Gemini. Mark Burnell

back was turned to her. Quite deliberately, Stephanie knew, though he’d maintain he was tending the charcoal.

      ‘What’s wrong with her?’

      ‘I think it’s her hip flexor.’

      ‘I see. And you’ll be treating that yourself, will you?’

      ‘It’s my practice. I think I should, don’t you?’

      ‘Naturally.’

      ‘It’ll probably require some subtle manipulation followed by some deep, penetrative massage.’

      Stephanie picked up a piece of French bread from the wooden bowl on the table and threw it at him. It hit him between the shoulders. He turned round, feigning angelic innocence.

      ‘Her hip flexor?’

      He shrugged. ‘Who knows? If I’m lucky …’

      ‘I hope you’ll charge her the full rate.’

      ‘I’ll probably charge her double.’

      ‘Then it better be a successful movie.’

      ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

      Julian Cunningham, Karen’s husband, had once told Stephanie that chiropractors were like lawyers and bookies: you never saw a poor one. She reminded Mark of that.

      He put up his hands in mock defence. ‘All I’m doing is charging the going rate. Same as you.’

      ‘True.’

      Which was why, in a numbered dollar account at Guderian Maier bank in Zurich, Petra had just over three million eight hundred thousand dollars. Not a cent of which had found its way into the life she shared with Mark.

      ‘I’m going to Hong Kong.’

      He took it in his stride. ‘It’s agreed?’

      ‘Pretty much.’

      ‘For how long?’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘Organized crime in the Far East.’

      That was the cover Gavin Taylor at Frontier News had decided upon. It was a little conventional for his taste, but Stephanie had decided to tell Mark she was going to Hong Kong. Normally she would have lied about her destination, as an added precaution. This time, with the contract open-ended, she was worried about complications. Taylor had agreed; keep it simple and keep it as close to the truth as possible.

      ‘When are you leaving?’

      ‘The date isn’t fixed. But soon.’

      ‘Are you still thinking about quitting afterwards?’

      ‘Definitely.’

      ‘So everything’s fine?’

      She nodded. ‘Very much so.’

      He looked at her, saying nothing. With most people Stephanie was the master of silence. Not with Mark. She never had been.

      ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

      ‘I believe you’re going. And that you’ll come back.’

      ‘And the bit in between?’

      He considered this for a good while. ‘Given the choice between not knowing and being lied to, I’d prefer not to know.’

      ‘And you’re happy with that?’

      ‘I’m happy with you.’

      ‘But?’

      ‘But nothing. I’ve always accepted you as you are, Stephanie. Other people might find that strange. That there are things about you that I don’t know. That I don’t insist on total disclosure. But it’s just the way I am. You’re different. I’m different. We strike chords in each other. And if we have to make allowances, we make allowances.’

      ‘Don’t your friends find that odd?’

      ‘My friends don’t know. Nobody knows. It’s just us.’

      Stephanie pressed her palms together, then sandwiched them between her thighs. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I could do the same, if our positions were reversed.’

      Mark shrugged. ‘But they’re not, are they?’

      That was the point. She got up, walked over to him and kissed him. ‘Every morning, when I wake up, I look at you and wonder why it’s you. And then I give up. Do you know why?’

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘Go on, then.’

      ‘It’s because you don’t care why.’

      Inevitably, he was right. The more he diminished Petra, the more Stephanie loved him. It was the calmness. At first she’d mistaken it for indifference. And even arrogance. Later she recognized it as strength. Inner strength, not the show of strength that Petra preferred. Only once had she seen a side of him that could have been attractive to Petra.

      The previous December they’d been mugged in a poorly lit side-street off Battersea Park Road. It was just after nine on a wet Wednesday evening. They were scurrying back to the Saab when three youths emerged from a soggy patch of waste-land fringing a tower-block.

      Stephanie’s first reaction was disbelief. It couldn’t be happening. Not to her. It was such a cliché: black teenagers with their hoods up and gold around their necks. Her second instinct was to let Petra loose on them. Of the two, that proved harder to contain.

      Knives out, they demanded money and Mark’s car keys. The one closest to her was glaring at her, his switch-blade glinting in the wetness. For all of her that was Stephanie, the part of her that was Petra would not allow her to give him the fear that he wanted.

      Mark was handing over his wallet. The one nearest her wanted her watch. Still staring at him, she unfastened the strap.

      Petra was straining at the leash, trembling inside Stephanie.

      She held out the watch. The mugger reached for it. Quite deliberately, she let go of it, her eyes still riveted to his. The watch fell to the pavement. She thought he’d tell her to pick it up. Or take a swipe at her. Instead he spat at her.

      As a spectator, the seconds that followed seemed to play in slow motion. Mark attacked all three of them. Too stunned to be Petra, Stephanie stood by and gawped, helpless and useless. Even when one of them slashed the palm of Mark’s hand, she did nothing.

      They never stood a chance. It wasn’t really self-defence. Not after the first blow to the mugger nearest him sprayed shattered teeth into the gurgling gutter. And certainly not later, when the mugger who’d tried to steal Stephanie’s watch found himself being propelled face first through a rear passenger window, then hauled back to receive a kick in the balls powerful enough to strain the tendons in Mark’s ankle.

      When it was over, he took back his wallet and keys, then picked up her watch. Stephanie was completely speechless. As she should have been. Except it wasn’t an act. It was genuine.

      Mark drove them home, his hand wrapped in an oily rag they found in the boot of the Saab. Neither of them said anything. In the kitchen at Queen’s Gate Mews, Stephanie examined his hand. She said he should go to hospital. He said he wouldn’t.

      ‘You can’t afford to damage your hands, Mark.’

      ‘Just do what you can.’

      So she did. Afterwards he opened a bottle of Calvados and collected two tumblers from the draining board. An hour later the mist began to lift and the man she knew started to drift back to her.

      He said, ‘I should call the police.’

      ‘What’s the point? I mean, we were the ones who were attacked. Let’s not forget that. But the way the law works, you’ll be