by Steven Dunne
When Brook put his key in the lock and turned, nothing happened – the door was already unlocked. Had he forgotten to lock up this morning? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wandered out in an insomniac fug. Once he’d even forgotten to close the door.
He returned his key to his pocket, but instead of opening the door, he paused to listen. Something felt wrong. He knelt to lift the empty flower pot in the corner of the porch. The spare key was gone.
Again Brook racked his brains, trying to remember if he’d moved it to another hiding-place but his brain was too tired to cooperate. He came to a decision and pulled gently down on the handle and eased the front door open. It moved without a sound and he peered into the blackness of the kitchen beyond and listened. Without flicking on the light he couldn’t be sure, but he sensed things were not how he’d left them earlier in the day. There were dark shapes on the kitchen table which he didn’t recognise. He knew they couldn’t be his. Brook didn’t have clutter, knick-knacks, objets d’art nor any of the mementoes of a life lived. His development as a human being had been in suspended animation for years.
Brook took a tentative step into the shadows, then another. When he reached the foot of the tiny crooked staircase he gazed up to the trapdoor in the roofspace on the first floor. He had an unlicensed gun in the attic, a legacy of his entanglements with The Reaper. It didn’t work but maybe that wouldn’t matter, and he wished he’d hidden it in a more accessible place.
Brook remembered his training – Defensive not Offensive. He slid off his shoes and then his jacket, wrapping it around his leading arm. Burglars often carried large knives, not principally for protection but to sever the wiring of desirable electrical goods for ease of carriage. That didn’t mean a surprised intruder wouldn’t use it when cornered.
Suitably protected, Brook tiptoed into the small lounge, where a figure lay on the sofa, legs splayed across one of the arms, its breathing shallow. Brook leaned over to switch on a lamp.
He squinted at the face of the intruder then stood upright in bewilderment. ‘Terri?’
The figure stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Dad.’
‘Terri.’ Brook flung his jacket to the floor, sat on the sofa and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s really you. What are you doing here? Never mind. How long have you been here? Never mind.’ He hugged her again, then held her by the shoulders in panic and searched in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong? Is your mother all right?’
Terri yawned and sat up. ‘Dad, she’s fine. Where’ve you been?’
‘Work.’
She squinted at her watch. ‘Nothing changes.’
‘Why didn’t you give me some notice?’
‘I did. I emailed you, Dad. Two weeks ago. To tell you I wanted to come and visit. How often do you check your emails?’ she said, swinging her feet to the floor.
Brook shrugged. ‘Every couple of weeks. At least.’
She shook her head then smiled. ‘You look well, Dad.’
Brook raised an eyebrow. He knew he was wasting away. ‘For a workaholic who doesn’t look after himself, you mean.’ He held her tight again. ‘You look beautiful. You really do – just like your mum. Your hair suits you, short. I like it.’ Brook stopped, looking sheepish. He wasn’t usually the type to gush.
Terri smiled back. ‘No flaws?’
He peered at her neck and examined her red-nailed hands. Her arms were covered. ‘Still no tattoos?’
‘Da-ad. I’m twenty years old.’
‘So you’ve got one,’ he probed.
‘No, I haven’t. But not because all criminals have tattoos …’
‘I never said that.’
‘Something very like it.’ She laughed. ‘Besides, I can’t stand needles – remember?’
‘Great. That rules out heroin as well.’
‘You can smoke heroin, Dad.’
Brook did a double-take but laughed when she laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I wish I’d known. I could’ve—’
‘What, Dad? Emptied the fridge of sour milk and filled it with food? That’ll be the day. After all these years, you’re still all over the place. You and that bloody job. I don’t know why you don’t retire. Mum says you’ve got enough money.’
‘I don’t do it for the money, darling,’ he said quietly. ‘I do it because …’ He hesitated, unsure how to explain.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting a hand on his chest. ‘Mum told me.’
Brook sighed. The elephant of his mental breakdown was still in the room but taking up a little less space. Unfortunately, that would leave more space for the second elephant – her stepfather.
‘You must be starving,’ he said to change the subject.
Terri bounced to her feet and led him to the kitchen. ‘No, Dad. Far from it – I knew to come prepared. I brought wine and made spag bol. Would you like some?’
‘Terri, I’d love some.’
So Brook sat down at the kitchen table while Terri busied herself at the tiny old-fashioned stove that had rarely warmed a pan. She poured him a glass of red wine and he nibbled on some French bread while he waited for his meal. He couldn’t take his eyes from his daughter’s back as she reheated the sauce and boiled more pasta. She was taller and seemed even more self-assured than he remembered. Her hair was shorter and her make-up a little subtler than that traumatic day on Brighton Pier, the last time he’d seen her. And, of course she was no longer wearing a school uniform. Now she wore figure-hugging jeans and a dark velvet v-neck top with long sleeves that nearly covered her hands.
Five years. His daughter was a stranger. Brook bit down on the melancholy. She may be a stranger but she’s here now.
‘So is that your car outside?’
‘Yep. Mum bought it for getting round Manchester.’
‘Does she know you’re here?’ Brook saw Terri’s back stiffen as she paused to consider her reply.
‘No.’
Brook nodded behind her back. Amy would never forgive him. Not content with destroying her first marriage through his obsessive hunt for The Reaper, Brook had done the same to her second, denouncing her new husband, the late Tony Harvey-Ellis, as a sexual abuser of their only daughter. ‘Give her my … best wishes when you see her.’ Terri turned round as though about to break some terrible news. He added gently, ‘But only if you want to tell her you’ve seen me.’ She smiled with relief and turned back to the stove. ‘You’re enjoying university?’
‘Loving it, Dad.’
‘And how do you like … ?’
‘American Literature.’
‘I know, I know,’ protested Brook. ‘All that Norman Mailer and Truman Capote.’
‘Those old dinosaurs. It’s all Jonathan Franzen and Amy Tan these days.’
‘No place for the flawed old men, eh?’ said Brook.
‘I wouldn’t say that, Dad.’ Terri began to serve Brook’s meal. ‘I mean, Mailer’s a pig, no question. But if you get past the misogyny and the drinking, there’s a lot of elegiac, ravaged poetry in the man. Do you know what I mean?’
Brook smiled at her. He realised he hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d seen her face. ‘Yes, I do. This looks good.’
‘I’m expecting you to eat it all.’
‘Don’t worry. This is likely to be the last home-cooked meal I’ll get for a while.’
‘Oh, no it’s not. I’m staying for a couple of weeks. I mean if that’s okay,’ she added hastily.
‘A couple of weeks? Does the university allow you time off?’ said Brook, tucking in with gusto.
‘I’ve got a dissertation to do so I need some peace and some space, Dad. Can I stay?’
‘I’d love you to stay,’ said Brook, before a frown invaded his features. ‘I … er don’t know how much time …’
‘Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be busy, and I’m sure you’ve got a hot case to crack.’
‘Two,’ replied Brook as he chewed.
‘That’s settled then. How’s the Bolognese?’
Brook ladled
another large spoonful into his mouth. ‘It’s the finest I’ve ever had, Terri.’
‘That bad, eh?’ she joked and plucked a second glass from a cardboard box of four then poured herself a large glass of wine.
‘You brought wine glasses?’
‘Housewarming present. I prefer not to drink out of jam jars.’ She looked at him with a hint of a tease. ‘I’ll put them in the glasses cupboard later.’
He spoke ruefully back at her through a mouthful of pasta. ‘You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?’
‘Dad, you’ve got a pint glass, a whisky tumbler and two jam jars to drink from. And one of them still has a label on. How easy should I make it?’
Brook laughed. ‘In my defence, I’ve only been in the house for four years and there haven’t been many,’ he looked away, ‘well …’
‘They’re called women, Dad. I’m told they make good companions.’ She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, unable to meet his eye.
Brook sensed she was ready for him so said nothing, but his face gave the game away.
‘I’m twenty years old now. I can make my own mistakes.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘But you can’t smoke in the house, Terri. That’s a rule.’ He finished his last forkful of pasta and gathered up his wine glass. ‘Bring your glass and a coat. I’ll show you why I bought this place.’
A minute later, father and daughter sat on the garden bench pulling lovingly on their cigarettes and looking up at the soft cottonwool of the Milky Way. For two people who hadn’t conversed in five years, it was odd that no words were needed.
‘It’s great here, Dad,’ she finally said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I wish I’d come sooner.’
Brook smiled in the darkness. ‘You’re here now. That’s all that counts.’ Then a thought occurred. ‘You were a teenager.’ Brook felt the rise in tension within her and realised she might be expecting a conversation about their last meeting. But it was worse than that. After missing her entire childhood and most of her teenage years, he was thinking about the case. He shook his head. What kind of father was he?
‘Apparently,’ she finally said.
Time to change the subject. ‘Whose picture did you have on your wall?’ he said before he could stop himself. He felt her looking at him. ‘You know, actors, rock stars.’
‘Why?’
Why – because you’re interested in me, because you want to make up for lost time? ‘Never mind.’
‘No, tell me.’
Brook hesitated. ‘A girl disappeared – two, actually. But I’m trying to get a feeling for this particular girl. Adele. She reminds me of you. Smart and beautiful.’
Brook heard the breath of her grin leave her mouth.
A moment’s thought later. ‘Leonardo Di Caprio. Brad Pitt. Johnny Depp.’
‘Are any of those dead?’
‘No, but I had a Jimi Hendrix poster. He OD-ed in 1970.’
‘Twenty years before you were born.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘I don’t know. I’m asking you.’
‘Who was this girl into?’
‘James Dean, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain.’
‘Jim Morrison was a poet as well as a singer.’
‘She writes poetry,’ said Brook.
‘What’s that like?’
‘We can’t find any. We think she has it with her. But what does it mean, having all these dead guys on your wall?’
‘Ah well,’ said Terri. ‘There’s love and then there’s perfect love.’
‘Perfect love?’
‘Sure. Perfect love is pure, immortal. It’s wonderful – but to have it, one of you has to be dead.’ The shadow of remembrance passed over her expression for a moment.
‘Like Romeo and Juliet.’
‘In a way, but they both died so it’s different.’
‘What does that mean?’
Terri took out two more cigarettes and passed one to her father. ‘It means that girls of a certain age are inevitably attracted to bad boys because they represent danger and an escape from the humdrum reality of their lives. But with a dead guy you idolise from afar, you can form a perfect and pure relationship.’
‘Go on,’ said Brook.
‘Well, the relationship is chaste for one thing. But that only increases the erotic possibilities – since they can never have bad sex. All the sex is idealised in the mind so it’s always wonderful.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It is. And, of course, the dead guy is always yours. He can never get married or desert you – no other girl in the universe can claim him.’
Brook nodded. ‘So she can never be rejected by her dead lover.’
‘No. Hence their love is immortal. Nothing can get in the way,’ she looked up at him, her smile tinged with sadness, ‘until the girl is ready to move on. Didn’t this Adele have any crushes on the living?’
‘Some actor in something called True …’
‘True Blood?’
‘Right. Alexander …’
‘Skarsgard,’ Terri supplied.
Brook looked at the shadows of her face. ‘Why do I get the impression you’ve studied this before?’
‘Because I have. The True Blood series is a big deal in America.’
‘It’s about vampires. You’re not telling me you study it as part of your literature degree.’
‘Only insofar as it’s a cultural event, Dad. It taps directly into what I said – the desire for perfect, immortal love.’
‘So this actor’s dead?’
‘No, but he plays a vampire – so yes, he’s dead but, more important, he’s also immortal. That’s why millions of teenage girls are besotted with the idea of hot vampires. You can have your beefcake and eat it.’
Brook smiled. ‘How lucky am I to have a daughter so intelligent?’ Terri didn’t answer but Brook saw she was pleased. He yawned. ‘You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow. Right now I need to get some sleep. Listen, I’ll have the sofabed …’
‘No, you won’t. This is your house. You get off to bed and get a good night’s kip. I can sleep late.’
‘Okay.’ Brook stood and walked to the house. He turned to Terri as she sipped the last of her wine. ‘Thanks, Terri.’
‘For what?’
‘Just thanks.’ Brook put some blankets on the sofa and trudged off to bed. He looked out of his bedroom window, feeling well-fed and happy. Terri was stroking Basil on the garden bench. Even Bobby, Basil’s painfully shy brother, had put in an appearance and was manoeuvring himself for some attention.
Brook glanced at the clock. It was a time at which he was more accustomed to being woken by insomnia. He lay back and was asleep in moments.
Diarmuid Strachan – Jock to his friends, enemies and anyone who might be likely to give him spare change – woke to the sight and sound of a rat nuzzling around at his feet, attracted by the putrid aroma of the fungus flourishing between his damp toes.
‘Fuck off, ye bastard.’ He kicked out a disintegrating leather boot at the beast, which skittered into the darkness. He sat up to scratch his whiskers, trying to focus on the small bar of light high in the vaulted roof. It was daylight. Right nuff. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the half-dozen watches he wore to occasionally barter for enough coins to buy a drink. He peered myopically at each in turn, but each gave a different time. After working his way through three bottles of cheap whisky since Oz had picked him up, he’d forgotten that none of them worked. He only kept them because if he was begging anywhere near a clock large enough for him to see, he could sometimes set one to the right time and sell it to some unsuspecting Sassenach.
Just slow like me. S’good watch, pal.
He let his sleeve drop and tried to stand but fell back on to his hands, and although he banged his head hard on the wall, he felt nothing. Instead he took another groggy sweep around his gloomy accommodation. His new pal O
z had brought him here, picking him up in the middle of the night promising a bath and a bed. But he had no idea where he was or how long it had taken to get here. He knew there were white tiles on the wall and several hard cold slabs on which he’d banged his knees, but he hadn’t yet been able to locate an exit. It was very dark but it was dry and warm and the bar never closed. Jock chuckled at his joke but stopped laughing when he realised he’d run out of whisky – the bar was now closed. Right nuff.
‘S’why a cannae fuckin’ see.’ He heard a rasping cough far away, the echo sounding around the whitetiled walls. Jock strained towards the source of the noise. ‘Zat you, pal?’ He saw movement as someone carrying a torch entered and walked towards him, stopping at one of the slabs. He heard a clicking sound and saw it came from a battered old case being set down and unlocked. ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me,’ said the voice he recognised from … before.
‘Never thought I’d say this, pal, but you got anything ti’ eat? You ken me?’
‘You look well.’ He sighed so even Jock could hear it. ‘Despite all that whisky.’ There was an unmistakable edge of disappointment in the man’s voice. Jock mistook it for male bonding and began to wheeze with laughter as he tried to right himself once more.
‘Whisky? I was drinking whisky out mi ma’s teet.’ He cackled asthmatically, and followed this up with a prolonged hacking cough.
The man chuckled back at him and looked in his case. He took out the pouch of surgical instruments and a bottle of methanol and looked regretfully at them. ‘Well, I was saving these for a special occasion but as you’re so set on an early death, I can hardly refuse a guest, can I?’
‘Can yer fuck?’ Jock scrambled to his feet like an Olympic athlete now and scuttled towards the man’s voice, holding out a filthy hand to be guided on to the bottle.
The man unscrewed the lid, located Jock’s hand around the neck and watched as he took a mansize slug. ‘Drink hearty, my friend, and soon you can be reborn.’
Fourteen
Thursday, 26 May
BROOK CHECKED THE ADDRESS AGAINST Noble’s scribble and stepped from the car. It was a bright morning with just a hint of a chilled breeze. Terri had been fast asleep when Brook crept out of the door at seven and, an hour later, he stood outside Russell Thomson’s Brisbane Estate home – a small, dog-eared semidetached with large wooden-framed windows that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in a while.