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.They were large.Expectant.Encouraging.Aimée had looked at him that way sometimes.He swallowed.Hard.‘Do you miss it?’ he managed.‘The performance, I mean.’She held his gaze.She was standing only a few metres away, but for a moment she looked cast adrift and isolated in the mirror.Utterly alone in the room.‘I apologise for Alain,’ she said, simply.‘He should respect you.’Trent didn’t respond.He sensed that she was warming up to something.Something important.He could see it building in her.She was leaning forwards, as if she were about to launch into a sudden dance movement.‘The situation with Jérôme,’ she began.‘The kidnapping.It’s … difficult for me.’‘It’s always difficult for anyone in your position.You’re no exception, believe me.’‘Please.’ She bit down on her lip.Shook her head.Then she glanced quickly towards the door that led into the entrance hall.It was closed.Trent had shut it behind him.She took a deep breath, chest swelling.Looked up at him from beneath lidded eyes.‘There’s something I have to show you.Something I feel you should see.’She turned her back to him then.He could still see her face in the mirror, but it was angled down, brow furrowed.She rolled her lip between her teeth and reached up hesitantly to the strap of her leotard on her left shoulder.She plucked at the fabric, fed a finger beneath.Then she rolled the strap down, easing her long arm through.She freed the strap on the other side.Took a moment to collect herself, then peeled the leotard down as far as her trim waist, covering her small, budded breasts with her forearms.That was when he saw the bruises and the swelling.The contusions were yellowed and aged, greenish-blue blurs around her kidneys and spine.There were welts, too.Angry red slashes that criss-crossed just above her buttocks.The skin was pimpled and raised.Trent felt himself sway.He was aware of a fierce tingling in his fingers, a febrile snap and twitch.Anger.Fear.And worse, the desire to reach out to her.To touch her.Soothe her.‘Who did this to you?’ The rage was there in the unsteady pitch of his voice.Her eyes were closed, head bowed like a penitent.They both knew he hadn’t needed to ask.‘He’s always careful,’ she said softly.‘He does it where people can’t see.’‘He shouldn’t do it at all.’His anger cowed her.She trembled, the bruises and sores standing out in colourful relief against her bleached skin.‘You could leave,’ he told her.‘Why don’t you leave?’Her eyes snapped open.They were wet and vibrating.He watched them climb the glass until she glimpsed his face and flinched at the horror that was etched there.‘He’d find me,’ she whispered.‘He does this when I’m here.If I left…’ She shuddered, the thought left unspoken.The implication, too.She’d told him the situation with Jérôme was hard for her.Now he understood why.If Jérôme didn’t make it back alive from his abduction, she’d have her way out.‘Does Alain know?’ he asked.‘Alain’s a good man.’‘Does he know?’‘It’s not easy for him.To him, Jérôme is a hero.’Trent fixed his jaw.He couldn’t hide the ferocity that crackled and twitched inside him.The heat that flared in his eyes.He was seeing the evidence of Jérôme’s behaviour for himself now.It was no longer just hearsay.The man had assaulted his wife.It wouldn’t have taken a big step for him to attack Aimée, too.It wasn’t hard to believe that he’d lost all control.Stephanie looked down meekly and eased up her leotard, feeding her arms back through the straps until she was dressed once again.One of the straps had twisted up.It terrified him how tempted he was to reach out and straighten it.To rest his hand on her skin.Pull her close.And not only that, but how badly he wanted to push her back and slap her hard across the face.He tightened his hand into a ball.Dug his nails into the flesh of his palm until his fist shook.Complexities he didn’t need.‘I see it in you, too,’ she said, looking up hesitantly.‘The sadness.There was someone you were close to, wasn’t there? Is it the girl in the photograph? The one you carry in your wallet? She’s very beautiful.’He opened his mouth to reply, then felt his response catch in his throat.It was no longer the simple question it had used to be.Hidden intricacies lay behind it now.Whole dimensions he was at a loss to know how to negotiate.She absorbed his silence with an expression of grave solemnity, as if it held a special resonance for her.‘You must miss her very much.’He couldn’t hold her eyes.There seemed to be a level of understanding in them that unnerved him.And something more, perhaps.An invitation he couldn’t begin to assimilate.He snatched his head away and glanced towards the door that led to Jérôme’s study.Lowered his satchel from his shoulder and hefted it dumbly.‘I have to go and connect this,’ he said.‘The gang could call at any moment.’‘Of course.’ She hunched her shoulders.Hugged herself.‘I undestand.’He turned from her and stepped across the room.Groped for the door handle and passed through into the study.The door eased closed behind him and he slumped back against it, releasing a breath that hadn’t seemed to contain enough air.* * *Back in Marseilles, the young man was staring at the small colour screen on the reverse of his digital camera.The screen was lit up brightly against the dingy brown interior of his studio apartment.He was focused on it intently and his eyes were wet and stinging against the electronic glare.The camera had a whole bunch of useful functions.The young man could toggle a little lever with his thumb and manipulate the image in any way he preferred.He could scroll left or right, up or down.He could zoom out.He could zoom in.He could remove red-eye.The extreme zoom was his favourite function [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]