by Mark Dawson
‘His leg,’ I call out, slipping on the road. ‘The car’s crushing his leg.’
Hannah gets out of the car and crouches down next to Haines. Rip quickly gets back inside again and drives the car slowly off Haines’s leg. He screams again, but louder.
‘You bastard!’ Hannah screams. ‘Look what you’ve done to him.’
‘It was an accident,’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’
‘Look at his leg!’
I look down at Haines. His foot is pointing backwards at an impossible angle. A sliver of white bone has pierced his trousers and points up at the sky. Blood is beginning to seep out onto the road. He is moaning in pain.
I notice Rip speaking urgently into a mobile phone. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I plead. ‘The door was open.’
Someone jogs up behind me. ‘What’s going on?’ Dolan asks. He’s alongside the car, tentatively edging forward. His camera is pressed to his face, the shutter whirring as he takes picture after picture. He notices Haines. ‘Fuck. Uh - Vinny? Are you OK?’
‘Of course he’s not OK,’ Hannah snaps.
‘Just fuck off,’ I yell.
‘Have you had an argument with Hannah?’ Dolan asks. ‘Is that why you’re so upset? Hannah? Is that it? I know you two had a thing - before Vincent, of course. I know he’s the reason she dumped you, Danny. And how’s Brian Fey tied up in all of this? Is Hannah sleeping with him too? Daniel?’
I advance around the car towards him. I’ve had enough of this. He walks backwards to where his own car is parked. Dolan is encumbered with the camera around his neck and is caught between me and the car. He tries to duck inside, but not quickly enough to escape me. I grasp a handful of his jacket and yank him outside again.
‘Mind your own business,’ I pant. I enjoy the infusion of fear in his eyes and the involuntary bobbing of his Adam’s apple, before I nail him with a straight right on the nose and dump him down onto the seat of his pants. Hannah shrieks. I’m not much of a brawler but it was a pretty solid contact. Solid enough to splash blood all over his face and down the front of his shirt, and sting the hell out of my fist.
I reach down for his camera. I remove the film and pocket it.
‘Oh, this is going to look great in the papers,’ he says nasally. Two streams of blood are pouring out from both nostrils and onto the grey slush. "Hotshot Lawyer Assaults Soap Star and Reporter."’
‘Hotshot?’ I say. ‘That’s hilarious.’
I my back on them all and head back inside.
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
I knock on the door to my flat but Lisa doesn’t open it. It then takes me ten minutes to batter it open. It’s not a substantial door, but still strong enough to resist my persistent charges and kicks long enough for painful bruises to develop on my shoulders and feet. At one point Hodgson comes halfway up the stairs to complain, but when I swing around to confront him, blood on my knuckles and my eyes wild, he changes his mind and retreats down to his own flat again. I finally push the broken door back on its shattered hinges and rest my forehead against the frame, breathing slowly through my mouth - in and out, in and out. I hear a siren wail in the distance, gradually getting louder.
Lisa is on the sofa, snoring. The bottle of whisky I was drinking from is on the floor next to her, tipped over now, a puddle of liquid staining the carpet brown. I rescue it; there’s still a few fingers’ worth left.
I run a hand through my hair. I fold the tablecloth over the candles and cutlery on the table and throw the bundle into the trash. I drink off the remnants of the JD in one long slug. I scrape the spag bol I took all afternoon to prepare into the bin. The evening I had planned seems ridiculous now. I feel humiliated. I take the blanket from the spare room and throw it over Lisa.
Blue light from the street below pulses through the curtains. I can hear voices, accusatory tones.
Someone knocks on the door.
‘Just a minute,’ I say, filling Nelson’s bowl with tuna and changing his water and his litter tray.
I don’t make a fuss and follow the police docilely down to the squad car waiting in the street. An ambulance is there too, and two paramedics are crouching on either side of Haines, gingerly immobilizing his leg in a long splint. Lights are on in most of the houses, silhouetting my neighbours as they look out at the scene in the street.
Hannah is nervously smoking a cigarette, pacing fretfully as she watches the medics at work. Dolan is there too, his nose plugged with two stoppers of cotton wool. He’s loaded a new film into his camera and he snaps away as I trudge towards the police car, its lights flashing, and slide into the back. A constable gets in next to me and the door is shut.
As we reach the end of the street, I turn back. The houses are bathed in blinking blue light from the ambulance, that light also falling upon Haines as he is lifted up on a stretcher and upon Hannah standing next to the stretcher so she can hold his hand.
As the police car accelerates away from the junction, I know this is the last time I’ll ever see her. I watch until we turn a corner and put them out of sight.
FAMILIAR FACES
‘Not you again,’ Detective Constable Eagen says as I’m handed over to him at the station. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Let’s just get it over with,’ I suggest.
The interview doesn’t take nearly as long this time.
I decline the offer of a lawyer and admit to everything. He asks questions and I provide full answers. I calmly dictate a statement, and then I am put to wait in the same cell as earlier. When the statement is ready I sign it. They charge me with GBH twice: once for Haines’s leg and once for Dolan’s nose. I don’t complain as they lead me back to the cell. I slump down on the foul-smelling mattress. I expect to be here all night and so it comes as a surprise when the custody officer opens the door and tells me that I’ve been bailed.
‘Bailed?’
‘That’s right. Come on, out. This isn’t a hotel and I need this cell.’
‘That’s not possible,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t paid anything.’
‘I know you haven’t.’
‘Then it’s a mistake.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘So what… ? It’s police bail?’
‘A couple of friends have put up some cash for you. They’re out in reception.’
BAILED
It’s just before midnight when I’m let out. A drab reception room awaits me. The walls are covered with community-action posters, crime-prevention pamphlets and photofits of suspects and missing persons. A weary looking woman in a dusty sari is sitting on a moulded plastic chair, staring first at the front of her hands and then at the back. A uniformed officer absent-mindedly twirls a spoon in a mug of coffee, the metal clinking against the porcelain.
Brian and Cohen are waiting for me there. The desk officer tells me quietly that Brian’s been here for nearly the duration of my stay. I check the clock: that would be three hours.
Cohen is standing with his back to me, reading a poster on domestic security.
‘Hi,’ Brian says. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m OK,’ I tell him. ‘Just a little confused.’
‘You look awful,’ Cohen says. He’s wearing a tux, his bow tie unknotted and strung loose around his neck.
I grunt at him.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks.
‘I’ve been arrested.’
‘I know, we heard. What’ve you been doing?’
I shake my head and stare at him.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cohen says. ‘We can talk about it later. Let’s just get out of here.’
‘The press is outside,’ Brian reports with a grim smile. ‘Lots of them.’
I look through the dusty window; a crowd of journalists and photographers is thronging the pavement.
‘Oh, great,’ I groan. ‘That’s all I need.’
‘OK, listen - I’m used to this. Or at least I was. The best way to get through in one piece is to keep your head do
wn and just keep walking. Don’t stop to answer questions or they’ll have you. You’ll never get away.’
‘OK.’
‘Ready?’
‘OK.’
There are excited cries of ‘Daniel,’ ‘Dan’ and ‘Danny’ as I emerge outside. The barrage of flashes seems even brighter in the darkness of the night. The predominant enquiry as I struggle down the steps towards the street is ‘Why’d you do it?’ I ignore them, as per Brian’s advice, and concentrate on maintaining my forward momentum. One foot in front of the other, then repeat. Shutters whirr and flashbulbs flash, painting blinding white splashes on my retinas. Lights fixed to TV cameras strobe at us. Microphones and recording machines are brandished beneath my nose. A fluffy boom mike wobbles overhead. Late-night pedestrians - some the worse for drink - gawp in curious amazement and car horns honk as the crowd encroaches into the street.
We struggle forward, an anomalous trio: me looking like death warmed up, leading the way; the famous rockstar behind me; Cohen in a monkey suit doggedly bringing up the rear. ‘No comment,’ I say repeatedly as I grapple my way through the skirmish. No one is paying any attention to Brian, his hand on my elbow, guiding me firmly towards a black cab idling by the kerb. No one even seems to have recognized him.
A determined reporter prises down the window of the cab and leans halfway inside as we move away.
‘Is any of this to do with Hannah Wilde?’ he asks.
The taxi is crawling forward too slowly in the traffic. We’re trapped behind a night bus.
‘I know all about her dumping you.’
‘I wasn’t dumped,’ I reply heatedly. ‘It was, um, a mutual idea - for the best.’
‘Bollocks,’ he exclaims, trotting to keep up now. He only has eyes for me; he hasn’t even noticed Brian. ‘Come on, Danny, I know you must be cut up about it. Just tell me it’s true and I’ll leave you alone. It’ll make it a lot easier for you. Just trust me - I’m on your side.’
‘He’s got no comment, OK, so fuck off,’ Brian says angrily, reaching across me and shoving the window closed. ‘Bastards.’ He shakes his head. ‘They get worse and worse.’
I turn to watch as the taxi pulls into an empty side lane and picks up speed. The reporter is left standing in the gutter, a mobile phone pressed to his ear and a fag clamped between his lips.
‘How did you manage it?’ Cohen asks Brian incredulously. ‘How did you ever put up with all that?’
‘You get used to it after a while,’ he replies. ‘The strange thing is, I actually miss it now. Can you believe that? I’d give a lot to have it back again.’
‘What was it like?’ Cohen asks. ‘You know, being famous?’
‘Specifically?’ Brian says. ‘Can’t say I’ve got any bad memories. But then I can’t say I’ve got any good memories, either, because I can’t remember any of it.’ He lights up a fag, blows out smoke, introspective. ‘But generally? You know, it’s strange - the effect it has on people. You get served faster in the shops, for one.’
‘It must’ve been a shock, at the start.’
‘You remember that haircut I had back in the early eighties?’
I remember it well: dyed red and blue, with three-inch spikes on top and hair going down all the way to the shoulders. As a ten-year-old, I imagined this to be the pinnacle of cool. Cohen nods at his own recollection.
‘God, that was embarrassing,’ Brian continues. ‘I had that cut when I was working in Tesco’s, before I joined the band. People used to walk past saying, "What a tit." As soon as we were on Top at the Pops, they started saying it in national magazines. That’s what fame does.’
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me any more,’ I say. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
‘He’s been under a lot of stress,’ Cohen says to Brian. I think about responding, but don’t.
As we head home, they explain what happened. Brian was on his way back to the flat when he saw the police car pull away with me in it. He managed to extract a partial story from Lisa, who had watched through the window before falling asleep. Brian took a cab to the station to see if he could help. When bail was set he knew he’d need someone else; following the brouhaha last night his own character was in doubt and the police wouldn’t deal with him. Without anyone else to turn to, he rang the office and got Cohen’s number. They’d met weeks ago, at the start of the case, and apparently I’ve told him since that Cohen’s my closest friend in the office. I don’t recall saying that. Cohen excused himself from a dinner party. He said he would stand bail for me but Brian insisted his own money be used. They had both waited there for the last couple of hours while my questioning proceeded. ‘How much was bail?’ I groan.
‘£10,000,’ Cohen says.
‘Where’d you get that kind of money from?’ I ask Brian.
‘I’ve got an account I’d forgotten about,’ he admits, a little too hesitantly. I don’t believe him. He’s lying. ‘The bank told me about it yesterday. I suppose I should’ve told you about it but it slipped my mind.’
I knew it. I knew he had money somewhere he wasn’t telling us about. Look at him now, squirming uncomfortably. But he still isn’t telling me everything. There’s something else.
‘And why’d you get involved?’ I say to Cohen. ‘What’s in it for you?’
The taxi stops outside his house and he gets out.
He fakes a puzzled frown. ‘Because you’re a friend,’ he says through the open window. ‘Because you’d do the same thing for me. I’ll call you tomorrow, OK.’
‘Fine,’ I say.
He pauses for a moment, unsure if he should say something else, before smiling at us and walking towards his front door.
Finally, we get back to my flat. There are three photographers waiting for us outside. I ignore their questions as we struggle inside. The door won’t lock - I’ve damaged it pretty badly - so we jam it shut.
Brian sees Lisa asleep on the sofa and groans.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I forgot about her. I should’ve said something.’
I wave his apology away. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘It’s just she didn’t have anywhere else to go either. I mean, after I was kicked out of my own flat, I didn’t know what else to do with her.’
‘What - she lives with you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I didn’t realize.’
‘Since my mum died.’
‘Sorry?’
‘She’s my little sister.’
‘Your sister?’ I look down at Lisa. It’s difficult to spot a familial resemblance. ‘I thought you were seeing her.’
Brian laughs, long and hard. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘I suppose it could look like that.’
‘I didn’t know you even had a sister.’
‘Yeah. Look, I’m sorry. I know I should’ve asked. It’s just that she didn’t have anywhere else to go and it was an emergency. I was going to take her to a hotel tonight, I found one I could afford this afternoon - that’s where I’ve been today. Just looking around.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘So what’d they ask you, the police?’ Brian asks this nonchalantly, not looking at me, busy in the kitchen.
‘Nothing much,’ I say carefully. ‘I admitted to everything.’
‘That’s it? They didn’t want anything else?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Jeez,’ he says. ‘What a mess.’
‘I’m wiped out,’ I tell him nervously. ‘I’m turning in.’
I head towards the bedroom.
‘Night,’ Brian says. ‘Maybe we can talk in the morning?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
I go to bed. There’s nothing else for it.
NIGHT THOUGHTS
But what’s the point in that? I can’t sleep, anyway.
I’ve been in and out of the toilet five or six times and now I’m lying on my back, staring at the gloomy ceiling and trying to work out why Brian and Cohen put up my bail money. What�
�s in it for them? The whole mess keeps running through my head. There must be an explanation, as I can’t believe either of them would do it out of philanthropy.
Maybe Brian thinks I know more about French’s death than I’m letting on. With me locked up and facing charges, maybe he thinks I might be tempted to cooperate with the police. I deliver them the killer in a high-profile murder hunt, they release me with a slap on the wrist. Brian would prefer me to be outside, where he can keep an eye on me. He couldn’t do that if I was locked up. He wouldn’t be able to get at me.
Is this paranoia? It seems plausible enough.
And Cohen? If Cohen is working with Dawkins to undermine me, it’d be useful to have something on me, especially now I’ve found out that the Dork has been sabotaging my work. And they know I’ve found that out now because I told Cohen at dinner on Thursday night. I could wreck Dawkins’ chances of partnership if I could prove everything I know about him to Hunter. And if Dawkins doesn’t make partner, Cohen loses his new ally on the inside and his guaranteed promotion next year. But now they can discredit and get rid of me. They can add to my disgrace, whisper gossip and slander and innuendo, and have me sacked. No one will believe a word I say.
Lying here, unable to close down my mind, I’m playing these ideas and theories around, and trying to grasp the threads of an idea that I’ve been unable to stitch together. It’s been bothering me since I got out of the police station, just out of reach at the back of my mind, tantalizingly incomplete.
And then, as a train rattles across the railway bridge, I make a connection and everything becomes obvious. I sit bolt upright in bed, horrified.
I remember the newspaper report that said £10,000 was stolen from John French’s house after his murder last week. £10,000 was the amount Brian gave to Cohen to pay for my bail. Brian was supposed to have no access to money.
This can’t be a coincidence.
Brian must have killed French and then stolen the money.
I’m suddenly anxious. I get out of bed and lock the bedroom door. I don’t want to wake up with him standing above me in the gloom of the bedroom, a pillow ready to press down onto my face. I prop a bookcase up against it and wedge a chair underneath the handle.