The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  Orange Peel slammed his bat into Derbyshire's left kidney and the detective grunted, biting his teeth together. He was almost too tired to scream any more. He closed his eyes again and tried to escape to the safe place. Another blow, this time between his shoulders, hard enough to start his body swinging.

  They'd left the cold-room door open so Derbyshire didn't hear the third man come in, but when he opened his eyes again he saw a pair of professionally shined shoes and above them dark blue trousers with a crease as keen as a surgeon's scalpel. Derbyshire's gaze travelled up to a black cashmere coat, to a white silk scarf, and above it, a gaunt face, the eyes as cold and lifeless as the slabs of beef. The cheeks were hollow, the lips fleshy and pale, and the hooked nose belonged more to a predatory bird than to a man. It was a cruel face, a face that didn't smile very often. The hair was steel grey and closely cropped, a convict's haircut. Derbyshire recognised the face from the newspaper cuttings he'd given Lennie Nelson. It was Bzuchar Utsyev.

  Utsyev smiled malevolently down at Derbyshire, the way a vulture might greet a prospective meal, then turned to Red Scarf.

  'He's told you everything?' he asked.

  Red Scarf grinned and whacked the baseball bat against the palm of his own left hand, making Derbyshire wince. 'Couldn't think of anything else to ask him, boss.'

  Utsyev ran his hand across his chin as if feeling for stubble.

  'His contact?'

  'A guy called Lennie Nelson. A high-flier with the First Bank of Baltimore.' He grinned. 'A nigger,' he added, as if the fact would appeal to Utsyev.

  Utsyev held out his hand. Without being asked, Red Scarf handed over the cheque. Utsyev studied it as if it were a search warrant. 'For services rendered?' he asked Derbyshire. When the detective didn't answer, Utsyev tore the cheque into small pieces and threw them into his face like confetti. Some of them stuck to the blood and sweat and Derbyshire looked like a man who'd tried to heal his own shaving cuts and had done a particularly bad job of it.

  'You want us to keep hurting him?' Orange Peel asked, weighing his bat in his hands.

  'What do you think? Do you think he's suffered enough?'

  Utsyev seemed genuinely interested in how the men felt. They looked at each other, wondering what he really wanted to hear.

  Red Scarf shrugged. 'He doesn't scream as much as he did at first,' he said, looking at Orange Peel for support.

  Orange Peel nodded enthusiastically. 'We've been working on him since this morning. He's hurting, all right.' He looked at Utsyev and seemed to detect the beginnings of a frown. 'Of course, we could keep going for a while. No problem.'

  'No problem at all,' Red Scarf agreed. He smacked the bat against his palm again as if to emphasise his enthusiasm.

  Utsyev nodded his approval. 'What about you, Derbyshire?

  What do you think?'

  Derbyshire glared at his tormentor through puffy eyes. 'Just don't kill me. Please. I've got a wife. A kid.'

  Utsyev looked across at Red Scarf. 'He had a photo in his wallet,' Red Scarf confirmed. 'Ugly bitches, both of 'em.'

  'He should have thought of them before he stuck his nose in our business,' Utsyev said. 'Give him another beating. Break his fucking hands as well. Then we'll take him for a picnic'

  The two heavies began hitting the detective straight away, keen to impress Utsyev. He watched them go about their work for a minute or so, then left them to it.

  Derbyshire closed his eyes tight and tried to picture his safe place – the green field, the trees, and the train track. In the distance he could hear the whistle of a steam engine and he went to stand on the track. As unseen blows rained down on his legs and chest, he clung to the image of the train, roaring down on him, wheels clicking, pistons hissing, whistle screeching. Derbyshire smiled through the pain. The train was coming. It really was.

  Katherine Freeman sat with her legs curled underneath her on the sofa as she smoked a cigarette and stared at the framed photograph of Luke and Tony. She missed her son fiercely.

  She no longer felt the agonising pain of the loss – that had mercifully faded some eighteen months or so after the accident – and she now rarely dreamed of him, but there was still an ever-present sense that something was missing from her life.

  She exhaled deeply and studied her husband's smiling face through the smoke. Grinning as if he didn't have a care in the world, bursting with pride for his beautiful, smart, bubbly, healthy son.

  Once the sharp pain had faded, Katherine would play a game in her imagination, replaying the accident in her mind and giving herself the power to change its outcome, to have Luke survive and to have Tony go crashing through the windscreen and die in the road. At first she played the game despite herself. Images would creep up on her, almost against her will, as she carried out the housework or sat trying to read a magazine. She'd find herself picturing Luke, alive and well and loving her, and she'd shut him out, knowing that it was only wishful thinking. But later, after the doctors had told her that she'd be unable to have any more children, she would lie in bed and summon up the images of Luke, standing by his father's grave, holding back the tears, squeezing her hand bravely and telling her that it was all right because he'd take care of her, no matter what. She would have married again, of course, but only after a respectable period, and it would have to be someone who got on with Luke. A father figure, but not a replacement for Tony. There would never be anyone to replace him. She'd explain that to Luke, and he'd nod and say that he understood, but that he was pleased that Mommy had found someone to make her happy. Maybe in time he'd even call him Daddy. Katherine could play the game for hours, picturing her life with Luke, wiping his tears and sharing his triumphs, even though she knew that the longer she played, the worse the hurt when she came back to earth. Back to the real world, a world of Tony and no Luke.

  Katherine realised with a jolt that the cigarette had burned down to its filter tip. She tossed it into the ashtray. A tear ran down her cheek and she wiped it away. The doorbell startled her out of her reverie. She looked at the gold carriage clock on the bookcase. Tony and Mersiha wouldn't be back for hours. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and then walked through the hallway and opened the front door. Maury Anderson stood there, smiling like an eager-to-please puppy. 'Hello, Maury,' she said, wondering if he could tell that she'd been crying. 'Tony's not here.'

  'I know,' he said, his grin widening. 'Can I come in?' Katherine stepped aside and Anderson walked into the house as if he owned it. Katherine closed the door and followed him into the sitting room. 'Tony said he was taking Mersiha sailing,' Anderson said, as if an explanation was called for.

  'Do you want a drink?' Katherine asked, going over to the drinks cabinet.

  'It's a bit early for me, but you go ahead,' Anderson said, dropping down on to the sofa by the fireplace.

  Katherine put her head on one side like an inquisitive bird as she weighed Anderson up, wondering if he'd meant it nastily or if it was just because he knew her so well. She decided it was the latter and turned her back on him to pour herself a generous measure of brandy and Coke. She felt rather than heard him ease himself up off the sofa and come up behind her. His hands slipped around her waist, then slid upwards until he was holding her breasts. He squeezed gently, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs through the material of her dress. She gasped. 'Damn you, Maury,' she whispered. 'You know how that turns me on.'

  Anderson brushed his lips against her hair and then kissed her shoulder. He nipped her with his teeth, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make her gasp again. 'No,' she said, but even she could tell from her voice that her heart wasn't in the denial. Anderson's hands roamed up and down her body, always returning to her breasts, and she felt him press himself against her.

  'I want you,' he whispered.

  'I can tell,' she said.

  'I want you now,' he said, his voice thick with desire. Katherine sipped at her drink. Anderson tightened his grip on her breasts as if to punish her for her noncha
lance. 'Now,' he repeated.

  'No,' she said, putting the half-empty glass down. She twisted around so that she was facing him. Anderson's hands moved as she did so, sliding back over her breasts as if held there by magnets. 'Not here.'

  'He won't be back for hours,' he insisted. 'You know what he's like when he's on that boat.'

  His head jerked forward and he fastened his mouth to her lips, slipping his tongue between her teeth like a lizard.

  Katherine almost gagged. She pushed him away. 'Maury, no,' she pleaded.

  'Come on,' he said. He tried to kiss her again but Katherine twisted her head to the side and his lips landed on her cheek.

  'What part of no don't you understand, Maury?' she said.

  'The part where your mouth says no but your body says yes,' he said.

  Katherine couldn't argue with that. She could feel how hard her nipples had become under his caresses and she was breathing like a train. Anderson could play her body like a violin, and he knew it. 'Bastard,' she whispered. Her insides had turned to liquid. Anderson's eyes burned into her as if he knew how wet she was between her legs, how ready she was for him. 'This isn't fair,' she said. Anderson moved his face towards her, more slowly this time, and she let him kiss her, softly at first, and then with passion. His hands moved confidently to the top button of her dress, his lips never leaving hers. The button popped and he moved down to the next one.

  Katherine put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. 'No,' she said, more firmly this time.

  'No?' Anderson seemed genuinely stunned by her refusal.

  'I told you right at the start, never in this house.'

  'But they won't be back for ages,' he whined, like a small boy being refused the last chocolate biscuit.

  'It's one of the rules,' Katherine said. 'If you want to play the game, you have to obey the rules.'

  'Rules are made to be broken,' he said, trying to kiss her again.

  'Not this rule,' she said.

  'You're crazy,' Anderson said. 'We've made love in motel rooms all over Maryland. What's the difference? You have a weird sense of morality.'

  'First of all, we've never made love,' she said, putting her fingers on his lips to shut him up. 'We've had sex, and I'm not saying it's not great sex…' Anderson grinned and she glared at him. The grin vanished.'… but it's not love, Maury. Don't ever confuse what we have with love. Okay?' He nodded. Katherine kept her fingers pressed against his lips. 'Second of all, it's not morality. It's etiquette. This is Tony's home. I'm not going to desecrate it by having sex with you, or any other man, in his bed.

  Do you understand?'

  She slowly took her fingers away from Anderson's lips. His eyes sparkled. 'How about we do it on the floor, then?' he said.

  Katherine laughed, and pulled him towards her, kissing him hard on the lips, keeping her eyes open so she could watch him.

  She moved her right hand down his chest, tracing circles around his stomach, feeling the muscles there tense and hearing him groan with pleasure. She pressed her lips harder against his, biting and nibbling as she slid her hand between his legs. He was panting as they kissed, though his eyes were still tightly closed. She stroked him through his trousers, then, like a farmer grabbing a wayward chicken, she seized his balls and squeezed.

  He jerked away as if he'd been given an electric shock, but Katherine maintained her grip.

  'Ow, ow, ow,' Anderson said, his eyes wide open.

  'Maury, believe me, this is hurting me more than it's hurting you,' Katherine said sweetly.

  He shook his head. 'No, no, no,' he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 'Let go. Let go. Let go.'

  Katherine released some of the pressure, but gave his testes a little squeeze to let him know it could be reapplied at any time.

  'Now listen to me, Maury, stop thinking with your dick and go arrange us a motel room. Just nod if you agree.'

  He nodded enthusiastically. His eyes had begun to water and Katherine couldn't help but smile. 'There's a good boy,' she said, and patted the front of his trousers.

  Freeman sat staring at the horizon, only half aware of Mersiha's slight corrections to the wheel as she kept the red telltales horizontal and flat against the sail.

  'What are you thinking about, Dad?' Mersiha's voice jolted him out of his reverie.

  'Sorry, what?' he replied, though he'd heard the question.

  He was playing for time, thinking of an answer so that he wouldn't have to tell her what was really on his mind.

  'You looked really sad,' Mersiha said.

  Freeman could see himself reflected in the lenses of her sunglasses. He was about to say that he was thinking about work, but he held himself back. If he ever hoped to get Mersiha to open up to him, he had to be equally honest with her. Lies, even white ones, would only dilute their relationship. 'I was thinking about Luke,' he said quietly.

  Mersiha swallowed and looked up at the mainsail, avoiding his gaze.

  'I miss him,' Freeman said.

  'I'm sorry,' she said.

  'No, there's nothing for you to be sorry about. I think about him a lot. I was just thinking how great it would be if he was here, enjoying this.'

  'Did you ever take him sailing?' Mersiha said.

  Freeman shook his head. 'No, we didn't have a boat then.'

  'He was seven when he died, wasn't he?'

  He nodded. It was the first time Mersiha had asked questions about Luke's death, and Freeman wondered if in the past he'd been giving off signals that it wasn't a subject to be broached.

  'Three weeks after his birthday.'

  The wind changed suddenly and Mersiha made quick, expert corrections to the wheel. The boat's speed remained constant.

  Freeman nodded his approval at her skill. 'What happened, Dad?' she asked. 'I know it was an accident, but I never…' Her voice tailed off as if she were worried about going any further.

  'I was driving my car. Not the Lumina. The car we used to have. Luke used to love riding in the car. That's why I was thinking about how much he'd enjoy the boat.' A forty-foot twin-masted ketch passed them on their port side and Freeman waved at the helmsman, an elderly man in a bright blue windcheater. 'What he really liked to do was to sit on my lap while I drove.' He licked his lips. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. 'Katherine always told me it was stupid, and she'd never let me do it when she was in the car. I'd taken him with me to the mall, to pick up something. Food. Bread, I think, and some other things that Katherine wanted. Luke kept asking me if he could drive. I said no, but he wouldn't stop. He didn't cry, he knew that if he cried he'd never get his way, he just kept on asking politely.

  Eventually, when we were only half a mile away from home, I let him have his way. He took his seat belt off and sat on my lap, playing with the wheel, hitting the horn.'

  Mersiha had stopped looking up at the sail and its red telltales.

  Freeman's reflection appeared to fill the lenses of her glasses. 'I didn't see the truck. Not then. When I think back now I can see it, I can remember everything. The small teddy bear tied to the front bumper, the garland of flowers hanging from the driver's rear-view mirror, the look on his face. His mouth was wide open.

  I think he was screaming. Or maybe he had the radio on and was singing along with it. That's all in my memory, but I know that at the time I wasn't aware of seeing it. The police told me later that he'd taken the corner too wide. He was only a few feet over , the middle, but it was enough.Was the driver drunk?'

  'No. In a way it might have been better if he had been, then at least I could have blamed him. The road was narrow, the bend just a bit tighter than he'd expected. He wasn't speeding, he just drifted over the middle. We slammed into him.' Freeman took a deep breath, filling his lungs with salty air. 'It took less than a second. One moment Luke was sitting on my lap, giggling and holding the wheel. Then the car started to spin and Luke was thrown forward. The windshield shattered at the same time I don't know if it was the crash or Luke hitting it. I tri
ed to grab him. I caught hold of his left leg but he was moving too fast. Inertia, you know? He was only seven years old but the acceleration was just too much. It was like trying to hold on to a racehorse. If I hadn't been wearing my seat belt, I would have been thrown out too. Sometimes I wish I had been.'

  'No,' Mersiha said firmly. 'You mustn't say that.'

  'AH I had left was his sneaker. He went under the rear wheel of the truck as the car spun away. The car went off the road and hit a tree. When I came round I was still holding the sneaker.

  They had to cut me out of the car, but other than a few cuts and bruises I was fine. I didn't even have to stay in the hospital. I was fine and Luke was dead.' Freeman was glad that he was wearing sunglasses because he didn't want Mersiha to see the tears in his eyes. He blinked behind the dark lenses.

  'It wasn't your fault, Dad,' she said. She was gripping the wheel so tightly that her knuckles had whitened.

  'Oh yes it was, pumpkin. There's no one else I can blame.

  The guy driving the truck was just doing his job. The car's safety system protected me just like it was supposed to. If Luke had been wearing his seat belt he wouldn't have died. That's all there is to it.'

  'You think about it a lot, don't you?'

  Freeman nodded. 'Every day.'

  'I dream about Stjepan all the time,' Mersiha said. 'I miss him.'

  'I guess when someone dies you miss them for ever. It doesn't hurt so much after a while, but you always miss them.'

  Mersiha smiled. 'Yeah. I guess.' She concentrated on the telltales for a while, keeping the boat slicing through the waves with deft touches to the wheel. 'It isn't your fault, Dad,' she said eventually. 'Sometimes bad things happen. You just wanted to make Luke happy. It's not your fault the truck was there.'

  Freeman sighed. Deep down inside he knew that Mersiha was right, but he'd blamed himself for so long it would take more than sympathetic words to take the hurt away. Katherine had blamed him too, initially with razor-sharp words that had cut deeper than any knife and later with ice-cold looks and turned cheeks that had wounded more than the words. They'd eventually reached an uneasy truce, continuing to talk about Luke without Katherine apportioning blame, but to Freeman it seemed that the reproach was always there, lurking in the background.