by Heidi James
‘Been here all day?’ He sat opposite and placed the beer down on the table between us.
‘How’d you know?’
‘I’ve got my sources.’ He swallowed from his beer and smiled.
‘Spying on me?’
‘No need, your face is bright red from the sun… and the beer.’
‘You got me. It’s a fair cop, Detective. Thanks for the drink.’
He laughed and we both drank.
‘So, any news?’
‘That’s it? Straight in there, no foreplay? No softening up with dinner and more drinks?’ He looked me straight in the eye. I looked away.
‘OK. Let’s play it your way, Detective. So, first name?’
‘Callum.’
‘Callum McMahon. Nice Irish boy.’
‘Yep. Dad was from County Clare. Lived here for most of his life though.’
‘So you grew up around here?’
‘No, I grew up in Surrey with my mum.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He was wearing an expensive-looking watch, especially for a policeman. No wedding ring, though. ‘Moved here for the job a few years back. What about you?’
‘London. Here for the story.’
‘So you’re from London originally?’
I considered lying, for no reason other than simplicity, but didn’t. He was a detective, lying would be stupid. Even with something to hide, and I had nothing to hide.
‘Actually no, I grew up around here. Moved to London for University and that was that. I didn’t come back.’
‘That so? Marcus Murray from Medway, you don’t sound like a local.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Your accent, you haven’t got the estuary twang. You sound more like a member of the royal family.’
I laughed, ‘Yes, I’ve been told that before.’
‘So, you still have connections around here? Family, friends?’ He tipped his glass high and finished his drink.
‘Mother. That’s it. Lost touch with everyone else.’
‘And your mother? How’s she doing?’
‘Am I being interrogated?’
‘Sorry, it’s a bad habit. Just interested. I like to know who it is I’m talking to.’
‘Well in that case, officer, she’s fine, thank you. She lives up on Highstead Lane.’
‘Very nice.’
‘So what made you become a policeman?’
‘Ah, you know. I wanted to catch the baddies, be a hero. What about you? Why journalism?’
‘Similar reasons, believe it or not. I wanted to be a hero, but I’ve never been much good in a fight and I can’t stand the sight of blood. My secret weapon is the pen: revealing the establishment’s dirty secrets, working for the public interest. All very noble and selfless.’
‘So you’re one of the good guys?’
‘Yep, I’m a good guy.’
He grinned, his lips rising above his teeth in a thin crescent, crinkling the corners of his blue eyes.
‘I’m a good guy,’ I repeated, as if I was trying to convince myself.
‘I think that calls for another drink,’ he laughed, exposing dark metal fillings in his back teeth.
‘Same again?’ I said, picking up the glasses.
‘Sure. Do you want to eat? Maybe get a menu?’
At the bar I positioned myself so that I could see him through the window. He was sitting back, relaxed, just watching the punters.
‘You both look comfortable. Mind if I join you?’ Okonjo was standing by our table, a glass of wine in her hand.
‘Of course.’ Callum moved our dirty plates and glasses out of her way, pushing them to the end of the table to make room. Soft lights strung around the trees and fence glowed in the thickening dark. A young woman lit the patio heaters dotted through the garden and then gathered up the empties from our table. The crowd was getting rowdier; a glass shattered on the paving stones to a round of applause before being quickly swept up.
‘Trouble brewing?’ I asked.
‘No more than usual,’ Okonjo said. She stared at me then drank from her glass. ‘How long you two been here then?’ She directed this at Callum.
‘Long enough.’ He laughed and then, without looking at me or seeming to move, he pressed his knee against mine under the table. I waited to see if he would move away, if it was a mistake. He didn’t, so I pressed back. Then he turned to Okonjo and moved, leaving a point of heat on my leg. ‘You OK, Ada? You seem tense.’
‘That might be because I’ve been in the office and not the pub for the last three hours.’
‘Best catch up then.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’d best get home, early start tomorrow.’ She drained her glass and stood. ‘Nice to meet you…?’
‘Marcus. Nice to meet you too.’
‘Tomorrow then, Callum. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ She bumped his shoulder and got up, giving me one last look as she left.
‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘I wouldn’t take it personally: she’s just not keen on the press.’
‘That’s not uncommon.’
‘Neither is hating the police,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘To our maligned and misunderstood professions.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ We tapped our glasses at the rim.
‘So, the body. Who is it?’
He sighed, ‘And I thought you were here for me, not just information.’
‘Maybe it’s both.’
He tipped his head back and looked at me down the length of his nose. ‘You charmer.’ He sat up straight and rubbed his head, ruffling his hair. ‘Off the record?’
I nodded and opened my hands, palms up.
‘I’m serious, I don’t want to see my name in the paper tomorrow. Alright?’
‘Yes, off the record, no names.’
‘OK. We’ve a pretty good idea who the victim is; we’re just waiting for DNA tests to confirm the identity.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Looks like a head trauma, but again, too early to tell conclusively.’
‘How long has the body been there?’
‘A long time, twenty years or so, maybe more.’
‘Is there any truth that it’s a missing policeman?’
‘No comment.’
‘Is that a ‘yes’, no comment?’
‘It’s a ‘no comment’, no comment.’ He finished his drink.
‘Another round?’
‘I don’t think so, work tomorrow,’ he reached over the table and stroked my arm, resting his hand on my wrist. ‘Can I see you again?’
I pulled my arm in. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be around.’
‘Really, is that it? Or am I being rejected?’
‘No, I really don’t know how long I’ll be around, that’s all. So it seems sensible to not start anything.’
‘I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend, Marcus,’ he laughed.
‘That’s good.’
‘Why’s that? You not into relationships?’
‘You could say that,’ I shrugged. It was getting late, the pub emptying. Settling down for the night.
I tried to remember the last guy I’d been with – his face, his voice, his body – but I couldn’t, only the overwhelming need that drove to me to the sauna and the release among bodies, breath and heat. The perfect hygiene and purity of anonymous sex that was just sensation, nothing else: no guilt, no shame, no responsibility and no risk of hurt.
‘So no significant other, no husband or boyfriend for me to worry about?’
‘No. You?’
‘No, single. You could come to my place, tonight. No strings, I promise.’
We stood, and I followed him through the pub out into the car park.
‘We shouldn
’t drive,’ he said.
‘I know,’ I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him back against the wall behind the cars before kissing him. He pulled me in, pushing his body against mine, his tongue in my mouth. A burst of laughter and the slamming of car doors intervened and we pulled apart for a moment, waiting for them to leave. I pulled him further into the shadows and dropped down, unbuckling his belt and tugging open his jeans. His hands were on the back of my head as I sucked him in, then he tried to pull me up to face him,
‘Let’s go back to mine.’ But I stayed where I was until he finished, only standing as he buttoned himself up. ‘You don’t take any prisoners,’ he said, breathless.
I kissed him and let him taste himself, before pulling away.
‘See you at the press conference tomorrow then?’ I walked out into the road, too pissed to drive, and made my way back home, my tongue still thick with him.
1989
Mel was waiting for him on the bench opposite the school gate, her tatty school bag at her feet.
‘Hello, I’m your security!’ The wind was up and her cheeks were flushed from the chill. Autumn was shifting into winter, and she’d pulled her woollen socks up over her knees instead of leaving them to wrinkle around her calves. Behind her, the grassy bank dropped steeply towards the river as it curved towards the dockyard and factories that lined the way towards the estuary and the sea. Hundreds of Danner kids filed out over the hill towards the bus stop and the High Street.
‘You OK? Get any more grief off that div, Shine?’ She stood and linked her arm through his.
‘No. Though he tried to warn me off you. You know, man to man.’
‘Really? Well I never.’
‘Yes. Where did you go today then?’ He shrugged his shoulder to pull the strap of his bag closer and she let her arm drop back by her side.
‘Out and about. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’
‘Did you now? You know what curiosity did?’
‘Killed the cat?’
‘So they say.’
They idled down the hill, watching the crowd of pupils pushing onto a bus. Darren and his gang were nowhere to be seen. A couple of stragglers huddled together puffing on their fags.
‘Do you know what they say about you, Mel?’
‘Who?’
‘Darren and everyone.’
‘Nope.’ She bent and tugged up her sock.
‘It’s just that, you saying we’re going out with each other, I think it confirms their impression of you.’
‘Speak English, Marcus.’
‘I don’t know how to say it. It’s horrid.’
‘Just say it. Come on!’
‘He called you a slag. He said that you’re a right goer and that you’re sleeping with a married man.’ He waited for her to get angry, with him and them, or defensive and upset, but she didn’t. She laughed.
‘No way! That’s funny.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. Very funny and ironic actually.’
‘Why is it?’
‘Because it is, Marcus. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Do you want me to tell them the truth about us?’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘To set them straight. To stop them spreading rumours about you.’
‘No. That’s sweet, but you’re alright. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It doesn’t matter, just something my Nan says. Look, you can’t change no-one’s mind for them, so leave it. Why care what they think?’
‘Because it’s awful, and they’re wrong. They’re bloody arseholes. Wankers actually.’
‘It’s not their fault really. They can’t figure me out, so they take the piss to feel better. You can’t let that bother you, mate. You’ll be upset all the time. I know who I am and the people that matter know me and that’s what counts. People lie and talk shit all the time to make themselves feel better, might as well shrug it off.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
‘Yes, unless this is your way of fake dumping your fake girlfriend?’
‘No!’ The bus stop was almost empty now as they drew closer. ‘You want to come to mine for supper?’
‘Can’t, sorry. Got to babysit for me mum. Another time?’
‘Sure, see you tomorrow?’
‘Maybe,’ she winked at him and swung onto the bus as it pulled up. He watched her disappear up the stairs and then reappear at a window on the top deck. She blew a big, silly kiss and, laughing, he blew one back as the bus shut its doors and pulled away, hydraulic brakes hissing. Waiting for his bus, hands in pockets, still reeling from being beaten up for being gay to now dating the coolest and most talked about girl in school, he wondered if he could live like this forever, be straight and have a girlfriend like Mel. He could marry her. That would work. It might. They could be happy.
Without a Fire
‘Look what I’ve dug out’
Mother handed me a photo: Mel and me in the back garden sitting on the bench under the pergola, both in our school uniform. Mel is squinting at the camera, the autumn sun in her eyes, her legs tucked up under her; my arms are stretched out across the backrest, my left ankle resting on my right knee. I look shy, she looks bold – we look like a couple in love.
‘Look at you both, my handsome boy. So skinny then, my goodness!’
I put my half-eaten croissant back on the plate.
‘So young, the two of you.’
‘What made you look for that?’
‘I don’t know. Silly I suppose, I wanted to look at her, at her face, rather than rely on my memory. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t see her the other day.’
‘That really rattled you, didn’t it?’
‘I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but yes. It did,’ she blinked and looked away, suddenly fragile. For a moment I didn’t recognise her: my strong, independent mother had been replaced by a vulnerable old woman and I felt ashamed that I was failing her somehow, as always.
‘It’s understandable, Mum. So did the photo reassure you?’
‘Yes, yes it did. It wasn’t her, of course not,’ and with that the woman opposite returned my mother to me.
She sipped her coffee, watching me over the rim of her cup for a second before carefully placing it on the saucer. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, it’s my job to worry about you. Come on, eat up. You must be exhausted, I’ve no idea what time you got in last night and you were up early this morning. I could hear you tapping away on your computer.’
I stuffed the rest of the croissant in my mouth, buttery flakes of pastry falling into my lap as I chewed and tried to swallow, the photo of Mel and me on the table by my plate. ‘Sorry, I was interviewing a source last night and wanted to get started on the article.’
‘Your car isn’t on the drive.’
‘I left it at the pub.’
‘Now what will you do? I can’t drive you, I’ve got all sorts on.’ She pulled her cardigan around her body, tucking her elbows in under her breasts, her chin lifting, ready to fight. She couldn’t hide her indignation at my fecklessness, all trace of fragility gone.
‘I’ll get a cab and pick it up.’
‘Oh, right. That’s sensible. And I forgot to tell you, Edward phoned for you when you were in the shower. He asked you to call him back on a new number, I wrote it down for you.’
‘Did he? He called the house phone? Here?’
‘Yes, why? Didn’t you give him the number?’
‘Yes, probably, it’s just strange. What else did he say?’
‘That he needs to talk to you and that it’s very important that you call him back as soon as you could. He’s quite forthright, isn’t he?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Perhaps he wants you to go back to London? Another story?’ She stood and started clearing the table of breakfast things, piling them in the sink for Joyce.
‘Maybe. Where did you leave his number? In the study?’ I pushed myself away from the table, scattering pastry crumbs all over the floor, and pocketed the picture.
‘Marcus! Joyce has just done all the floors.’
‘I’ll sort it in a minute. I’ll just go and call the boss first. Where’s the number?’
‘In the sitting room, I think. I was reading the paper when he called.’ She lifted her mouth into a smile, ‘Work comes first, off you go.’
I went through to the sitting room, guilt rolling like a marble behind my eyes, hard and clear, though I’m not sure why I felt so bad, only that something was horribly wrong, I couldn’t see clearly and being in that house, being back wasn’t helping. I stood rubbing my temples as my eyes adjusted to the light; it was a dim, thick-curtained room. A glass cabinet with my father’s trophies in the far corner was the only point in the room that seemed capable of bearing the pressure of light. The furniture was dark and heavy, with Victorian wooden chests and thick-ankled settees, sagging slightly in the middle. An armchair, leather and buttoned, dominated the space by the fire, next to the poker and the brush. The small pad my mother kept for messages and to-do lists was on the side table close to where she always sat. Edward’s new number was neatly printed in black ink.
He picked up immediately. ‘Marc?’
‘Edward, lost your phone?’
‘No, I just needed to talk to you privately.’
‘What? Are you on a burner? That’s a bit dramatic isn’t it?’ I laughed. David’s warning took shape again: there are whispers, be careful.
‘Maybe. Look, how are things going there?’
‘Fine, I don’t think there’s any dodgy stuff going on, nothing untoward with the DfT, but I’ve got a detective talking to me on the quiet, so I’ll get something to you later today.’
‘That’s good. Take your time,’ his voice low.