by Jay Stringer
“Did you recognize the laugh? Was it one you’ve heard before?”
“No, it was nasty. Mean.”
“Was he wearing a mask?”
“Yes, like the bad guys wear on TV. A black one? Like that.”
Generational thing. To people my age, a balaclava or ski mask meant IRA. To people Bejna’s age, they were worn by bad guys on TV.
“Did you notice anything else about him?”
She thought for a moment, and I knew this was the last answer we were going to get. There was a distance taking over in her eyes; she was zoning out, fleeing to a place where it didn’t hurt to be.
“Cigarettes. His clothes and, yeah, his breath. It was horrible.”
Sally slid down off the chair to wrap her arms around her daughter, and they rocked slightly. I was losing her, but I still needed just a few more details. It still felt like there was an obvious question I was missing. I waited a few seconds, and then started again, quieter. “How did you all meet? Was it at the group?”
She shook her head and said something inaudible into the sleeve of her bathrobe, and then she realized I hadn’t understood and repeated it louder. “At school.”
School.
The most obvious connection among any group of teenagers, and something I’d never thought of. “Do you know Paul Pearce?”
“Mr. Pearce, yes. He does PE.”
“Did he teach all of you?”
She shrugged and then sank farther into her mother’s embrace.
Salma and I both said quiet good-byes, and Sally nodded.
TWENTY‐SIX
Salma asked me what the next step was, and I told her I wanted to check out a couple local addresses. I told her she could leave me there since my flat was within walking distance, but she shrugged and said she had no other plans. I agreed she could tag along, but I insisted that we change cars. Hers stuck out too much.
The third victim was Rakeela Mahmoud.
According to the address I’d bullied out of Connolly, she lived on Hobbs Road. If Salma was surprised that I had the address, she didn’t show it as we pulled up under the shade of a tree a few doors down on the opposite side of the road.
Hobb was an old Black Country name for the devil, but this street seemed like the opposite of anything wicked. The houses were quiet and well kept, with TVs flashing in a dozen front windows. There were none of the rough edges I’d felt on Bassett Road nor the poverty that had hovered over Thorn Lane. The streetlights buzzed away, and the occasional teenager walked past, head bowed, staring at scuffed trainers.
“What are we here for?” Salma sounded genuinely interested.
“Even if I can’t talk to Rakeela, I wanted to get a look at her, get a feel for the street. See if there’s anything wrong.”
“How would you know?”
Good question. “There’s no real science to it. I just know when something’s wrong. It’s one of those senses we developed back when we slept in caves and defended ourselves with rocks. I’ve learned to trust my guts—they tell me if something is wrong.”
“And what are they telling you?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
She laughed. It was easy and real; whatever walls she’d put up before seemed to have gone now. I smiled back at her, shrugging a little, and turned back to the street. The houses were settled in for the evening, the occupants either vegetating in front of televisions or visiting the pub. I leaned across to the glove box on the passenger side, and I noticed Salma didn’t flinch back as I leaned closer. I pulled out a pack of ginger biscuits and the first few CDs I could lay my hand on, and then I opened up the pack and offered it to her. She took three and leaned into her seat, pushing her legs out in a stretch.
“No shitty music, please.”
I handed her the CDs, and she rolled her eyes at each of them before dropping them into the space between us. I slipped a Hold Steady CD into the machine, and she smirked as the music started up, so I turned it down low.
“Are these supposed to be songs? He’s just talking.”
I nodded but didn’t rise to the bait. I chewed through a couple of biscuits as the street failed to break into any kind of life. I thought about Gaines for a while, and how she seemed to reach into every corner of my life. She had me, Laura, and Salma all in her pocket. It was getting crowded in there.
And then there was Channy, who I’d made a deal with. Through it all, he seemed to be the only person who wasn’t lying to me. The only person playing me straight. My line of thought was taking me nowhere good. I was just sitting in a car snacking on biscuits to a good CD. So why were my nerves burning down to frayed edges? Maybe I needed someone to talk to.
Then I realized Salma had been talking to me.
I tuned in just as she wrapped up. “You weren’t listening to a word I said, were you?”
“Sorry, I was thinking.”
“You’re one of those, huh? Have to stop everything else so that you can get some thinking done.”
“That obvious?”
She shrugged. “Seen it before. My husband was the same way. He’d go off for ages. You could watch the light in his eyes come and go.”
“How long were you together?”
When she answered, it was with the bittersweet smile of someone who’d come to terms with the divorce, with the realization that you’d both had and lost something special. “Three years. Well, just under. Two years and about eight months.”
“And how long you been divorced?”
“A year last week.”
Never ask a divorcée what happened to the marriage. It’s like a golden rule. Because that question can have only one answer: it ended. Ask them about the good things, the things that will help time and memory wallpaper over the wounds.
I turned to her. “What was he like?”
“Nice guy. Still is. Nice enough, I mean. The legal stuff, the negotiations, that always messes things up, innit? But apart from that, you know. He made me laugh.”
“Bet he had bad taste in music though, right?”
She laughed, one of those that comes with a sound at the end of it like it’s going to keep going. “Is that bad to me, or bad to you?”
“Both, I’m guessing.”
“He liked Brit-pop. Oasis, you know, all that.”
I put up a hand. “Say no more. You’re better off out of it.”
“Danny was—” Whatever she’d been about to say died away when she caught something in my eyes at mention of the name. “You thought I’d married a Muslim, right?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“No biggie. People usually assume. But no, he was white. And I don’t mean like you. I mean, like, Danny was white.”
“He liked Coldplay, too, didn’t he?”
The other end of that laugh finally turned up. “Leave him alone. He was sweet, he just—” She paused and then straightened out. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
I turned back to the street, watching as the lights in Rakeela’s house blinked on and off as someone moved around. It looked like someone had left the living room, gone upstairs to the bathroom, and back down. Whoever was holding the purse strings in the house had people well drilled; turn off lights when you’re not using them.
Salma started again. The woman just wanted to talk now, and I was the guy in the seat. People assume I’m a good listener because I don’t talk much. Truth is, usually I don’t listen—I tune it out. But tonight I was all ears.
“He was hard work. He meant well a little too much, if you know what I mean.”
I shrugged. “No.”
“It was like he constantly had to show me that he wasn’t racist, like every conversation had to be a speech. You know how people get that way? All that I cared about was that he loved me, he was my husband, and he was great in the sack.” She grinned. “The rest of it? Just got tiring.”
“And your families?”
“They were okay. The same, really. Both wanted to work overtime to show
they were okay with it, but both probably weren’t, deep down. I think a lot of families still want their kids to stick to their own. How about you? Your marriage was mixed?”
“The problem was more the mixed-up groom than the mixed marriage.” She laughed and I smiled. “Laura is one of life’s winners, and I’m not. I think she saw me as a fixer-upper, but the cost got too high.”
“She ended it?”
What I said about the golden rule? Clearly doesn’t apply to women. They ask shit like this all the time.
“We don’t really know. I think we both ended it at different times. It’s complicated.”
“Sounds like it.”
“No, not like that. It’s over for real. We just have a few friends in common, we run into each other a lot, and it’s like each time we’re trying to remember what it was like to be friends, which we were before we shacked up. But we never quite get there. Make sense?”
Her eyes flitted across my face as if trying to read me. Was she the person I could talk to about what was eating at me? I wanted to say yes. But, no. There was something missing. Then her eyes left mine and started to follow something that was moving behind me. I turned to see a car slide past and come to a stop outside Rakeela’s house.
Both Salma and I slid down in our seats a little, but the light was out in the car; I was sure we wouldn’t be noticed. A young couple got out, a skinny white boy with a shock of bright blond hair and a girl with dark skin and long, shiny black hair who looked older by a couple of years. The girl had to be Rakeela, and I looked over at Salma, who nodded. It was the boy who was catching our attention. It was Robin.
Three for three.
Neither of them paid my car any notice. They were too busy eyeing up the house. They were wary of it. I guessed that her family would not approve of their relationship. Robin put a protective arm around her, and they walked to the house in the dim light of the streetlights. Even from this distance you could see she was self-possessed, not as gawky as Ruth or as shy as Bejna. You could also see that she was nervous. In front of the house they paused by a large hedge. It probably sheltered them from view of anyone inside, though it left them exposed to anyone watching from the road.
They kissed awkwardly. Once. Twice. They lingered in each other’s arms for a moment, and then Rakeela walked up to the front door and let herself into the house. Robin went back to his car and started to pull away. I put my hand on the ignition, but Salma touched my knee.
“I still don’t think it’s him.”
“He’s three for three,” I said. “Did you know he and Rakeela were an item?”
“No. But look at how they interacted. You saw how they touched each other. You can’t fake something like that.”
I didn’t answer. Another car pulled past, and it flipped my brain over. It was the same car from the bridge, the teacher, Pearce. He pulled to a stop a hundred yards farther down and then, after a moment, climbed out of the car, whistling. He looked a little under six feet and tightly wound, like his body was still well-trained and responsive. He hadn’t reached the stage yet where he’d have to give up PE and teach geography, like they always seemed to. He was carrying a small plastic bag, which he tossed into a trashbin fixed to the nearest lamppost. Then he turned down a driveway to the house.
I fumbled in my pocket for the paper Becker had given me, and unfolded it. There it was, in black and white, Pearce’s address. He lived in this street, just a few doors down from Rakeela.
Three for three again.
And now my gut was finally talking to me.
Something was wrong here.
TWENTY‐SEVEN
I dropped Salma back at her car. I could feel a mean mood coming on, my senses at once hungry and dull. I drove back into the city and headed for Legs. I parked round the back of the police station a few streets over. When I’m in a bad mood I go for scoring cheap points, and the idea of parking in plain view of the cops to go to an illegal club was about as cheap as I could get.
This was rush hour for the club. All the legal bars and clubs were closing up and kicking out stragglers, which meant that those in the know would head to Legs. I walked to the bar and stared at the beautifully lit bottles lined up on display. The liquids called to me with their perfect hues of gold, amber, and mahogany brown. Did I want a drink?
Fuck yes.
Would I take one?
No.
The pull of the spirits behind the bar was as much to do with a memory as any thirst. They made me think of Rachel, a friend of mine who was a recovering alcoholic. She’d done her best to bring me back to the real world after I’d left my old life behind, and she would have been the perfect person to talk to.
If only she hadn’t left the country because of something I fucked up.
I pushed the booze from my mind and bought a bag of oxy. I popped two and waited. The chill hit me like someone running an ice cube down my spine, and it was followed by the numbness. My frayed nerve endings floated away, and all the issues that were making my brain burn felt extinguished. This shit was as good as any prescription I could get from my doctor, and I never had to argue with a dealer over whether I really needed it.
I walked down the stairs into the strip club. The music was loud and crass, but I wasn’t paying too much attention to it. I saw familiar faces from around town, and a few dealers who I knew worked for Gaines. I saw Claire Gaines, Veronica’s younger sister, sitting in the corner with her hands down some guy’s trousers. Class didn’t seem to run in the family. Some of the dancers greeted me by name and asked if I needed anything, but I said I was cool.
Cool.
Then I saw Noah, and my problems fought their way back to the surface. He was stepping out of one of the private booths, arm in arm with one of the most popular dancers, a curvy blonde called Crystal or Candy, something like that. Their fake names were hard to remember. She was one of the ones who went the extra mile during a dance, if you paid in advance. Noah had a lazy grin on his face until he saw me. Then he stepped up and came closer and looked straight into my eyes.
“You high?”
“Just something for my injury, you know.”
“Uh-huh.”
Candy/Crystal kissed him on the cheek, winked a hello at me, and walked away to the dance floor. Noah pulled me by the elbow into the nearest private booth, closing the curtain behind us.
“What’s the deal?” he said.
I started to ask what he meant, but he shrugged away the question and looked into my eyes for a moment.
“Look,” he said, “maybe Laura hasn’t noticed, or Ronny, or Mum. But this is me, okay?”
“I don’t—”
“Bullshit, Eoin. Your injuries were, what? Six months ago?”
“Five.”
“Five months. How long have you been topping up the prescription bottle?” When I didn’t answer, he carried on. “You don’t even know which pain you’re treating anymore, do you?”
I sat down on the sofa and stared at my feet for what felt like an age. He sat next to me and waited me out, but when I started to talk it was about the work I was doing for Gaines. I told him about the rapes, about Connolly and Salma. Noah just sat and listened, making small noises of agreement or disgust at the right times.
“So what’s your problem? Just figure out which of them is doing it.”
“Then what? If I take it to Becker, then the guy will walk because there’s no evidence. There’s no incentive in the girls going to the cops; they’ll just be humiliated or ignored. I could walk into Gaines’s office right now, give her the two names, and both guys would disappear by tomorrow morning.”
“And that’s what she’s expecting. Even the priest must know that’s the score.”
It seemed simple enough. Simple, but not easy. Could I live with what would follow once I handed over those names?
“Listen.” Noah touched my knee to bring me back from wherever I’d drifted off to. I hadn’t noticed going there. “Sounds like you’re not
ready yet. Buy yourself some time, try and find some evidence, yeah? Try and find something you can give to Becker.”
“And if not?”
“You know where Ronny’s office is.”
There it was again. Ronny. My need to fight for her affection reared up again. “Well, you seem more comfortable here than me; maybe you should be the one doing her dirty work.”
“Well, you know, there is work going. And from what I hear, you keep turning it down.”
“She told you that, huh?”
“Look, don’t ask me why, but she really likes you. She trusts you.” He shrugged. “You’re onto a good thing here, if you stop fucking it up. I won’t get in your way.”
I asked him what he meant, and he just laughed. “Really? Okay, nothing, never mind. She’s hot, though, even if you’re pretending you haven’t noticed. Her sister, too. You ever met Claire?”
“Couple times.”
He just waggled his eyebrows, and we both laughed. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and lowered his tone. “You’ve got a lot running around in that head of yours. Just sit back and chill out, okay? Whatever it is you’re on, enjoy it, but don’t take any more.”
He stepped out through the curtain. I heard snippets of conversation, and then one of the club’s dancers stepped into the booth and smiled at me.
“I’m Mitzie.” She spoke with an Eastern European accent. It was the woman from Thorn Lane. She had short dark hair, and her makeup had been applied to accentuate her cheekbones. It worked. Her small frame and curves were covered by a thin red dress. “The boss says you need to relax.”
She started to dance, and for just a minute I forgot about immigrants and family and lies. I almost managed to convince myself that I wanted it as she moved in front of me and then leaned in close. I almost managed to believe that I wanted her. But as she undid the straps of her dress and began the shimmy that made it drop to the floor, I knew this wasn’t what, or whom, I wanted.
I kissed Mitzie on the cheek and left the booth.
Find more proof? Good idea.
Take another oxy? Great idea.