Night Over Water - Ken Follett [129]
It was true, then. Frank was a prisoner.
Mark said: “Well, shit.”
Diana whispered: “I still don’t believe he’s a murderer.”
“I hope not!” Mark said. “We would have been safer paying fifty bucks and traveling steerage in a tramp steamer!”
“I wish he hadn’t put the handcuffs on. I don’t know how that boy can sleep chained to his bed. He won’t even be able to roll over!”
“You’re softhearted,” Mark said, giving her a hug. “The man is probably a rapist and you’re feeling sorry for him because he might not be able to sleep.”
She put her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. He had been mad at her a couple of minutes ago, but that seemed to have passed. “Mark,” she said, “do you think two people can get into one of these bunks?”
“Are you frightened, honey?”
“No.”
He gave her a puzzled look; then he understood and grinned. “I guess you could get two in—though not side....”
“Not side by side?”
“It looks too narrow.”
“Well”—she lowered her voice—“one of us will have to get on top.” He murmured into her ear: “Would you like to get on top?”
She giggled. “I think I might.”
“I’ll have to consider that,” he said thickly. “What do you weigh?”
“Eight stone and two breasts.”
“Shall we get changed?”
She took off her hat and put it down on the seat beside her. Mark pulled their cases from under the seat. His was a well-used cordovan Gladstone bag, hers a small, hard-sided, tan leather case with her initials in gold lettering.
Diana stood up.
“Be quick,” Mark said. He kissed her.
She gave him a swift hug, and as he pressed against her she felt his erection. “Goodness,” she said. In a whisper she added: “Can you keep it like that until you get back?”
“I don’t think so. Not unless I pee out the window.” She laughed. He added: “But I’ll show you a quick way to make it hard again.”
“I can’t wait,” she whispered.
Mark picked up his case and went out, going forward toward the men’s room. As he left the compartment, he passed Mervyn coming the other way. They looked at one another like cats across a fence, but they did not speak.
Diana was startled to see Mervyn dressed in a coarse flannel nightshirt with broad brown stripes. “What on earth have you got on?” she asked incredulously.
“Go on, laugh,” he said. “It was all I could find in Foynes. The local shop has never heard of silk pajamas—they didn’t know whether I was queer or just daft.”
“Well, your friend Mrs. Lenehan won’t fancy you in that getup.” Now why did I say that? Diana wondered.
“I don’t suppose she’d fancy me in anything,” Mervyn said crossly, and he passed on out of the compartment.
The steward came in. Diana said: “Oh, Davy, would you make up our beds now, please?”
“Right away, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her case and went out.
As she passed through number 5 compartment, she wondered where Mervyn was sleeping. None of these bunks was made up yet, nor any in number 6; and yet he had disappeared. It dawned on Diana that he must be in the honeymoon suite. An instant later she realized that she had not seen Mrs. Lenehan seated anywhere when she walked the length of the plane a few moments earlier. She stood outside the ladies’ room, with her bag in her hand, frozen still with surprise. It was outrageous. Mervyn and Mrs. Lenehan must be sharing the honeymoon suite!
Surely the airline would not allow it. Perhaps Mrs. Lenehan had already gone to bed, and was out of sight in a curtained bunk in a forward compartment.
Diana had to know.
She stepped to the door of the honeymoon suite and hesitated.
Then she turned the handle and opened the door.
The suite was about the same size as a regular compartment, and had a terra-cotta carpet, beige walls and the blue upholstery with the pattern of stars that was also in the main lounge. At the rear of the room was a pair of bunks. On one side were a couch and a coffee table, and on the other a stool, a dressing table, and a mirror. There were two windows on each side.
Mervyn stood in the middle of the room, startled by