Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Inspector Vieri laughed. It made him look human.

  “Oh,” Peroni added.

  He reached into his pocket, took out a nougat, held out it for the man from Milan.

  “Welcome to Rome.”

  Daytripping

  Gerard Brennan

  Mattie squinted at me through a cloud of smoke. I wrinkled my nose at the stink of burning weed. My wake-and-bake friend didn’t acknowledge the disapproval. He pulled a huge hit and offered me the joint. I waved it away.

  “It’s eight in the morning, man. I haven’t even had a coffee yet.”

  “Caffeine’s bad for you, James.”

  I shook my head. “And what are you? The picture of health?”

  Mattie’s build would have given Buddha stomach-envy. He was big before he started toking, but since those marijuana munchies took hold he must have doubled in size. I patted my own flat stomach and once again felt grateful that I’d left drugs behind me in my early twenties.

  “I’ll be around a long time after you’re gone, James.” He knocked a length of ash on to a saucer on his kitchen table. “That heart of yours won’t hold up to the stress of the rat race.”

  I thumped my chest. “Nothing wrong with my ticker, Mattie. It’s your lungs I fret about.”

  “There’s no tobacco in this spliff.” His lips bowed into a disgusted frown. “I gave up that cancerous shit ages ago. I roll them with dried parsley now.”

  I sniffed the air again. That cloying dope scent was prevalent – and okay, maybe it held a nostalgic charm – but I could smell something more subtle underneath. It reminded me a little of the stew my ma used to make.

  “Parsley?”

  He pointed to a little glass jar on the table. Honest-to-God dried parsley.

  “Can you use any herb?”

  Mattie shrugged. “I haven’t tried anything else. Some Scottish guy told me he used it so I gave it a go. Stick with what works, you know?”

  I realized my leg was pumping up and down under the table. Jitters. I wanted to leave, get on with my day. Already it was going to be hell finding a parking space anywhere near the office.

  “You invited me for breakfast,” I said.

  Mattie leant forward. “Right enough. Sorry, man. How do you want your eggs?”

  I glanced around Mattie’s kitchen. Dirty dishes in and around the sink, crumbs on the floor, bin overflowing with takeaway cartons and blackened banana skins. I noticed muddy paw prints on the worktop. Mattie didn’t own a pet. I suppressed a shudder.

  “Boiled, please.” They’d be harder to contaminate that way.

  The stoned behemoth rocked himself out of his chair and trundled across the sticky linoleum. He tugged a pot from the unwashed stack in the sink. The dislodged crockery settled with a clatter. Without so much as a rinse, he dropped six eggs into the pot and poured hot water from the kettle on them. He dumped it on the ceramic hob and dialled up the heat.

  Slapdash bastard.

  “Do you want some tea?” he asked.

  “No coffee?”

  “I told you about that caffeine.”

  “Tea it is, then.”

  Mattie rummaged through the crap on his worktop and found a teapot. It was covered up with a knitted cosy in Rastafarian colours. I didn’t pass comment. Too easy. He plonked the teapot on the table and I heard the liquid contents slosh.

  “Brewed this earlier.”

  “Ah, man, I’ve been here for ages. It’ll be like cold piss.”

  “Don’t worry, James. This is proper herbal. It needs to soak for a while to diffuse.”

  He pulled off the cosy with a magician’s flair then fetched us two cups from a cupboard. At least they were clean. The teapot, not so much. Brown stains formed thin rivulets down the spout and something was fused to the side. The something looked like it might have been a condom, but in what circumstance . . . ?

  “Maybe I’ll just have water, Mattie.”

  “Water here’s stinking. You’re better off with this. The badness is boiled out.”

  Mattie slopped the tea into the cups and pushed one in front of me. He eased himself back in his chair, graceful as a sumo wrestler, and raised his cup.

  “Chin, chin, James.”

  I forced a tight-lipped smile and lifted my cup. The murky liquid had greasy patches on the surface, like petrol in a puddle. I sniffed it but couldn’t distinguish a scent other than the heavy stench of dope so thick in the air.

  “Come on, James. Drink up.”

  “No harm to you, Mattie, but this looks pretty rank.”

  “Never mind how it looks. Just swallow it down. I promise it’ll knock your socks off.”

  “I don’t—”

  Mattie slammed a meaty hand down on the table. The wallop shocked me. I almost threw the cup in the air.

  “Drink the tea, James.”

  My friend smiled at me. He gave me those eyes I remembered so well. It was how he looked at me over that first joint we shared in his mum’s garage on a rainy Saturday afternoon. His stare was soft, unthreatening, and it held something else. A deep kindness, I suppose. And then I remembered that time he lent me money to pay rent when I’d lost my first job after uni. This was before I cleaned myself up and put some distance between us. I couldn’t be a proper grown-up with friends like him.

  Mattie had called me the day before. First time I’d heard from him in years. He needed to see me. There was something big going on. And I had figured he’d been going through some sobriety programme and a quick visit to check in on him was the least I could do. But he hadn’t changed at all, except for the extra weight he carried. But then, in some cultures that was a sign of wealth and good fortune. And I always liked Mattie. He wasn’t a bad influence so much as somebody who thought he could show the world a good time. And he’d just offered me a cup of herbal tea that was spiked with God-knows-what. Maybe I’d gotten a little high off his second-hand dope-smoke but it suddenly seemed very important that I drink Mattie’s tea.

  I gagged on the first sip. It was lukewarm green tea with some weird aftertaste.

  “All of it,” Mattie said.

  I tipped the cup back and gulped. That brutal flavour hit me hard and I retched but managed to keep it down.

  “What was in that, Mattie?”

  “The key to a higher understanding.”

  “I can’t believe you spiked me.” But of course I could.

  “I’m trying to help you along. It’s evolution in action, baby. This is the stuff that’ll bring us up to the next level.”

  “But what was it?”

  “Psychedelics. Mostly magic mushrooms but I got a little DMT in there too.”

  “What the fuck’s DMT?”

  “You don’t need to know. Just trust that it’s harmless and as long as you stay calm and feel safe, you’re in for the experience of a lifetime.”

  “And what if I don’t stay calm?”

  “You will. I’m here to look after you. Put negative thoughts away. The tea’s inside you now, reacting. Go with it. You’re safe and comfortable and nobody can hurt you.”

  “I don’t do drugs anymore. What if this kills me?”

  “Be cool, friend. Nobody ever died from psychedelics. If anything, they’re medicinal.”

  “All medicines can kill you if you take the wrong dose.”

  “Positive thoughts, James. Enjoy the trip.”

  Mattie leant back in his chair. The joints creaked. I wondered how quickly this stuff was going to hit me. I felt strange already but didn’t know if it was the drug or panic.

  “Why would you do this to me?”

  “It’s a gift, brother.”

  “Stop calling me brother.”

  Mattie laughed. It sounded wrong. Something was definitely happening to me. The gear was kicking in. My stomach cramped. I didn’t know if that was normal. The spiteful wooden spindles in my chair dug into my back. I wanted to elbow them but was afraid they might bite me with splintery teeth. Time got weird. I checked my
watch. Ten minutes since I drank the tea. Or was it? When did I start? Had my watch stopped?

  Work.

  I was going to be late.

  Scratch that. I couldn’t show up in this state. I’d get fired. I had to phone in sick. But the phone would tout on me. Scream over my protestations and tell my boss that the words tumbling over my lips were dirty rotten lies. Aborted foetuses from my dank brain. Would an email be acceptable? My phone buzzed in my pocket. The tingle spread through my body. Reverberated in my core. No. That wouldn’t do. My phone was going to break my spine. I fished it out of my pocket and tossed it on to the tabletop. The vibrations skated it across the surface. Then it stopped dead. Did the caller die too? I wanted to ask Mattie.

  He looked at me, his head cocked like a curious dog. No, cats are curious. But dogs do that head tilt thing better. They’re nicer creatures too. Loyal. A bit smelly. I wanted a dog. He’d keep me company at night, curled up beside me on the sofa. But I had allergies.

  “Some dogs are hypoallergenic,” Mattie said.

  He was in my mind. I ignored him. Figured he’d get back out again if I didn’t acknowledge his presence.

  A sharp cramp attacked my gut. I imagined it torn asunder, ropey intestines spilled to the floor. It scared me a bit.

  “I don’t feel safe here. Can we try your living room?”

  “Best if we face each other, James. Your eyes will keep me anchored.”

  What the fuck does that mean?

  Mattie didn’t answer. I didn’t know if I’d said it out loud. At least he was out of my brain.

  I noticed I was breathing faster. My head was a little light too. Cool sweat pinged up on my forehead and trickled under my arms. I thought about the melting icecaps. It wasn’t global warming doing that. The world was shifting. Preparing for a new Ice Age. This I knew. It was hardwired knowledge. I clung to it like a lump of driftwood at sea. Ice. It sank the unsinkable and it would end us all. Like shaking an Etch-a-Sketch. Restore factory settings.

  “Not today, though.”

  Mattie nodded.

  I scratched my arm. Then my neck. I pushed down on my elbow to force my scratching hand between my shoulder blades. The itch kept moving. Do magnets repulse or propulse? God knows. Yes he does.

  Mattie was still nodding. I thought he might be broken.

  You’re going to lose your job.

  “Good. I hate that fucking job.”

  Mattie stopped nodding. He tilted his head to the left, then the right.

  “Are you okay, James?”

  “Etch-a-Sketch.” Why did I say that? Oh, icecaps.

  “Your skin’s going a funny colour.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that.

  “Can I touch your face real quick?”

  He didn’t wait for me to answer. Mattie was beside me though I didn’t see him get up. His clammy hand brushed my cheek.

  “I think I’ll grow a beard.”

  “Sure, James.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think this is right.”

  I tried to clear my throat. Couldn’t do it as well as Mattie. I wanted to ask him for advice. The words got stuck.

  “James, listen to me. I need you to slow down your breathing.”

  Mattie looked worried. I scratched my arms. Sped up my breathing just to fuck with him a little then I realized I couldn’t slow it back down. I squeaked. The hamster fell off the wheel.

  What hamster?

  The room shifted. The floor was on my back. No, wait, I was on the floor. Yuck. Sticky lino. Mattie knelt beside me. He tugged on my tie.

  Don’t choke me, Mattie.

  He looped the tie around his wrist. Did I put two on that morning? I felt at my collar to see what was restricting my throat. Nothing there. I could smell shit. Did I shit in my boxers?

  “I’m taking you to a hosp . . .”

  I sat up, wondered what the fuck a hosp was. Looked around me.

  Hospital.

  How did I get here?

  Mattie stared at me from a chair he could barely fit into.

  “You’re awake.”

  “When did I go to sleep?” I asked.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your allergies?”

  “Did I not?”

  “I’d have remembered.” He twisted a rolled-up newspaper in his fat hands. “Who the fuck’s allergic to magic mushrooms, like?”

  “What kind of man puts shit like that in his friend’s tea and tricks him into drinking it?”

  “It was a present. I was doing you a good turn.”

  “But instead . . .”

  “Anaphylactic shock. You fucking wimp.”

  A nurse drew back the curtain. She scowled at Mattie. An impressive Nurse Ratched impression.

  “Could you moderate your language please, sir?”

  I smirked and Ratched caught sight of it.

  “You needn’t laugh.” She rested one hand on a sharp hip. “A grown man taking . . . that rubbish. On a Tuesday.”

  What could I say? A bigger boy made me do it? I cast my gaze down to my chest, meek as a lamb. Ratched huffed air through her pinched nostrils and marched off.

  “Bitch.” Mattie’s voice was so low I barely heard him.

  “You know, Mattie, you always got me into trouble at school.”

  “And what?”

  “Nothing. I just assumed we’d grown out of it.”

  Mattie gave me that Buddha grin of his.

  “So, I’m allergic to magic mushrooms?”

  “Something similar to penicillin in them or . . . I don’t know. Yeah, you’re allergic.”

  I closed my eyes and thought for a second. The bed rocked and I dug my fingers into the edges of the mattress. Counted to ten and tried to figure out if I was still tripping. Couldn’t tell for sure. I envisioned myself peeling back cobwebs from my brain. The image sharpened my mind. I focused on Mattie.

  “Can I feel like that again without the mushrooms? Maybe something people aren’t likely to be allergic to?”

  Mattie double-blinked. He tugged on his earlobe. “Probably, yeah. I can look into it, like.”

  “Yeah. You do that.”

  The End of the Road

  Jane Casey

  He never had any luck; if there was trouble going it found him, wherever he was. Even halfway to the middle of nowhere, there it was – that lurch in his gut. Things had gone against him again.

  He pulled off the road on to what passed for a hard shoulder, loose gravel that lost itself in a half-hidden ditch. The car shuddered to a stop. Stones peppered the underside like shot. He turned the engine off and opened the door, a quick glance over his shoulder confirming there was nothing coming over the brow of the hill. He’d have heard it, anyway. The silence was complete, after the scratchy growl of the hire-car’s engine. It was thrashed – too many tourists going too fast on unmade red-dirt roads. They’d be the last ones to use it, the man had told him at the airport, grinning widely like it was something to be happy about.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Flat tyre.” He got out of the car before she could respond, slamming the door on the start of a sentence. He could see her lips moving, her face hard behind the giant sunglasses. Nothing he needed to hear.

  The tyre must have been damaged already. He hadn’t seen anything on the road. Hadn’t been looking, though. It was a straight road that ran over gentle hills, cutting through farmland, and there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, or anything else to take his attention away from the hazy blue mountains in the distance and the neatly parcelled fields – green, yellow, fawn, iron-red. The livestock were cream-coloured sheep with upholstered legs, far too hot in the spring sunshine, and Friesian cows that looked weirdly familiar under silver-leafed trees. Then there’d been a field of ostriches and he’d nearly driven off the road staring at them. He’d seen blue cranes huddled motionless by round green ponds, and birds of prey hunched on power lines, staring out over waves of rushing grey grass, and he couldn’t get enough of it. There�
��s been an animal too, a sand-coloured thing that streaked across the road before he could focus on it, low to the ground. A stoat or a weasel or something. Hunting.

  He hadn’t said a word to Lisa about any of it. She’d been asleep most of the way, her head tipped back against the seat and her mouth slack. She hadn’t slept on the flight. She’d kept him awake too with her complaining. Wasn’t used to the back of the plane anymore. Couldn’t forgive him for downgrading their tickets from champagne and flat beds in business class. And hadn’t laughed when he pointed out there was no business anymore. They were lucky to be going at all.

  Luck wasn’t why, though, he admitted to himself, hunkering down with the wheelbrace and the instruction book as if he knew what he was doing. Pride, more like. He couldn’t admit to Conor that they wouldn’t be using his holiday home in South Africa after all. He had to keep up appearances. Conor with his easy, hands-in-pockets manner, his eyes that missed nothing, that never laughed even when he was roaring at some joke he’d made. He couldn’t let him find out the truth or it would all be over. The fragile pretence that everything would come good again would crash down around him.

  And it sort of made sense to go. It was a free holiday, apart from the flights and the car. A trip to the end of the world, as Conor put it. A little white cottage with a reed-thatched roof, very simple, Conor said, as if it was nothing to him to have a holiday home 6,000 miles from Dublin. Which was all part of it, of course; you had to act like it was no big deal. He’d been half-listening as the words rattled out of his friend’s wide, lipless mouth. It was a cruel mouth, he’d been thinking. A wry twist to it, as if he knew the truth.

  “I mean, we thought about the west coast.”

  He’d been a second away from making an eejit of himself, saying something about Galway or Sligo or fecking Clare, when Conor had gone on, no encouragement needed, in that South Dublin rugby-playing drawl.

  “But then we decided we’d prefer the Indian Ocean. And when we found the place it was a done deal. You can really get away from everything, you know?”

  The sun was burning the back of his neck. Jesus, it was only October. Spring for them. What would it be like in the summer? The silence was starting to take on new shapes as he tuned into it: the breeze in the grass, insects whirring in the undergrowth, something clicking away to itself busily like an oul’ wan telling her rosary. And he was sweating, grunting with the effort as he loosened the nuts and lugged the dead wheel off. He felt like heaving it into the ditch but he didn’t quite have the nerve, even if there was no one to see. It would be a shame too; there was no litter anywhere. No plastic bags hanging in the barbed wire. No piles of rubbish by the road. He still hated himself for being a good boy, putting it back in the well where the spare tyre had been, tucking it in like a sleepy child.