by Peter Benson
Lisa sat alone at a corner table. A man at the bar looked across at her, smoothed his hair and smiled; she sneered back and gave him the finger. He shrugged and turned back to his drink. She stared into hers, and as she did, she felt her embryo scratch. This felt as though it had travelled a great distance to be with her, and that hospitality was not enough. It was accompanied by a twinge that snapped at her spine and moved slowly towards her neck. Her focus faded, her drink swam across the table, she closed her eyes and pinched her nose. She took a breath, and when she opened her eyes again, the feeling had gone, and she felt calm.
Sergeant Davis was walking his dog along the front. Nothing gave him more pleasure; away from the station, forgetting the scum he had to deal with, giving himself a break. The sea rustled the beach, the sky was drifting with a light curtain of snow, the air was clean and cold. His dog, a Yorkshire terrier, was his closest friend, his confidant and the reason he looked forward to going home every evening. Chips was a snappy, barky little bastard, a spoilt bundle of neuroses, a dog that trusted no one but its master, who nipped at strangers for no other reason than spite. It was overfed, indulged and given a bath every Thursday.
Davis was a loner, a man whose ambition had stopped in 1991; he was happy to be a sergeant. Responsibility scared him. Relationships confused him, he didn’t know how to talk to women, and he didn’t think that children were people. He could remember some details of his own childhood, but he preferred not to. His parents had been Christians who hit him for looking at them the wrong way. They had brought him up to believe that music stopped with Mozart, and that literature was a dangerous nonsense. Emotion had been frowned on by his father; Davis had never seen the man kiss his mother, or shout at her. Opinions had been forbidden, argument had been forbidden, sex could never become a hobby, entertainment had to be earnt. Homosexuality was a disease that could be cured by prayer. Jazz was a sin. Life in the Davis house was lived on the top deck of a superficial bus that cruised the suburbs of a world that ignored itself. When he got off to become a policeman, he never looked back. He bought a dog for company and called him Chips. Dogs could be trusted to trust him, they didn’t answer back and were always grateful.
Chips had come from a kennel outside Lewes, where the pedigree stretched back years, and rosettes covered the feeding-room walls. The air had been filled with the sound of yapping, and the owner of the place had been Davis’s type of person. A shy, monosyllabic woman with huge eyebrows and a beard; she had shown him the new litters, then left him to make his mind up. There had been no pressure and no fuss; Davis had stood and waited for the right pair of eyes to fix on his. He’d known which dog would be his immediately; he and Chips had made an instant connection, and had filled each other’s hearts with comfort. Happiness had written its name in the sky, and moved across the duck pond behind the kennels. ‘I’d like that one,’ he’d said, and Chips had known. He’d stuck his little ears up, and run his tongue over his teeth.
‘Isn’t he sweet?’ said the kennel owner.
Davis agreed. He was full of the idea of companionship, of owning a dog that would obey him, that would depend and rely on him. ‘Yes,’ he said, and the woman opened the cage and picked the animal out.
Now, seven years later, the prosaic ideas had been added to; he had a deep, unconditional love for Chips, full of worry and care, constant thought and consideration. He fed the dog on choice cuts of meat, crunchy biscuits and freely available fresh water. He had bought him a pillowed basket to sleep in, and a variety of squeaky toys to play with. A duck, a rubber biscuit and an orange ball. The television would be turned off when programmes the dog found disagreeable were shown, and they’d play instead, or go for a walk. Chips liked to walk, he liked to linger at smells, and Davis was a patient waiter.
The cold had killed all but the strongest smells; Davis walked quickly, and only stopped a few times to allow Chips to linger. He pressed the button on its retractable lead, and allowed the dog the freedom to roam a bit.
Mrs Platt heard about the vet on the local television news. She had been in the kitchen making a pot of tea, and glanced up to see his face on the screen. At the time, she’d still been simmering with hatred for the man, and her first reaction had been to spit, but then she heard the newsreader explain that it had been a tragic accident, the second of the week that could be blamed on the cold weather. A council official was grilled about the lack of grit on the roads and pavements; he claimed that they were spreading as much as they normally did, under the circumstances. ‘What circumstances?’ asked the reporter. ‘Winter,’ said the official.
Mrs Platt sat down. Her last words to the vet came back to her, and she wondered if they had rung in his ears as he died. She hadn’t meant them. They’d been said through a haze of fury. He hadn’t been an evil man, he’d believed that he was doing the right thing. She understood that now. Mrs Platt had always tried to understand the other person’s point of view; what had enraged her was his deceit, the fact that he hadn’t told her at the time. He hadn’t been a murderer, she didn’t believe in retribution. She saw the scene of the accident, a coned spot in Rick Street, the curious shoppers and a policeman with a grim face and folded arms. An interview with the doctor who covered his face with her coat, and a shot of the outside of the veterinary surgery. Then the news moved on to a piece about Brighton and Hove Albion FC, and Mrs Platt turned it off.
She sat in front of the blank screen for ten minutes, then stood up and went back to the kitchen. She poured a cup of tea, leant on the sink, stared at the night and felt guilt creep up to her. To begin with, it just tweaked her ears, but then it began to whisper. It suggested that she was responsible, that her anger had upset him so much that he’d become preoccupied with it, had been feeling guilt too, had not been able to concentrate all day, had crossed the road without thinking, had died with a head full of regret. A young man, bleeding in the road with a girlfriend wearing a silver ring he had bought her waiting for him somewhere; the night that blurred the world came to her kitchen window and tapped on the glass. When she heard Frank come in, she turned and hurried to her front door, opened it and blurted, ‘The vet’s dead!’
‘What?’ said Frank.
‘The vet,’ she said. ‘He was knocked down by a car. Killed. This afternoon…’
‘Your vet?’
Mrs Platt nodded, and she began to cry.
Frank’s head was overloaded with deaths; another bounced against the others and barely bruised them. He put his arm on her shoulder and led her back into her rooms, and sat next to her on a tassled couch. ‘Are you sure?’ he said.
She waved a finger in the direction of the television. ‘It was on the news.’
Frank struggled for the words, and came up with ‘Accidents —’ a pause, ‘happen,’ and immediately regretted them. They acted like a pantomime horse on ice. They had the grace of blood and the poise of nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
Mrs Platt shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, ‘don’t be.’ She sniffed and rummaged in her sleeve for a handkerchief. ‘Mr Platt used to say “I’m sorry,” all the time, and I hated it. He’d say it —’ and she paused to blow her nose, ‘if he hit his thumb with a hammer.’
Frank smiled, but not broadly. He was beginning to wonder if he’d ever do anything broadly again, and he was beginning to feel very tired.
‘You never met Mr Platt, did you?’
‘No,’ said Frank.
‘That’s a pity. He was a lovely man.’ She nodded at his memory. ‘He used to bring me a present every Friday.’
‘He loved you.’
‘He did,’ said Mrs Platt. ‘He loved me so much. When he died I could still feel his love all around. It’s faded now, but it’s still there. Here.’ Her eyes widened, and she concentrated on a distant spot in the room. ‘Like now,’ she said, ‘it’s here now.’ She wiped her nose and tucked the handkerchief away. ‘Love is stronger than death, isn’t it?’
Frank nodded, but he didn
’t say anything, because he wasn’t sure what the answer should be.
The cold had not killed a smell that lingered at a bus stop. Chips caught it and stopped, and began to sniff madly. It was of metal and prunes, piss and leather, plastic and bananas, grit and water. There was hair and meat there too, and a hint of rabbit. Sergeant Davis let Chips have the entire length of the lead, and watched the dog for a moment before spotting an advertisement in a travel agency window. He went to take a closer look, and as he did, had to stand with the lead at a right angle around the corner of the shop door. Chips was out of sight.
Winter holidays were available in many countries. There was a trip to Lapland by Concorde, a ten-day break in Jamaica and a fortnight in Malta. These were just some of the bargains on offer; more were posted on a board inside the shop, over a desk.
Davis remembered the last holiday he had taken, in the lonely days before Chips. He had spent a week in Scotland, where he had been bitten to death by midges and deafened by bagpipe music in a restaurant. He’d tried to enjoy himself but found it impossible; something had been missing from his life, but at that time he hadn’t known what.
Something had been missing from Bob’s life, and now he knew what it was. As he sat in the sauna at The Pines Country Club, he sat back, narrowed his eyes and let the heat cover him, fill him and turn him glossy. He leaned forward and tossed a ladle of water on to the hot rocks, and watched the steam rise. Nothing reminded him of Frank or the agency, or the events that were knotting themselves around Brighton. He was calm and his pores were humming to each other.
He had seen advertisements for saunas you could have in your own home; they took up less room than a wardrobe, and could be fitted anywhere. Then, the intense cleaning experience, the healing heat of your own personal cabin could begin to transform your life; Bob knew it, and wondered why it had taken him so long to realise that this was it, that this was bliss. To sit naked in a streaming twilight of heat, a heat that stole every thought you ever had and rendered it impotent, a twilight of constant orange and pine. The smell of resin and steam. Bob knew that life was too short for dithering, and concluded that the Finns had stumbled on a verity. He leant back and watched a stream of sweat cascade off his forehead and run down his chest, and then he closed his eyes.
Mrs Austin sat on the train and stared at the night through her reflection. Moonlight shone on the fields of Kent. Tears filled her eyes though she had not been expecting them, and they tumbled and pooled on the floor. Another passenger rustled his newspaper and tried not to look, but when she took a deep breath and let out a long involuntary moan, he leaned forward and said, ‘I’m sorry, but are you all right?’
Mrs Austin looked at the man. He was dressed in a pin-stripe suit, white shirt and tie, and black brogues. He had put a carefully folded coat in the luggage rack, and a plain briefcase on the floor.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not really.’
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He offered it. ‘It’s clean,’ he said.
She looked at it, took it, pressed it to her face and mumbled, ‘My children are dead.’
The man cupped a hand over an ear and said, ‘I’m sorry?’
Mrs Austin crushed the handkerchief and looked up. ‘Cyril and Diana,’ she said.
‘Who are they?’
‘My son and daughter.’
‘And you’re going to visit them?’
‘They’re dead,’ she said.
The man dropped his newspaper. The pages floated across the carriage like greying feathers from hell. ‘God,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ The words dropped like stones.
‘I don’t know how, I don’t know why.’
The man tried to think of something else to say, but his head was jammed.
‘I don’t even think I believe it. Maybe they’ll be waiting for me at the station.’
The man looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said, hopefully. ‘I expect there’s been a mix-up.’ He reached out and began to gather up the pages of his newspaper. ‘It happens all the time.’
‘Does it?’ said Mrs Austin.
‘Oh yes,’ said the man.
Mrs Austin nodded, and though she wished and wished, she knew that what she had been told was the truth, and the truth wore weeds.
Chips stepped off the pavement and began to sniff some slush in the gutter. There was piss and fish in it, and as he nuzzled his nose into the smell, a bus approached. A woman put her hand out to stop it, the driver flipped down a gear, checked his rear-view mirror and touched the brakes. He was tired and looking forward to going home. He was a young man, married with three children. He did not see Chips, and as the front near-side wheel ran over the animal, he didn’t feel the impact. Passengers on the bus didn’t see anything, and people waiting to climb aboard were too busy to notice; life left the dog without a whisper or a look, and left the corpse as flat as a board. Davis continued to read the adverts in the travel agency’s window as the bus pulled away, then pulled on the lead and whistled. When there was no reaction, he turned the corner and saw the back of a disappearing bus, and his dog in the road. From where he was standing, it didn’t look dead. Davis whistled again, and then pressed the button that reeled the lead on to its spool.
The dog moved a few inches, then caught the kerb. Davis tugged and narrowed his eyes. It was only when a pedestrian screamed and another shouted at the bus that he realised something was wrong. He ran, the lead whipped into its spool, he dropped it and saw Chips oozing now, his guts in his mouth and his feet splayed at bad angles. He heard someone shout, ‘It was the bus!’, he twitched, shut his eyes quickly, then opened them again. Chips was still dead, Chips was flat. In his life, Davis had seen women with their throats cut and men with air where their brains should have been, and these sights had not put him off bacon, but this was too much for him. He dropped the lead and tipped his head back, opened his mouth and let out a cry that started in his feet and shot through his body like a bullet. It filled the air, and made children run in fright. He wailed and howled, he dropped to his knees and tried to pick the dog up. An eyeball dropped out of Chips’s ear and lay on the pavement. Davis picked it up and put it in his pocket, then sat down and cradled the animal in his arms. He rocked backwards and forwards, tears ran down his face, the Brighton night filled with his keening, and all the blame in the world sat upon his shoulders.
12
Inspector Evans was eating his dinner. His wife was telling him that it was time he got the Christmas-tree lights out of the attic. ‘You know what’ll happen. You’ll find a couple of broken bulbs, but by the time you get down to the shops, they’ll have sold out.’
‘They don’t sell out of them,’ he said. He was enjoying a potato.
‘They did last year,’ said his wife, ‘and don’t talk with your mouth full.’
Inspector Evans shook his head.
‘And don’t shake your head like that.’
‘How would you like me to shake it?’ he said.
Mrs Evans, who liked a bit of a spat, smiled at her husband. He reminded her of her children, and that reminded her of her grandchildren, and then she thought about Christmas and got a warm feeling. She leaned across the table, reached out and stroked the back of his hand. He did not flinch.
‘I’ll get them down later,’ he said.
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘Now, can I finish my dinner?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Thanks.’ He cut a piece of fish and put it in his mouth.
‘Did you have a bad day at work?’
‘Why?’ It was haddock.
‘I just wondered,’ she said. ‘I like to know these things.’
Inspector Evans looked at his wife as if he’d just met her. Sometimes she amazed him. Sometimes she bled questions, other times she said little and meant less. Christmas made her and snow gave her purpose. Winter was her drug, and all the things she wanted.
Frank left Mrs Platt and went upstairs. He took a bottl
e of Volvic from the fridge, pulled a chair to the window and sat down.
He sipped his water and watched the street. A light went on in the house opposite, and he saw the shadow of a woman climb a wall, cross a ceiling and then disappear. Frank waited a minute, swilling the bottle and wondering whether to phone Bob, when the shadow returned and turned on a television. A car drove down the street, and a dog began to bark. The woman opposite closed her curtains and her shadow faded. It went like paper in a fire, twisting and then floating into the air. It could have whispered and it could have sighed; Frank heard nothing, and cared less.
He sat for ten minutes before Lisa came up and knocked on his door; he let her in and offered her a cup of coffee. She looked pale, and her eyes were filmed and red. As he fiddled with the kettle she stood by the window, hugged herself, took a deep breath and said, ‘Have you seen Mrs Platt?’
‘Half an hour ago,’ he said. ‘She’d had a shock.’
‘What?’ She moved from the window, sat in an easy chair and wiped the palms of her hands.
‘Her vet was killed.’
‘Her what?’
‘The vet. He was at the party. You remember. She ended up shouting at him, telling him—’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘He was knocked down by a car.’ Frank took a bottle of milk from the fridge. ‘It was nothing to do with her, but she thinks that somehow it’s her fault.’ The kettle boiled. ‘Something she said to him…’ He spooned coffee into the mugs, poured the water and stirred.
‘She was angry.’
‘Anger doesn’t kill people.’ He carried the drinks from the kitchen, put them on the table and sat down.
‘True,’ said Lisa, and she put her hand on her stomach. Now, her baby flipped in her womb, calculated the sharpness of one knife and began to rage. It began to seethe, and her head began to churn, and all her wishes collided.