‘Could I speak to Beverley Winston?’‘Just a moment, please.’The line went dead and he thought the transatlantic connection had failed, but at last the woman’s voice came back. ‘You could try her on this number.’Rooker crooked the receiver to his ear and scribbled the digits on the reverse of his air ticket folder. He pressed the disconnect button and rapidly dialled again.‘Hello.’ The low voice was warm, and sweet as molasses.‘Hello, Beverley. This is James Rooker.’‘This is a surprise.’‘I might be going to London.’Beverley laughed.MoreLess
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