by Mark Dawson
Brian moves on to the dining area; there’s a ten-seater chrome-and-glass table with gothic-style wrought-iron chairs.
‘What are you doing?’ I repeat, out of my head with panic, and now almost completely sobered-up.
‘I was hoping he might’ve been in-’
He sweeps a crystal fruit bowl onto the floor. The noise seems impossibly loud.
‘I wanted to give him a shock-’
Six long-stemmed wineglasses bounce in pieces off the walls.
‘But this’ll have to do for now-’
He struggles with one of the heavy chairs and, with it balanced half on his shoulder, tips it forward into the middle of the table. It drops straight through, the glass shattering, fault lines cobwebbing across the surface, and then shards falling out of the frame smash noisily on the floor.
‘And I have to say, this is making me feel much better.’
I should do something to stop this. But I’m hypnotized by his face as he moves on, tipping over the other chairs and then a chaise-longue: naked, unrestrained fury. Was this how he was the evening he visited French? Suddenly fearful, I badly want to leave.
I edge back towards the wall. But, as I’m watching Brian put his coat back on again, I feel a sudden and almost overpowering urge to throw up. I force the vomit back down again and brace myself against a table.
‘Are you all right?’ Brian asks, slotting the plug into the kitchen sink and then turning on both taps. He comes over to me. ‘You look awful. You’re sweating.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, although I do feel a little dizzy. I brace myself on the frame of the broken table.
The sink fills quickly and the water slops over the side. A puddle begins to gather on the floor, spreading out across the room.
‘What was that?’ I say. ‘I heard something.’
‘What? You’re slurring.’
‘I think I heard something. A door opening.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He puts a hand on my arm. I suddenly feel very weak. ‘You’re not making sense.’
Water is washing into the lounge now. The legs of the table are licked by its leading edge.
‘I’m fine,’ I say as I slide off the table, into the water, my head swimming, Brian tries to catch me, my knees buckle, I slump face-first onto the floor, pain, cheek resting against rough wet wood, the door behind us opens, a brief struggle, someone shouting at us, a pair of polished black boots wobbling like heat haze in front of my face, Brian thrown back against a wall, his face dissolving into rage, losing it, not himself, and then I fall away completely.
AN EXTRACT FROM SCOTT DOLAN’S GUEST LIST
I’ve heard police want to speak to Brian Fey about the death of John French. This follows trouble at John’s funeral when Sean Darbo had to stop Fey from attacking his old colleague Martin Valentine.
SATURDAY
NOT A BED OF ROSES
The sound of a shout echoing along a corridor brings me around. As I wake up the shouting has stopped. I wonder if I was dreaming it. I must have been.
I’m groggy and uncomfortable. There’s an acrid taste in my mouth. I gradually realize I’m not in my own bed. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel the cold hard surface I’m lying on through the twisted muscles of my stiff back. My right leg is numb from where I’ve been lying against it. The lobby again? I try not to think about Hodgson stepping over me on his way out of the front door. What must he think? I ought to be ashamed of myself.
I open my eyes.
I’m not in the lobby.
I’m definitely not in my flat.
I don’t know where I am.
It’s a small, square room. The walls are painted with a faded yellow that has peeled away in uneven blistered patches. Graffiti has been scrawled on top of the surviving paint. The floor is tatty red vinyl and there is no furniture. The sick orange throbbing into my eyes originates from a strip light fixed to a high ceiling. There are no windows; I’ve no idea what time it is. The decor is ascetic, spartan.
I have a tremendous hangover.
The only exit is a heavy metal door with a closed slot set into the middle. This door is firmly shut and there is no handle on the inside. My resting place is a long concrete shelf, barely ameliorated by a thin mattress. There are no sheets or covers. The mattress is stained yellow. It smells of urine. My belt and shoelaces have been removed.
My legal practice has never called upon me to visit a place like this but I recognize it from television drama. In a way, this was inevitable. It’s been coming.
Only a matter of time before I would find myself waking up in a police cell.
AT HER MAJESTY’S PLEASURE
Detective Inspector Lawrence is sipping from a plastic cup of water. He didn’t offer me one. His colleague, DC Eagen, has spent the last five minutes skipping through pages of typed print. I try to read the upside-down script but it’s impossible to decipher anything from my position.
At the bottom of the page I then notice a signature; unsteady and scribbled, which I still recognize as mine. I don’t remember signing anything.
Eagen breaks open a sealed audio tape and slips it into the slot of a tape deck on the table. He presses a button and a red indicator lights up. The tape starts to record.
‘For the tape,’ he says, ‘DI Lawrence and DC Eagen present with the suspect, Daniel Alexander Tate. Interview commencing at -’ he checks the cheap plastic clock on the wall - ‘six-thirty p.m.’
‘Six-thirty?’ I panic. ‘Are you sure?’
He points up at the clock. ‘You’ve been asleep all day. In a bit of a state when we brought you in. We thought we’d leave you in the drunk tank for a bit, let you sober up.’
‘But I can’t be here,’ I tell them. ‘I have to meet someone. It’s really urgent.’
‘You’ll have to be late, then. You’ve got some explaining to do.’
We’re sitting in folding chairs, facing each other across a table patterned with ringed coffee stains, cigarette burn marks and scratched graffiti. The backrest of my chair, a cold metal strip, is cutting into the cramped muscles of my back; it’s impossible to get comfortable, but then that’s probably the point. Detective Inspector Lawrence is a tall, thin man with a sharp pointed nose and wire-frame glasses. Detective Constable Eagen, by contrast, is short and dumpy with a beard silvered by age. His eyebrows join in the middle and his breath wheezes in and out from between clumps of thick nasal hair.
‘So - let’s go through this again,’ says Eagen. He looks at the notes. ‘You said last night that you were "just looking around the place". You were "just having a laugh". That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Last night?’ I ask.
‘During the interview.’
‘I don’t remember being interviewed.’
‘You don’t remember being interviewed last night?’ he says.
‘I don’t even know, how I got here.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘You were drunk,’ Lawrence tells me. ‘In fact, you were almost unconscious when we brought you in.’
‘So I must’ve forgotten,’ I say.
‘That must be it.’
‘And you interviewed me? In that state?’
‘We did.’
‘Isn’t that against the rules?’
‘Don’t get chippy,’ Lawrence warns. ‘The doctor examined you. He said we could go ahead.’
‘Let’s see if we can’t refresh your memory,’ Eagen offers. ‘You and your friend - Mr Fey - have been charged with burglary and criminal damage. You broke into a flat and wrecked some very expensive furniture. The couple who live there were out at the time, lucky for you, because if they’d’ve been in, you’d be looking at something more serious than what you’ve got. Aggravated charges, that sort of thing. You were caught by a couple of the boys after they heard all the noise you were making, from the street.’
‘What couple?’ I ask.
‘The flat belongs to a couple of accountants. The
y were working late.’
‘Not Sean Darbo?’
‘Sean who?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You smashed up the place,’ Lawrence says. ‘Flooded it, too. Wouldn’t like to think about how much damage you caused.’
I lie: ‘I don’t remember any of it. Where’s my friend now?’
‘We’ve already interviewed him,’ Lawrence says. ‘I’ve got to say, we had a shock once we identified him. The rest of the station was very impressed when we told them who we had in here. But we’re done with him now. He’s been charged and we released him this afternoon.’
‘What’ve you charged him with?’
‘Same as you.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. He was lucky - we could probably have had him for assaulting a policeman, too. He was a bit feisty when he was brought in.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No other charges?’
‘No. What else would you like us to charge him with?’
I bottle it, say, ‘Nothing,’ and ask them what they intend to do with me.
‘We’d like to know why you did it. Don’t get too many solicitors in here on charges. Most of the solicitors we see in the station are just here to make our jobs difficult. So this is a novel experience for us.’
‘By the way,’ Eagen says. ‘Would you like a solicitor? We could call your office, perhaps? Maybe they could send someone over?’
I shake my head vigorously. The last thing I want is for work to find out about this. I’d be sacked on the spot.
‘Suspect declines offer of legal representation,’ Eagen reports for the tape.
Lawrence steeples his thin fingers and stares straight at me. ‘So why don’t you tell us exactly what you were trying to achieve.’
It would take too long to explain so I just shrug. ‘I don’t know. Like you say, I was drunk. What else do you need to know? It’s not like I’m proud of it.’
‘You confirm you caused the damage?’
‘Yes. I confess. We did it.’
‘Then there’s not much else to say, then, is there? I’m terminating the interview at - six-forty,’ says Lawrence, stopping the tape.
‘Look - I really need to go now. I’m missing a very important appointment.’
‘You’ll go when we’ve finished with you,’ Eagen says sternly. ‘There’s paperwork to fill out.’
‘Why would you go and do something stupid like that?’ asks Lawrence, as Eagen seals the tape into an evidence bag. ‘We get all sorts in here, but someone like you - a solicitor? It’s not like you two even looked like you were trying to nick something. It was just senseless damage.’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been myself lately. Look, I don’t really have time to chat. I’ll sign whatever you want. I just need to get out of here, please.’
He pays no attention. ‘But you’ve got so much to lose,’ he muses, with a dour shake of his head.
I don’t bother to correct him.
TOO LATE
They take me back to the cell. I’ve no idea how long they leave me there since they haven’t returned my watch or any of the rest of my possessions. I bang the door and shout and yell; but after the custody sergeant assures himself there’s no cause for alarm he goes back to his office and ignores me. I give up.
When the police eventually let me out, another hour has passed. I hurriedly sign for my things and take a taxi to the Groucho. The receptionist takes one look at me - haggard, unshaven, clothes askew - and refuses to let me in.
‘I’m here to see Hannah Wilde,’ I explain, half-hysterical. ‘I’m just a little late.’
With a frown of irritation, the receptionist consults a ledger on the desk in front of her. She shakes her head. ‘Miss Wilde left thirty minutes ago,’ she reports. ‘Couldn’t I just go in and check?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look, it’s really important. She asked me to meet her here. Could you check your book?’
‘Miss Wilde left thirty minutes ago,’ she repeats impatiently. She nods to a burly bouncer who gently guides me towards the door. I try to peer through the windows into the hazy interior but there’s no sign of Hannah. Eventually, I give up and get a taxi home.
FINALLY, A SECOND CHANCE
The telephone starts ringing as I climb the stairs to the flat. The last ring is choked short as the machine picks up and the message Hannah recorded before she left plays out. The message, I recall, is mercilessly brief. By the time she’s invited the unknown caller to leave their message I’ve sprinted up the stairs, two at a time, fumbling for my keys as I do so. Hannah - the real deal now, unrecorded - is already well into a rant. She sounds like the kind of person who has just been left standing alone at a bar for the past couple of hours.
‘… and if you can’t even be bothered to turn up so we could talk about it, then you’re not leaving me with any real choice but to…’
‘Hello,’ I gasp. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘So you are in.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. In fact, you have no idea just how sorry I am.’
‘And your excuse is what exactly?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘No, go on, tell me, I’m interested. I’d love to know what it was that was so important that you had to stand me up at the fucking Groucho. Of all the fucking places you could choose to stand me up… I could have died in there.’
‘Listen, I mean it, I’m really sorry. I’m really, really sorry.’
‘Everyone was there,’ she continues. ‘The whole crowd, including this director I’m auditioning for next week. How he’s ever going to take me seriously now, I have no idea.’
She hasn’t slammed the phone down on me yet, which must be a good sign.
‘Please, Hannah, I really need to talk to you. It’s very important.’
She takes a breath. ‘I need to talk to you too.’
Brian walks in through the still open front door, with a carrier bag of provisions. He starts to say something, notices that I’m on the phone and heads through into the kitchen.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ I’m suddenly inspired. ‘Why don’t you come over here tomorrow evening? I’ll cook dinner. At least if you come here you’ll know I won’t forget.’
‘Fine,’ she agrees. ‘I’ll be there at seven.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, but I’m talking to the dialing tone. She’s already put the phone down on me.
I slump into the sofa while Brian prepares a meal.
Nelson miaows at me. He hasn’t been fed. Brian cooks some chicken and rice and fills his dish with it. Nelson wolfs it down.
My head is spinning again and I feel drowsy. Probably just hunger and lack of sleep. I’ve had a difficult day.
‘I’m really sorry about last night,’ Brian says from the kitchen. ‘I told the police everything. I told them it was my idea. As far as I’m concerned, you had nothing to do with it. It was all my fault. I put everything into my statement.’
‘They charged me too.’
He opens the cupboard and slides something inside. ‘They’ll drop it once they realize it was all down to me. And, if I have to, I’ll get us both a really good lawyer. There won’t be a problem.’
‘You haven’t got any money, Brian,’ I remind him.
‘I’ll find some,’ he says.
I look around. To my surprise, Brian has completely tidied the flat. He must have done it yesterday while I was at work, or after he was released this afternoon. I can’t remember the last time it was this clean. The rubbish strewn on the floor has been collected. The carpet has been hoovered and all the surfaces have been dusted. The kitchen and bathroom have been subjected to the same diligent attention. I don’t even want to think about how long it must have taken him - or why he’s done it.
‘Is the heating back on again?’ I say.
‘The gas company said y
ou hadn’t paid your bill. I paid on my credit card. Hope you don’t mind.’
I shake my head dumbly. Brian brings me a bowl of the chicken and rice. It’s a struggle to bring the fork to my mouth and I can barely finish it all.
I sip my tea and then put it aside. ‘I feel awful,’ I say.
‘Why don’t you try and get some sleep?’ he suggests. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning.’
I remember saying something similar to him earlier in the week. But whereas problems seem to slide off Brian, leaving him untouched and relaxed, they stick to me like glue.
Trying not to think about the answerphone tapes, the photographs - the weight of the evidence against him - I take his advice.
‘Thanks for the food,’ I say edgily. ‘And for tidying up.’
‘Forget about it,’ he says, sliding a clean plate into the draining rack. ‘It’s the least I could do.’
SUNDAY
BREAKFAST
The sun is pouring through the bedroom window when I awake. I check my watch: it’s already 3 p.m. I struggle out of bed and tidy up. Hannah’s coming round tonight and even though I’m not one for counting chickens, a filthy bedroom would be tempting fate.
Into the kitchen to check the fridge and the cupboards. They’ve been stocked with items I don’t remember purchasing: jars of pasta sauce, tins of tomatoes and baked beans, a whole shelf of microwave meals, eggs, fruit and vegetables, cartons of juice, yoghurt.
On the counter I find a note from Brian:
Daniel - Had to go out. Back later. Bagels and croissants in cupboard - dig in. Spare room is messy - suggest steer clear until I’ve tidied. Brian.