Truth Dare kill dm-1

by Gordon, Ferris,

  She was standing behind the bar as though a year hadn’t happened, her hair piled up the way I loved. She saw me come in and her face went pink. Then she gave me a look that made me want to check the date of my last anti-tetanus jab. I know I’m not as pretty as I used to be, but a monster?

  She walked straight over to Alec and spoke to him, quickly and quietly. Alec raised his brooding eyes and found me. He didn’t hesitate; he lifted the bar flap and came over, full of intent. He was an old pug, with hams for hands and plasticine for a nose.

  “Piss off, Red. You’ve done enough damage round here.”

  “I just wanted a pint, Alec. What’s the problem? Don’t returning heroes get a beer?”

  “Red, you’re no fucking hero for Sandra. She don’t want to know. So, save you, me, and all of us, some trouble and sling your ’ook.”

  I was aware of how quiet it had got. Sandra was standing as far away as she could from me, watching with hard eyes and sucking nervously on a fag. It had been the same eyes that had caused the barney the last time, over a year and a half ago. We’d been going out for a couple of months. I’d got digs round the corner in Peckham while I was getting trained up by the SOE. Sandra was fun, lively, beautiful and a champion cock-teaser. I never knew where I was with her; she could be dragging me into bed one night and sending me packing the next.

  I guess I’m slow. It took me five weeks to realise I was one of a string. I don’t like that; don’t like being taken for a ride; don’t like sharing. I told her so and she promised to be faithful. But I didn’t trust her. And I was right; the night she should have been out with her mates – one of them was supposed to be getting married – I found her with her tongue down the throat of a right wee spiv round the back of the Streatham Locarno. He deserved the pasting I gave him, and she came back to me; she liked men fighting over her, I suppose. She was less happy when I gave her a clip, and from then on Sandra and I were fireworks. So I suppose Alec was right to get me out of his pub before we started some new slanging match.

  “Ok, Alec. Point taken. I suppose I’m not as gorgeous as I was.”

  His eyes softened, as did his voice. “S’nothing to do with your fizzog, Red.

  You’re still prettier than me. She’s not bleedin’ worth it. She’s a tart with big tits. Which is what my clientele pays for. Forget her.”

  I looked round at his clientele, over to Sandra, and nodded to Alec. I turned and walked out. I tried to put Sandra out of my head, but couldn’t help wondering if I should have just done a Nelson and ignored what she was up to; enjoyed what she gave me. For when she gave, it was memorable. Jealousy is my curse.

  I shook her from my thoughts by focusing on the conversation I’d just had with Kate Graveney. I tried to make sense of her words and how they connected with me. I didn’t know whether to feel angry or relieved at being thwarted in my search for Major Tony Caldwell. It all seemed a wee bit too convenient for my liking. My short time as a detective in Glasgow convinced me that there was no such thing as a coincidence. But I’m also aware that I tend to get a shade paranoiac these days.

  I stopped and looked back down the hill. I kneaded my leg with both hands where it was aching; the damp seeped into the bones where they knitted. I thought about the year ahead; it held little promise for me. New Year celebrations are sadder than glad affairs at the best of times. And these weren’t. The skies were soaked with rain that could turn to snow any time. The wind was blowing straight off the North Sea and up the Thames with few enough buildings left to take the edge off. At least it was keeping the fog away.

  There was hardly a line of houses untouched; great swathes cut through residential streets and factories; stumps left where buildings either side had been straddled on a bombing run. Pipes hung out from nude walls like entrails, and wallpaper flapped in upstairs rooms open to the skies. Queues everywhere for everything. Half the city had no lights. London transport sent their buses and their trams out, but never enough, never on time to take the grey-faced folk off to their makeshift offices.

  I laughed. If there was a god, sometimes you had to smile and shake your head at his bent sense of humour.

  I came to Ruskin Park where I used to walk in the summer. It was cold and empty now. On impulse I climbed over the waist-high gate and walked in. I followed the path down to the pond in the middle. I smelt it before I saw it: that ripe stink of decay. It glistened like oil in the dark. Bare trees hung over the water. I didn’t see the girl on the bench till I was nearly on her. It was the white of her hands that caught my eye.

  I coughed to warn her. “Hello. Are we too early for the party?”

  She didn’t jump; must have heard me coming. She lifted her face. It was wet. She sniffed and took a hand to her cheeks. She looked about my age, though it was hard to tell through the long dark hair that hung like pondweed over her face.

  She sniffed again and pushed the hair back to show a trembling lip and stricken eyes. She looked familiar, probably one of the shop girls from down at the Green.

  “I hate crowds,” she said, meaning get lost, mate.

  “Two’s not a crowd, is it?”

  Normally I’m the first to take a hint, but I suddenly wanted company. Still missing Sandra, I suppose. There was room on the bench for me without getting too close. I didn’t want her to run away. We sat gazing at the pond, not looking at each other. There was no moon but enough light to let the shrubs and trees and pathway show up clearly. I could see her legs stretched out in front of her.

  They were slim, with good ankles. She had to be daft, sitting alone in a park at midnight with a madman around.

  “I just wanted some peace, you know?” Her voice had lost its edge. “Stuff to remember.”

  Of course. A city full of tragedies. New Year’s Eve, and all you can think of is the family you lost in the Blitz or the boy who never came back from the front.

  I began to get up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  She was quick. “It’s all right. Really. Shouldn’t dwell on things. Been here long enough. Go before I catch my death.” Her words were wreathed in vapour.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Not your fault, was it?”

  I turned properly and looked at her. She was crying again, and it grew to a sobbing and she didn’t cover up her face. She let her hands lie by her side and let her chest shudder and fall in helpless anguish. I was scared to touch her but wanted to reach over and squeeze her arm. She turned her head towards me and the sobbing began to slow. The last time I’d seen such hopeless eyes was in the mirror.

  “Come on. You’re frozen. I know a bar. I’ll buy you a whisky. It’s good for cold hands; helps you forget too.” Not that I needed help, I almost added.

  “I’m not a pick-up, you know!”

  “Course not! But there are enough nutters around.”

  Her glistening eyes sized me up. I tried to look like I was wearing a dog-collar. She smiled gamely and nodded.

  “I’m Danny. Danny McRae. What’s yours?”

  “Valerie Brown. Val.”

  We got up and we walked back out of the park and up the hill till we cut over to Grove Lane. She was the right height to fit under my arm if we ever got that far. The George Canning still had its blackout curtains up; handy if you wanted to let your best customers go on drinking after hours. We had about ten minutes to go before midnight. Just before we went in and the lights hit us, I stopped and turned to face her.

  “Val, I need to say something. I’m a wee bit war damaged too.” I took off my hat and made her see the white lines that I knew would be gleaming silver in the moonlight like a snail trail.

  “You trying to impress me?”

  “I didn’t want you to faint. Or drop your whisky.”

  “You haven’t bought me one yet, have you?” She gazed with interest at the scars, then lifted her finger and stroked each one, so lightly all I could feel was a line of chill. She smiled and we went in.

  We were clouted by light and nois
e and the smell of folk who’ve been wearing the same clothes for too long through too much. A few turned their heads to see who it was then went back to shouting at each other. Their faces were red and sweaty. I cut a channel for us through the smoke and the crowd and found a tiny bit of corner space with a shelf.

  “Whisky, Jock?” mouthed Terry, the bald barman. I raised two fingers twice. He got the drift and two double scotches hit my hands. He whistled when I handed him the big new fiver and checked it against the light. He nodded and rang me up the change. I fought my way back to her and perched the glasses on the shelf.

  In the heavy air her pale skin was already going pink under the eyes. The hair was gypsy black, like the Catholic girls I used to know in Glasgow. Her eyes were dark brown, not washed out like Kate Graveney’s. Two pretty women cross my path in one evening. Maybe the new year wasn’t going to be all bad? “Cheers!” I clacked my glass against hers. She smiled and toasted me back. She took a swig and choked and spluttered but held it down. This time the colour spread across her face and down her white neck. Someone called for quiet and several others joined in and suddenly there was still. Terry was twisting at the dial of the radio. The sound of Big Ben’s midnight chimes bonged through the waiting bar. As the last one fell, a cheer went up. Happy New Year!

  I raised my glass and shouted, “Here’s to you, Tam and Archie!” as I promised I’d do every Ne’erday till I joined them – wherever they were.

  People started embracing and kissing and weeping. Val didn’t seem to be too put off by what she’d seen of me in the light, so I leaned in to give her a quick kiss. She smiled, but like a flash, got her finger across her lips. Too hasty, that’s me. I saw her eyes brim and turned away so she couldn’t see my own tears welling. A maudlin Scot at Hogmanay. Silently I sent word to my mother, and hoped the neighbours were looking after her.

  We had another drink and tried to talk but it was like shouting into a Hampden roar. So we gave up and just smiled at each other and at all the daft folk around us and I shook hands with strangers and for a moment I seemed to lose her to drunks. Then she returned to me flushed and flustered. They started singing, all those Vera Lynn songs, trying to recapture the best bits of the war, when we were all in the same boat rowing the same way. But I’d heard “Tipperary” and “White Cliffs” murdered once too often. I sank my scotch and nodded towards the door.

  We walked back to my place without saying anything, without agreeing anything. I lit a fire and we sat gazing into it, supping more Scotch. We saw our own past in the flames and hoped… well, all I was hoping was to wake up beside her. But she made it clear there would be no hanky-panky. She stayed with me anyway, dancing out of her top clothes in front of the sparking fire. She kept on her slip and slid shivering between my cold sheets. We lay like orphans, the folds between us, spooned but passion-free, just glad to share a bed against the dark.

  Her thin limbs shook until our bodies made a bubble of warmth under the heavy blankets.

  I smelt the fag smoke on her hair and the cheap scent on the skin of her neck and gladly relinquished the memory of Kate’s costly perfume. We began to drowse.

  A big spark would shake us and make her twitch. I’d shush her like a pony and she’d subside again. The fire dwindled and the shadows deepened. Her trembling eased and stopped, and sleep took us both.

  The morning light woke me. But Valerie was gone.

  FOUR

  The first day of the year. The wireless was being determinedly cheerful: bells of liberty ringing across Europe… first year without war since 1939, and other such breathless stuff. I switched it off. Here in liberated south London the streets were quieter than normal as the good citizens grappled with a massive hangover. But the buses were running and I could hear the steady rise in volume as folk battled into work. The Blitz couldn’t stop them. Why would a sore head?

  But I knew full well that in Scotland, it would be graveyard quiet; New Year’s day was a holiday, an essential respite for recovery and in some cases, resurrection.

  I seemed to have drunk more than I thought last night. My cure is fresh air, so I decided to take a walk. As I stepped out the door, the cold hit me. The wireless had warned that the temperature would drop, but the frigid air stung my lungs and set me into a coughing fit. I went back up for a scarf and gloves and set out again. I like walking, even though it makes my leg hurt. When your world is defined by barbed wire and machine gun towers, the sense of exhilaration at being able to stroll without being shouted at or fired at runs deep. It was only slowly that I realised that in a haphazard way I was looking for her. I’d known her only one night. I’d slept beside her, but not made love to her. But already I missed her. I didn’t know I was missing somebody. I didn’t know where she lived or how to get in touch. So much for my detective skills. I’m an idiot. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. Was I just a warm bed at a bad time for her? A new year flirt?

  This was stupid, a kid’s game. And I was in no state – mental or physical – to be thinking about acquiring a girlfriend. I had other ways of dealing with my basic needs. I could do nothing, so I decided to turn my walk into something with a purpose. I’d visit Kate Graveney’s scene of crime, if there was a crime.

  The arctic wind burgled its way inside my coat. I adjusted the scarf and pushed my hat on more firmly. At least the sky was clearing. There was even some blue to the west. I willed it my way.

  I put in some zigzags round the back streets aiming to pick up Kennington Lane.

  Away from the main arteries that fed the City and the West End, the streets were quieter. When I met another walker we touched hats and wished each other a happy new year. I passed boarded windows on bomb-damaged streets, and one huge crater that they hadn’t got around to filling in. Surprising really, given the amount of material lying around. I crossed the river at Vauxhall, heading into Pimlico.

  There didn’t seem to be as much damage here: no factories or docks to blitz.

  Though lord knows how they missed the twin legs of Battersea Power Station. They say they’ll build another pair alongside, but I’ll believe it when I see it. It would look funny, like a table on its back. The streets were busier now, shoppers queuing for mean lumps of cheese or slivers of meat, cars rumbling along chased by their own exhaust clouds.

  I was getting good and warm now and could open my coat collar a bit. I thought about the two women I’d met last night. The contrast. The accident of birth and where it leads you. I could guess how growing up was for Val, but I had absolutely no idea how it was for Kate. Money and position make everything possible. I wasn’t jealous, just curious, as you would be for another species.

  Even that little blink of fear I’d seen in Kate’s eyes when she saw my scar had been quickly controlled – mustn’t show emotions in front of the servants.

  But at least I knew how to contact Kate Graveney. I had her phone number, somewhere in Chelsea – of course. I was to call her the moment I heard anything.

  With Val – Valerie Brown; I rolled the syllables in my mouth – I had nothing, and the thought of not seeing her again filled my day with a shadow that had nothing to do with the weather.

  I came into Lupus Street and began looking for my number. I didn’t have to do much counting. I could see the gap from the corner. I walked closer but stayed on the other side of the street sizing it up. It was as though a giant bread knife had taken out a clean slice, leaving the buildings either side untouched.

  I guess all the terrace buildings had been constructed one by one. I walked over. There was still some rubble in the back garden. Bare trees stood at the end, and an old shed. What was I looking for? A pair of feet sticking out of the debris? I walked into the garden. The grass was sodden and studded with bricks.

  There was that depressing smell of burnt wood and plasterboard soaked by persistent rain.

  I kicked a brick sticking up on the edge of the pile and saw something lying to my left. I bent and picked up a shoe. High heeled, navy blue,
good leather and size 4. I didn’t need to be a Prince Charming to know whose foot this would fit.

  And she was no Cinderella. I brushed it clean and stuck it in my coat pocket. I looked but I didn’t find the other one.

  “Hoi! No looting here, laddy!”

  I turned to see an old man in a big cardigan and knotted scarf waving his walking stick at me. His breath ballooned about his head. I put on my best smile and walked over to him.

  “It’s all right, sir. I know the lady who used to visit here. She asked me to see if I could find her shoes.” I dug out the shoe and showed it to him. He still looked suspicious.

  “What lady would that be? I live across the road, you know. I see what’s going on here.”

  “She was using the house. It belonged to a friend.”

  “The Jamesons. Been abroad, they have,” he said triumphantly. Then his wrinkled eyes narrowed. “She a blonde?”

  I nodded. I bet this nosy old bugger watched every passer-by and all the goings-on.

  “She might be.”

  “Her and her fancy man?”

  “Could be.”

  His suspicious look had turned into a secretive know-it-all one. He was dying to tell me more.

  “You her husband?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  “A private dick, then.”

  So, not so daft. “This isn’t about infidelity, sir. Did you see the explosion?”

  His face fell and crumpled with annoyance. “I was asleep, wasn’t I. Near threw me out of my bed. Thought it was Jerry starting all over again.”

  “Did you see the ambulances?”

  “Oh, yes. But I couldn’t see what they were doing. Fire engines and everything.”