*
The 10 miles back to Hawkshaw’s farm was as long as Hope feared it would be. He stopped looking at his watch soon into it, for it was akin to the advice of an acquaintance who knew what he was talking about but was not helping things all the same. He needed to keep up his pace like he was going somewhere, but not to do it suspiciously: in other words, to be mindful that of those occasional sets of highlights flashing by might belong to a cop just about as desperate enough to start wondering if the roadside vagrant and the charismatic bank robber could be one in the same – especially if the long series of abandoned cars had left the law with the impression the perpetrator would rather walk.
In what seemed the dead of night Hope reached Hawkshaw’s front door; he was tottering on collapse so was as relieved as he was surprised to find Hawkshaw moving forth from the inky darkness of the porch.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said.
‘Sorry. I got a little lost.’
‘Really? Should I have called the police and reported a missing person?’ She took him tightly by the hand. ‘Come inside. We need to talk.’
The way she was dragging him by the arm, he wished he had had a bit of that earlier on the track. She lined him up with the living room’s wicker chair and nudged him into it.
She was much more elegant in the manner in which she settled her own persons into a chair of dark walnut. She folded her legs and straightened out her raspberry dress over her knees.
‘The thing I wanted to talk about,’ she said, ‘is who the hell are you? You know, the only way I can tell if your bed has been slept in is whether or not there’s blood on it.’ Her voice got tough. ‘You’d better explain yourself again. The line you gave me first time isn’t working anymore.’
Hope muttered something unintelligible as his head flopped to the side.
Hawkshaw jumped furiously to her feet. ‘Are you falling asleep on me?’ She had to prod him for a reply.
‘No, I’m thinking,’ he muttered. And then he started snoring through his nostrils.
Hawkshaw glared at him a protracted moment. ‘You know, there’s only one place on your face where there isn’t a bruise.’ That’s where she punched him.
Hope grimaced and he looked around wide-eyed. ‘What’s happened? Are you alright?’
Hawkshaw shook her head, infuriated. ‘I’m going to run you a bath. You stink.’
Death of the Extremophile Page 34