The Color of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

handful of volumes by Alice Miller, the psychotherapist who reckons we’re all abused children one way or another, and it’s all our parents’ fault. There were dictionaries of mythology and phrase and fable, and several books about the supposed properties and applications of crystals. Her wardrobe and chest of drawers told the same story her father had: three-quarters of the clothes were preppy suburban, then suddenly there were red satin dresses, leather jackets, fishnet stockings, spike-heeled boots. In her jewelry box, there were little gold chains and charm bracelets and a few swimming medals; on her dressing table mirror hung an array of Gothic crosses, chains, beaded and jeweled necklaces and bracelets. I picked up a silver wristband that had greenish stones with red flecks. They looked like smaller versions of those I had seen set into the walls of the garden pond. Against the light, the red in each stone looked like veins in a tiny green skull.
    Under the bed, I found a beautifully made dollhouse: it had castellations and a turret and a tower. The back doors opened to reveal the usual furniture and a random assortment of toy figures; neither side of the roof opened. The house stood on a broad wooden base; to the front there was a drive lined with plastic trees; at the rear there was a lawn sloping down to a circular pond; the perimeter of the pond was made of tiny pebbles glued together. A fine coat of dust clung to it like age; I guess it hadn’t been played with for a long time.
    I went through every item of clothing that had a pocket, but there were no scraps of paper or tickets; there was nothing else under the bed, no boxes of letters or mementos or photographs. I flicked through the pages of the books, but all that fell out, from the very oldest, were dried autumn leaves. Had Emily taken everything with her that bore a personal trace, or had she simply not kept any of it to begin with? I heard Jessica Howard calling my name. I did the only other thing I could think of: I pressed “redial” on the telephone.
    After a dozen rings, a male voice answered. “Woodpark Inn?”
    I thought for a few seconds.
    “Hello?”
    “Have you a late extension tonight?” I said.
    “Halloween party, ten till two, battle of the bands, tickets twenty euros,” he said.
    “Thank you,” I said, and hung up. The Woodpark Inn. Not Emily Howard’s style, I would have thought. But then, what would I know? As much as anyone, it seemed.
    In the living room, Jessica Howard sat at the table, her hands folded across her breast, her head slightly bowed, her crossed legs tucked beneath her chair. She looked exhausted, about ten years older than the woman who had greeted me. The way she sat seemed intended to minimize her body space, and I remembered at last what she reminded me of: the swings between sexual exhibitionism and physical awkwardness, between rage and carelessness, cold objectivity and tears. She reminded me of the lost girls I tried to rescue from San Fernando Valley porn sets, or rather, the way they’d be in twenty years’ time, eyes still bright but hard, souls cold as the dead.
    She brightened up when she saw me, and pointed to a sheet of paper on the table.
    “David Brady was Emily’s boyfriend for two years. This is his address and mobile number. Here’s a photograph of the two of them together. Absolute ride, I certainly would have, thighs to die for. The guy she’s going out with now is called Jerry… blank, I’m sorry. He was a barman at the rugby club, not sure if he still is. Oh yes, and his band is called — what’s the other name for Calvary? You know, where Christ was crucified?”
    “Golgotha,” I said.
    “That’s right. His band is called The Golgotha Pyre.”
    A smile creased up through her beautiful, sad face.
    “You can only
imagine
what they sound like.”
    She got a bag and an umbrella and saw me to the door. Outside, as she was locking up, I thought of the Alice Miller