Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Perhaps not all stories have sad endings,’ she said. ‘Perhaps some end happy?’

  She slid on to the floor next to him. Her arms went around him again. Eyes locked with his. He hadn’t noticed how beautiful they were. Deep blue. Drowning pools.

  ‘You have been good to me.’

  ‘You don’t have to—’

  She put her fingers to his lips, hushed him. ‘I like you. But you are lonely. I know what that feels like.’ She bent further forward, her eyes closing again.

  ‘This is wrong,’ he said, fighting the growing sense of arousal in his body. ‘I’m meant to be helping you. Looking after you.’

  ‘You are,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘And I look after you.’

  ‘You sure you want this?’

  She nodded, her eyes still closed. Lips smiling.

  Their lips met. Mouths opened. Arms entwined, bodies soon after that.

  Tom Waits sang about little trips to heaven. About it being closing time.

  Donovan turned the CD player off. He and Katya made their way upstairs to his bedroom.

  Amar closed his eyes, opened them again. His vision was crashing against his head. He was swimming towards what he saw, struggling to stay focused. He shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d taken.

  Anything. Everything.

  The camcorder shook as he moved it around. He was aware of bodies moving, writhing before him, aware that although he was pointing the camera at them, he was missing what was going on.

  He had told himself he would stop doing this. Told himself he had only done it because it was necessary. Because he needed the money. And for a time he had given it up.

  It. Filming private gay orgies hosted in a rich man’s house, by the rich man himself. Strictly behind the camera, he had stipulated. He was not to take part. not to be invited to take part. Whatever was on offer – sex, drugs, drink – was not to be offered to him. He didn’t want any part of it. He wanted to stay focused. Rise above it. It was a job. That was how he regarded it.

  For a while.

  Then came the odd spliff. A glass of wine. A line of charlie. A cute young man offering himself up. Just the occasional indulgence. Not harming anyone. Getting for free what the others paid for. Getting paid for doing it too.

  Then an escalation. More lines. Of charlie. Of young men. More wine. Blow. More. More.

  Then came self-realization. He knew what he was doing. To himself. To his reputation as a professional. And with the self-realization, a complete stop. He turned down work, offers. Other work came in. Albion had started; it seemed to be going well. He concentrated on that. Let the drugs go. Cut down the alcohol. Got back into shape. Peta got her gym partner back again. And helped in the education of Jamal. He liked the boy. He really did. And with all that, he didn’t need to go back. Didn’t need the other stuff.

  But it began creeping back. He felt something within him. Boredom? Lack of fulfilment? A writhing serpent coiled there in his guts, telling him what he wanted. What he needed.

  And he listened.

  Secretly at first, so Joe and Peta didn’t find out. Then, when directly questioned, openly admitted it. Yes, he was back at the parties. And, yes, he was enjoying them. They had responded more with sadness than anger, asking him not to do it, but he had ignored them. He was fine. He could hold himself together for work. It wasn’t affecting him.

  Then came earlier in the day. Walking out of the café.

  Fuck them. He was too old to be told what to do. He would do what he wanted to do. And if they didn’t like it, fuck them. Fuck them all.

  He looked around the room, tried to focus his lens, his eyes. As he did so, he stumbled, tripped. Fell to his knees, his fall broken by a naked man’s body. The camera spilling to the floor. The man smiled, stopped what he was doing and to whom, put his arm around him. Amar let him. Amar yielded to him. Someone else joined them. Amar didn’t know who, didn’t see them. Couldn’t see them.

  He closed his eyes. Gave in. Stopped swimming, let the tide engulf him; bear him away on it.

  The camera, his pretext for being there, was lost.

  And soon he joined it.

  Lost in the realm of the senses. The realm of the senseless.

  Lost.

  Donovan lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Katya next to him, her body curled into his, sleeping. Or pretending to. She breathed deeply, a smile playing on her lips. She looked relaxed, contented. Dreaming.

  The rain had ceased. Donovan, who should have fallen asleep first, had been lying there long enough to hear it stop.

  Mention of David had done it. Started him thinking again.

  Donovan still saw him. In the street. In his mind’s eye. In dreams.

  Always when he least expected it. He would be coping, getting on with his life, not thinking about his past. Walking down Northumberland Street, say, or Grainger Street, Eldon Square even. Or in a shop. A café. Starbucks. Off in his own world. Happy, or at least content, in the moment. Then he would hear a voice. Catch a glimpse of dark hair. Recognize a walk. And look up. And see him. Coming out of a shop. Chatting to his mates. Or head down, hoodied and denimed, texting.

  And Donovan would turn, wait for that familiar skip of his heart. He would open his mouth, make to call out, start to run. Unable to stem the joy bubbling within. Rushing to hold him. Hug him. Make him feel safe.

  But he would never get there, never call. Because the rational part of his brain would stop him. Make him look again. And he would stop. Do as instructed. Look again. Truly see the boy. His hair would be wrong. His walk. His eyes. It wasn’t David.

  It was never David.

  And then he’d stand, like an inflatable toy that’s had the air stamped out of it. Feeling worse than empty. And it would start again. The cocoon of the present would crumble. The past would press down on him again. Remind him how precarious his balance was in the world. Like a cancer sufferer reminded of their disease, a psychic intimation of sudden death.

  And things would unravel again.

  But not as bad as they had been, down as low as the point he had once reached. He had never contemplated picking up the gun again. The old revolver. Loading the bullet, spinning the chamber, placing it against his temple, waiting for the click.

  Russian roulette. Just a game. But one with the power of life and death over himself. A way of taking away the pain. Permanently, perhaps.

  He had vowed never to reach that state again. No matter what he went through.

  He had thrown the gun away. Into the river, down the Tyne.

  Lost.

  But he still had dreams.

  Sometimes David would sit at the end of the bed and talk.

  He would have aged. Real time. Three years older. Nine years old. And Donovan would talk to him. Father and son. Ask him anything. Anything. And he would answer.

  Except one question. The important one.

  Where are you? Alive or dead? Where are you?

  No answer. That would be David’s cue to disappear, Donovan’s time to wake up.

  He would lie there, grasping at air, clinging.

  To dreams.

  He looked at the sleeping woman next to him. Wondered what was going through her head, what her dreams were about. What haunted her.

  He put his arm around her, closed his eyes. He didn’t want dreams tonight. He wanted sleep. And when it came he hoped it would be deep, restful.

  Black and empty.

  Jamal lay awake.

  He had heard them talking, playing that fucking awful music. Then a silence. Then them both coming up to bed together. Then the noises from Donovan’s bedroom. He knew what was going on. He wasn’t stupid.

  He lay there, trying not to listen.

  It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t have happened. Katya seemed OK, but she shouldn’t have gone to bed with Joe.

  Didn’t know why; it just wasn’t right.

  He lay there. He, too, had heard the rain stop. He turned over on his side, pulled
the duvet around him, closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. Tried hard to sleep.

  He didn’t know why, but it just wasn’t right.

  19

  The rain held off. The sun seemed to be considering putting in an appearance. There was wind, though. Threatening to be strong, cold even. Too early for spring, but even the illusion of spring would do.

  Michael Nell didn’t care what the weather was like. He could have stepped into the middle of a tornado and he would have been happy. Or happier than where he had just come from.

  He stood on the steps of Market Street police station and took in Newcastle city centre, took in the world.

  Buses. Cars. Pedestrians. People going somewhere, going nowhere. The mundanity of an existence he purported to despise. He never thought he would be as pleased to see that Saturday mundanity again.

  They had let him go. He couldn’t believe it. They had let him go.

  Days of questioning, of sitting in that stinking room, the words going around and around in an ever-decreasing circle, each time with a little more knowledge, designed to wrong-foot him, force him into making a mistake, an admission of guilt, circling tighter and tighter until they eventually enclosed him, suffocated him, the only chance of air coming with a full confession.

  But he hadn’t given one. He hadn’t cracked.

  And then this. They had let him go.

  He stood on the steps and looked around. The fledgling euphoria that had been building up within him disappeared. There, sitting in a silver Vauxhall Vectra, were those two bastard coppers. Nattrass and Turnbull.

  He felt himself begin to shake, swallowed hard.

  Walk away. Just walk away. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

  He found his feet moving towards the Vectra. Crossing Market Street, ignoring oncoming buses, walking, his path direct like a heat-seeking missile.

  He saw them look up, get out of the car. Saw Turnbull, that hard-faced, evil fucker, smile. Crack his knuckles even.

  Nell walked faster.

  He reached the car. They were waiting for him.

  ‘This it, then?’ Nell said. ‘The welcoming committee?’

  ‘Have to be, won’t it?’ said Turnbull, squaring up for a fight. ‘Don’t see your daddy here, do you? Or that high-priced lawyer? Just us.’ He gave a nod to the police station, laughed. ‘That’s what you get when you come down here. Just us.’

  ‘I’m innocent,’ Nell said, his voice breaking. ‘I did nothing wrong and you can’t touch me.’

  Turnbull went up to him, nose to nose. His voice was low, carrying the promise of violence. ‘You’re dirty. You did it. We’ll find something.’

  Nell’s earlier anger was being replaced by fear. He didn’t doubt what this copper was saying, didn’t doubt that he could do it if he wanted to.

  The other one, Nattrass, stepped in. ‘Be on your way, please, Mr Nell. You’re free to go. But please keep yourself available, because we may need to interview you again.’ She almost smiled.

  ‘I’ll … I’ll do you … This, this is harassment.’

  Turnbull smiled, pointed at Market Street police station. ‘Care to step over there and make a complaint? We’ll be happy to accompany you.’

  Nell backed off. Turnbull gave another unpleasant smile. Nell could smell the alcohol simmering and sweating its way out of him.

  Nell turned away. He couldn’t bear them both looking at him.

  ‘Keep lookin’ over your shoulder, matey boy,’ said Turnbull. ‘One day we’ll be there.’

  There was nothing Nell could do. He began to walk away.

  The rain had held off. The sun had put in an appearance. There was no wind, strong or otherwise.

  Michael Nell didn’t care what the weather was like. He wanted to scream, to shout.

  He wanted to cry.

  He walked away into the sunshine.

  ‘So they’ve let him go?’ said Donovan, looking at Janine Stewart.

  ‘This morning. Couldn’t keep him any longer. Failed to prove a case.’

  Donovan nodded. He was listening to the words, but not hearing them. The power-dressed Janine Stewart was breaking up, the office around her fragmenting. In her place was Katya. They were still back in bed.

  Her body: thin, lean, small-breasted, like a sinuous rope of muscle wrapped around him. Holding tight on to him. Digging in, pulling him further into her. Her eyes not closed but wide open, staring at him, into him.

  It had been intense. More intense than he had imagined it would be. If he had had any expectations, they would have involved warmth, acceptance. An end to loneliness, an intimacy with another. He had wanted to go easy, gently: he thought she must have been damaged and fragile. But she wasn’t having any of it.

  Irrespective of which position they had been in, and there had been many, or what activity they had been engaged in at the time, Donovan felt, knew, that she had been in charge. Taking him with her, leading him on, getting him where she wanted him. He had been taken, roughly, violently. Her eyes either closed or fixed on something he couldn’t see, perhaps something he didn’t want to see.

  Afterwards they had talked.

  ‘Thank you,’ she had said, her hands stroking his hot, still sweating skin. ‘What I needed.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You enjoyed it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, eyes flicking away from her. ‘Course I did.’

  ‘You seemed … not to let yourself go. Is this famous British reserve?’ She gave a small laugh. ‘Is your upper lip stiff?’

  Donovan had smiled. ‘Not my upper lip. No, I’m just a bit … out of practice, that’s all.’

  She kept looking at him.

  ‘I just … didn’t want to hurt you. You know. After all you’ve been through. Been forced to do, and that. Thought I should be … I don’t know. Gentle. Respectful.’

  She propped herself up, looked at him. ‘I am not a flower, Joe. To be just admired. I am stronger. With needs. Like you. Like everyone.’

  ‘I know. It’s just …’

  She smiled. ‘It does not matter.’

  She kissed him. Hard. He responded. Getting hard again. Hands over each other’s bodies. She pulled away, looked into his eyes again.

  ‘I will not break,’ she said, then smiled. Secrets were contained in that smile. Secrets Donovan might want to take. ‘But I will bend …’

  And she had. And so had he.

  ‘Joe? Mr Donovan?’

  Donovan looked up. Janine Stewart was looking at him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Donovan looked around, surprised to find himself back in Stewart’s office.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.’

  Stewart looked at him as if she didn’t agree with his words. Donovan felt he should say something.

  ‘So have they … has there been any, erm, any other lines of enquiry?’

  Stewart raised her eyebrows. It was, thought Donovan, what passed for a shrug from her. ‘They’re still trying to find eyewitnesses for Ashley’s disappearance from her street in Fenham. Apparently two young men and an old man pushing an old woman in a wheelchair haven’t come forward.’

  ‘Can they trace them?’

  ‘They’re trying. Not holding out much hope, but you never know. Stranger things have happened. And they’re doing the usual. Door-to-door community teams. Mobile office set up in the estate beside the graveyard Ashley was found in.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing so far. Nothing solid.’

  Donovan nodded. ‘Forensics?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. Nothing that links my client in.’ She sat back. ‘But Michael Nell, despite the shaky and circumstantial evidence, is still their prime suspect. We haven’t heard the last from them.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But thank you for your work. Very well done.’ She looked at the file lying on her desk. Donovan had made it as comprehensive as possible. Including his brush with Nattrass and Turnbull. Excluding the involvement of Katya. She wa
s just obliquely referred to as a source.

  ‘Send in your invoice and we’ll pay you straight away.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Donovan nodded, gone again. Back to earlier that morning, getting up.

  Jamal had been in a strange mood. Donovan had met him, unsmiling, in the kitchen. Said hello to the boy, but received only a grunt in return.

  ‘You OK?’ Donovan had asked, putting the kettle on.

  Jamal shrugged, took his toast into the front room. Sat on the sofa, turned on the TV. Stared at it. Hard.

  Donovan followed him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothin’.’ Mumbled through a mouthful of toast and jam.

  Jamal turned up the volume with the remote. A music video of a band Donovan knew Jamal didn’t like.

  Donovan sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘You sure there’s nothing wrong? You can tell me. You know that.’

  ‘Can I?’

  There was something behind the words, something Donovan couldn’t place. Anger? Resentment? Disappointment? Donovan thought.

  Katya.

  He sighed. ‘What’s this about?’ he said, having a fair idea. ‘Do I know what this is about?’

  On the TV was a New York band with skinny ties and abrasive guitars. Everything Jamal hated, yet he stared at them, enrapt, as if he was hanging on to their every word.

  Donovan waited.

  ‘It’s not right,’ Jamal said eventually, mumbling again.

  ‘What’s not?’

  Jamal turned to him then. Donovan saw something had torn behind his eyes. ‘You slept with Katya. Don’t deny it, man, ’cos I heard yous.’

  Donovan sighed. ‘Yes, Katya and I slept together. Why do you have a problem with that?’

  Jamal turned back to the TV. Shrugged again. ‘’Cos. ’Snot right. That’s all.’

  Donovan looked at the boy, struggling with emotions he didn’t understand. He wondered how best to explain, what the right words would be.

  He wondered what he would say if it was his own son asking him the question.

  ‘It was right, Jamal. It felt right. For Katya as well.’

  Jamal looked at him again. When he spoke, there was genuine pain behind his words. ‘You’re meant to be protecting her, man. That’s not protecting her. That’s … that’s … abuse, man. That’s what, what used to happen to me …’ His voice became smaller. He swallowed his final words.