by Peter Benson
‘Okay.’ He fetched them.
‘How much?’
‘Six pounds sixty.’
Evans put a tenner on the counter, said, ‘Happy Christmas,’ and rushed out of the shop in time to see Davis disappearing down the road. He stuffed the paper chains into his pockets, and hurried after him.
Lisa and Frank followed Mrs Platt’s body to hospital, and stayed to answer a policeman’s questions. Then they left and took a taxi back to the house.
As they drove through the snowy streets, Lisa put her head on Frank’s shoulder, and held his hand. ‘You’re tired,’ he said.
‘I know.’
The taxi-driver looked in his mirror and winked. Frank scowled and said, ‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘What?’ said Lisa.
‘Nothing.’ He squeezed her hand.
They stopped at some traffic lights. ‘I didn’t know her.’ Lisa sniffed. ‘She was really good at listening, but she never told me anything about herself.’
‘Nor me.’
‘Has she got any family?’
‘I don’t know.’
The lights changed they moved on.
Lisa sat back and stared at the Christmas lights and the busy shops. ‘It’s important to have family,’ she said.
Frank nodded, but didn’t say anything. When they arrived at the house, he paid the taxi-driver and helped Lisa out of the car. She shook him off and dashed through the cold, up the stairs and through the front door. Ray Butts could have become a taxi-driver, overweight, pale and bitter. Ray Butts could have married Janet Black and lost her to an airline pilot. Ray Butts could have lost everything in a fire, and ended up with a scarred face and no hair.
Lisa stood outside her door and waited for Frank. When he caught up with her, she said, ‘I’m tired.’
‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you want?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘not at the moment.’
‘Okay,’ he said, and he reached out and touched her arm.
‘What are you going to do?’
He shrugged. ‘I could do with a drink. I think I’ll go and see Bob.’
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
‘Sure you’re going to be all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’
Mrs Austin sat on her hotel bed and waited for a taxi. She was going home. She had her daughter’s diary on her lap; she gripped it with both hands, but could not bear to open it. The five sentences she had read in the bedroom had scorched her. Guilt, lust, juices; she could hardly think these words, let alone speak them. She had been raised to believe that sex was necessary but inconvenient, and that deviancy was bred in the minds of the weak, who in their turn, had the power to pollute others. Homosexuality was a disease that could be cured, a measles that persuaded the head that the genitals were less than the God-given instruments of procreation, but had transfigured to become agents of evil.
The bedside telephone rang; she picked it up, and a voice said, ‘Mrs Austin? Your taxi’s here.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your taxi, for the station.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘Shall I send someone up for your bags?’
Mrs Austin said, ‘No thank you,’ and put the phone down. No one was who you thought they were, and the diseases of deviancy were spread by the slightest contact. She rubbed her eyes, and felt a throbbing behind them, and a sweat of blood spreading across her forehead. ‘No,’ she said to the floor, and then she picked her suitcase up, and left the Atlas Hotel.
Bob lay in his sauna, and listened to his stomach. It churned and gurgled. The heat had numbed the regret and guilt of the afternoon; now he was back on track, and the future was possible.
He was an ex-smoker, he was going to cut down on his drinking, he was going to eat brown bread, he was going to start walking to the shops. He was fifty-one, and he was going bald. He was overweight, and he had never read anything by Charles Dickens. He sat up, reached out and ladled some water on to the rocks. As they hissed and steamed, the pain in his side erupted again, lightly at first, and then as a massive burst that shot sideways, across his chest and into his heart.
He felt as though someone had broken into his body and was punching him from the inside out. He gasped, dropped the ladle, gripped his side and turned over. He teetered on the edge of the bench, put out his other hand and flailed for a grip. His fingertips brushed a hanging towel; he grabbed it and tried to pull himself up. The towel slipped from its hook, and he fell to the floor.
As Bob lay on his back, the sauna’s walls contracted, and the ceiling lowered. He felt suffocated. Lost. Alone. The pain grew; stabbing joined the punching, and forced him to spasm and arch his back. He screamed, a terrible wail that came from his feet, touched all his organs and blackened his teeth. He put the soles of his feet against the door and kicked, but the effort split his head and forced tears into his eyes. He gasped for breath, he flailed again, and hit the basket of coals. They spilt out and rolled across the floor, fizzing and spitting in the moisture. The pain dulled for a second, gathered its strength and then launched an attack that ripped him from his groin to his neck, concentrating in the heart and bursting it open. Bob writhed and bucked, then collapsed and lay still on the floor of the sauna, his body wreathed in sweat. His mouth was open, his eyes were closed, and his feet quivered. His head filled with a pale and desperate light, and his lungs blew. All his nerves played a single note. His body gripped itself and would not let go. He tumbled into himself, he grew smaller and smaller until he was a spot on the floor, and he lived in insignificance.
24
Snow fell steadily. Davis was wearing trainers, jeans, a T-shirt and a thin cotton jacket, but he was not cold. The driver was wearing a heavy topcoat, a scarf and gloves. Evans was wearing a suit and a sheepskin coat. The three men walked through the streets of Brighton like ghosts. The decorated shop windows glowed, and cars swished by. The smell of roasted chestnuts hung at one street corner, and the sound of carollers drifted across another. When the driver stopped to listen to the singing, Davis turned and pretended to look in a shop window, and Evans dived into a darkened doorway.
‘Silent Night.’
As the carol was sung, the moon broke through the heavy clouds and shone through the snow. The men stood beneath it, and the thief floated with them. The thief smiled and his heart was black. The snow in the street glittered, and icicles danced along the eaves. Then the sky closed and the moon disappeared. ‘Silent Night.’ The driver’s favourite carol. He put some change in a bucket on the pavement, and walked on.
Frank left Lisa at half-past eight. He drove to a hotel on the front, and sat in the bar to drink a whisky. The place was deserted. The barman wiped some ashtrays, and flicked a cloth at the optics. He was young, wore an ear-ring and had thick black hair, swept back from his forehead. His eyes were brown. He said, ‘The quiet before the storm.’
‘What?’
‘The days before Christmas.’
‘Oh,’ said Frank, and he looked up from his drink. A decorated tree stood in the corner, and paper chains were strung across the ceiling. Some glittery bells hung over the door. ‘You get busy?’
‘Busy?’ said the barman. ‘Are you kidding? Last year, last Christmas Eve, we were wall to wall.’
‘Were you?’
‘Yeah.’ The barman looked at Frank. ‘We were.’
‘Good for you.’
The barman nodded.
Frank finished his drink and said, ‘Give us another.’ He rummaged in his pocket. ‘And have one yourself.’
The barman looked at his watch, looked at a clock on the wall and said, ‘Why not?’
‘It’s Christmas,’ said Frank.
‘It is…’ and the barman turned, wiped his hands on a cloth and took some clean glasses from a shelf. He put them to the light, then ran his fingers along the optics.
‘Death…’ said Frank.
‘You what?�
�� The barman filled the glasses and put them on the bar.
‘Do you want to die?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘Nobody wants to, do they? Like nobody wants to get caught in the rain, or lost in a strange town…’
‘Or burgled.’
‘Or burgled,’ said Frank. ‘Exactly. No one invites a thief into their house.’
‘Of course they don’t.’
‘How would you feel if you knew a thief was coming, but you didn’t know when? Scared? Angry?’
‘Pissed off,’ said the barman.
‘I don’t think Mrs Platt was pissed off.’
‘Mrs Platt?’
‘My landlady.’ Frank cleared his throat. ‘And I don’t think she was scared.’ He swilled his drink around the glass, and took a gulp. ‘She died. Today. When you’re old, do you see it coming? Do you know what it’s like?’
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘I am. Don’t you think about it?’
‘What?’
‘Dying.’
The barman shrugged. ‘You never remember the moment before you go to sleep, do you?’
‘No.’
‘And unless you remember your dreams, you wouldn’t know you’ve been asleep, would you?’
Frank looked into his glass, looked at the barman and shook his head. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Dying’s like going to sleep. That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Why not?’
Frank opened his mouth to explain why not, but no words came out. Clouds of desperate mourning were gathering over his head, and his eyes grew heavy. He stood up, slapped a ten-pound note on the bar, said, ‘Happy Christmas,’ to the barman, and left.
Davis was warm with pleasure and desire. He walked fifty yards behind the driver, but he was also at the man’s shoulder. He could see the curl of his pony-tail, smell the sweat on his neck, and the dirt on his coat. He could hear his pleasant voice. ‘Seventy pence, please, love.’ He pinched his nose. ‘Your stop, Mrs Perkins.’ The light was reflecting on his cheeks, and on the teeth his older passengers admired so much.
Davis felt inside his shirt, and touched the steak knife. He ran his finger down the edge of the blade, and an electric buzz shot up his arm. ‘Good boy,’ he whispered. ‘Stay.’
Chips had been an obedient dog. He had never run away or laid a log on the carpet. He didn’t hassle for his dinner, and had never nipped his master. He had been the blameless thing in Davis’s life, a reminder that life was not a parade of perverts, thieves, whores and dealers. Life could have been redeemed; now it could only be avenged. Violence breeds flowers that bloom in winter, that stink on the edge of marshes. Their roots strangle courage and their seeds blow on to arable land. Only more violence kills these flowers, only vengeance wins the prize.
At a quarter to nine, Lisa sat down and wrote, ‘Dear Frank, I am going to Maidstone. I want to see my father. It’s so long since we talked properly, and it’s time we did. There’s a lot I have to tell him, and things I’ve got to ask him…’ She put down her pen, said, ‘Like what?’ to the wall, screwed up the letter and took out a fresh sheet.
The blank paper snarled at her, chided her and reflected all her failure. She knew what she wanted to say, but the words put a barrier between herself and the writing. She wanted to tell Frank that losing her baby had forced her to think about how her father would have felt as the door slammed on his cell. She had turned her back on him, she had not visited, she had not written. You clean your wounds as you make amends, and so you heal yourself. ‘No,’ she said, and she screwed up the blank sheet and packed a small bag instead. Then she checked that the window was closed and the electric was off, took a last look at her teapot collection and left her flat quickly.
She stood on Brighton station and stared at the tracks. A banana peel, some plastic cups, a rag and patches of dried oil. A man approached her. He had a beard, a blanket draped across his shoulder and a bulging plastic bag. He asked for some change. She didn’t look up. ‘I’ve got to get home,’ he said. A tannoyed voice announced the arrival of the Maidstone train. She leaned forward and looked down the tracks as it came into view. The man shuffled sideways and said, ‘I have.’
‘What?’ said Lisa. She turned and looked at him.
‘Got to go,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ she said, and she took out her purse and gave him fifty pence. He looked at the coin, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and smiled. His teeth were missing. She picked up her bag and took a step back. The train pulled in, slowed and stopped. She opened a door, climbed aboard and sat by the window. The beggar waited for the train to leave, and as it did he waved to Lisa, who pressed her cheek against the glass and stared past him, towards the figure of an old woman who was standing on the end of the platform. This woman was tearing pages from a diary, ripping the pages into little pieces and letting them fall on to the tracks. As the pieces fell, they mingled with flakes of snow that blew into the cover of the station roof, held their form for a second, then melted. The train accelerated and Lisa drew level with the woman, who looked up in alarm. Mrs Austin’s face was ashen, and her eyes were red; the diary had been reduced to its covers. She turned, picked up a suitcase and walked away.
Davis had parked his car opposite the Lamb and Flag. He quickened his pace when he saw it, and got to within ten feet of the driver, who stopped on the edge of the pavement and waited to cross the road. As he looked both ways, Davis approached him and said, ‘Got a light, mate?’
‘Sorry,’ said the driver, and Davis saw the man’s eyes looking friendly and meaning it. ‘I don’t smoke.’
Evans got close enough to hear, then stopped and stood by a letter-box.
‘You’re sorry?’ said Davis.
‘Eh?’ said the driver.
‘You. You stand here, you stand here in your gloves and your scarf, and apologise to me.’
The driver took a step back, and narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you on?’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said Davis.
‘Have I?’
‘Yeah,’ said Davis, and he pulled out the steak knife. It glinted, its point twisted, its handle was warm, the driver turned, Davis lunged forward and grabbed the man’s coat. Evans ran forward and yelled, ‘Davis!’ Davis wheeled. Evans rushed. ‘Stop!’ The driver stumbled back, slipped, fell, and lay in the gutter. Davis’s eyes blanked, then flared, then Evans was on him. The man was strong but the man was not strong enough. He tried to wrench the knife away but his grip slipped, he slipped and put out a hand to break his fall. As he toppled, Davis toppled too, and the men fell down together.
Evans felt the knife tickle his side, and then a pain. He expected sharp and fine, edged and quick, concentrated; this was dull and wide, like a fist. It didn’t move but it seemed to, it didn’t throb but it filled him up and solidified. His life did not come and spread itself before him, he did not see his mother and his father or the places he had seen. He did not see his wife at home, or the faces of his children. He felt hot breath on his face, he tried to move his hands to the knife, a packet of paper chains you lick yourself fell out of his pocket, broke open and blew across the road. The driver shouted for help, his voice sounded miles away, lights flickered, dulled and faded.
Davis pulled the knife from Evans’s side, and stood up. Blood dripped from its tip, and stained the snow. His old colleague’s eyes were closed, his legs were quivering, and his tongue was flicking in and out. A crowd of people ran from the pub, the driver stood up and yelled, ‘That’s him!’ Davis spun on his heels and pointed the knife, the crowd stopped where they were. A dog barked. Davis cocked his head and smiled. A police car’s siren cut the air, and Evans tried to speak. He drew a breath, but that was all he could do. He opened his eyes wide. He closed them again, and as the air drained from his body, and all his blood pooled in the gutter, Davis yelled, ‘Yeah! It’s me!’ He tipped his head back, curled his lips over his teeth and groaned, ‘But it’s not
meant to be! It’s not meant to be anything like this.’ He waved the knife at the crowd. They flinched. ‘Don’t believe a word you hear,’ he said, and then he turned the knife, pointed it at the centre of his stomach, and fell on to it. It pierced a lung, sliced his liver and stopped. He made a bubbly noise that crescendoed into his throat and spilt with a rush of blood. The crowd gasped, a woman screamed, a man fainted, and a pair of children were turned away. Davis collapsed beside Evans and lay at right angles to the other man, who was still now. ‘God,’ he gasped, but God didn’t answer. God was not even close. The police car screeched to a halt. The snow did not stop falling. It tumbled and tumbled, and the streetlights reflected off the flakes. The sound of a radio message broke through, and another siren. ‘Stand back,’ said a voice, ‘there’s nothing to see here,’ and blankets were brought to cover the bodies.
Frank turned the corner into Bob’s road, and stopped. A police car was parked across the street, and beyond it, a fire-engine screamed to a stop. Another engine arrived, and an ambulance. A pall of smoke was growing in the sky, and flames were flicking out of the top-floor window of a house half-way down the road. Blue lights revolved and sirens wailed. Snow fell through the chaos, and chaos wore a wedding dress. Frank stood for half a minute, then rushed forward. A policeman stepped forward, held out his hands and said, ‘Sorry sir. No further.’
‘No!’ Frank pushed past. ‘That’s my partner!’ He swerved around the man and dashed down the street, his arms flailing, yelling, ‘Bob! Bob!’
Firemen were dashing about, uncoiling hoses, carrying ladders, turning stop-cocks, priming pumps. One shouted as he approached, and another grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away. Frank snarled and shouted, ‘Get off!’ One of the windows exploded. Glass showered down, falling through the snow, a shot of flame blew out of the room, Frank slipped out of his coat and left the fireman holding it, and ran for the front door.
He pushed past a fireman with an axe, shouldered the door and ran inside. The hall was full of smoke, and the sound of splintering wood carried down from upstairs. He snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, covered his face and dashed for the stairs. The fireman with the axe came behind him and grabbed his ankles, but Frank kicked him off, and leapt forward and up. He screamed, ‘Bob!’ The fireman yelled, ‘Get out!’ and dropped his axe. It clattered down the stairs, a loud crack came from above them, and the sound of falling plaster.