by David Mark
TONY WHISTLES. Smiles. Christ, but this has been worth the £50 he slipped the young lad in the petrol station when he heard him wittering about the old bird his brother had found on the web. He believes in serendipity. Owes his career to it.
“Owen, Owen, Owen” he says, savouring the wine. “You mad bastard.”
He sits for another 20 minutes. Familiarises himself with the report. Begins to lay the story out in his head. Can see the name. The picture, then, and the picture, now. The same eyes. The same flame of dancing madness. The little boy, all grown up and handsome as fuck.
And then he’s settling up and heading for the door, unsteady on his feet and hard in his pants, the file clutched beneath his coat.
Doing his second favourite thing.
40
6.14pm.
Asleep with my head on Kerry’s belly.
She’s freezing cold, and I should have dressed her or wrapped her up, but I haven’t. I haven’t moved in an hour.I’m dreaming of Dad. I’m sat on his lap at the wheel of the Jeep and he’s letting me steer as we bounce up the rutted track towards the South field. It’s our little secret. He’s got a hand on mine and smells of cigarettes and rain, and there are scone crumbs on his damp, green jacket and his glasses are dirty. I’m nine. And we’re talking about tortures, like we do. About the African tribes who would stake out trouble-makers on the jungle floor, cover their chests with sticky stuff and a dozen flesh-eating ants, and put a half a coconut shell over the top, and watch as they devoured them. He does lots of good noises and facial expressions as he tells me, and never takes his eyes off the dirty track that cuts through the green field. We’re talking about football, and whether Paul Gascoigne will ever come back from his injury, and laughing at the way Mum always gets song lyrics wrong. And there is a sudden beating of wings and a flash of brown and red, and a pheasant bangs off the windscreen and I swerve the wheel and yelp, and we’re suddenly flipping over and down and bouncing up, and the windows smash and I bang my head against Dad’s face and then the roof, and the wheel, and we’re bouncing down the hill, and there are strong arms around me, trying to hold me still, and I take a double-gulp of breath, without letting out the one I had, and I suck in something evil and chaotic and angry and resentful and wise and cruel and beautiful; something born in the broken glass and the torture and the violence, that will grow strong and loud and terrifying, that will be nurtured when I wake in a few days’ time to see my parents arguing at the foot of my hospital bed, talking about how they are going to afford to pay Mr Blake for the broken Jeep. Keeping my eyes closed, and listening to my mum telling my father to be a man, to stand up to him, to say ‘no’. And hearing, for the first time, a whisper in the back of my mind, saying, in a rasping, sibilant tongue, “it’s not fair…”
6.31PM.
My head hits the floor with a bump and I spin around and look up, hoping for violence. Kerry’s sitting bolt upright, gasping, like she’s just had a shot of adrenaline to the heart. She turns and in the half darkness, she sees Petruso’s body and cries out and pushes backwards, and her back bumps my face, and she looks at me and my mask of blood, and she squawks and pushes herself away from me and her skin is goose-pimpled and she’s trembling and crying and I’m trying to hold her and she’s fighting me and flailing her arms and I grab her wrists and I’m shushing her and trying to hold her and not to laugh, because it’s funny and silly, and then I lose patience and hit her a good one and she falls still and doesn’t move, and I think she’s dead and I feel relief and then embarrassment, and then disappointment when she starts to stir, and I pick her up and carry her to the bathroom, and wash my face and my hands in the sink and turn the towels pink and then I run a bath with lots of Jess’s special bubble bath and I fill it high and I lay Kerry in its embrace and stroke her face until she comes to, and she wakes and she’s warm and safe and with her brother, and she smiles, and I see past the yellow teeth and cracked lips and bruised face and I see the little girl she used to be. I see Dad’s little princess and Mum’s little helper, and I see the girl who I used to swordfight with in the woods, and who used to carve her initials into Mum’s pastry crusts, and who fixed the wing of the pheasant that almost killed her Dad and her brother and who went off the rails when the family fell.
And she says, “I’m sorry.”
6.48PM.
I’m wrapping a towel around her as she steps out of the tub, dripping, onto the bathroom floor. It’s a fluffy beach towel, with stripes on it, and I smile as I remember how Jess used to say that she had to use it vertically, or it made her look fat, and I’m shaking my head as I rub Kerry dry, and telling myself that girls are stupid and men are thick.
She says: “Who were those men?”
And I say: “They were bad men. They killed Beatle. But I’ve killed them now and you’re safe and don’t need to worry.”
And she says: “You killed them?”
And I say: “Yes.”
And she cries again, and says: “Thank-you.”
And I tell her it’s OK, and dress her in Jess’s linen trousers and a tight T-shirt and a snuggly purple jumper, and I brush her hair. Ahe likes it when I fuss over her, and I make her promise to keep her eyes closed as we walk through the living room because I can’t be doing with another scene, and I steer her out the door, and pick up my coat and my gun from the floor, and I pop into the bedroom, and I pick up my sports bag and empty my top two drawers, and shove a handful of clothes and my electric razor and my picture of Dad inside, and I close the door to my flat and its ghosts and its memories and bodies, and we walk through the drizzle and the darkness and the pissy neon lights to the Royal Hotel by the railway station, and I book us in and we go upstairs, and she squeals as she sees the big bed and the comfy pillows, and we lay down and I hold her, and she falls asleep again, and I stare at the ceiling and wonder how long I have before this all catches up with me, and I watch a spider crawl from one side of the ceiling to another, then turn and walk back.
8.23PM.
Me, sitting on the edge of the bed, suit trousers and bare chest, dialling Tony H’s number on the white plastic telephone on the bedside table. 9 for an outside line.
“Hello?”
“Tony. Owen.”
Pause. Gets his brain in gear. Can hear him mentally squinting.
“Owen. Fuck. What are the headlines, mate? You’re having quite the day. You went right off the radar this afternoon. More bad news?
“Something like that. Sorry mate.”
“Listen, mate, I’m a prick but even I don’t like to see somebody’s life go completely down the fucking bog, unless there’s something in it for me. You’re going to have to get it together. I rang your newsdesk and said you had an emergency and filed some copy for you, so you’re not in too much bother at work, but they sounded like they’d heard about the press conference incident, so you’ve probably got some explaining to do, and everybody’s trying to get a chat with your sister, but nobody can track her down.”
“She’s with me.” I say it quietly, partly so as not to wake her, and partly because I’m feeling a little floaty. Light-headed. Peculiar. So hungry I’m sick with it.
“She OK?”
“I haven’t pushed her for the exclusive, yet, Tone,” I say, meaningfully.
“Amateur,” he says, and gives a little laugh. “I had a long chat with Roper a couple of hours back.”
“And?”
“You’re definitely the itchiest of his haemorrhoids, mate. Be fair to say he’s got a bee in his bonnet about you.”
“Was it the press conference?”
There’s a pause, while he decides whether or not to voice the thoughts and theories that have been breeding in his pickled walnut of a brain for the past 24 hours. “It’s a good job I know you so well,” he says, lightly. “Anybody else might have you down as a suspect.”
I close my eyes and breathe out heavily through my nose.
“Cheers mate,” I say sarcastically.
“Well come on,” he says, urging me to follow him down this fatal path. “I’m not daft enough to think it, but one of the victims was your sister’s boyfriend, and I know for a fact you weren’t a fan. Secondly, a car just like yours was parked nearby when it happened. Third, you’re a hard bastard and you could probably do it. Fourthly, you’ve just shown the local press pack what a temper you’ve got, and most importantly - and you know I’d never say this to anybody else - you’ve got quite a colourful mental and criminal history. Maybe Roper has you down as suspect number one.” He rattles to a halt, and we both realise at the same moment that there are too many coincidences and it’s all too neat, and that I’m a killer, and that Roper knows it.
“Fuck, Owen,” he breathes, and I can hear the whiff of humanity and friendship in his voice. “What are you going to do? Fuck, I need to see you, mate. You need to see me. Give it an hour, yeah? See you in Sandy, yeah? Sandringham about 9-ish? Fuck, Owen. What are you going to do?”
Rat-tat-tat.
I chuck the receiver on the bed and hear Tony’s tinny voice get smaller as I cross to the door. I open it a crack and it’s a waiter in a white shirt and a badly tied tie, holding a bottle of Chardonnay on a tray. I smile, and sign for it, and give him a quid, and I’m turning away from the room when I see the big lad with the bleached blonde hair and the stud in his lip stepping into the lift at the end of the corridor. My mate from the café. The one who thinks I’m ace. He’s in gym gear, carrying a hold-all.
“Gym still open, is it?” I ask the waiter. “I told my mate I’d maybe join him for a swim.”
“Until ten,” he replies. “Wouldn’t fancy taking him on in an arm wrestle. Probably going stir crazy after a day staring at the wall.”
I look at him, feigning understanding. “Where would we be without room service, eh?”
“That’s the joy of the company credit card, eh? Are you one of Mr Choudhury’s clients too?”
I keep my face inscrutable. Smile. Nod. I close the door softly and pad back to the bed. Open the wine and take a swig from the bottle. I pick up the phone. Tony’s gone.
8.37PM.
Staring at my face in the mirror.
It’s too bright in here. The light is bouncing off the brilliant white tiles and the pain in my jaw is working its way up to my temples, where a migraine is starting to throb. I can’t really see myself. I feel like I’m nose to nose with somebody pretty, unable to separate or distinguish between eyes, mouth, nose, jawline, but knowing that the picture will be beautiful if I back away.
There’s a voice in there somewhere, barely audible above the squeals and cackles that pound behind my eyes, and it’s telling me I don’t have to be like this; that I beat this once before and if I just pick up the phone and call Mill View Court they’ll let me in and give me a room and I’ll get assessed again and given the pills that will make me stop feeling like this, and I’ll get a care plan, and doctors will tell me that I’m not to be ashamed and that it’s an illness like any other, and it’s the chemicals in my head that make the monsters and the desires and the rages, and that one pill a day can make it right.
I rub my face and my back suddenly hurts again, and I wipe the dribble from my chin from the wound in my gum, and I see that the slavver on my hand is pink and frothy.
And then I put the pieces together. The bodybuilder. The court case. The cell-mate. Minns.
I pick up my bag and grab a towel from the bathroom. T-shirt, tracky bottoms and some running shoes. Blue and orange Bermuda shorts that show off my tan.
Kiss Kerry’s cheek, and out the door.
41
Me.
Stripping down in the cold.
Conscious and proud of my scrapes and scars, my bleeding medals, the stripes on my skin, the mottling at my throat and kidneys.
Just shadows in the half-light, this bruised air.
My skin, goose-pimpled, as I undress in the dark changing room, lit only by the street-lamp in the car park, with its windows that won’t shut, its solitary bulb that won’t light; my bare feet in a puddle of icy water.
Naked, now. Naked and shivering.
Minnsy, he’s called.
He’s busy talking to the assistant. Excited. Voice muffling for a moment as he pulls his shirt over his head. Eager to get naked.
“Really good to see you again,” he says to me, grinning. “You gave me a hell of a start. Was going to come back to the caff tomorrow. Was just thinking about you and then you’re here.”
“Small city. Not many gyms. You got me thinking I should get back in shape,” I say, smiling. “Need to burn off a bit of fat and a shit-load of energy.”
“I’m your man,” he says.
The gym assistant is young and plump. Curly brown. He’s wearing tracksuit trousers and a blue T-shirt, and doesn’t look like he should be the face of a gymnasium.
“You’re the only ones tonight, lads,” he says. “Last of the night, I reckon.”
“Well, you make the place so welcoming,” I say, sarcastic, indicating the bare walls and pools of cold water. “You got a heavy bag in there?”
“No, sorry.”
“Have to hang you from the ceiling,” I say, to my new friend.
The assistant gives us little smile and disappears for a cup of tea and a Mars Bar.
I’m alone in the dark with a man twice my size. He’s naked, with a towel over his shoulder, and he’s rubbing the muscles on his forearms.
“You’d expect better for a three-star, wouldn’t you?” he says, gesturing at the cold and graceless changing rooms. Then: “Have a swim and a sauna first, yeah?”
“Right behind you,” I say, smiling.
I wrap a towel around my nakedness and head past the lockers and the showers to the door at the far end of the room. He falls in behind me and I hold the door open to let him go first downstairs bathed in darkness and slippery underfoot.
“Used to be the place to be, this,” I say, chattily. “Really posh. Had a bad fire a few years ago and was never quite the same. Apparently the manager of the place sent all of the guests to Marks and Sparks in the middle of the night to get replacement clothes, and picked up the tab. That’s class. Don’t get that any more, do you?”
“There’s no bars on the windows,” he says. “That’s a step up for me.”
“You’re a guest, then?” I ask as he plods down the stairs, two steps ahead of me.
“Yeah and bored to tears with it. Under strict instructions to keep myself to myself.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say, although it isn’t really. “You local? I hear an accent.”
“Gilberdyke. On the way to Goole, y’know. Land of the Coneheads. No forks in the family tree. 20 kids in a class and only three surnames. I’ve heard all the jokes…”
He pushes open the door to the pool room and I follow him in. It’s dark, but invitingly so. Petrol blue tinge to the light as it emanates from behind the closed door of the steam room. I place my feet carefully, gripping the cold wet tiles with my toes. Minnsy seems at home. Even in the darkness I can see the definition in his calf muscles as he walks, the broadness in his shoulders and the strength in his back, tapering to a taut waist. He’s stronger than me.
Ahead, the pool is perfectly still; a sheet of smoked glass reflecting the light as it flickers around our shadows. The darkness bends and distorts around us as we pull open the door to the steam room and the wave of intense heats grabs us in its fist and pulls us inside.
I look around, enjoying the sudden wash of heat. Wood panels, gaudy blue light, tray of hot rocks, a ladle and a bucket of water. Condensation on every surface, and the slats in the benches look as inviting as a spitting griddle pan.
My new friend steps on the first bench and pulls himself up to the back, where the heat is most savage. I sit on the bench below, and feel the warmth seep into my skin.
“Bit naughty this, isn’t it?” he asks. “Haven’t earned it. Normally need to do 500 crunches before I even consider tr
eating myself to one of these.”
“Fuck it,” I say. “You’re not exactly out of condition.” We sit in silence, then out politeness, and because I can’t think of anything suggestive, I say: “What line of work you in, then?”
He sucks his teeth. “Used to do telesales. Got out of that racket, though. Can only be told to piss off so many times before it gets to you. Nah, this is more a business trip. An opportunity.” He says it enigmatically, like he wants me to think he’s something more than he is. “Could be a nice little earner.”
I rub my hand over my face and down onto my chest and realise I’m already dripping with sweat.
“Yeah? Go on.”
“Can’t, mate,” he says, shaking his head and pulling his lips down over his teeth. “All very hush-hush.”
“Fair play,” I say, backing off and raising my hands. “None of my business.”
I push myself back against the wall and turn to face him. “You been in here before?” I ask.
“Few times, past couple of days. Not much else to do. Not so bad as prison but not much better. Another day or so to wait it out then I’m out of here. Take my money and offski.”
“All sounds very intriguing,” I say, and pander to his ego again. Journalistic habit. “You seem like a man worth knowing.”
“Got a bit of clout,” he says, feigning humility. “Lot of people would love to be this close to me right now. Coppers. Crims. Journalists. Family of that poor lass.” He stops and looks away again, then shakes away whatever thought just fluttered into his mind. He seems to drop a bit of the attitude, and he slumps back against the wall. “Big day tomorrow,” he adds.
“Yeah?”
“Fucking big.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A breath.
Another glance at my body, my scars, and he decides to unburden himself. I think he probably needs a friend as much as I do.
“You read the papers?” he asks.
“When I get the chance.”
“You read the locals? Hull Mail, all that shit?”