DEATHLOOP

by G. Brailey

  “You had a row apparently?”

  “Oh, just a bit of a barney…”

  “Sam said you attacked him.”

  “Yes, and I suppose he said it was all my fault.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “Well it wasn’t, he behaved like a dick.”

  “And that surprises you does it?”

  “Well maybe it shouldn’t anymore, but it did.”

  They shared a glance, which was followed by a brief silence.

  “I miss the little dwarf, that’s the trouble.”

  Clarissa looked at him as though she was expecting something else.

  “Well, I miss both of you, you know that.”

  “You don’t look good, Zack.”

  “So people keep saying.”

  “He’s started playing golf, has he told you?” said Clarissa, gloomily.

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Who with?”

  “Gerald of course, who else…”

  “Oh shit, that is seriously bad news.”

  In the same way that Sam loathed Sid and everything he stood for, so Zack could not abide Sam’s old school friend, Gerald Rosenbloom, who had spent so many years working in insurance he was now unable to book himself a week’s self-catering in Walton on the Naze without amassing detailed statistics on his computer to assess the risk of being blown up by Al-Qaeda, being held captive by Somali pirates or catching Ebola. In fact, they had laughed themselves stupid not that long ago when Gerald had asked Sam to join him at his club in Mill Hill for a round or two.

  Zack had said the way to get out of it was to ask Gerald to assess the risk of Sam getting hit on the head by a golf ball before he’d agree to play. Golf had been a joke between them for so many years Zack was appalled that Sam was even contemplating taking it up, and with Gerald of all people.

  “It could be a mid-life crisis,” said Zack, “and let’s face it, Sam playing golf with Gerald Rosenbloom is a crisis - whenever.”

  “So now I’ll be a golf widow, along with everything else,” said Clarissa with a weak smile, which Zack noticeably didn’t return.

  “Clarissa?” he said, after a moment.

  “Zack?” she replied.

  “You’ve got to strike out on your own, you know. You’ve got so much going for you, and what do you do? Mooch around this damn place all day long.”

  “I’ve got too much time on my hands is that what you are saying?”

  “I’m saying get out into the world and live a little.”

  Clarissa knew Zack was right, but she had lost confidence over the years. Some mornings she struggled to get out of bed by 10, and the idea of being expected to kowtow to some dreary boss somewhere was abhorrent.

  “I’m not a natural employee,” she said, cautiously. “You know that.”

  “So start something up yourself,” said Zack, genuinely saddened to see Clarissa giving up on her potential like this, “or write, you always said you wanted to.”

  Clarissa had told no one that she had tried writing, but couldn’t hack it. She was okay for the first week, then the weather had improved so she went to Kew Gardens, then a friend asked her to spend the weekend in France - something always seemed to get in the way. When finally she went back to her manuscript months later she was shocked at how terrible it was and set fire to it in the kitchen sink. So that was it. Clarissa’s attempt at taking the literary world by storm had fallen at the first hurdle.

  “Yes, well maybe I will,” she said, vaguely.

  “I’d better go, hadn’t I, and leave you in peace.”

  “You don’t have to, I’ve got nothing to get up for tomorrow morning as you have so kindly reminded me.”

  “But I do,” said Zack, making for the door, “sorry Clarissa, for blaming you.”

  “That’s okay. No more dead people,” she said raising her glass.

  “No more dead people,” Zack recited back at her, “you stay here, I’ll see myself out.”

  When Zack finally got back to his flat it was empty, Veronica wasn’t there. Half of him wanted her to be there, and half of him was relieved that she wasn’t. Checking his landline for messages he discovered that there were seven calls, but no messages. That could mean anything. Energy providers trying to get him to desert British Gas, double glazing salesmen keen to give him a quote, or even Jason wanting to set up a meet but he knew they were from Veronica. She had called his mobile four times but left no message on that either. Maybe the message she had to give him was so devastating that she felt compelled to give it to him in person, or maybe she was just pissed off.

  Zack was pissed off too. He had known there was something up with this Italian from day one. Veronica had spent days wafting round Venice with the guy, and the connotations of being with the bastard in that city did not bode well, if you are going to fall in love anywhere, Venice by all accounts is the place to do it. But maybe he had got it completely wrong, maybe they were talking business as he stared into her eyes and she stared back, but he didn’t think so. This was a rival and Zack hated him. He would have liked to have taken his crappy sculptures, beaten him round the head with them and watched with clinical interest as his skull cracked open like an egg.

  As Zack lay in bed in those early hours, unable to sleep, concocting more and more elaborate ways to kill the Italian, he thought back to other random acts of violence that had punctuated his life, the moment he struck out at Richard for instance.

  He remembered a flashing thrill race through him when the stick clonked against his head and the hollow sound it made as if there was nothing inside it at all, then the almighty splash as he hit the water. Zack had enjoyed watching Richard flounder around at the water’s edge too, his partial paralysis and the blow he had sustained making his attempt at saving himself unlikely. He also remembered the silence. Richard said nothing. He didn’t beg for his life, or even ask for assistance, and although he put out a hand it was done half-heartedly, as though it was expected of him somehow, as though it was the thing to do. Richard just seemed embarrassed by his predicament and his inability to save himself, and at the same time accepting of his fate, rather like he’d been waiting for his comeuppance and here it was.

  Zack felt something similar when he broke down Sam’s door. He was excited by the noise that he was making, the determined stomps that had done for the cheap plywood panels and the rusting hinges. He’d wanted to kick Sam as well for being such a drama queen, but he didn’t, he couldn’t, it would have been like kicking a child. Today, however, it was different. He’d actually wanted to knock Sam out, and had Rose not come in when she did, Zack’s wish may well have come true. There were other things too, events he had confessed to no one, not even Sam, but he decided not to dwell on those for the time being, they haunted him enough as it was.

  As sleep became impossible, Zack got up and tried to read, but when he failed even to get to the bottom of the page he padded into the kitchen and opened up the fridge. He smiled at all the little bottles and pots Veronica had stored in there full of bewildering health foods that she’d rustled up or tracked down on the Internet. He’d tried some the day before, Veronica demanding to know if he thought it dull, as most of her previous boyfriends had found her concoctions exceedingly dull. Zack said that he could not for the life of him think why, then an hour later, nipping out for a sneaky Big Mac, something he hadn’t done in years.

  He picked up one of the bottles and examined its glutinous contents which reminded him of frog spawn for some reason, and it was then that the thought hit him. He mulled it over for a moment then shoving the gunk back into the fridge he checked his watch. Too early to phone Tracy, but if he drove over there he could maybe catch her before she left for work.

  Tracy was more than surprised to hear Zack’s tinny voice on her intercom system at 6am, but presuming he had managed to embroil himself in yet another drama, she buzzed him up, telling him to take his time on the stairs so she could
get some clothes on.

  “I’ll charge you for this, Zack Fortune, double time and a half,” said Tracy leading him inside her flat which was now in complete disarray, and looking like the aftermath of a rave.

  “I know what happened, Tracy,” said Zack, “she bottled it.”

  “Who bottled what?”

  “Susan, of course…”

  “She’s withdrawn her statement you mean?”

  “No, she put it in a test tube or something, don’t you see?”

  “She put what in a test tube?”

  “The night before I said it was over, we’d had sex…”

  “You horror, Zack Fortune, you’re lucky I don’t kick you back down those stairs again!”

  “She left my flat angry and upset.”

  “And do you blame her?”

  “No, of course not, but she must have gone home, scooped it out, and put it in the freezer or something. Don’t you see, she took it out one day and put it back the next!”

  Tracy turned on her heels, went into the kitchen, grabbed the kettle and filled it at the sink, Zack watching her brood on his brainwave as she washed two chipped mugs at the sink. “You’ve gone quiet on me, Tracy,” said Zack as the kettle started to boil.

  “I was just thinking how desperate she must have been, that’s all.”

  “I told you I’m a bastard.”

  “An understatement from what I’ve heard today.”

  Tracy knew now that even in the unlikely event of Zack suggesting they become an item, Tracy would have to turn him down. She wouldn’t survive it, like poor Susan had not survived it, the guy was an absolute rogue.

  “What made you think of this now?” she asked, bringing in some nasty, muddy looking coffee that Zack had no intention of drinking.

  “My girlfriend left frogspawn in the fridge.”

  “What for?”

  “Not real frogspawn… although, well, you never know… just some weird concoction I think that she’s intending to whip out at the appropriate moment to impress people.”

  “And the Italian?” asked Tracy, “how’s he?”

  “Alive, unfortunately,” said Zack, “but I’m working on that.”

  It was eleven thirty when Rose stuck her head round Zack’s office door and cleared her throat. “Veronica French to see you,” she said.

  The words hit Zack like a plank. “She’s here now?” he said, up on his feet and looking horrified.

  “Downstairs in reception, Betty just buzzed up.”

  “What does she want?” asked Zack, immediately regretting his stupid question.

  “How should I know?” said Rose.

  “Not in here, she mustn’t come up here, give me two minutes.”

  Rose stepped inside the office and closed the door. Zack stared, surprised that she was coming in and not going out, sparking more confusion.

  “Zack, this is none of my business, but you are my boss, and for the last two years we’ve been a good team I think…”

  Oh God, Rose is dumping me now, this is THE END.

  “I don’t like to see you like this,” said Rose.

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever has been going on, it’s still ruling you. Come into the present, there’s nothing you can do about the past.”

  Then Rose turned and left the room. Zack sank down into his chair and tried to regroup. One thing at a time he decided, he can speak with Rose later, but Veronica was downstairs and she wanted to see him. Why had she come here? What was she intending to do? Perhaps she realised now that he had hidden the Italian sculptures and she hated him for it. He imagined her telling Geoff what a complete moron he was, deceitful, vindictive and small minded, and he imagined Geoff wholeheartedly concurring. Or perhaps she had found out about Susan.

  Terrified suddenly, and thinking she might at that very minute be crossing to the lift, Zack bolted from his room and flew down the fire escape, all eighteen flights. He burst through the emergency doors on ground level, wild eyed and dishevelled, but he was relieved to see her immediately – an oasis of beauty in a desert of ugly suits. Veronica saw him too and watched him approach, but he could sense nothing from her face or the way she looked at him, nothing at all.

  Zack helped her to her feet, took her arm and steered her swiftly across the floor, aware that Betty and Gloria and Patrick were staring after them with intense scrutiny as they negotiated the revolving doors and made their way out into the street. Without saying a word, Zack led Veronica to an old Greek coffee house three blocks away. They went down into the basement and found a table easily enough. Coffee was brought almost immediately by a waiter who knew Zack of old, so well in fact they communicated in sign language.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing…”

  “So why don’t you answer your phone?”

  Zack studied her, debating whether to own up. “I’m punch drunk with stuff, Veronica, that’s the truth of it, and I suppose I’ve been waiting for the killer blow.”

  “From me you mean?”

  “Who else?”

  “Why can’t you trust me?”

  “Just needing to trust is something new for me. Everything that’s happened over the last few weeks has been new for me and it’s taking time to adjust.”

  “Well here’s something else to adjust to…”

  Oh hell, here we go, this is it, she’s moving to Italy at tea time and she’s come to say goodbye.

  “I’m in love with you, Zack Fortune, and no matter how difficult this is…” she suddenly looked across at him rather helplessly, “you can’t choose the person you fall in love with, so you see, I find myself rather stuck.”

  “And if you could, would you choose someone else?”

  “Dead right I would.”

  “Who? The Italian?”

  “Yes, the Italian, handsome, talented, uncomplicated, self-obsessed and unspeakably tedious.”

  Zack wanted to laugh out loud to hear the Italian so soundly rubbished, but he resisted.

  “You know… sometimes it’s good to let go, you should try it sometime.”

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, then keen to move attention elsewhere, “the deaths didn’t happen by the way, I saw the boyfriend of the suicide last night, but it wasn’t her boyfriend, he didn’t know anything about it, so I went to the club and there had been no heart attack, and no boy had been stabbed to death behind the cab office either.”

  “So… that’s good isn’t it?” said Veronica, cautiously.

  “It lets Clarissa off the hook and debunks the regression theory, but of course the downside is my mental health.”

  “But the deaths have stopped,” said Veronica, “so let’s move on shall we?”

  “Good thinking,” said Zack with a smile. But Veronica saw the fear in his eyes as though unspeakable horror lay in wait for him somewhere, poised, and ready to strike.

  Outside in the street they kissed and went their separate ways. Zack strode back to work, relieved, re-energised, and playing Veronica’s voice in his head over and over again, “I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you.” He had a girlfriend again, and the Italian bastard had sunk back under his stone.

  Back at Nyman’s, Zack went in search of Rose.

  “Rose, have you got a minute? Are you busy tonight? I’d like to take you out to dinner if that’s all right with you.”

  “I’m not leaving,” said Rose, straight away, “I’m not even thinking of leaving.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” said Zack, “but my offer still stands.”

  Rose said she would get back to him if she could find a babysitter. An hour later she did get back to him and their date was arranged.

  CHAPTER 20

  Zack picked Rose up from her neat little council house in Shepherds Bush at 7.30. She looked sensational in a clingy white dress and black peep toed shoes and Zack told her so, but he could see she was uncomfortable with co
mpliments so he dropped the superlatives.

  Ages ago Rose had once mentioned that although she’d hated Caribbean food as a child, she’d grown to love it, so he decided to take her to a Jamaican joint just off Ladbroke Grove. Zack had been there once before with Sid who had ordered just about everything on the menu, leaving Zack to pick up the not insubstantial bill, but the food was decent enough.

  ‘Trench Town’ was done out like a beach hut, with large maps of Jamaica on the walls and Rastafarian colours everywhere. “Endearingly naff,” had been the way Zack had described it, and Rose found herself agreeing with the description as they took their seats at a table up by the window.

  “The service here is… eccentric… to put it politely,” said Zack.

  “Try dining out in Kingston,” said Rose, “you could get through War and Peace before the food turns up.”

  They smiled at each other and gazed out into the street. Opposite, a group of teenage girls, like chattering jackdaws, swarmed round a bus stop vying for acceptance. To their left, an elderly white man was passing the time of day with the Sikh shop keeper standing on the step of his newsagents like a sentinel, arms crossed. A wild eyed black man plunging into traffic started dancing his way round cars, singing Times Tough, the old Toots and the Maytals number at the top of his voice: a typical West London scene.

  “Sorry about everything, Rose. I’d have been sunk without you, and if I can I’m going to get you a rise.”

  “Zack, as strange as this might seem… I actually like working for you,” she said, “well… most of the time.”

  “But not lately I suspect.”

  “Better the devil you know,” she said, with a little smile.

  “The thing that struck me when we first met was how eminently sensible you were, did I ever tell you?”

  “No you didn’t,” said Rose, dismissively, “imagine that on my gravestone, ‘Rose Crawford, eminently sensible’. If that’s meant to be a compliment I don’t think much of it.”

  “But useful with someone like me.”

  “Look, I don’t know what’s been going on, of course I don’t, but whatever it is, it’s left its mark.”