Green Light

by JG Alva

  She smiled when she passed the cup of hot tea to him.

  “Okay,” he said. “How long will you be gone?”

  The smile faded.

  “I don’t know. Hopefully not long.”

  “But?”

  She hesitated.

  “My doctor thinks it may very well take multiple operations. Lots of skin grafts.”

  “A month?”

  “More like months. Plural. That reminds me. I’ve got something for you. Wait here.”

  She put her cup of tea on the counter and pushed past him. She walked down the hall and disappeared into her bedroom. In moments she returned with a large square item wrapped in brown paper. As large as a portrait…in fact, that was what it must be, he thought.

  “For you,” she said, and held it out to him.

  “Thank you. Can I open it now?”

  “No.” She looked horrified. “Absolutely not. Open it when you get it home. Anyway. It’s fragile.”

  “Alright.”

  He put it on the floor at his feet, leaning it against the wall.

  “Will you do me a favour?” She asked, and her voice cracked.

  “Anything, Angela.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Will you think of me when you look at it?”

  “Don’t go,” he said quietly, desperately, to her.

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t stay. Not looking like this. Not surrounded by people I know. By people who remember how I used to look.”

  “Angela –“

  “Don’t ask me to. It’ll destroy me.”

  “You’re strong –“

  “No,” she said, her voice dangerously near tears. “I never was. At least, I’m not as strong as you. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s why I need this. I just hope that…something can be done. So when you see me next, I’ll be…brand new.”

  She tried to smile.

  Tried.

  It broke Sutton’s heart.

  *

  When Sutton returned to his waterfront apartment, he felt curiously afraid of her gift to him. As if it could hurt him. He thought he knew what it was…and to open it was to pick at a festering wound.

  Still. He couldn’t not open it.

  He tore the paper from the frame.

  It was a portrait, as he had suspected. But it was not the portrait she had done of him, as he had assumed; instead, it was a self-portrait. It was of an Angela before any scarring. The picture was semi-impressionistic. Almost blurred. But he could see the smile. This was the carefree Angela. This was an Angela who still believed in a Sutton Mills that was good, in a Sutton Mills that could save her mother from the wolves at the door, who could save her from hurt and harm. She had not been wrong when she had said it was fragile.

  A good painting is always a kind of truth; at least, this picture was good enough so that there could be no lies. This was what she hoped to return to. And Sutton hoped that her hope would be realised.

  On the low coffee table beside it was his own work. Not a portrait as such…although maybe it indicated some truth.

  At the top of the paper was the word Donald Sheffield had written in his own blood on the bathroom floor.

  Shenenenlonedme.

  It had unravelled easily enough, once he had thought about it. The oxygen deprived brain, the breakdown of consciousness…It would be all too easy for the brain to mix up some letters. To switch r’s and v’s for n’s.

  Shenenenlonedme.

  She never loved me.

  On occasion, Sutton could feel sorry for the whole human race.

  *

  EPILOGUE

  There is a distinctive sound to the inside of a multi-storey car park.

  The symmetrical nature of the environment gives sound a flat, hollow, unnatural echo. No other structure – as open, and as enclosed – existed, and so its elements gave it its identity. The air a mix of petrol and fresh air was another facet of a building designed – not for people – but solely for the vehicles they used. A modern construction, just like server towers; the future paving over the past. Literally. The sound of a car engine, loud…and then suddenly quiet. The roll of tyres. The dead clunk of a shut door. Tyres squealing against hard concrete.

  They whined now as Daniel turned a corner, and the sound echoed in that peculiar flat way.

  Another bark, as Sutton felt the car go into a turn. He couldn’t see anything, but he could feel them going up again, and in a spiral. A bump, and then the car flattened out.

  “There’s his car,” Daniel said.

  “Park next to it. But not too close.”

  “Okay.”

  The car pulled to a stop, and Daniel shut off the engine.

  “Anything?” Sutton asked, after a minute of silence.

  Daniel shifted in his seat: looking around the car park.

  “Not yet.”

  “Remember what I said: I want to hear him say it.”

  “How do I get him to do that?”

  “The same way you get him into the car,” Sutton said, from under the blanket on the back seat. “You tell him you have something for him. A document. And when he’s in the car you tell him that Suzanne implicated him in Maggie’s murder.”

  “It won’t work,” Daniel said, less out of any real scepticism and more from nervousness.

  “If it doesn’t, we haven’t lost anything.”

  “He’s coming out,” Daniel said, his voice hushed and urgent.

  “Go,” Sutton urged him, and Daniel did just that, the car rocking slightly as he shifted his weight, the car door opening, then shutting carefully behind him.

  Sutton lay on the back seat in relative silence. The blanket covering him smelled of mould, and also faintly of dog. It had been stored in Daniel’s boot. The muffled sound of voices came to him. They were getting closer. Sutton couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Daniel seemed to be doing most of the talking.

  A moment of silence – maybe ten seconds – and then both car doors opened: the driver’s side and then the front passenger side.

  The car rocking again, as two people got in, and then two doors shutting, almost in unison.

  Breathing.

  “Well?” A new voice demanded. “Where is it?”

  Daniel hesitated.

  “Before I hand it over, I want to know if what it says is true.”

  The stranger sighed, frustrated.

  “I can hardly confirm that, if I don’t know what’s in it.”

  “Suzanne said that you told her to kill Margaret Douglas.”

  A snort.

  “Fucking ridiculous.”

  “It’s in there.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Why would she write it down if it wasn’t true?” Daniel asked.

  “Probably because she was nuts? Which she obviously was.”

  “What exactly did you tell her? When you last saw her.”

  The man sighed again. This was a waste of time for him.

  “I told her what I told you: that there’s a time limit on this deal, that nobody benefits if the deadline passes and we haven’t delivered. That we can all kiss any promotions or bonuses goodbye if we turn up empty handed.”

  “You gave her an ultimatum.”

  “Don’t lay this at my feet,” the man protested. “She decided to stab Mrs Douglas in the neck. She decided that was the best course of action. Not me.”

  Slowly, Sutton pulled the blanket off.

  “I’m just trying to understand why she did what she did,” Daniel continued.

  Slowly, quietly, Sutton twisted around on the back seat.

  “Who knows? Who cares? Just give me the fucking document. Or you can forget any possibility of working with the consortium again.”

  “I thought they were done with me anyway?”

  “Well.” A pause. “I can still put in a good word.”

&n
bsp; Sutton used both hands to ram the man’s head into the dashboard. The angle was difficult for Sutton, so on the first attempt the man was only stunned. He groaned, and tried to sit back. Sutton was able to use the delay to get into a better position, and then deliver a more concerted thrust. He heard the sound of the man’s nose break, like a small branch underfoot. He went limp in Sutton’s hands.

  Daniel looked stunned.

  “Drive,” Sutton directed.

  “But he didn’t confess to anything,” he protested.

  “The fact he got in the car for the document was his confession,” Sutton said. “If he wasn’t culpable in any way, he wouldn’t have bothered. And he knew Maggie was stabbed in the neck. That wasn’t in the papers. So they must have discussed it.”

  Daniel looked sick. He stared at the slumped form of Phillip Denby, the consortium’s Regional Accounts Manager for the South West.

  “He did it?”

  “Well. He was partly responsible.”

  “My God.”

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’ll hold him up from the back, so it just looks like you are giving him a lift – to any cameras that might be pointed our way. Come on. Go.”

  “I’m going.”

  *

  Before.

  “Who was your contact?” Sutton asked.

  They were deciding what to do…or if they should do anything.

  Daniel was staring out of his balcony doors, into the dark. He had his hands on his hips, but his back was slumped.

  He turned to Sutton.

  “His name is Phillip Denby.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Age. Description. Social status. Clothes. Car.”

  Daniel frowned, but he answered.

  “He’s in his late thirties, I suppose. He’s tall. He’s got big hair, but styled. His stubble is a little too intentional. He’s fit – he works out. I’ve only ever seen him wearing a suit, but he always looks professional. He drives a white Mercedes GLA 200. A nice car.”

  “Ambitious?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  Sutton scratched his cheek while he thought. Fit. So he might be difficult to overwhelm.

  “Does he live with anyone?”

  Daniel thought.

  “I think he mentioned a significant other. A girlfriend.”

  “So his home is out. Do you know where he works?”

  “An office block behind Millennium Square.”

  “Does it have its own car park?”

  “The basement and the first three floors are a car park.”

  “Do you have access?”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “No.”

  “How would you meet him normally?” Sutton asked. “If you met him in his office. Which I am assuming you did.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “I’d call him up, and he would arrange for me to have a visitor’s pass, for the day,” he said.

  Sutton nodded. He got to his feet.

  “Good. That’s how we’ll do it. Call him now. Set up a meeting.”

  “When for?”

  “Tonight.” Sutton smiled grimly. “No time like the present.”

  *

  Sutton poured a bottle of water over Denby’s head, and he returned to sputtering consciousness.

  They had selected the first of the old warehouses on the harbourside due to be renovated for their interrogation…so some semblance of irony was at play, some peripheral nod to justice. That they should choose the very site at which the beginning of the redevelopment of the docks was to start. But that’s all that Justice was getting, that nod. Sutton could feel embittered with his current course of action. He was no torturer. Justice was what they needed, but no court in the land would attempt to try this case. Phillip Denby was tied to Suzanne by only the most ephemeral thread. Daniel’s suspicion had brought them here, to this, nothing more; they could point to no DNA or physical evidence; only the sense – evident to both Daniel and himself – that the man tied to the chair before them was involved, and that this was the way the world worked. Perhaps then Sutton should instead be bitter about a judicial system that did not entertain instinct or intuition. But that created its own problems.

  Which left only this, as an alternative: kidnap and torture, by their own hand.

  Sutton wouldn’t kill him and neither would Daniel…and Denby had to know that. At the same time, they had to convey the danger he was in. In order to do that, they had to strip him of his supports, if they were to get the truth from him: his belief in his own self-importance; his invulnerability; his privilege and status, which should shield him from harm; his smug self-assurance.

  But did they really need the truth, if they already knew it, in their hearts?

  So why then were they here at all?

  Because sometimes wrongs had to be righted, Sutton thought. Whatever way you could. With whatever tools you had to hand.

  Even Daniel believed that, it seemed. Although in that moment he looked afraid. The thought was written all over his face: what had they done?

  Denby shook the water from his head. His nose was swollen, and a small cut bisected the bridge of it. Below the cut, the nose leaned ever so slightly to one side. In the morning he would look like a raccoon, with two intense black eyes. Now, he squinted at Sutton through an obvious headache.

  “What…?” Denby took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. “Why am I here? What…what do you want?”

  “First, I want you to wake up,” Sutton said, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Denby screamed.

  The old warehouse, circa sometime in the 19th century, had no roof; instead, a confusing array of girders and steel support beams had been erected, to aid the conversion of the building into God alone knew what. The walls were bare brick, and the ground was dirt, covered with a light patina of weeds and grass. Denby’s scream bounced back and forth amongst the supports. Sutton wasn’t concerned that it would be heard. No one lived close to the docks. The only creatures likely to be alarmed were pigeons, and half a dozen took flight now. Security lighting lit the interior, from high up on the walls. Strange, seeing as there was no security force employed to enforce them. The place was deserted.

  Sutton released Denby’s nose.

  “Fuck,” Denby said, “fuck. You broke my nose.”

  “It’s not pretty,” Sutton admitted.

  Denby tested his bonds. He was tied securely to an old dining chair. He couldn’t move much. He certainly couldn’t escape any time soon.

  “What are you doing?” He asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.

  “We want to talk to you,” Sutton said.

  Denby noticed Daniel then. He had been standing some distance from them, in the shadows. Reluctant.

  “Daniel?” Denby said, more confused than alarmed. “What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

  Daniel hesitated, but then stepped forward.

  “We need to know what you told Suzanne,” he said.

  “Suzanne?”

  “Why did you tell her to kill Maggie?” There was a tremor in his voice.

  “I didn’t tell her to kill anyone. Daniel, get me out of this, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Phillip, you need to tell us what you told her,” Daniel said, stepping closer still. There was a pleading note in his voice. Sutton was starting to realise how much Daniel abhorred violence. He glanced nervously at Sutton. “For your own sake.”

  Denby hesitated. His frown wrinkled his forehead.

  “I already told you what I told Suzanne,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice. “Now let me out of this. I mean, what the fuck? I thought we were friends.”

  “We were never friends,” Daniel said miserably.

  Sutton circled around behind Denby, who craned his neck to follow his progress.

  “What?” He said nervously. “What
are you doing?”

  “This is a lamp,” Sutton said, picking it up from behind the chair. He circled back around in front of Denby so he could get a look at it. It was shaped like a vase, but was metal, and heavy. Iron maybe. It had been painted a blue-ish green. Once upon a time, piping had run down its middle, to sprout branches in which to place a bulb and a shade, but that was gone. Now it was just a block of metal, barely functional. “Or it was. It was the best I could do at short notice. But I hope you appreciate the significance.”

  Denby shook his head.

  “What are you –“

  Sutton brought the body of the lamp down on to the back of Denby’s left hand with some force. As both of his hands hung over the sturdy arms of the dining chair, Sutton was able to break his wrist quite comprehensively.

  Denby screamed. Again.

  Unnatural shapes pushed out against the skin of his wrist. The colour was deepening to a dull, angry red. Multiple breaks. Extensive damage.

  “Oh Christ!” Denby said. “Christ! Daniel, please! Tell him to stop!”

  “Just admit that you told her to kill Maggie, Phillip,” Daniel pleaded.

  “I didn’t! I didn’t tell her to kill anyone! Please!”

  Denby’s expression strained toward Daniel. It was as if he were trying to send some psychic message to him…maybe a pleading for mercy. Tendons stood out in his neck. His eyes bulged. Sweat dappled his top lip and forehead. He wouldn’t look at Sutton…couldn’t look at him. His attention was fixed solely on Daniel, as his saviour.

  Sutton said, “we don’t actually need you to say anything.”

  Denby looked at him then, but with his head turned slightly away. The way you might look at a wild animal after you’ve been told not to make eye contact.

  “What?”

  Almost at the same time, Daniel said, “what?”

  Sutton turned to Daniel.

  “We don’t need him to say anything,” he repeated.

  Daniel looked confused.

  “Of course we do,” he said. “We need to know that he put the idea in her head, that it was his idea –“