Morgan was badly bruised. He was lying on the floor. His forearm lay across his eyes, as though to shut out some unbearable light. When she spoke, he lowered his arm and raised his head slightly then dropped back to the floor.
"Sophie," she heard him say.
"Yes, it's me," Sophie went to his side.
His face was in a terrible mess, the left side bruised and swollen, the eye half-closed. Blood had trickled and dried from a cut in his lip, and there did not seem to be any skin on the knuckles of his right hand. Sophie stooped over him and gently tried to help him to his feet. The bruising had spread up and onto his chest, and on his right side the red stain of blood had started to seep through his shirt. Morgan, with a strength surprising in one so hurt, put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her down so that she was sitting next to him.
Her long, blonde plait of hair hung forward over her shoulder, and while he held her with his right arm, his left hand was occupied in slipping off the rubber band which held the ends together, and then, using his fingers like a comb, he loosened the strands, unraveling them, so that her hair hung like a silken tassel, brushing onto his chest.
He said, "I always wanted to do that. Ever since I first saw you."
The tenderness in his voice... Morgan, who had always been so tough... dissolved her. Tears sprang into her eyes and he saw these. Morgan sighed deeply and they fell silent. The room was growing cold, again. Slowly, with infinite caution, Morgan got to his feet. Once there, he grinned triumphantly down at her, a bizarre sight, bruised and battered.
"What are you going to do?"
"Drive back home."
"But you can't drive like that!"
"I can do anything I want."
They went down the stairs cautiously. Savagely, Sophie turned the handle and flung the door open, and instantly the wind poured in, like some monstrous creature that had been waiting all evening to invade the house. The cobbled pavements of the narrow street shone with wet, and the tall bleached houses stood quiet and closed against the murk, like faces which give nothing away. His car was parked around the corner, up a narrow alley.
They got in, and he started the engine and backed out on to the road, with Sophie giving directions because Morgan was too stiff to turn around in the seat. They headed up through the town, along streets that had become familiar to her, over the crossroads and up the hill. Sophie sat, staring ahead, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She knew that there was still something else they had to talk about. And it had to be now, before they reached home.
"Morgan."
"What is it now?"
"There's something else."He sounded shocked, "What is it?"
Sophie swallowed a strange obstruction in the back of her throat."My parents."
"What about your parents?"
"What do I tell them?"
"Don't worry about that. I'm just happy that I'm going marry you."
Sophie said, "I don't seem to remember you asking me to marry you." The car bumped and lurched down the lane towards her home, "I'm not very good at asking things," said Morgan. He took one hand off the wheel and put it over hers, "I usually just tell people."As once before, it was her mother who came out to meet them. As soon as Morgan switched off the engine, the light in the hall went on, and her mother opened the door, as though she had known instinctively they were on their way. She saw Morgan open the car door and ease himself out, in obvious discomfort and pain. She saw Morgan's face..."For heaven's sake, what happened to you?"
"I had a difference of opinion with my old friend Evans. I probably wouldn't be looking like this except that he got me first."
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, no bones broken."
"And you Sophie?"
"I'm fine."
They went indoors and her mother closed the door.
"Is dad in?"
"Yes, he's up in his room."
"I should probably check on him," Sophie said, already ascending the steps. Inside, the house was cold, but not musty or damp. It was furnished like an expensive London flat, with pale, thick, fitted carpets and pale walls and sofas upholstered in mushroom-colored brocade. There were a great many mirrors and little crystal bag chandeliers hanging from the low-beamed ceilings.