Not Safe After Dark: And Other Stories

by Peter Robinson

  Banks waited to cross the busy road. On the other side, lower down from the shops, stood the remains of the old ball-bearing factory. The gates were chained and padlocked shut and it was surrounded by high wire-mesh fencing with barbed wire on top, the windows beyond covered by rusty grilles. Despite these security precautions, most of them were broken anyway, and the front of the blackened brick building was covered in colorful graffiti.

  Banks remembered when the place was in production, lorries coming and going, factory whistle blowing and crowds of workers waiting at the bus stop. A lot of them were young women, or girls scarcely out of school, and he had a crush on one of them. Called Mandy by her friends, she used to stand at the bus stop smoking, a faraway look in her eyes, scarf done up like a turban on her head. She had pale smooth skin and lips like Julie Christie, whom Banks had gone to see in Darling with a couple of school friends because she did a nude scene in it. They had only been fourteen or fifteen at the time, but the bored woman in the ticket office at the local fleapit hardly even looked at them before issuing their one and threepennies. The nude scene was terrific, but he didn’t understand much of the rest of the film; it didn’t make the same sense as Billy Liar did for him when he saw it only a few months later. Escaping a boring environment was something he could easily relate to.

  One day Mandy started wearing an engagement ring, and a few weeks later she no longer stood at the bus stop with the others, and he never saw her again. He spent ages in his room moping, and even a few years later, when he bought Beggars Banquet and listened to “Factory Girl,” he thought of her.

  Banks went into the newsagent’s. Mrs. Walker moved much more slowly now, and the joints on her left hand were swollen. Arthritis by the look of it. There was still a small pile of Independents under the magazine rack, so Banks picked one up and took it to the counter.

  “You’re the Banks lad back again, aren’t you?” she said.

  “That’s me,” said Banks.

  “I thought so. My body might be falling to pieces but my mind’s still all right. Haven’t seen you since that business in the summer. How are you doing?”

  “Fine, thanks. I see you’re still soldiering on.”

  “I’ll be here till I drop.”

  “I’m surprised you can manage all by yourself.”

  “Oh, I’ve got help. Some local lads help with the papers, and there’s Geoff helps with going to wholesalers, stocktaking, and whatnot.”

  “Geoff?”

  “Geoff Salisbury. Nice lad. Well, I say ‘lad,’ but he’s probably your age or older. Always there when you need him is Geoff. And with a smile on his face, too. There’s not too many folk you can say that about these days.”

  “True enough,” Banks agreed. So the ubiquitous Geoff Salisbury had his feet under Mrs. Walker’s table, too. Still, he did say he did odd jobs, and Banks assumed Mrs. Walker paid him for his “help.” He had to make a living somehow. It didn’t seem that one could go far around the estate, though, without finding some traces of its patron saint, Geoff bloody Salisbury.

  The bell jangled and someone else walked into the shop. Banks half expected it to be Salisbury himself, but when he turned he was gobsmacked by who he saw. It was Kay Summerville. And looking hardly a day older than when he had last seen her thirty years ago. That was an exaggeration, of course—her eyes had gathered a few crow’s-feet, and the long blond hair that still cascaded over her shoulders now showed evidence of dark roots—but she still had her figure and her looks.

  A hoarse “Kay” was about all he could manage.

  She seemed equally stunned. “Alan.”

  “Are you two going to stand there gawping at one another all afternoon or are you going to step aside, young man, and let the lady get what she’s come for?” said Mrs. Walker.

  “Of course.” Banks moved aside.

  Kay smiled. She was wearing a thin white T-shirt under a blue denim jacket, and hip-hugging blue jeans. The hips looked as if they were worth hugging. She caught him looking at her and gave him a shy smile.

  “Packet of Polo mints, please, Mrs. Walker, and”—she turned to the magazine rack and picked out a copy of Marie Claire—“. . . and I’ll take this, too.”

  Banks stood by the door and loitered, pretending to be looking at a display of anniversary cards. When Kay had finished, she walked toward him.

  “Walk back with you?” he said.

  She did a little curtsy. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  Banks laughed. He had been sixteen when he had first met Kay, and just about to go into the lower sixth. Kay had been fifteen, about to enter her O-level year. Her family had just moved up from north London, and Banks had seen her walking along the street in her blue jeans and orange jacket, or in her school uniform—white blouse, maroon jacket, gray skirt probably just a couple of inches too short for the principal’s liking—pouty lips, pale skin, head in the air, and her long blond hair trailing halfway down her back.

  She had seemed unobtainable, ethereal, like Mandy from the factory and, if truth be told, like most of the women or girls Banks lusted after, but one day they met in the newsagent’s, just like today, both wanting the latest issue of New Musical Express. There was only one copy left, so Banks, being the gentleman, let Kay take it. They walked back to the estate together, chatting about pop music. Both were Cream fans, upset about the band splitting up that summer. Both loved Canned Heat’s “On the Road Again” and hated Mary Hopkin’s “Those Were the Days.” Kay said she would lend her NME to Banks when she had finished with it. He asked her when that would be, and she said probably Saturday. Emboldened, he went on and asked if she’d like to go to the pictures with him on Saturday night. He could have dropped in his tracks when she said yes.

  They went to see Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush, on a double bill with I’ll Never Forget What’s’isname, and that was it, the start of Banks’s first serious relationship.

  “I heard about your mother,” Banks said, holding the door for her. “I’m sorry.”

  Kay pushed a stray tress of hair from her forehead. “Thank you. She’d been ill for a long time. She was riddled with cancer and her heart wasn’t strong. I know it’s a cliché, but in this case it really was a blessing.”

  “Is that why you’re up here?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to deal with the house before the council relets it. The rent’s paid up till the end of the month, so I thought I’d take a few days and get it all sorted. You?”

  “It’s Mum and Dad’s golden wedding tomorrow.”

  “That’s marvelous.”

  “It is pretty remarkable, isn’t it? Fifty years. What kind of work do you do?”

  “Investment banking.”

  “Oh.”

  Kay laughed. “Yes, that’s usually the reaction. Quite a conversation stopper.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I don’t . . .”

  She smiled at him. “It’s OK. Most people don’t. Even the ones who do it. What about you? I seem to remember Mum saying you had something to do with the police.”

  “True. Detective chief inspector, CID, Major Crimes.”

  “Well, well, well. I am impressed. Just like Morse.”

  It was Banks’s turn to laugh. “Except I’m not on telly. I’m real. And I’m still alive. Like your job, it’s usually a conversation stopper. You must be the first person who hasn’t jumped a mile when I told them what I do for a living. No skeletons in your closet?”

  She wiggled her eyebrows. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  They reached Banks’s parents’ house and stopped on the pavement, both a little awkward, embarrassed. It was one of those moments, Banks felt, like the one thirty years ago when he had asked her out for the first time. “Look,” he said, “seeing as we’re both up here this weekend, would you like to go out tonight, maybe find a country pub, have a bite to eat or a drink, do a bit of catching up? I mean, bring your husband, by all means, you know—”

  Kay s
miled at his discomfort. “Sorry, there’s only me,” she said. “And yes, I’d love to. Pick me up at half past seven?”

  “Good. Great, I mean.” Banks grinned. “OK, then, see you this evening.”

  Banks watched Kay walk away, and he could have sworn she had a bit of a spring in her step. He definitely had one in his, which couldn’t be dampened even by the sight of Geoff Salisbury talking to his mother in the hall when he opened the front door.

  “Morning, Alan,” Geoff said. “Have a good time last night?”

  “Fine,” said Banks.

  “That the Summerville girl you were talking to?”

  “Yes,” said Banks. “We’re old friends.”

  Geoff frowned. “I was sorry to hear about her poor mother. Anyway, must dash. Just a passing visit.” He turned back to Ida Banks. “Right, then, Mrs. B, don’t you fret. I’ll pick up everything we need for tomorrow, and I’ll pop around in the morning and do a bit of tidying and vacuuming for you. How’s that?”

  “It’s all right,” said Banks. “I can do that.”

  “Don’t be silly,” his mother chided him. “You don’t know one end of a vacuum cleaner from the other.” Which might have been true at one time but certainly wasn’t anymore. “That’ll be just dandy, Geoff,” she said, handing him a plastic card, which he put quickly in his pocket. “I know we can always rely on you.”

  It was too late to argue. With a smile and a wave, Geoff Salisbury was halfway down the path, whistling “Colonel Bogey” as he went.

  “I mean it,” said Banks. “Anything needs doing, just ask me.”

  His mother patted his arm. “I know, son,” she said. “You mean well. But Geoff’s . . . well, we’re used to having him around. He knows where everything is.”

  Does he, indeed? thought Banks. “By the way,” he asked, “what was that you just gave him?”

  “What?”

  “You know. The card.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s the Abbeylink card. He’ll need some cash, won’t he, if he’s going to get the food and drink in for tomorrow?”

  Banks almost choked. “You mean he knows your PIN number?”

  “Well, of course he does, silly. A fat lot of use the card would be to him without it.” Shaking her head, she edged past Banks toward the living room. “And what’s this about you and Kay Summerville?” she asked, turning. “Didn’t you two used to go out together?”

  “That was a long time ago. Actually, we’re going to have dinner together tonight.”

  His mother’s face dropped. “But I was going to make us toad-in-the-hole. Your favorite.”

  True, Banks had once expressed an enthusiasm for toad-in-the-hole when he was about fourteen. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s the only chance we’ll get to catch up.”

  “Well,” his mother said, that familiar, hurt, hard-done-by tone in her voice. “I suppose if that’s really what you want to do. I must say, she always seemed like a nice lass. Her mother and me weren’t close at all, just to say hello to in passing, like, but you tell her she’s welcome to drop by tomorrow, for the party. I’d like to offer her my condolences.”

  “I’ll ask her,” said Banks, then he hurried upstairs.

  7

  With his bedroom window open, Banks could hear the polythene from the building site flapping in the breeze and the cars whooshing by on the main road. He could also hear a dull, bass rumbling from next door along with the occasional shout and bang. Their back garden, he noticed, was full of rubbish like a tip: broken furniture, rocks, a dismantled bicycle. Maybe there was even a body or two buried there.

  His knees cracked as he squatted to read the spines of the books in the old glass-fronted bookcase. There they were, a cross section of his early years’ reading, starting with the large, illustrated Black Beauty, which his mother had read to him when he was small, old Beano, Dandy, and Rupert annuals, and Noddy books—the originals, where Noddy and Big Ears slept together, hung out with Golliwog, and “gay” meant “cheerful.” He must have kept Enid Blyton in luxury almost single-handed, he thought, as he had moved on to the Famous Five and the Secret Seven.

  Then came his high school reading: Billy Bunter, Jennings and William, followed by war stories such as Biggles, The Wooden Horse, The Guns of Navarone, and Camp on Blood Island. Next to these were several editions of the Pan Book of Horror Stories, from a phase he went through in his teens, along with some H. P. Lovecraft and M. R. James. There wasn’t much crime fiction, but he did still have a few dog-eared old Saint paperbacks, the Father Brown stories, and a complete Sherlock Holmes. The James Bond books were all there, too, of course, and a few Sexton Blakes.

  There were also history books, the kind with lots of illustrations, some Oxford and Penguin anthologies of poetry, and those children’s illustrated encyclopedias that came out with a letter a week, none of which he’d got beyond C or D.

  In addition, on the bottom shelf, there were books about his many hobbies, including photography, coins, birds, stamps, and astronomy, and several Observer books of cars, aircraft, geology, trees, music, and pond life. He’d seen these old editions in secondhand bookshops and some of them were worth a bit now. Maybe he should take them back up to Yorkshire with him, he thought. Would that upset his parents? Were his books and his room some sort of virtual umbilical cord that was all that tied him to them now? It was a depressing thought.

  One book stood out. Sitting between Enid Blyton’s The River of Adventure and The Mountain of Adventure was a used, orange-spined Penguin edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, a 1966 reprint with Richard Hoggart’s introduction. Curious, Banks picked it out. He didn’t remember buying it and was surprised when he opened it up and saw written on the flyleaf: “Kay Summerville, London, June 7th, 1969.” Banks remembered that day well. Smiling, he put it aside. He would give it back to her tonight.

  The more he thought about his “date” with Kay the more he looked forward to it. Not only was she an extremely attractive woman, she was also intelligent and she shared some of his past with him. He didn’t imagine the date would lead to anything of a sexual nature—he certainly wasn’t out to seduce her—but you never knew. He wondered how he would feel about that. Michelle Hart was on holiday in Tuscany. Besides, they had made no commitments, and Michelle always seemed to be holding back, on the verge of ending the tenuous relationship they did have. Banks didn’t know why, but he sensed she had deep and painful secrets she didn’t want to share. It seemed that all the women he had met since parting with Sandra—including Annie Cabbot back up in Yorkshire—shied away from intimacy.

  Banks stood up and looked down at the books. Well, there they all were, for what they were worth, like those strata of different colored rock or the layers of antiquities at an archeological dig. His mother called up: “Alan, are you coming down? Lunch is on the table. It’s potted meat sandwiches.”

  Banks sighed. “Coming,” he shouted. “I just have to wash my hands. I’ll be right there.” True, he had once loved potted meat, the same way he had liked Sugar Puffs and toad-in-the-hole, when he was a teenager, but he hadn’t touched the stuff in years.

  8

  The people next door were out in force, Banks noticed, on his way to see Mrs. Green after lunch. There was an unmarked delivery van outside their house, and two strapping young lads were carrying what looked like a fifty-inch television set up the path. It hardly looked as if it would fit through the door. Fred and Rosemary stood on the lawn, rubbing their hands together in glee, practically salivating at the sight, and their various children, aged between about five and fifteen, milled about beside them. Banks hadn’t seen so many shaved heads since the nit nurse had visited his school. He tried wishing them good morning again, but everyone was far too intent on the imminent television even to notice him. He would have bet a pound to a penny it was stolen.

  The wind had picked up even more, Banks noticed, bringing a few fast-flying clouds and a chill with it, and there was a smell of rain in the air. Banks zipped
his leather jacket all the way up and walked the short distance to the close, where Mrs. Green lived. She answered Banks’s knock and expressed delight at seeing him again. She had certainly aged—thickened at the waist, drooped at the bosom—but she had lost none of her sprightliness, and she fussed around making tea and bringing out a plate of scones. Her living room was sparsely decorated—plain cream wallpaper, no prints or paintings—and a few framed family photographs stood on the mantelpiece.

  “How’s Tony doing?” Banks asked. “I’ve always regretted we didn’t manage to stay in touch.”

  “These things happen,” said Mrs. Green. “People drift apart over the years. It’s only natural. It doesn’t mean they don’t share good memories, though.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Anyway, Tony’s doing fine. He lives in Vancouver now, you know. He’s a tax lawyer. This is him about two years ago.” She picked up one of the photographs and handed it to Banks. It showed the smile he remembered, the mischief in the eyes, surrounded by a bald head on a pudgy body in brightly colored shorts and a red T-shirt. Tony stood with a relaxed, smiling woman Banks took to be his wife, and two bored and/or cool-looking teenage children. They were on a beach and there were cloud-topped mountains in the background. “I’ll let him know you were asking about him,” Mrs. Green said.

  “Please do.” Banks replaced the photo on the mantelpiece. “I’ve been to Toronto, but never Vancouver.”

  “You should go if you get a chance. Bill and I visited him there five years ago. It’s a lovely city. I’m sure Tony and Carol would be happy to have you stop with them. They’ve got a big house.”