by Peter Benson
Evans was shocked by his colleague’s appearance; two day’s growth of beard covered his face, his cheeks were pinched, his eyes were small and bloodshot, and he hugged himself around the waist.
‘Come in,’ said Davis.
‘Thanks.’
The curtains were drawn, and the flat stank of something stale or dead. Davis hacked and said, ‘Want a coffee?’
‘Okay.’
‘I was going to call in this morning.’ He went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. ‘I’ve had the flu. It’s been terrible. Yesterday, God, I thought I was going to die…’
‘Have you seen the doctor?’
‘What’s he going to do?’ Davis came back from the kitchen. ‘No. I stayed in bed and OD’d on Vitamin C. Not that it made much difference. I still feel like shit.’
‘You look like it,’ said Evans.
Davis tried to smile, but his face refused to bend. He went back to the kitchen, and made the coffee. Evans went to the window and opened the curtains, then sat down on a threadbare sofa. There was something about his colleague that disturbed everything he knew about the man and nagged his policeman’s instinct. ‘How’s Chips?’ he called.
Davis dropped a mug. As it smashed, he yelled, ‘Shit!’
‘What happened?’
‘He’s asleep.’ Davis kicked the mess into a corner. ‘He hasn’t been feeling too good either. Sympathetic flu, I think.’ he said, and he coughed dramatically.
‘I’m sorry.’
Davis took a deep breath and made another coffee, then carried them to the sitting-room. ‘There you go,’ he said, and he slumped down opposite his boss.
‘You sure you don’t want a doctor? I could ask Warnes to call.’
‘Warnes couldn’t stick a plaster.’
‘You’ll need a chit…’
‘I know.’
‘So you can—’
‘Look!’ Now Davis confirmed Evans’s suspicions. His voice lost the gravel, his eyes looked fit, and his body tensed. ‘I can sort it!’
‘Hey! I was worried, that’s all.’
‘Save it.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
The two men sipped their coffee. It was disgusting. Evans waited for a minute, then said, ‘When are you going to be back? The Austin case isn’t going away.’
‘Give us a few more days.’
‘Okay.’
‘I don’t like being below par when I’m on the job.’ The cracked voice had returned. ‘You know that.’ He coughed.
‘Right.’ Evans put his coffee mug on the floor and stood up. ‘And you’re sure about Warnes?’
‘Sure.’
Evans went to the door. ‘Is there anything you need? Bread? Milk?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll call and see how you’re—’
‘Hey!’ Davis put his hand up, the mask slipped for a second, but he grabbed it and slapped it back on. ‘Thanks. No…’
‘Okay then.’ Evans opened the door, said, ‘See you in a couple of days…’ and left Davis alone.
Lisa lay on her side and stared out of the window. The sky was grey, the hospital car park was filling up, a sparrow sat on the sill and tapped at the glass. Ridges of snow were packed in the corners of the frame, and icicles hung above. The sound of a carol drifted from a radio in the nurses’ office, but she heard nothing, nor saw anything. She felt a hole where her purpose had been, and she felt as though she had been the angel of death. She cursed her body, guilt possessed her, her skin crawled and tears streamed from her eyes. She thought about Adrian, but any accusation was swamped by her blame, her failure and fault. She wished herself to hell, she prayed for her embryo to be given her life. The sparrow tapped on the glass again, then flew off.
A nurse came and said, ‘How are you feeling?’
The words hurt.
‘Lisa?’ The nurse put her hand on her shoulder. The touch burnt. She flinched. ‘Lisa?’
Lisa turned her head and looked up at the nurse. Her face looked as though its life had been replaced by glass and paint. It was smeared on to the front of her head.
‘Are you thirsty?’
Thirsty? Suddenly Lisa felt as though she was on fire, that flames were reaching up from her belly and licking the inside of her throat. She nodded, slowly at first, then quickly. The nurse reached out and took a mug of water off the bedside table and offered it. Lisa tasted it, grabbed the mug, tried to take it all at once, the nurse struggled and said, ‘No, no, slowly…’ The water tasted of air and bees humming and sugar and light. The nurse pulled the mug away, Lisa fell back and licked her lips. ‘Take it easy,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Lisa thought about the words ‘Thank you,’ but she couldn’t get them out. They stuck in her head. She nodded, and watched the nurse go.
As she watched, she felt a wave of rejection break over the guilt and crash against the backs of her eyes. She closed them and the tears streamed out again, running on to her nightdress and the sheets. She cried silently, she wished and wished, and all her dreams tied themselves in impossible knots, and sealed themselves with wax.
Frank called on Mrs Platt before he left the house. He knocked once, and she opened the door immediately, as if she’d been expecting him. She looked bright and cheerful, and talked as though the events of the previous night had never happened. She offered Frank a fresh cup of coffee, but he said he had a busy day. ‘Never mind,’ she said.
‘Maybe this evening,’ he said.
Mrs Platt’s face froze for a second, then the brightness returned and she smiled. ‘Maybe this evening,’ she agreed, and he left.
As he drove to work, he took a detour and passed the hospital. He stopped in the street opposite, and looked up at the first floor, and the window he knew Lisa could look through. He sat for five minutes and wished his love to her, then he drove on and arrived at the office to find Bob outside, talking to a man in a blue overcoat. He parked, and as he was locking his car, Bob waved and shouted down the street. ‘Frank!’ He said something to the other man, and hurried over. ‘Frank…’ The other man followed. ‘This is Steve Howard, from Berry’s.’
‘Berry’s?’
‘The estate agents.’
‘Oh,’ said Frank.
‘Steve; this is my partner, Frank.’
‘Ex-partner,’ said Frank, quickly.
Steve Howard stepped forward, offered his hand and said, ‘Hi.’ He was young, keen and had soft skin. He looked Frank straight in the eye and said, ‘Will the fact that you’re ex-partners affect the sale?’
Frank looked at Bob and the two men shrugged. ‘No.’
‘Good.’ He gestured at the office door and said, ‘Shall we?’
The three men toured the office slowly. Howard carried a clipboard and tape. He asked Bob to hold one end while he measured, and asked questions about the structure of the building and the piped services. He noted quickly and neatly, and reacted to Bob’s answers as though his life depended on them. He nodded and smiled encouragingly, and moved carefully.
Bob was enjoying himself; as he passed through each room he let go of it, relegating it to a place he did not regret. God, he had even given up smoking, and it had been no trouble at all. One day he’d been on thirty a day, now he was breathing fresh air for the first time in decades. He glowed inside and out. Health was the greatest gift, the future was bigger than anything. He smiled at Frank, but Frank was lost in thought.
Frank remembered the first day he had seen the offices, and how, for the first time in years, he had seen the future as ordered and neat. Now he was being thrown sideways, and though he wanted it, he was afraid. He had grown used to the security the agency provided, he had thought his days of uncertainty were over. No more gutting haddock in Ostend, forget the gravelled paths of the Tuileries, no more putting his last fiver on Toby, a three-legged spaniel from Betws-y-coed. Forget chaos and embrace order. Thank Bob and work diligently. Enjoy Brighton. Make new friends.
/> ‘Of course,’ said Howard, ‘as you know, the market’s still depressed, but business premises are less affected than domestic properties.’ He gestured around the office, and smiled winningly. ‘I don’t think we’ll have any trouble moving this at all.’
‘Excellent,’ said Bob.
‘I’d advise a sensible price, but not too sensible.’
‘Meaning?’
Howard shrugged. ‘Somewhere between fifty and sixty thousand. I’d put it on at fifty-nine, nine hundred and see what happens.’
Bob turned to Frank, who stared back, and then nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said.
‘Do it,’ Bob said to Howard.
‘It’s done,’ said Howard, and the men shook hands.
Inspector Evans drove around the corner from Davis’s flat and parked. He had a good view of the man’s front door, the street and the flat sky. An old lady passed by, and two men in suits and smart topcoats. He thought about his wife, her perfect cheese soufflés, and her small collection of shoes. He thought about the Christmas-tree lights, and how he was going to do something about them today. And he was going to get some of those licky paper chains you do yourself. And some crackers. He would look out for some holly and mistletoe, and give some change to a wino. He would call in and tell the station that he was on to something that related to the Austin case, and leave it at that. He waited for half an hour, and then Davis appeared. He was whistling, he looked fit and eager, he trotted down the front steps from his place, twirled his car keys like a pistol from a cowboy’s holster, stopped, looked at his car, looked at the sky and glanced over his shoulder. Evans wasn’t close enough to see the details of his face, but he didn’t miss a look he’d seen a few times before. Its eyes were boiling and its lips were missing. It was spawned by mayhem and fed on violence. It was controlled but manic, an ace from berserk. All the maniacs he had ever met had worn this look. Evans’s alarms were ringing, his ears were burning, he waited for Davis to drive off, then he followed.
The two cars drove to the end of the street, turned left and headed down Gabriel Street. They stopped at the lights, turned right and as they approached a zebra crossing, a plumber’s van cut in front of Evans and blocked his view of Davis’s car. When he saw it next, it was turning left, under the railway bridge and up again, disappearing in the direction of the town centre. Evans was stopped by another set of lights; when he was moving again, he couldn’t see Davis anywhere; he slowed and leaned forward, checking sidestreets as he cruised. A lorry honked, and a businessman swerved by with two fingers up, but he ignored them. ‘Yeah,’ he said, his eyes going left, right, forward, left, his knuckles white on the steering wheel and his shoulder giving him twinges. ‘Yeah,’ he hissed again, a cyclist overtook him and banged his roof with his fist and he saw Davis, fifty yards ahead, stopped in the middle of the road, signalling to turn right for the bus station. Another cyclist ripped by, he signalled right, accelerated, and shot across the path of a woman in a Volkswagen in time to see Davis turn, park, get out of the car and walk towards the buses.
A Father Christmas was sitting in the station waiting-room. He was late for work. A little girl sat between him and her mother, and said, ‘Where’s your reindeer?’
‘Ssh,’ said the mother.
‘Where’s Rudolf?’ said the girl.
The Father Christmas looked down and smiled. He scratched his beard, his eyes twinkled and he said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Sandra.’
‘Well, Sandra; Rudolf’s fine.’ He pointed outside. ‘He’s having some hay while they mend my sleigh.’
‘Your sleigh’s broken?’
‘Yes. I had a busy night last night, and I was very tired, and as I was on my way home I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I hit the top of a tree. One of my runners came loose, so the men who look after the buses are repairing it.’
‘It’s going to be ready for Christmas?’
The Father Christmas looked at his watch and said, ‘It’s going to be ready in half an hour.’
‘Oh good,’ said Sandra, and before she had a chance to ask Father Christmas why he wore a watch, her mother had taken her hand and walked her to the Lewes bus.
They passed Davis as he crossed the pull-ins and went to stand by the photo-booth. Evans watched him for ten minutes, then went into the station café and sat at a window. He rubbed a hole in the condensation, cupped a mug of coffee in his hands, and watched.
The air was cold but Davis breathed steadily, didn’t stamp his feet and didn’t blow into his hands. He stared at the drivers’ office, he watched men come and go, he didn’t move. He had reduced his life to a single wish, and his future to one moment. He had hit the essence of his pain, and loved it.
Mrs Platt prepared her day carefully. She went outside and cleared a space in the middle of the garden, then collected four bricks from the back shed and laid them to form a square in the middle of this space. She pulled a metal grill from her oven and put it on the bricks. She stood and looked at her work for ten minutes, watched the sky trundle in from the sea, listened to the sound of a flock of alarmed gulls, then nodded and went indoors to chop some kindling.
She listened to the radio while she chopped. A man was talking to a woman about touch and taboo. He asked if taboos were a defence mechanism inherited from our distant ancestors. She didn’t want to commit herself to a definite answer, and though she thought the idea was an interesting one, she tended to think that it was flawed. Mrs Platt took up a hatchet, and hacked at a piece of old packing case. ‘In Fiji, it’s considered taboo to touch someone else’s hair, in the same way as it would be taboo for me to touch your genitals.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mrs Platt.
‘Or for you to touch the nape of a Japanese girl’s neck.’
‘Really.’ A sliver of packing case flew across the kitchen, hit the fridge door and landed in a bowl of fruit.
‘And of course the nape of one’s neck is not high on one’s list of defensive priorities.’
‘No,’ said the man, ‘but then again…’
‘No,’ said Mrs Platt, and she stood up, switched the radio off and went to make a cup of tea. ‘Enough,’ she said, and while she was standing by the kettle, she took a roll of silver foil from the cupboard over the sink and tore off a strip. She smoothed it down and then put it to one side. She chopped a few more pieces of kindling until the water boiled, and then she took her drink and sat down at the table. Joey sat in his jar in front of her. She leaned towards him and said, ‘Hello.’ He didn’t move. She tapped the jar and whispered, ‘Today’s the day. Are you looking forward to it?’ She smiled age and exhaustion, and confusion in a world that defies understanding. ‘Joey? Joey?’ Mrs Platt smiled and smiled, and her face grew youth.
Mrs Austin went to the police station and asked for Evans. The desk sergeant rang for him; when he got no reply, Mrs Austin said, ‘There must be someone I can talk to.’
‘About what, exactly, Madam?’
‘Cyril Austin, and Diana.’
‘Austin?’
‘Yes. They’re both dead.’ She sniffed, deeply. ‘I’m Mrs Austin. Their mother.’
The sergeant recalled the case, nodded, picked up the phone and rang another number. He took a step back, and when it was answered, turned to one side and spoke in a whisper. Then he listened for half a minute, replaced the receiver and said, ‘Someone will be down to see you, Mrs Austin.’ He smiled and pointed to a row of chairs. ‘If you’d like to take a seat.’
Mrs Austin nodded, switched her handbag from the crook of her right hand to the crook of the left, and said, ‘Thank you.’
As she waited, she read a poster that warned of the dangers of pickpockets, and she watched a businessman present his vehicle documents. A young WPC appeared, said something to the desk sergeant, who nodded in her direction.
‘Mrs Austin? I’m WPC Hobbs.’ The woman was blonde, and wore studs in her ears. She offered Mrs Austin her hand. ‘Let’s go somewhere quiet.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Austin. ‘I’m fine here.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am.’
‘So.’ Hobbs smiled kindly. ‘How can we help?’
‘I want to see my children’s houses…’
Hobbs frowned.
‘…but don’t worry. I don’t want to take anything; I just want to look.’ Her voice was steady, but she pleaded with her eyes. ‘I know you must have to be careful, you want to find all the clues; I know. But…’
Hobbs looked at her shoes and ran a finger along her lips.
‘…but I have to see what they left behind.’
Hobbs nodded, looked over her shoulder and said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Frank ate an early lunch; cottage cheese and pineapple on wholemeal, a doughnut and a cup of coffee. He read the headlines on another man’s newspaper, he listened to the man behind the counter talk on the telephone about Danish pastries, and then he walked to the hospital.
Lisa was sitting up. Her monitor had been switched off and wheeled away, and the drip had been removed. When he saw her he thought that she was someone else. Her face was missing a level, her arms were slack and her knees made sad bumps in the bedclothes. He went to her and said, ‘Lisa?’ She dipped her head, put her hands to her eyes and started crying. He sat beside her and put his arms out, but he did not touch her. She was rigid, her hair hung down and she whispered, ‘Frank.’
‘Hey,’ he said, and now he took her hand. ‘I’m here.’
She sniffed.
‘Want to know what I’ve been doing?’
She shrugged.
‘I’ll tell you anyway,’ he said, and he settled himself on the bed. ‘I’m quitting the agency. Bob’s going too, and he’s going to sell the office, so maybe it’s the agency that’s quitting me, but whatever, I’m pleased. Yes.’ He nodded and patted Lisa’s hand. ‘It’s the start of something new.’
‘Glad you think so,’ said Lisa, softly.
‘But I’ve got to think it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because —’ Frank took a breath.