He walked quickly across the street and into the lobby. In the lift he saw the heat in his face, the sweat on his chin and lips and forehead.

The sound of the radio was louder in the hall outside her flat, and Field stood in the semidarkness, listening to his breathing. He stepped forward and was about to knock when the door opened.

She seemed taller, fiercer, more beautiful, her dress split almost to the waist.

He took another pace forward, their noses touching, then their lips, her mouth warm, her hands running through the wetness of his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Her skin was cool to the touch.

“I’m-”

“I’m weak,” she said.

Thirty-six

Natasha rolled Field over onto his chest. The white cotton sheets were luxuriously cool on this side of the bed. She lay on top of him, her heart thumping in time with his, both of them covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Sometime later he became aware of the soft touch of her lips against his ear. “Wake up, Richard.”

“I’m awake.”

“You’re sleeping.”

“I’m… comfortable.”

“Too comfortable.” She rolled him onto his back and straddled him again. She smiled. Very slowly, her hair gathering around his neck and face, she lowered herself. Her fingers touched the side of his face gently as her lips met his.

Now Field did sleep, and when he awoke, she was looking at him, leaning on her elbow.

“What’s the time?”

She shrugged. “Almost dawn.”

“You’ve been watching all night?”

“No. You sleep peacefully.”

He rolled over onto his back. “I slept deeply.” He noticed a clock on the bedside table and leaned over to try to get a closer look. “Five,” he said.

Field stared at the ceiling. A streetlamp lit the corner of the room nearest to the window, but the rest was lost in the darkness. She was kneeling in a pool of light on the side of the bed.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.

She took one from the packet on the bedside table and lit it. She threw another across to him and leaned over with the match still alight. She put a shell ashtray between them and they smoked in silence.

When they had finished, she said, “You will have to go soon.” She took the ashtray and lay down, moving closer so that her back was alongside him. As he rolled over, she brought her knees up and took hold of his arm, wrapping it around her stomach and caressing his hand. “Hold me tight, Richard.”

They lay still, her body warm.

“You’re frightened,” he said.

“Of course.”

There was another long silence.

“Whatever anyone says,” she said almost inaudibly, “I loved you.”

“What do you mean loved?”

“Perhaps the end will be a relief,” she said.

“The end of what?”

She did not answer, so he spun her around roughly. Her eyes and face were wet with her tears. “What do you mean?”

Natasha looked into his eyes without answering.

“What do you mean?” Field rolled off the bed. “What do you mean the end will be a relief? Will you stop talking like that?”

“I’m just tired, Richard.”

Field breathed out heavily. “Me too. Want to know why?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for the lives of two more ghosts, Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov, and can we find any trace of them?”

She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. He waited in vain for her to respond.

“And all the time,” he went on, “you know exactly who they are.”

She remained absolutely still.

Field moved around to her side of the bed and sat beside her. “You tell me you dream of a life in Venice or Paris. Well, we can do it. We can stop Lu. But not unless you start to tell me the truth.”

She turned to face him, but he knew, from the distant look in her eyes, that he’d lost her again. “I want a drink of water,” he said, and before she could answer, he stepped into the corridor.

There was a glass by the sink and he filled it with some purified water from a jug and drank greedily. He returned to the living room with a full glass for Natasha.

Field glanced toward the balcony and the clock tower above the race club. Then he noticed the bookcase.

In the bedroom he put the glass down beside her, but she didn’t thank him. He lit another cigarette.

“You don’t like Charlie, do you?” she said.

Field drew the smoke into his lungs. “Lewis?”

“How many others do you know?”

“One or two.” Field imagined Natasha throwing her head back, arching her spine, and then looking down at Lewis as the two of them fucked. He sucked even harder on the cigarette, trying to eradicate the image, which was as vivid as if he’d been watching it happen.

“I can tell by the way you look at him.”

“Tell what?”

“He’s rich.”

“Is that why you slept with him?”

“That’s what you think?”

Field watched the smoke drifting from darkness to light.

“Charlie’s not the man you think he is,” she said.

Field did not answer.

“He’s a little sad.”

“I’m sure.”

“You Englishmen.”

“What about us?”

“Always like little boys, like someone hurt you.”

Field cleared his throat. “I don’t see Charles Lewis as a victim.”

“Why? Don’t they say money doesn’t buy you happiness?” Natasha rolled over onto her back. “Charlie was angry when I asked him to leave,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t think a Russian girl has a right to say no?”

Field stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray in front of her. “What have you done with all the photographs?”

She looked at him, and even in this light he could see the depth of her annoyance. “I do not understand.”

“The bookshelf in the living room. I just wondered what had happened to all your photographs.”

“Which photographs?”

“When I came around the other day, your bookshelf was covered in photographs.”

“I took them down.”

“What did you do with them?”

“It is not your business.”

“Can I see them again?”

“Why do you ask this?”

“Just… interest.”

“No. You cannot.”

She sat up, moved to the side of the bed, and picked up her gown. She slipped into it and tied the knot around her waist. “I’m sorry, this has been unfair of me. I said to you that I am weak.”

“Stop.”

She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean don’t go down that road. I mean stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I know what you are going to say and I don’t want you to say it.”

Natasha sighed, closing her eyes.

He knelt on the bed. “Everything has changed.”

“Richard-”

“No. You said, ‘Everyone needs to dream.’ So let’s dream. Longer. No more questions.” He stood. “Let’s… do something. Let’s get out of here. Now. We can go for a walk.”

She was still looking at him, confused and uncertain, and for a moment he thought that she would reject him again.

She stood and began quietly to dress. She pulled on her stockings first, unselfconsciously, knowing his eyes were upon her. She indicated with the tap of a finger that he should button her dress, and as he did so, he wanted to kiss the curve of her back.

They did not speak as they walked down the stairs and, outside, she led the way, as if this had been her suggestion and she had a destination in mind. It was cooler this morning. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the sycamore trees.

A barge honked on the river, but the street was quiet save for the hiss of the gas lamps and their footsteps on the pavement. She wore a simple blue dress, a string of pearls around her neck, her hair untidy. She looked as if she had just got out of bed, and for some reason this pleased him.

Natasha took his hand, her own warm in his. She squeezed harder and he responded and then, as he was becoming used to this public display of affection, she let go.