‘No.’ She automatically expected him to ask a typical small-talk question, like why couldn’t she sleep; it was still catching her out, the lack of conversational glue in his speech. For a second, they were both illuminated like they’d been hit by a strobe in a nightclub. The thunder exploded overhead, the long aftershock of a plane going through the sound barrier.
When the noise had died down, Lucas said, ‘It was during a storm that Mary Shelley started Frankenstein. Lake Geneva. The same evening, Polidori started work on one of the precursors to Dracula.’
‘Yeah, I knew that. It was Byron’s idea. Some people think Byron wrote the Polidori book.’
‘Oh.’ He turned, captured, it seemed, by a piece of information he hadn’t heard before. ‘I haven’t read The Vampyre. Didn’t like Dracula much. I loved Frankenstein.’
‘Really? I found it hard work.’
He didn’t respond at first but then, as if remembering his responsibilities as a host, he said, ‘Would you like a glass of milk or something?’
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
‘Cognac. Want some?’
‘Please.’ He went back inside and she walked in and sat within the pool of light that came off the small lamp.
There was a photograph in a simple frame next to the lamp, inconspicuous, but she noticed it now because the rest of the room was dark. It was a girl of about her own age, maybe a little older, very pretty, long fair hair. It had been taken on a beach or at least near the sea, the girl’s smile carefree, like she’d been caught in the middle of a laugh.
It was the only thing she’d seen in the whole house that was suggestive of him having contact with another human being, attachments, people who mattered to him. When he came over with the drink, she thanked him and said, ‘Is that your daughter?’
He looked at the picture and said, ‘How old do you think I am?’ She wasn’t sure. He didn’t look that old but he’d talked about her father and she’d started to imagine them being the same age, which they obviously weren’t.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m forty-two, and she’s an old girlfriend. Someone I knew a long time ago. I don’t even know why I keep it.’
She looked at the picture and back at him, daring to tease him a little.
‘Perhaps because she still means something to you?’
‘Maybe. Maybe you don’t know me well enough to analyze me.’
She shrugged it off and sipped at the cognac, fiercer in the mouth than she’d expected. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Madeleine,’ he said, sitting down.
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Yes, I think of Proust every time I look at her.’ She could tell he’d made some kind of joke but she didn’t get it and couldn’t see how it was meant to be funny.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked apologetic, maybe acknowledging that it hadn’t been that funny. ‘She was French, and that picture was taken a long time ago. I haven’t seen her in fourteen years or more.’
‘Wow.’ She wasn’t surprised, but it seemed like an appropriate response. ‘You’re single now?’
He laughed as he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any kids at all?’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’ There he was, backing off again, but she felt confident enough to pursue him.
‘It’s what people do when they’re getting to know each other.’
‘Why would you want to get to know me?’
The question was close to being hostile but she said, ‘Why not? You’re worth knowing, aren’t you? You’re smart, you read, you kill bad guys.’
He smiled, but to himself this time, and looked lost in thought. The room crackled with light again, the thunder following after a few seconds.
‘It’s moving away.’
She turned briefly towards the window as if there were something to see, but came back to him, saying, ‘So? Do you have kids?’
He looked mildly exasperated. ‘I can’t see why it’s so important to you but yes, I have a daughter, with Madeleine. I’ve never seen her.’
‘How sad. You haven’t had any contact at all?’
‘Nothing. She didn’t even want my money. She was wealthy anyway, but I think she’d have lived in the gutter rather than take it. She made me promise to disappear, never get in touch.’
‘But why?’
‘You don’t get it, do you? See, I am the bad guy. Madeleine didn’t get it either, not until too late. I’m not someone who’s good to be around, especially a child.’
She didn’t want to know about this. Until now she’d pictured him as a bodyguard, working in the underworld maybe, but not a criminal himself. The kind of person who averted misery, not inflicted it. Surely her dad wouldn’t have employed him otherwise, and her dad knew him.
‘Tell me how you met my father.’
His spirits appeared to pick up.
‘Windhoek. 1982. Windhoek—it’s in Namibia. I had a lot of attitude back then, arrogant, but Hatto was a cool guy. He asked me to do some work for him. That was it. We never became friends or anything; we just hit it off. I trusted him.’