‘Steady on,’ says Webley. ‘I’m not carrying you home, you know.’
‘I was ready for that.’
‘So I can see. Makes me wonder why you gave it up in the first place. Do you turn into a werewolf or a Chelsea fan or something?’
‘Nah. I just decided it wasn’t doing anything for me. Made me moody.’
She laughs. ‘Right. Because until now you’ve shown no mood swings whatsoever.’
He doesn’t rise to that one, but finds it difficult to end the ensuing silence.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t bring you out so I could piss you off again. I just thought you could probably do with some company.’
‘What about Parker? Won’t he be feeling lonely?’
‘He’s working late at the hotel. Says he’ll be too knackered to do anything tonight. You’ll have to meet him some time. You’ll like him.’
Cody’s not so sure. He already has an irrational distrust of the man.
‘Is he posh?’
‘He sounds posh. I feel like I’m in Educating Rita sometimes. But he’s just a normal bloke, really.’
‘Got a date set yet? For the wedding.’
‘Not yet. He doesn’t like to rush into things.’
‘Am I invited?’
‘Sure, if you want to come.’
He smiles. He doesn’t really want to go to the wedding, and he’s certain he won’t be invited anyway.
‘So,’ he says. ‘This is weird. Out drinking with you again.’
‘It is. Nice weird, though. I mean, there’s no reason why we should fall out, is there?’
‘Definitely not. Just do whatever your sergeant tells you to do, and we’ll get along fine.’
She shows him her dimples. ‘Yes, Sarge. Whatever you say, Sarge. How many gobfuls of phlegm do you want in your tea, Sarge?’
‘Charming. But you’re okay about working with me, right?’
‘Of course. If you are.’
It strikes Cody that each of them seems to be constantly checking that the other is happy with the working arrangements. But what the hell? The way things are heading, he’s not likely to be at MIT for much longer.
He nods to reassure her. Sups his pint. She sucks amber liquid through a straw. Cody’s not sure what’s in it, but he suspects that alcohol is a major ingredient.
Says Webley, ‘I really want to make a go of this, you know.’
‘You said. I won’t muck things up for you, I promise. Look, you’re engaged, I’m getting over an engagement, and we’re older and more mature than we were back then. We’ll keep it purely professional. No fraternising after work. No going to pubs together. No running up and down Rodney Street, ringing every bell in a desperate attempt to find your lost prince.’
She stares at him, eyes twinkling.
‘Oh, piss off, Cody,’ she says. ‘And get the drinks in, you miserable skinflint.’
*
So this is unexpected.
He’s back home. Had a couple of drinks – well, three pints to be exact – and some great conversation, mostly about old times, and now he’s back in his flat.
And he’s not alone.
Webley is here with him. She of the platinum hair and the dimples and the infectious laugh and the ability to transport him back to days of happiness has accompanied him to his abode.
He’s not even sure how it happened. It was certainly never on his mind to invite her back here, but here she is nevertheless, criticising his choice of supermarket coffee granules as she cradles a mug of the stuff.
He gives her a proper tour of the flat. Shows her the makeshift gym and the bedroom and the bathroom, all the while wondering what’s going through her head, what signs she might be looking for.
In the living room, she scans the wall-to-wall bookshelves.
‘Still a big reader, then? And I bet you’ve read every page of every book.’
He nods. Books have always been his friends.
She spies his guitar in the corner of the huge room.
‘I remember that old thing. Where’s your other one? The good one?’
‘It got mangled in the automatic doors at Clayton Square when I was running after a naked man. Don’t ask.’
She chuckles. Sips her coffee.
‘Play something for me.’
‘Misty?’
She looks at him. Says nothing to that. He knows that she remembers watching Play Misty for Me with him on one of their first dates. She will remember what happened when the Roberta Flack song came on in the movie.
He says, ‘I’ve been drinking. My fingers are about as useful as sausages when I’ve been drinking.’
‘Try.’
So he does. Webley sinks onto the sofa, and he sits opposite her.
He plays ‘Blackbird’ by the Beatles.
A beautiful song, but also a sad song. And it’s only when he is several bars in that he realises how reflective it is of recent events.
When the final bars fade into the night, her smile is beaming, but at the same time she seems a little wistful.
‘You can still do it, Cody. You’ve got a great voice.’
He puts the guitar down, leaning it against the side of his armchair.
‘Megan, what’s this about?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This. Why are you here, in my flat, alone, late at night?’
She blinks, as if caught out. Then she puts her coffee down carefully, the cup not making the slightest noise as it touches the glass surface of the table.
‘You have to ask, Cody? I was in love with you once. I thought that—’
‘Megan.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to jump your bones, Cody, so don’t get any bright ideas. Just let me finish.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘We were good together. Fantastic. And when we split up, I was devastated. Don’t get me wrong – we had to do it. It would have been disastrous to pretend everything was okay when it wasn’t. But you had a . . . a calling. It was like a religion to you. You had to follow your faith. I couldn’t see what you could see. I just wanted you, Cody. Just you.’
‘Megan . . . I . . .’
‘I’m happy now. With Parker. We’ll be getting married soon, and that’s the best thing ever. Since you and I broke up, I’ve always hoped that you found happiness too, in whatever way you choose to define it.
‘When we met again, at Terri Latham’s house, it was a big shock to me. I thought you’d still be off working in other cities. I never dreamt you’d be at MIT. I won’t lie, but part of me hated the prospect of teaming up with you. I just didn’t think it could work. But I’m getting off the point here. The point is, once I saw you again, I wanted to find out how happy you were. Maybe you were loving the job, or maybe you were married. Kids, perhaps.
‘But you’re not happy, are you? Something is deeply wrong with you, Cody, and it’s tearing me up inside to see what it’s doing to you. You’ve changed. Something has changed you. So, to answer your question, the reason I’m here in your flat, just you and me, is because I think you need someone. You need to talk. Because if you don’t do it now, you never will, and I think that will be the end of you.’
He stares at her. She knows me so well, he thinks. She sees through me. Sees what others don’t.
He acknowledges that if he were completely sober, he would turn down her offer of a listening ear. He would perhaps even make a joke of it, as he often does to camouflage the pain beneath. In fact, she probably wouldn’t have got past the front door this time if it hadn’t been for the booze.
But the alcohol has worked its magic. It has loosened his tongue, stirred up his emotions, punctured his inhibitions. And this is Megan Webley, the woman who cried along with him as they made love to the sound of Roberta Flack singing ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’. She, too, is under the influence of that damnable potion, and perhaps she wouldn’t be saying all these things if that were not the case. But here she is, watching and waiting and wi
lling him to be honest with her.
He says, ‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
So he opens up.
Not with words, but with actions.
He knows how absurd they must seem to her. He sees the puzzlement on her face as he removes first one shoe, then the other. He sees the twist of her mouth as she tries to decide whether this is something she is supposed to find humorous.
But then he pulls off his left sock. He hears the intake of breath. The short, sharp expression of shock. She raises her eyes to meet his. He stares the truth of it back at her. He thinks she understands, at least to an extent. When he slips off the second sock, he thinks he detects a tiny slump of sorrow in her. Her eyes now are moist as she lifts them again. She puts a hand to her mouth, but a sob explodes through her fingers.
She goes to him.
She crosses the room. Looks again at his feet. At the fiercely pink scar tissue where the two smallest toes on each foot used to be.
‘Oh, Cody,’ she cries. ‘Oh, Cody.’
And then she is on him. Hugging him close. He feels her hot tears on his neck. He cannot stop himself. The emotion bursts out of him. It comes from deep inside, under immense pressure. There is no stopping it now.
When it dies down, when the torrent becomes a trickle and the room is almost silent again, she strokes his hair and asks him the question.
And he answers it.
40
Where are the sirens? There ought to be sirens.
A bit like the beginning of a song, but the song is about clowns and he’s got enough of those right now, thank you very much. One clown is a clown too many, and he’s got four of the supremely unfunny bastards.
What he wants is sirens. This is when they are supposed to sound. It happens in all the movies, all the television dramas. Just when our hero is about to meet his demise, the sirens announce the arrival of the cavalry. In the nick of time they rescue him and round up the bad guys. That’s the way it’s supposed to go. There’s a law about it somewhere.
They’re not coming.
He tells himself to accept that, in the hope that somehow it will give him an extra burst of initiative to extricate himself from this mess.
The clowns seem to have other ideas. They are not real clowns – as if it even makes sense to talk about reality and clowns in the same sentence – but men wearing clown masks. There will be no slapstick here. He suspects that these men are planning something infinitely more sinister. Perhaps even involving unbearable levels of pain.
That thought causes him to realise how scared he is. No, not just scared. Indescribably terrified would be closer to the mark. His legs are shaking. He wants to appear calm and in control, but he knows he’s not succeeding. He is giving off all the signals he has seen in those he has confronted in police interview rooms.
He has no idea who these men are. They are not the men he has been trying to entrap for the past three months. He and his partner Jeff Vance arrived at the docks fully expecting just another meeting with the members of the gang with whom they had been doing business. And at first that’s what they got. It all seemed to be going to plan. No reason to suspect they’d been rumbled.
But then the clowns walked in. Four burly figures in overalls and masks – one of them carrying a sawn-off shotgun. It was clear that the gang members were expecting them, but even they seemed wary of the newcomers. And when they abandoned Cody and Vance to their fates, they appeared almost relieved to get out of there.
So now here they are. Cody and Vance seated on hard chairs, their arms bound tightly behind them, their legs tied to those of the chairs, being circled by clowns who refuse to talk.
Cody wonders about the reason for the silence, and his answer sounds a note of optimism. Since the men are keeping on their masks and not allowing their voices to be heard, that is presumably because they are afraid of being identified, either now or later. Which in turn suggests that it’s their intention to let at least one of their captives walk out of here alive.
Or perhaps it’s just to be more scary.
Because if there is anything more menacing than clowns, it is clowns who walk around and around you in deathly silence. Their muteness suggests they have no interest in engaging in conversation, and therefore no willingness to listen to reasoned arguments. They have already made up their minds as to how this scenario will play out, and there is no stopping them.
Yes, that’s an alternative explanation, thinks Cody. I’m so glad I thought of that one.
‘What’s this about?’ he asks, his voice echoing around the cavernous warehouse.
The clowns look at each other, as if enquiring the meaning of words spoken in a language foreign to them. But none of them makes a response. They simply continue to circle, at an almost slow-motion pace.
‘Who are you?’ Cody asks. ‘What’s going on?’
Still no reply, no change in their actions.
‘Look,’ says Cody. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but this is obviously some kind of mistake. We’re here on business. Get Barry back in here. Let us talk to him.’
Barry Duffy. A vicious bastard. The main man in the gang, and the one they hoped could lead them to even bigger fish. But apparently even he is unwilling to soil his hands with whatever is about to happen here.
Cody looks to his left at Vance. His face is white, nearly as white as those of the clowns. His eyes are darting almost at random, as though he can’t permit them to settle on anything for fear of missing something crucial, such as a way out of this. He’s a big man, overweight, and quite a bit older than Cody. He doesn’t look well, doesn’t look as though he will be able to cope with this stress for much longer.
The clowns stop walking. If there was a signal to halt, Cody missed it, but everyone seemed to know exactly when to stop. The tallest one, straight ahead, steps closer to the two undercover officers. He stoops slightly to examine Vance first, then Cody, as though he is trying to choose between them. Then he straightens up, still gazing down at Cody.
Cody gives this one a name. Undoubtedly the principal joker in this circus of the macabre, this clown has a face that is even more nightmarish than the others. Its smile is that of a man who has had fish hooks inserted into his cheeks and then the lips pulled away from his teeth, which are mottled in yellow and brown. He is not suited to a light-hearted name such as Bobo or Coco or Charlie.
Cody names him Waldo. Waldo isn’t a funny name. Waldo is the name of someone who hides in the dark recesses of your bedroom, waiting to steal your breath.
‘What? What do you want?’
His eyes fixed on Cody, Waldo points to the colleague on his right, then curls his finger to beckon him over. When his assistant arrives, Waldo points down at Cody’s bound feet.
Cody narrows his eyes. Wonders what he’s trying to intimate.
The assistant does not seem clear about that either. He continues to look up at his boss, seemingly mystified.
To help the message sink in, Waldo smacks his subordinate on the side of his head, then jabs a finger once more towards Cody’s feet. The second clown seems to catch on. He gets down on one knee, starts untying the laces of Cody’s left shoe.
The shoe comes off, then the sock. Then the same for the right foot. Cody finds himself wishing his legs weren’t tied to the chair. He would love to lash out right now, to punch the ball of his foot into that mask, crumpling it into the face beyond. It would be so satisfying. But also, he acknowledges, so stupid. What would it accomplish? It’s hardly likely that the retaliation would be proportionate.
So he does nothing except live through his mounting fear, knowing there is worse to come.
Waldo doesn’t disappoint. He clicks his fingers, and another minion brings something across to him. As soon as Cody sees the object, he feels his heart begin to race, his breathing becoming a pant. He hears a murmur of anguish from Vance.
What Waldo is holding is a pair of garden loppers. Unlike simple shear
s, these cutters can chop through narrow branches with ease.
Toes shouldn’t be a problem.
Because that’s what’s about to happen here, Cody thinks. I’m about to have my toes cut off. It’s as plain and simple and terrifying as that. And still there are no sirens. Nobody is coming. Nobody can stop this. Unless . . .
Unless this is merely a ruse. A threat. Waldo wants information or something. This is his bargaining tool. He’s about to make an offer in return for not carrying out this mutilation. That must be it, thinks Cody. He’s at least going to give me a chance.
But when Waldo approaches, still without uttering a word, let alone any merciful trade-off, Cody begins to suspect he may be wrong. And when Waldo tries to position the blades of the lopper around the smallest toe on Cody’s left foot, Cody accepts his error of judgement fully and unequivocally. This is actually happening, he thinks, and then the panic takes over and he starts moving his foot, as much as he can, dodging it one way and then the other, making the target as unsteady as possible, until Waldo loses patience and demands tacitly that his assistant makes himself useful by holding Cody’s foot rock-steady, which he does, and now Cody’s foot can no longer shift, can no longer escape, and Cody cannot look as the cutters slip around his toe, but he can feel it, he can detect the coldness of the sharp steel of those new, well-oiled loppers, and he knows that he is mere seconds away from actually losing a part of his body, a part that is irreplaceable, that will not grow back . . .
‘No! Stop it! What the fucking hell is this about?’
The outburst is from Vance. Cody snaps his gaze towards him, warning him not to say too much. If they offer up everything now, then they will lose everything. They will lose more than a toe.
Because that’s all it is, Cody tells himself. A toe. Your smallest one, too. It has no practical use. What do you ever do with it? It’s tiny, and it’s not particularly attractive, and you can easily manage without—
Snip!
He changes his mind when he hears that noise and feels the excruciating pain that shoots up through his leg, and finds himself enveloped by the echoes of his own screams bouncing around the massive chamber.
A Tapping at My Door: A gripping crime thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 24