want to sell the house?" Another wretched pause, as though she was trembling on the edge 
of saying something far more important than the banalities that would surely surface.
    "I'm sorry, Marty," she said.
    "What for?" She shook her head, a tiny shake. Her hair shimmered.
    "Don't know," she said.
    "This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault." "I can't help-" She stopped and 
looked up at him, suddenly more alive in the urgency of her fright-was that what it was, 
fright?-than she'd been in a dozen other wooden exchanges they'd endured in one chilling 
room or another. Her eyes were liquefying, swelling up with tears.
    "What's wrong?" She stared at him: the tears brimmed.
    "Char . . . what's wrong?" "It's all over, Marty," she said, as though this fact had 
hit her for the first time; over, finished, fare thee well.
    He nodded; "Yes." "I don't want you . . ." She stopped, paused, then tried again. 
"You mustn't blame me." "I don't blame you. I've never blamed you. Christ, you've been 
here, haven't you? All this time. I hate seeing you in this place, you know. But you 
came; when I needed you, you were there." "I thought it would be all right," she said, 
talking on as though he'd not even spoken, "I really did. I thought you'd be coming out 
soon-and maybe we'd make it work, you know. We still had the house and all. But these 
last couple of years, everything just started falling apart." He watched her suffering, 
thinking: I'll never be able to forget this, because I caused it, and I'm the most 
miserable shit on God's earth because look what I did. There'd been tears at the 
beginning, of course, and letters from her full of hurt and half-buried accusations, but 
this wracking distress she was showing now went so much deeper. It wasn't from a 
twenty-two-year-old, for one thing, it was coming from a grown woman; and it shamed him 
deeply to think he'd caused it, shamed him in a way he thought he'd put behind him.
    She blew her nose on a tissue teased from a packet.
    "Everything's a mess," she said.
    "Yes." "I just want to sort it out." She gave a cursory glance at her watch, too fast 
to register the time, and stood up.
    "I'd better go, Marty." "Appointment?" "No . . ." she replied, a transparent lie 
which she made no real effort to carry off, "might do some shopping later on. Always 
makes me feel better. You know me." No, he thought. No I don't know you. If I once did, 
and I'm not even sure of that, it was a different you, and God I miss her. He stopped 
himself. This was not the way to part with her; he knew that from past encounters. The 
trick was to be cold, to finish on a note of formality, so that he could go back to his 
cell and forget her until the next time.
    "I wanted you to understand," she said. "But I don't think I explained it very well. 
It's just such a bloody mess." She didn't say goodbye: tears were beginning again, and he 
was certain that she was frightened, under the talk of solicitors, that she would recant 
at the last moment-out of weakness, or love, or both-and by walking out without turning 
around she was keeping the possibility at bay.
    Defeated, he went back to the cell. Feaver was asleep. He'd stuck a vulva torn from 
one of his magazines onto his forehead with spit, a favorite routine of his. It gaped-a 
third eye-above his closed lids, staring and staring without hope of sleep.
    
    7
    "Strauss?" Priestley was at the open door, staring into the cell. Beside him, on the 
wall some wit had scrawled: "If you feel horny, kick the door. A cunt will appear." It 
was a familiar joke-he'd seen the same gag or similar on a number of cell walls-but now, 
looking at Priestley's thick face, the association of ideas-the enemy and a woman's 
sex-struck him as obscene.
    "Strauss?" "Yes, Sir." "Mr. Somervale wants to see you. About three-fifteen. I'll 
come and collect you. Be ready at ten past." "Yes, Sir." Priestley turned to go.
    "Can you tell me what it's about, Sir?" "How the fuck should I know?"
    
    Somervale was waiting in the Interview Room at three-fifteen. Marty's file was on the 
table in front of him, its drawstrings still knotted. Beside it, a buff envelope, 
unmarked. Somervale himself was standing by the reinforced glass window, smoking.
    "Come in," he said. There was no invitation to sit down; nor did he turn from the 
window.
    Marty closed the door behind him, and waited. Somervale exhaled smoke through his 
nostrils noisily.
    "What do you suppose, Strauss?" he said.
    "I beg your pardon, sir?" "I said: what do you suppose, eh? Imagine." Marty followed 
none of this so far, and wondered if the confusion was his or Somervale's. After an age, 
Somervale said: "My wife died." Marty wondered what he was expected to say. As it was, 
Somervale didn't give him time to formulate a response. He followed the first three words 
with five more: "They're letting you out, Strauss!" He placed the bald facts side by side 
as if they belonged together; as if the entire world was in collusion against him.
    "Am I going with Mr. Toy?" Marty asked.
    "He and the board believe you are a suitable candidate for the job at Whitehead's 
estate," Somervale said. "Imagine." He made a low sound in his throat, which could have 
been laughter. "You'll be under close scrutiny, of course. Not by me, but by whoever 
follows me. And if you once step out of line . . ." "I understand." "I wonder if you do." 
Somervale drew on his cigarette, still not turning around. "I wonder if you understand 
just what kind of freedom you've chosen-" Marty wasn't about to let this kind of talk 
spoil his escalating euphoria. Somervale was defeated; let him talk.
    "Joseph Whitehead may be one of the richest men in Europe but he's also one of the 
most eccentric, I hear. God knows what you're letting yourself in for, but I tell you, I 
think you may find life in here a good deal more palatable." Somervale's words 
evaporated; his sour grapes fell on deaf ears. Either through exhaustion, or because he 
sensed that he'd lost his audience, he gave up his disparaging monologue almost as soon 
as it began, and turned from the window to finish this distasteful business as 
expeditiously as he could. Marty was shocked to see the change in the man. In the weeks 
since they'd last met, Somervale had aged years; he looked as though he'd survived the 
intervening time on cigarettes and grief. His skin was like stale bread.
    "Mr. Toy will pick you up from the gates next Friday afternoon. That's February 
thirteenth. Are you superstitious?" "No." Somervale handed the envelope across to Marty.
    "All the details are in there. In the next couple of days you'll have a medical, and 
somebody will be here to go through your position vis-a-vis the parole board. Rules are 
being bent on your behalf, Strauss. God knows why. There's a dozen more worthy candidates 
in your wing alone." Marty opened the envelope, quickly scanned the tightly typed pages, 
and pocketed them.
    "You won't be seeing me again," Somervale was saying, "for which I'm sure you're 
suitably grateful." Marty let not a flicker of response cross his face. His feigned 
indifference seemed to ignite a pocket of unused loathing in Somervale's fatigued frame 
His bad teeth showed as he said: "If I were you, I'd thank God, Strauss. I'd thank God 
from the bottom of my heart." "What for . . . Sir?" "But then I don't suppose you've got 
much room for God, have you?" The words contained pain and contempt in equal measure. 
Marty couldn't help thinking of Somervale alone in a double bed; a husband without a