Why We Die

by Mick Herron

  He said, ‘Helen Coe. Flat seven, right?’

  ‘Flat five.’

  Fuck. ‘Five. What I meant.’

  ‘No thanks. Goodnight.’ She made to shut the door.

  He said, ‘You’re the journalist, right?’ and his words must have scraped through the gap just before the lock snapped into place.

  A second passed. Two. The pizza box had grown clammy, the way a shirt does on a muggy day.

  The door opened again. Same mad hair; same cardigan. Standing in her line of sight, though, Arkle felt like a target – like there might be twin red dots appearing on his forehead. ‘You’re not pizza delivery.’

  He said, ‘They have those yellow jackets? So they don’t get knocked off their bikes? I’m not wearing one. I bought this round the corner.’

  ‘Do I know you?’

  He grinned. He was pretty sure he could take his cap off, plus his shades, dance naked in her hallway, and she wouldn’t recognize him. Though she might suspect something was up. ‘We’ve not met, no.’

  ‘Which paper do you work for?’

  He said the first one came into his head.

  ‘Tam Dalgliesh still running your news desk?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well tell him to keep his fucking hands off my story.’ And the door was closing again, only this time he got his foot inside it first.

  ‘I’ll tell him. Only it’s a little late for that.’

  ‘Get your foot out of my door.’

  ‘Okay. But you want to hear this.’

  ‘Hear what?’

  His brain was working overtime now; it was like hitting the apple with the bolt – the trick was to keep moving. Not to stop and wonder whether you’d miss, because if you did, you’d miss.

  . . . Had he faded, just then? No – he was still in the flow.

  ‘They know where she is.’

  ‘Where who is?’ But she was backing down, he could see; mentally adjusting to the idea that wherever she had Kay, it wasn’t the safe place she’d thought it was.

  In his mind, Arkle could see tonight unfolding. He’d go back and sit in the van with Trent; wait for Little Miss Mad here to go beetling off to Kay’s hideyhole . . . He wished Baxter was here. He’d be shaking his head in amazement, saying And everyone thinks I’m the smart one? And Arkle would say, Who’s the oldest? . . . Yes, Baxter ought to be around when they found Kay. That would have a sweet justice to it, though Arkle was prepared to admit it wasn’t entirely logical.

  ‘. . . Are you listening?’

  Shit.

  ‘Get your foot out of my door. Then we’ll talk. But as long as you’re trespassing, I’ve nothing to say, though I might be doing some shouting soon.’ She nodded towards the neighbouring flat. ‘The couple over there? They work doors down the West End. How many knots do you think they could tie you into?’

  Arkle made to run a hand over his shiny head; realized he was still wearing the cap. ‘It would be interesting to find out,’ he said. ‘But it wouldn’t really solve anything.’ He moved his foot. The door stayed open. He said, ‘If you want to make sure she stays hidden, you’re going to have to cut a deal.’

  ‘The only deal I need’s already made. She talks to me. Nobody else.’

  ‘Maybe a couple photographs?’

  ‘No way. We’ve got an exclusive. Words and artwork, they’re ours alone.’

  That was okay. Arkle had set his bait; now it was a waiting game. They could talk newspapers some more, but they’d done words and mentioned pictures, so unless they moved on to the TV guide, he was out of ideas. He’d worried her, though. She was imagining stuff going on, wherever Kay was; imagining a gang of journos laying siege – an exclusive leaking away in a battery of flash-photography and noisy questions. Give her five minutes, she’d be on her way. All he had to do was follow.

  He said, ‘Well, you can’t blame me for trying,’ and turned to go.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Can’t con a pro, can I?’ There you go: flatter the cow. ‘You want the pizza, anyway? It’s got those little fish on.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Go on, spoil yourself. Or take it for Kay, I don’t care.

  ’ ‘Katrina,’ she said. And something in her out-of-focus eyes shifted, and Arkle knew he’d fucked up . . .

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ she said, but he was too fast; had a foot and a shoulder in the gap before she could slam the door. And she was about to shout, but he was too quick for her there, too.

  Kicking the door shut behind him, he pushed her into her flat.

  iii

  The bell rang again. For a safe house – a phrase from a seventies spy novel: all Moscow Rules and frightening shadows – it was pretty busy. On the edge of her bed, she listened to Jonno troop downstairs, and barely took a breath while he answered the door. He said something she couldn’t make out. So the bell goes at, what? – she checked her watch: after ten. So the bell goes after ten, and he’s supposed to be safeguarding her, and what’s the boy do? He opens the door, instead of calling reinforcements . . . She’d been led to believe the Chronicle was a busy newspaper. There must be another grown-up on the staff. Katrina wasn’t sure she liked Helen – she was too much the cynic for comfort – but she trusted her. Helen wouldn’t open the door without being damn sure who was on the other side. Katrina looked to the window once more. Which was open, too: just a crack. If worst came to worst, which recent experience suggested was not unlikely, that was her escape route. Three floors down, but plenty of brickwork, plenty of windowsills. Somehow, this did not reassure her. Getting up, she walked out to the banister; tried to hear what was happening several flights below . . .

  The smell of pizza came wafting up.

  So Jonno had sent out for pizza again. This was what happened when you left the kids in charge: they took the easy option. She went back into her room. Downstairs, voices stopped abruptly, and the front door closed. Outside, no doubt, a guy in a luminous jacket would be mounting his scooter. Katrina felt a hunger pang, and wished Jonno had asked if she wanted anything, then remembered she’d been short with him about the drink. There you go. She could starve to death: he’d care. Door shut, she sat on the bed once more. Her face was throbbing again. No: her face was throbbing still. It was important to keep your story straight. Small mistakes occurred, and people picked everything to pieces. Her face hurting wasn’t a story: her face hurting was a pain. Katrina lay back and closed her eyes. More fireworks went off; another souvenir of her fractured cheekbone . . . In the darkness she’d created, Baxter’s face lit up like a Hallowe’en pumpkin. And the creaking she heard was somebody coming up the stairs.

  Do you want to know something funny? Don’t worry, it’s not very funny . . . But do you want to hear it anyway? How my face got hurt? He did it with the door. There. I told you it wasn’t very funny. But after all those excuses, all those made-up stories about doors, there’s a kind of . . . I’m trying to avoid the word ‘irony’. There’s a kind of circularity. As if I deserved it, after badmouthing doors for so long. What did doors ever do to me? Up till then, nothing. Not really.

  I’d turned my back on him, you see. I knew what was coming, what he’d do next. In between combing his hair and putting the kettle on. And I wanted out. I wanted to walk away before it happened, instead of having to make up stories afterwards. I thought if I could just leave – get outside, into what passed for a normal world – he’d have time to calm down, and get behind the foul mood he’d woken up in. Because when he wasn’t in that mood, he could be the sunniest person I’ve known. And that part of him was always there, somehow. The way the sun’s always shining, it’s just that clouds get in the way.

  He reached out to stop me. But instead of grabbing my arm or my sleeve he caught the door, and jerked it back into my face as hard as he could . . .

  On the landing, a floorboard creaked. The whole house was a deathtrap; you could sit quiet as a mouse, and work out where everyone was by ear alone – next to t
he kitchen sink; in the centre of the bathroom. You’d know not only when they moved, but when they were thinking about it; when they remained in the same place too long. With patience, you’d know how heavy they were; how slow, how fast . . . And recognize, too, which boards were deceivers, and groaned in response to invisible pressures rather than intruders – weather, damp, boredom. There were a few of these, here and there. When they made a noise, you ignored it. It was just one of those things happened in old houses, to old wood.

  But the board outside her bedroom door wasn’t one of them.

  Katrina froze. All other noise faded into the background, like a trick scene in a horror film. One moment she’d been distracted by squabbling in the lane below; the next, the only thing audible for miles around was the body hovering on her bedroom landing. She opened her mouth, intending to say ‘Jonno?’, but no sound came out. This was self-preservation, not fear. That’s what she told herself. No sense in letting whoever was out there know her voice was wobbling. It was ridiculous, anyway, to suppose there was anyone there who shouldn’t be. It was Jonno, gearing up the nerve to knock. It was Helen Coe, back for more, and pausing to catch her breath.

  But on the other hand, the possibility existed that something had gone horribly wrong, for reasons she couldn’t know.

  She looked to the window. It was true that, in a sober moment, she’d reckoned it possible to climb down to the yard. On the other hand, that had been based on the assumption it was never going to happen. Reality had a way of chipping at the edges, so what you’d imagined to be smooth could draw blood. Besides, what would it be like, being found by Arkle clinging halfway down a building? With him above you, crossbow in hand? The image that swam into mind was thin-lipped, sharp-toothed. Some things were better faced in the light.

  Unfreezing, she got to her feet. Crossed the room without making a sound, and flung open the door.

  I didn’t see stars. You’re supposed to see stars, aren’t you? Well, I didn’t. There’s no end to the disappointments in life. What I saw, for what felt like a second or two, was nothing at all, was a big black nowhere. I could have stepped into it quite easily. If I had, everything would have been different . . . I’d have woken up later, and he’d have been . . . Well, I don’t know what he would have been. It would be nice to think he’d be sorry. But I think the most he’d have been was still alive.

  For whatever it was – a second, two – I stood in the kitchen waiting for everything to make sense again. I couldn’t see him. I could sense his presence, though, close but not touching. It was a sunny morning, did I mention that? The kitchen must have been full of sunlight. But not right that moment.

  I tried to take a step, almost fell, and must have staggered to the draining board, because next thing, I was leaning against it . . . I think I threw up into the sink. You’d probably know more about that than me. That would be forensics, yes? . . . Anyway. There was a pain that started on the surface and worked its way to the centre of my head, and however much you know about violence, sergeant, or whatever your rank is, I hope you’ve never felt anything like it. Because it felt life-ruining. It felt like a new permanence.

  He came to me. And I wasn’t sure . . . I don’t know what he intended to do, sergeant. Take that as a confession, if you like. I have no idea what he intended. Usually, once he’d hit me, he made himself scarce. When he came back, we’d pretend an accident had occurred in his absence. Not that we gave names to it. We simply failed to acknowledge the truth. But once in a while his better self, or whatever you’d call it, would seize him before he’d left, and then he’d take me in his arms, and make promises . . . That didn’t happen often. But like I say, I don’t know his intent. All I know is, I was very very hurt, very very frightened. He’d never hit me so hard before. He’d never slammed a door in my face. He’d crossed a line, and I wasn’t sure he knew his way back.

  Perhaps you could say I’d been pushed across the same line.

  Unfreezing, she got to her feet, crossed the room without a sound, and flung open the door. Jonno was there, on his knees on the landing; looking, for a foolish moment, exactly what he was: a kid, embarrassed to be caught doing what he was doing.

  Which was sliding a pizza from a box on to a plate. The plate sat on a tray. The tray also held a glass of red wine.

  No doubt, if he’d had access to a single rose, he’d have laid it across the base of the glass.

  ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘That’s sweet,’ she said. ‘Did you bake it yourself?’

  ‘No, I –’ And here it was: the flush. But he had the composure to come up with something. ‘I took it out the box, though. That’s the tricky bit, know what I mean?’

  ‘Thank you, Jonno.’

  ‘I figured you’d rather eat up here.’

  ‘Thank you, Jonno.’

  He got to his feet, and handed her the tray. She took it, restraining herself from making a little curtsy as she did so.

  ‘I hope you enjoy it.’

  ‘You’re doing a great job, Jonno.’

  ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

  Helen likes you, Jonno. It’s her job to give you a hard time. This was what Katrina didn’t say as she carried her supper into her room.

  Downstairs, the bell rang again.

  It was as if it found its own way into my hand. You think I’m trying to avoid responsibility, don’t you? And you’re right because . . . because this really was not my fault. Not right then. Not with lightning flashing in my head, and my whole body scared it would happen again any moment . . .

  I don’t remember reaching for it, that’s what I really mean. There was nothing deliberate about the way it fetched up in my hand. It was just the first thing there when I needed to hold on to something.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I still have the bruise.

  There was noise in my head, white noise. The kind that blankets everything, like a migraine, so you can’t see or hear and don’t know what’s happening.

  I had the impression he was talking, but the words weren’t making it through. It was like being in a fog, hearing cannon in the distance . . . There were big sounds going on, but everything was muffled by the weather inside.

  He shook me, and jolted my back teeth . . . I remember the way they clacked together, sending a shock through every bone. I couldn’t see him, but I felt him move, and all I could imagine was, he was about to punch or slap me, continue punishing me for whatever it was I’d done. Which was simply be there . . . I was there and I was his. Anything I did that he didn’t approve of was automatically an infraction, do you see? He was allowed to punish. It wasn’t his privilege, it was his right. It was almost his duty.

  I put my hand out, and he walked straight into me. It was as if he couldn’t see I was holding a knife.

  . . . Do you remember what I said about the sword in the stone? That if I could slide each knife into its slot first go, I’d be a princess? Well, this one found its slot straight away. All those bones it could have glanced off, but . . .

  I didn’t feel like a princess, though. Instead, I felt

  Arkle turned the tape off.

  They were in the van again; rain bouncing off the roof. Arkle pressed eject, and the tape slipped into his hand the way it had back in Helen Coe’s flat, when he’d removed it from her machine; fingers tingling, as they still did now. Adrenalin buzz. She had given him, by then, the address he needed. She had had little choice. It was unsurprising how easy it was to make people do things; it exactly fitted Arkle’s view of how the world worked. People bent and broke without difficulty, and on the whole were pleased to do things that made the breaking stop.

  This woman, downstairs. The journalist. She wouldn’t let it happen to her, you only have to look at her to know that . . . To know she believes that.

  Whatever. She’d stopped believing it now.

  Trent said, ‘That one. On the corner.’

  He double
-parked opposite the house: end of the row, with a lane bending round the back. It was three storeys high, with lights burning on each floor.

  ‘Just the two of them, right?’ asked Trent. His face was pulled into a Hallowe’en grin, but he probably couldn’t help it.

  ‘Kay and a boy. He makes the tea.’

  ‘And Coe won’t have called the cops or anything?’

  Arkle said, ‘Trust me. She won’t have called the cops.’

  Not without psychic intervention, she wouldn’t.

  Staring through the windshield, Trent said, ‘You didn’t kill her, did you?’

  Arkle said, ‘All I meant was, I left her trussed up. On her sofa.’

  ‘. . . Okay.’

  ‘And I pulled her landline out and took her mobile. See?’

  He showed Trent Helen Coe’s mobile.

  ‘. . . Okay.’

  But Arkle, thought Trent, hadn’t actually said he didn’t kill her. Taking the mobile was something he’d have done anyway. Arkle didn’t altogether approve of mobiles, and definitely objected to other people having them.

  And then Trent had an even worse thought, which was: What if he hadn’t killed her? No way in the world was she not going to know it was Arkle. She’d seen him once already. Leaving her alive was like signing a neon confession.

  But there was the money to think about. Revenge for Baxter, too. But also the money.

  ‘. . . Fuckin’ lot of money,’ he mumbled, as his train of thought audibly derailed.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Arkle. ‘Revenge for Baxter, too.’

  He described his plan, which was not complicated, then got out and crossed to the house where Kay was hiding, and rang its doorbell.

  Jonno called up the stairs: ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’d come out on to her landing. Jonno hadn’t ordered another pizza. It wouldn’t be the police again: not this time of night . . .

  Kids. One of the local drunks or druggies, looking for a handout. Or somebody lost, wanting directions. Collecters for Christian Aid or Shelter; trick-or-treaters; carol singers . . . Anyone, basically. Anyone except who she already knew it was.