by David Park
Worktops and cupboards lined three of the walls and a white enamel sink rested on a metal trestle. There was the smell of methylated spirit and the room was awash with buckets, funnels, trays and mixing vessels. While his eyes struggled to acclimatize to the light he almost tripped over a length of hose. A couple of films, weighted with clips at the end, were hanging from a line. The photographs were still damp but the images clear. ‘They need a while longer,’ Beckett said as, using a dry chamois leather cloth, he wiped the side of a film, beginning at the top and working downwards in a single movement. ‘I’ve never known Gracey to make such a fuss over so little. You sure you got it right?’ Swift nodded and stared at the half a dozen photographs, scanning along them until he stared at the sheen of the two faces on the stairs. The scratches were reduced to mere shadow but the face was clear.
‘Charlie Newburn.’ Swift started as he felt Beckett’s hand on the small of his back. ‘What’s Gracey want with a picture of Charlie?’
‘You know him?’
‘Swifty, son, you’re a bit of a hick from the sticks. Everybody knows Councillor Newburn – he’s a bigwig down the City Hall. Has his finger in more pies than the likes of you and me will ever know. Good time Charlie – knows how to throw a party all right. I took the photographs for him at his do last New Year’s Eve. Anybody who was anybody was there and half the women hanging out of their dresses, goose-pimples and all. He knows how to spend a bob or two. But why does Gracey want a picture of him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Swift said, squirming from his touch. ‘He didn’t say. Can I take the photographs now?’
‘What’s the rush? They’re not dry yet, anyway. Listen, while you’re here I’ll let you see a few of my shots from the catalogue. Some of my back work. Some of it you won’t believe until you’ve seen it and even then . . . It’ll make the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.’
‘You’re all right,’ Swift said, shaking his head, ‘I’ve got to get back with these or Gracey’ll be giving out blue murder.’
‘Hold your horses, son,’ Beckett said, ‘what’s the rush? Gracey’s not goin’ to be jumpin’ for joy when he sees those nothin’ snaps. Wait till you have a decko at some of these. They’re the type of shots the papers don’t publish – know what I mean?’
Swift took a step backwards as Beckett came closer and tugged the sleeve of his coat. His red smear of a face was prised open by the raw slit of his smile. Swift could smell the sour stream of his breath. He took another step backwards, then over Beckett’s shoulder he saw the pinned photograph of Alma Simons, her opened gown revealing her breast and he stared at it and then at Beckett’s bloody eyes but he was deaf to what he was saying. And then something inside him was loosening and flapping like a flag and his hand was gripping Beckett’s throat, pushing the bulging-eyed face back into the falling clatter of trays and bottles. He heard his choking, guttering gasps but it was only the shock of Beckett’s fingers feathering his face that made him break his grasp. He watched him stumble backwards and sag against a metal cupboard, the red sliver of his tongue snaking from his mouth and heard what sounded like a child sucking air through a straw, then brushed Beckett’s touch from his face and gathered up the photographs and the camera. As Swift turned towards Beckett he saw him draw up his knees as protection and hide his head. He brushed past him to pull the picture of Alma Simons of the wall.
‘You’re a fuckin’ headcase!’ Beckett shouted after him while Swift struggled momentarily with the double curtain. ‘A fuckin’ nutter!’ His voice rose higher, then slid into a wheeze and as Swift hurried down the stairs he heard Beckett’s feet scrambling over the broken glass and the last litany of his curses.
Swift took deep breaths of the night air, then stowed the photographs away inside his overcoat. He wanted to run but knew the frozen snow would be treacherous underfoot and he had already felt enough humiliation to last him a long time. As the glassy clutch of cold fingered his skin he walked quickly, his eyes flitting nervously about him. He wasn’t sure what he should do next, but as he made his way through the glittery frieze of streets he felt certain that he was getting closer to that moment when he would find the person who had taken the life from her. The life, the love, that should have been his. But he knew, too, that he couldn’t continue on his own, that he couldn’t take things any further without help from above, and the only person open to him was Gracey. He swore under his breath and repeated the stream of words like a mantra. In the dark shock of sky, the stars seemed suddenly brittle and blown by the currents of the night.
When he reached the barracks he paused outside and tried to see if anyone was about, but it was impossible to be sure and after a few moments of uncertainty he pushed open the doors and walked quickly across the line of the desk. It wasn’t Maguire behind it and he didn’t recognize the face that glanced briefly at him. Then he was through the swing doors and into the corridor that led towards the barracks at the back. Gracey would be long gone by now, and he had at least until the morning to decide upon a course of action. He was already anticipating the comfort of his bed with the mound of extra blankets he had managed to borrow from someone newly transferred down the country. The lime-green walls of the barracks always sickened him a little and he tried not to look at them, staring instead at the tiled floor with its cracks and stains, so all that he saw was a sudden dark blur out of the corner of his eye as a massive hand clamped itself to the back of his neck and another pinned his arm behind his back, then propelled him along the corridor and burst him through a pair of doors which led into an outer yard. He recognized the wheezing breath that fanned the back of his head as Gracey’s and even though he tried to dig in his heels to brake his momentum, the motor of Gracey’s body steamrollered him into the middle of the snow, then flung him to the ground.
‘I warned you, Swift, you little toe-rag. I warned you fair and square, you jumped-up little gobshite but you wouldn’t listen, would you?’
Swift tried to stumble to his feet but Gracey’s first kick caught him somewhere just below his ribs and sent him sprawling back down again. The snow spumed up against his face and when he winced with the pain, closed then opened his eyes, he had to blink away the droplets of water. One dim outside light cast Gracey’s long shadow across the square of snow. Swift looked up at the buildings that formed the four sides of the yard but only a couple of yellow-lit windows displayed any sign of life. The shadow suddenly lengthened – he thought of shouting but was too frightened and ashamed to reveal the extent of his fear, but when he tried to scamper to his feet, a second kick laced into his ribs and he squealed at the sear of pain that left him feeling as if he had been stabbed. There was a slithery, damp wheeze before another kick rushed the air out of him and left him gasping like a drowning man.
‘I should have kicked the shite out of you a long time ago – saved all this mess. Because, Swift, son, you’re so full of it that you can’t tell your arse from your elbow and the funny bit is that you think you know everything so much better than everyone else. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that right?’
As Gracey walked about him looking where next to inflict new damage, Swift tried to control his breathing and curl himself into a protective shape but he could hear Gracey’s feet scrunch the snow close to his head and his eyes fixed helplessly on the mesmeric black press of his white-rimmed boots.
‘I’ve had Beckett on the phone squealin’ like a pig about being assaulted and blubberin’ on about some photographs that I’m supposed to have ordered developed. And the fuckin’ Head Constable chewin’ the balls off me after a complaint from the City Hall. And the funny thing, Swift, is that you’re the man they’re all goin’ on about and I don’t know what’s goin’ on. Not a friggin’ notion except you must have lost your bloody marbles and started to think you’re the Lone Ranger.’
‘If you’ll let me explain,’ Swift said, raising himself on to all fours like a dog, the snow burning the palms of his hands. ‘If you’ll let me explain . . .’
He saw the kick coming and moved his head quickly enough to feel it only graze the side of his head and clip his nose. He stared at the gouts of blood spotting the snow until another kick knocked him over on to his back and then Gracey was standing astride him and shouting, ‘No, son, I don’t want you to say anything, I just want you to listen,’ but Swift pushed himself up on his elbows and spat out, ‘No you fuckin’ listen, just for once you listen—’ but before he could finish Gracey had grabbed him by the throat and was trying to shovel scoops of snow into his mouth. Swift tried to shake his head free but it was held in the vice of the grip and the snow was in his nose and in his eyes and he had to open his mouth to breathe and in the burning fear that he would choke he brought his foot smacking up between Gracey’s legs. Instantly the grip was released and Gracey’s breath streamed and croaked as if he was blowing up an enormous balloon and he staggered backwards, his hands vanishing inside the flapping folds of his thighs. In an instant Swift was on his feet and, as Gracey steadied himself, then charged like an enraged bull, curses streaming on the flaring smoke of his breath, he shook his head clear of the drip of blood and fixed his eye on the great black shape rushing towards him. Gracey was coming too quickly and Swift saw him stumble, then slip and slither, and suddenly he was out of control with all his weight thrown forward in a frantic attempt to find a balance. But as he lurched within arm’s reach, Swift side-stepped and, clasping both hands like an axe, swung them down on the small of Gracey’s back, sending him sprawling face down to the ground. His coat flapped up round his shoulders like a cape and for a few moments he was perfectly still before his arms and feet began to stutter and flail for leverage to push himself upright. For a second Swift thought of helping him to his feet as he walked towards him, but when he got close enough he kicked Gracey’s legs from under him and, when his great weight flopped flat again, stamped as hard as he could on the broad open target of his back. There was a slobbering curse of pain, then a stubborn repetition of the attempt to push himself on to his hands and knees, but Swift responded with another full-force stamp which pushed Gracey down again and followed it with a kick in his side. Despite the energetic swing its impact felt muffled by the combination of overcoat and layers of fat.
‘When I get up you’re dead meat,’ Gracey hissed, turning his face to stare up at Swift. ‘You’re fuckin’ dead, boy.’
‘But you’re not getting up, are you? – you great tub of lard,’ Swift said, but stirred by his anger Gracey tried again, only to meet the same result. He lay on the bed of snow and his breathing was heavy and broken, sometimes speeding up as if he was about to make another effort to get up. When Swift heard this he stepped closer and braced himself to dole out the same punishment. His own head was sore and every movement throbbed with pain, the legacy of Gracey’s kicks. Gracey was mumbling an incantation of curses and watching him with one squirming, darting eye. To avoid it Swift moved constantly around him like a boxer circling his opponent. Once, out of nothing but malice, he kicked snow in Gracey’s face then stepped back again as the scuttling eye fixed the full focus of its hatred on him, but he knew that he didn’t have much time and that this would be his very last opportunity.
‘Listen, Gracey, I don’t know why but, I’m going to do you a really big favour and if you want to stop yourself making a complete arse of yourself, you’ll listen to what I’ve got to say. It’s about the Simons case and if you don’t listen I’ll go over your head and leave you looking like a complete wanker.’
‘I could listen better standin’ up,’ Gracey said, squirming his shoulders.
‘No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think you’re a man who’s been listening to the sound of his own voice for so long that you’ve forgotten how to listen to anyone else, so just stay where you are and pin back your ears.’
‘You’re a brave boy all of a sudden, Swift. We’ll see how brave you are when we’re standin’ face to face,’ Gracey said, and he started to scramble off the snow, but Swift stamped him twice and then leathered him as if kicking a football. There was a violent mixture of curses and moans before Gracey collapsed to his former position and his breathing sounded as though he was swimming through the heavy swell of a sea.
‘You’re a brave boy, all right – kicking a man who’s a bad back.’ Gracey’s voice sounded plaintive and Swift, forgetting his own pain and fear for a second, smiled. ‘You know that assaultin’ a senior officer will put the lid on your career before it’s even started. After this they won’t even let you catch stray dogs.’
‘That’ll make two of us, then,’ Swift said, ‘for I swear to God I’ll take you with me. Now shut that bucket mouth and listen, for I’m only going to tell you the once.’ He took a deep breath and stepped closer to Gracey’s head where the thick white hair blended almost seamlessly with the snow. ‘There was someone else involved with Alma Simons, someone who visited the house. And that someone was probably the father of her child – not Linton. I’ve checked it out. This man, who is older than Linton and has a car and money, had arranged for her to have an abortion – a back-street job. With a bit of a squeeze the McGraths will identify him. And did you never wonder about the house? How did a single girl get a house from the Corporation, a house she’s not supposed to be living in? She paid no rent or anything. Don’t you understand? Someone set her up in it, someone who was having an affair with her, probably the someone who killed her.’
‘Linton killed her,’ Gracey almost whispered, ‘Linton killed her.’
‘Linton loved her,’ he said, then just managed to stop himself adding, ‘but she didn’t love him.’
‘And what were you doing down the City Hall?’
‘I went to find out about the house and when I was there I saw this guy, Charlie Newburn, a council bigwig’ – Swift paused for effect – ‘and he had scratches down his cheek.’
Gracey sniggered into the snow. ‘Maybe he’s been playing with a pussy cat,’ he said. Swift felt it was going nowhere and that maybe it was time to give up trying. Thin skiffs of windblown snow drifted from the roof above. ‘So how’s it going to look for you when I prove that you got the wrong man?’ he asked, giving it one last effort and firing the words close to Gracey’s head. But his frustration had driven him too close and suddenly an arm shot out and grabbed his leg above the ankle. Immediately he tried to break the grip by stepping backwards but Gracey’s weight anchored him to the spot and his furious attempt to stamp his fingers with his free foot only resulted in a slip of balance which Gracey exploited by giving his leg a fierce tug, tipping him on to the snow. Then Gracey was scrambling to his feet and scuffling and lolloping across the snow like an enormous bear and as Swift jolted himself upright he realized he was too late and before he could brace himself the full force of Gracey carried him backwards and smacked him into one of the doors. His head bounced against the wood and then, as he started to slither to the ground and Gracey tried to pull him upright by the collar of his coat, the other door swung open and a yellow stain of light flushed across the trampled, puddled snow. Swift turned his throbbing head to see the Head Constable and a range of other men crowding out of the corridor into the yard. Some were in uniform, others in their work shirts with braces sagging by their sides.
‘What in the name of God’s going on here?’ the Head shouted.
‘Just a bit of horseplay, sir, letting off a bit of steam,’ Gracey said, helping Swift to his feet and brushing snow off his coat.
‘Constable Swift?’
‘That’s right, sir. Sergeant Gracey was showing me some self-defence moves I’d asked him to show me,’ Swift said, feeling his nose with his hand and leaning against the wall. He had started to feel dizzy. Someone at the back of the group was trying to stifle a laugh.
‘I don’t like this sort of thing, Gracey,’ the Head said. ‘I don’t know exactly what you think you were doing out here, but it doesn’t go down well with me. You see me first thing in the morning. Now get out of my sight the pair of you
before I have you both standing outside all night guarding the snow.’
He turned on his heel and after he had gone Gracey told the rest of the spectators to ‘piss off. As Swift stepped out from the wall his head began to swim and his legs buckled under him and only Gracey’s grasp of his coat stopped him from falling. When he opened his eyes again he was lying on his bed in the barracks and staring up at Gracey who was standing above him with a pillow. He started to scream but Gracey’s hand clamped itself over his mouth and his red flaring face broke into a rumbling laugh. Then Gracey slipped the pillow under his head, dropped his hand and winked a marbled eye at him.
‘So, Swifty, you think it was Charlie Newburn done her in?’
Swift had bad dreams and in them she was passed through the hands of many men. They were all there, taking whatever they could get, then throwing her aside. Their faces leered at him – Gracey, Burns, Newburn – and in the background Beckett’s camera flashed its laughter. Then she was pregnant with his child, and trying to find him she turned up at his parents’ house and they let her in but then took hold of her and told her they would get rid of the child. She phoned him, desperation and fear breaking in her voice, but when he set out to drive home to get her the roads were blocked with snow – huge drifts that he couldn’t see over – and her pleading for him to come hammered at his heart. He sat up in the single metal-framed bed and wiped his face with his hand. His ribs were sore and he needed a drink but didn’t want to move or venture out into the cold so he turned on to his back and, with his arms stretched down his sides, lay perfectly still and after a while slipped into a shallow sleep that carried him through to the morning.