Paint It Black

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Jesus,’ said John. ‘What time of day?’

  ‘Middle of the night.’

  He wrinkled his forehead. ‘A Renault? Two female casualties? DOA?’

  I nodded. ‘My wife was pregnant.’

  ‘I remember it,’ said John, then turned to his mate. ‘You were on sick leave. I was teamed up with Bob Young. It was a sod of a shout.’ He looked back at me. ‘Sorry.’

  I shrugged. ‘S’all right.’

  ‘So why are you here now?’ said Moustache.

  ‘I thought it was time to take a look-see.’

  ‘You haven’t been before?’ John again.

  ‘No.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You still can’t park there.’ He gestured back towards the road.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Yeah. The chopper spotted you. Wondered what was going on.’

  He seemed like a reasonable bloke. ‘You got a minute?’ I asked.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To tell me what you saw that night.’

  ‘I saw a car burning. That’s all.’

  ‘I’d be obliged.’

  He looked at his mate and made a decision. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I might get a call.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said.

  He looked at his mate again, who by the look on his face obviously thought that it was a waste of time, and said, ‘You take the motor, Pete. I’ll go with this gentleman. Follow us. We’ll park up by the next junction. If you need me, flash the lights.’

  We went back to the two Range Rovers. Pete got behind the wheel of his and started the engine. I got into mine, with John in the passenger seat, and switched on the ignition.

  ‘What engine?’ he asked, when the motor rumbled into life.

  ‘Chevy. Big block. Belongs to a friend of mine in the motor trade.’

  I switched off the blinkers, indicated right, waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled out, the police car behind me. The police helicopter was swinging from left to right, like the weight on the end of a pendulum, half a mile away across country. I drove at a leisurely pace down to junction eleven, moved on to the slip road and stopped at a lay-by on the roundabout above it. I switched off the Range Rover’s engine and heard the cold rain drumming on the roof.

  ‘So?’ said John.

  ‘So,’ I said back. ‘Did you ever think it was anything else than an accident?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I lied.

  ‘They do happen. I see them all the time.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It was a bad one. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But you’d have to have a lot of enemies for someone to do something like that. Your wife being pregnant and all.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Got a lot of enemies.’

  I didn’t answer and he didn’t press it. Instead he said, ‘And it’s not a clever idea to start haunting that place. Next time Pete might have another mate. One who wasn’t there that night.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘It was just something I needed to do.’

  ‘I’d probably do the same under the circumstances.’

  In the rear-view mirror I saw the brights on the police car flash. ‘You’re wanted,’ I said. ‘Duty calls.’

  He looked over his shoulder through the back window and waved. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said. ‘Take it easy.’

  ‘I will. And thanks for being there. That night I mean.’

  ‘It’s my job. Sorry I couldn’t’ve done more.’ And with that he jumped out, ran back to his vehicle, climbed into the passenger seat, and took off with the siren braying and blue lights flashing.

  I stayed where I was for a few minutes, thinking, as the cars rushed by my window in the rain. I looked at them, all full of people with places to go, things to do. Reps off selling office furniture or corn flakes before going back to the wife and kids with tales of their day on the road. I thought of my wife, rotting under a few feet of earth in Greenwich, and my ex-wife and daughter up in Scotland. And all the other women I’d known. Where were they now? All gone. Dead or alive. All gone. Disasters every one. If they weren’t, why was I alone now? But then look at the ones I picked, or who picked me. Junkies, thieves, self-mutilators, whores, persistent victims. Fucked-up bitches every one, who’d sooner put their finger in your eye than say something nice. Whose fault was it that every relationship I’d ever had went to shit? Theirs or mine? Who the fuck knew? And I wasn’t going to find out by sitting on a rain-washed roundabout near Dunstable, so I switched on the engine again and headed south.

  I drove the Range Rover straight back to Charlie’s car lot, thanked him for the loan of it, had a cup of tea and a natter. Then walked home. He didn’t ask me where I’d been and I didn’t volunteer the information.

  I sat around the flat for the rest of the afternoon, but things had changed. I felt restless and unable to settle to my usual nightly chores of eating something brought in or out of a can, and surfing the TV channels until I fell asleep. And I was thinking about where I’d been and what I’d seen and the copper I’d met, and I didn’t want to. So around six, I showered, shaved and got dressed in clean clothes, polished my cowboy boots and went out for a drink. I started up west, but it was too crowded and I felt like a ghost drifting between the packs of brightly dressed women and predatory men looking for . . . what? To get drunk, forget about the drudgery of work and maybe score some easy sex. So I headed east and ended up in Clerkenwell, an area I don’t know well, but its very strangeness made it seem safe. A hiding place in the big, mean city, where no one knew me either.

  I drifted into a pub that was part of an office block, somewhere off the Gray’s Inn Road. The bar was softly lit, clean, with a CD jukebox that wasn’t too loud, and almost empty. I went up to the bar, snagged a stool and ordered a bottle of Rolling Rock and a Jack Daniel’s chaser. So far, so good. Two stools down, a girl in a red dress was sitting with another girl in a black two-piece suit. The one in red had long, thick dark hair that she kept tossing about all over the place as if she knew it was her best asset. She was young. Far too young for me, and her friend wasn’t much older. As I paid for my drinks, the one in red looked round at me, tossed her mane of hair one more time and turned back to her pal, said something and they both laughed. I felt even older as they did it. I should have got up there and then, left my drinks and gone home. But I didn’t. It was the first time someone had made a move on me for so long, that I felt flattered.

  After a minute, the one in the suit got up and went over to the jukebox and Red turned towards me again.

  ‘Is it raining out?’ she asked.

  It was obvious by the fact that my jacket was dry, that it wasn’t.

  ‘No,’ I said. Not friendly. No smile. Minimum eye contact. But I could feel the palms of my hands spring out with sweat as I said the word.

  ‘They got it wrong again.’

  That time I did smile. I couldn’t help it and I turned towards her. ‘They usually do.’

  ‘Do you work upstairs?’ she asked.

  By that I imagined she meant in the office building. I shook my head.

  ‘I didn’t think so. Not many of the men who do wear boots like that.’

  I looked down at my best, hand-tooled, imported from Texas, underslung-heeled, needle-toed, black ranch boots. ‘Is that so?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Come up,’ she said, patting the stool next to hers. ‘I can’t hear you properly.’

  I thought about it for a second, shrugged, pushed my bottle and glass along the bar and moved up until I was next to her. She pushed back her hair again and I could smell the shampoo in it and the perfume she wore on her body. Close up she was young. No more than twenty. Fresh and alive and I felt near to tears. Her skin was smooth and white, and it suddenly occurred to me that it had been months since I�
��d touched any skin apart from my own, and how much I missed doing it, and how much I just wanted to touch hers. I’d been starved of basic human contact for too long.

  ‘My name’s Diane,’ she said, and put out her hand with its long, slim fingers and nails lacquered the same colour as her dress.

  I wiped my right palm on my jeans and shook it. I got my wish. I got to touch her skin and it was as soft and smooth as I’d thought it would be. ‘Nick,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘How do you do, Nick. My friend’s name is June.’

  I nodded. ‘Do you work upstairs?’

  ‘Worse luck. I hate it. I’m a secretary.’ She pronounced it ‘Seckertary’, and put a nasal intonation into her voice as she did so. She was OK.

  ‘Been working late?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. We’re meeting some people.’

  So that was that, I thought. I’d read it wrong. Not surprising really with my track record.

  ‘Boyfriends?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ She was very certain. ‘Blokes from the office. They’re down the gym. We usually get together on a Tuesday. It’s a bit of a drag really. But it’s better than being at home watching telly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you had much problem filling your social diary.’

  The hair again and a smile. ‘I’m choosy,’ she said.

  Then her friend came back.

  ‘June, this is Nick. He’s a . . .’ I hadn’t told her. Besides I wasn’t sure.

  ‘Company director,’ I said.

  ‘In boots like that?’ said June, as if she doubted it. ‘I’ve met some of them where I live. Walthamstow. Usually means they’ve got a portable phone.’

  She was sharp, I’ll give her that. Any sharper and she’d cut her glass.

  I laughed. ‘Not me.’

  ‘What kind of company?’ asked June.

  ‘A detective agency.’ Wasn’t I grand?

  ‘A detective,’ said Diane, and tossed her hair for the hundredth time. ‘That must be exciting.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’

  Then the door to the pub opened to let in a gust of cold air and four geezers in suits carrying gym bags.

  ‘Here’s the boys,’ said June.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Diane, and pulled a face at me.

  The boys were all under thirty, big built and boisterous. They must’ve had a good time in the showers together. Probably comparing the size of their dicks.

  They bounced over, dropped their bags on the floor and shouted for the barman.

  ‘Kenny, John, Paul, Mike. This is Nick. He’s a private detective,’ said Diane.

  The four looked at me like I was something unpleasant that had crawled out of their muesli, especially Kenny, who said, ‘Sure.’ I think he had eyes for Diane. Who am I kidding? Of course he did. Who wouldn’t?

  ‘It’s true,’ I said and took a hit on my JD. Now what was I trying to prove? That I could be every inch the kind of arsehole he was?

  Kenny moved round so that he was between me and Diane and ordered a round of drinks, leaving me out. What did I care? I could buy my own booze.

  When the drinks were in he didn’t move, and Diane sort of stuck her head round him and said, ‘Sorry about this.’

  I shrugged. Frankly I could have cared less, but I didn’t know how.

  So then old Kenny decides to step back and stand on my feet. You know how it happens. Purely accidental. But I was fond of those boots and I didn’t want them scuffed. And also I had a bit of a corn on one toe and it hurt like hell when he stomped all over it.

  ‘Careful,’ I said. But mildly. I wasn’t looking for a fight. Just a quiet drink, and I’d been getting kind of fond of Diane’s company.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. But with a big grin, like he was telling me to fuck off, there and then.

  ‘There’s plenty of room,’ I said.

  ‘So use some of it,’ he said straight back.

  Not friendly.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll make you.’

  ‘You’ll have me gibbering with fear if you carry on like that.’

  ‘Get back to your wife.’

  Now why he said that I’ll never know, and I’ve thought about it some since. Why he picked that particular way to try and get rid of me. Afterwards, when I got home I checked in the mirror to see if I had something tattooed on my forehead so that he reacted as he did.

  I stood up. I could feel sweat breaking out on me again. This time not just on the palms of my hands, but all over.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You heard. You’re married, aren’t you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You’re wearing a ring.’

  ‘So what? That doesn’t mean anything.’ I was starting to justify myself. Bad move.

  ‘See,’ he said, and looked round at his mates and Diane and June.

  I mean, what was this geezer? My moral arbiter?

  He stuck his forefinger in my face and said, ‘No one wants you here. Just get out and stop bothering us.’

  I saw that Diane was about to say something, but I beat her to it. I grabbed his finger and bent it back until I heard the ligaments creak, and then I forced it back a bit further. He screamed and went down on one knee. ‘Listen, cunt,’ I said. ‘If I break this you’ll go into shock and maybe die. Do you want that?’

  He didn’t answer quick enough, so I gave the finger a bit more pressure. Enough for tears to come to his eyes and for him to scream again, loud enough to drown out the music on the jukebox and bring the barman running. I shook my head at him and he stopped on the other side of the bar. One of Kenny’s mates, the one nearest me, made a move in my direction and I kicked him on the outside of his left knee. Not hard enough to break it, but hard enough so that he went down on it with a crack.

  I looked across at the other two geezers. ‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘Or your pal’ll be signing cheques with his left hand for a month.’

  They looked at each other and raised their hands in surrender.

  ‘Walkies,’ I said, and exerted a little more pressure on Kenny’s finger, and pulled him with me as I backed towards the door.

  ‘Bye, Diane,’ I said. ‘It was nice meeting you. Maybe another time.’

  ‘Walters and Williams, Investment Brokers,’ she said. ‘They’re in the book.’

  I let go of Kenny’s finger and he fell forward on his face, sobbing, and I ducked out of the door of the pub and cut across the main road, through the traffic and took the first turning I came to, then another, and into the next boozer I saw.

  Excellent behaviour, Nick, I thought. Just what the doctor ordered. Maybe you could take it up for a living, going from pub to pub beating up on kids. Perhaps you should phone one of those agencies. Ask them if they’ve got a vacancy for a Thug-O-Gram.

  The bar was small and deserted except for a barmaid and one male customer watching TV. No pretty women with lots of hair.

  I ordered a lager. Obviously I was going to go home alone.

  I hung around till closing time, then took a cab home. The driver dropped me off opposite my place, and I strolled across the road, took out my keys and just as I was inserting the Yale into the lock, a female voice with a Scottish accent said, ‘Thank Christ you’re home at last. I’ve been waiting for hours, and it’s bloody freezing here.’

  I almost dropped the keys in surprise. The voice came from the direction of the concrete half-shed where the dustbins for the flats in the house were kept. I recognised the voice, but when she stepped into the dim light that spilled from the single bulb in the hallway behind the front door, I hardly recognised the girl.

  It was Paula McGann. But since I’d last seen her, just over a year ago, she’d gone through a sea change. Where once there was Rave, now there was Goth. Her hair was dreaded up and gathered on top so that her head resembled a pineapple. Her face was dead white, except for heavily sooted eyes and black lips. She was dressed in black too. A black velvet and lace d
ress, with a short, full skirt, under a black leather jacket and some sort of black cloak. On her legs were black fishnets, ripped at one knee, and she stood in black high-heeled boots with pointed toes. She had black scarves tied all over herself and a huge amount of chunky silver jewellery. In one hand she carried a small black leather doctor’s bag.

  I still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Paula?’ I said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Not the warmest of welcomes, but she’d given me a hell of a start.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello, Mr Sharman?’

  I shook my head, opened the door and we both went inside. Under better light she looked worse. Her face was tired under the make-up, and her clothes were dusty and stained and looked as if she’d been wearing them for days. But maybe that was the idea.

  ‘You’d better come up,’ I said. ‘You look like you could use a cup of tea.’

  She smiled then, and it was the Paula I remembered. ‘You’re a lovely man,’ she said, and she passed out.

  I caught her before she hit the ground, picked her and her bag up and climbed the stairs. She weighed about the same as a carrier full of shopping, so it was no hardship. I wrestled my flat door open and put her on the sofa, pulled her skirt down and wondered if I should call a doctor. I lit a cigarette to help the thought process, and she opened her eyes and said, ‘Did someone say something about tea?’

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘And don’t mess me about. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just been a while since I had anything to eat.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Four days. Five.’

  I sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Anything. But no meat.’

  Which ruled out a bacon sandwich. I put on the kettle, then found a can of minestrone soup and put it in a saucepan to warm through. ‘Are you all right with butter?’ I asked. I’ve known some veggies. Weird fuckers, one and all.

  She nodded, and I cut a couple of slices of bread and smeared them with butter. By then the soup was warm, and I put it into a bowl and served it to her where she was sitting. The whole lot vanished in a second, and a little colour came back to her cheeks under the coat of white.