Yet as she whispered those words, other words – solatka, latachka – the words moved from the body she held into her own body, loosening the tightness she used to keep everyone else out. Lottie sank deeper, Sonya took her in. Until she was shuddering too, crying too, tears running down her face, her words dissolving into sobs that grew louder fast, and were soon louder than those of the girl she held.
Lottie felt, heard, pulled back and saw – that beautiful face, distorted by pain, salt water and snot, and… and something else in eyes that had been cool emptiness before, filled now with fire, hurt, a desperate longing. And seeing, she sat further back and knuckled her own tears away. “Please,” she said. “Please tell me.”
So Sonya did. Stilled her sobs enough to tell her everything. Marushka’s dissolving spine. Georgiy slipping back into the warmth of his oblivion. The man who’d hurt her last night, hurt more than her body because her confidence was gone when she needed it most because she only had one night, this night, to do the impossible, because what she planned would usually take a week, and a good week at that; one night because it was all she had, she knew she’d never be able to rouse herself to it again.
And when she’d said it all, she realized that the positions had changed, that it was Lottie holding her now, enfolding her, murmuring her endearments – “Sweetheart! Angel! Little one!” And she let her. Let Lottie sooth and caress her. Until Sonya sat up, moved away so she could look this English girl in the eye.
Which is when the door buzzer went.
A few minutes earlier…
Mr Phipps had barely felt the first double whisky. The second, without the ginger this time, jingled a little, literally sounded like a bell somewhere in his head. His arm felt better too. The numbness was still there, but more distant, didn’t bother him so much. He thought of a third but decided against. A third was what an alcoholic would go for, and he wasn’t one. He’d proved that by quitting before, cold turkey, no counselling, no twelve steps, simply willpower. Willpower stopped him ordering a third now, and sensible thinking. He had work to do. Taking the incriminating books from the girl in the flat across the road. He would prefer not to kill her. Use his judgement, Sebastien had said. He’d wear a mask, posh up his voice a bit too. It wouldn’t be a long conversation. All would depend on her answers. Though it was safer for them to kill her. For him too. He was in the books. Under some fucking prattish alias, no doubt.
It was a pity about his suit. He’d have to burn it and it was one of his nicer ones. Double breasted. But overalls would have stood out at nine o’clock on a Monday night in Portobello, and there were a lot of people about.
Like this fucking traffic warden, he thought, watching the large black woman walk by. Bitch had probably ticketed him, parked as he was in the resident’s bay down the road. She had that sort of smirk. He supposed they were on some sort of bonus scheme, else why was she working at this time at night? He was no kind of Socialist but, really, it was a crying shame that councils were so strapped for cash in these days of austerity all the employees had to compete.
Hmm, he thought. Maybe the whisky has had a bit of an effect. I might have another later. After.
As he’d sat and drank, he’d observed. And really noted nothing out of the ordinary. People came and went, cars parked, took off. A couple sat in one and argued for ten minutes, him waving his arms about, her weeping. Could be an act, but then they drove away to continue elsewhere. Apart from the patrolling warden, no regular caught his eye. Delivery men arrived on bikes, in cars. Pizzas, Uber Eats. He was a bit peckish himself but he never liked to eat before a gig. It’s why the whisky had had even the minimal effect it had had, he supposed.
Time, he thought. He tapped the Glock in his left armpit. He hadn’t bothered to change the holster around, even though his right hand was still pretty fucked. But he’d found he could still draw it with his left. Not so graceful perhaps. Not so fast. But he wouldn’t need to be fast with a young pianist.
He swirled the last of his drink, knocked it back, just ice water now, Scotch flavoured. Then he heard the bartender say, in his Latvian English accent, “Fuck me!” and he turned and saw what the man was looking at, the TV above the bar. It was the Nine O’clock News and on the screen was a house he recognized, because he’d been at it that morning. Though then, of course, it hadn’t been wrapped in yellow tape.
The headline read: “Gangland slaying in suburb.”
He stepped to the bar. “Turn it up, mate?”
The bartender grabbed a clicker. The volume dial went up. A woman was speaking.
“… shattered the silence of this quiet close in Finchley. The victim was Joseph Severin,” an inset picture came up, “a 42 year old landlord and property manager. Police are baffled as to motive, as Mr Severin was unknown to them, and early investigations show a happily married family man with a successful legitimate business. Our reporter, Darren MacArthur, is outside the house now and files this report. Darren, is there anything you can tell us?”
The feed cut to the house, two uniformed plods at the door, a forensics guy in white overalls and booties going in, and the reporter with an officer, again in uniform, beside him. “Yes, thank you, Amrita. I am with Chief Superintendent Chambers of the North London Division. Chief Superintendent, have you identified any possible motive for this murder yet?”
The senior plod shook his head. “We are working on a number of theories – not least that this may be a case of mistaken identity. The victim, Joseph Severin, had no known connections to crime, was a pillar of both the Finchley and the local Jewish community. It is a particularly nasty crime, in that the victim’s wife and young son were there when it happened.”
“So you have witnesses?”
“We do indeed – though the boy is only two and his mother is, understandably, severely traumatized. We hope to have a longer conversation with her when she is feeling better, perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”
“No clues yet then?”
“I didn’t say that. We are working on some promising forensic evidence.” (Tosh, thought Mr Phipps) “We also know that the killer was male, Caucasian, in his forties, of average height and build, wearing white overalls and a red cap.” He looked straight at the camera. “And we appeal to anyone who may have been anywhere in the Finchley Central area this morning between 8 and 9AM to check their dash cam or camera phone footage and call the number that will appear later. Any call will be treated in strict confidence and with the greatest respect. Please call, no matter how innocent your observation may seem. Thank you.”
He walked away. The reporter said, “And that’s it from a shocking scene in Finchley. Back to you, Armita.”
The screen switched back to the anchor. “Thanks, Darren. And the number to call with any observations is - ”
Phipps turned away. It was nearly all bollocks, and he still doubted that the wife would remember anything much more about him. It was annoying about the overalls. He’d probably have to find a better covering for future gigs. I probably should have killed her, he thought. And that decides it. Fuck the mask, I’m killing the girl, and have done.
He bent and picked up his duffle bag. He’d forgotten to grab a pillow from the supply he had at his house and hadn’t wanted to stop and buy one. Good choice, seeing as forensics would be all over the one he left in Finchley, much good it would do them. So he’d brought the large felt alien doll he’d won for Meaghan at the Heath Fun Fair. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do.
He stood, looked across the street to the house – and saw a figure running up the steps. He bent into the window, peered – and saw that it was a black man, in shorts, straw hat. He paused before the door, took off his hat, rubbed hard at his head, then turned and looked around before turning back and ringing the buzzer.
The one look had been enough. He’d seen the man before. Earlier that night, on Sebastien’s phone.
Patrick something. Actor. It changed things, a little, and he sat again to think it through. He’d b
een an advisor on a film set when he was first out of the army. Actors, in his experience, were ok at the on screen violence and useless in real life. But Sebastien had said this bloke was quite well known, that his death might bring heat they could all do without.
Fuck, Phipps thought, sitting again. I’ll give him fifteen to bugger off. If he isn’t out by then…
He licked his lips. He fancied another whiskey.
18
“Who is it?”
Static crackle. Then, “Lots, it’s me. Let me in.”
“Patrick? What the hell?”
“Let me in, please. Please! I really have to talk with you. It’s important.”
Lottie took her finger off the intercom and looked at Sonya. “Shit. I could really do without this now.”
“But he is no longer your boyfriend, yes?”
“He’s not. But I only sent him the letter earlier tonight. It’s over.”
“A letter? So he will not have received yet. You have to tell him again.”
“No, I sent it on my phone.” She jumped, as the buzzer went again, one long loud whirr.
Sonya stood up from the sofa. “You want I should go?”
“No. No, I really don’t.” The sharp sound came again, and this time didn’t stop. “Fuck! He’s probably high as well. Look, could you… could you just wait in there? It will just confuse him if he sees you.” She gestured to the bedroom. “I’ll get rid of him.”
“Of course.”
Sonya went into the bedroom, closed the door behind her. Lottie pressed the intercom. “Fuckssake, Patrick, stop it. Come up.” She pressed the latch.
She left the front door ajar, went back to the sofa, sat. There was a faint trace of Sonya’s expensive perfume in the air, but Patrick was never one to notice scents. Be normal, she thought. One of us has to be.
Reaching for the clicker, she turned on the television. It was the news, football, she muted it. Ciggie, she thought, and started to roll one, as the elevator arrived on her floor.
He came in the door hard, and it banged on the corridor wall. Fuck, she thought, but carried on rolling.
“Lots!”
“Hello, Patrick,” she said. “Take a seat.”
She was sitting in the middle of the sofa. “You alright,” he said, flopping down on the left end of the stunted square ‘U’. When she didn’t reply, he continued. “That one of your specials?”
“Nah. Need to keep a clear head.”
“Why start now?”
He laughed after he said it, on a high note, some vibrato in it. She glanced at him, confirmed what his manic buzzer pushing had indicated. His face was sheeny, but not just with summer heat, though it was still hot, beyond English hot. There was a slickness to his skin, like from a fever; skin that wasn’t its usual smooth glossiness, full of little bumps. His eyes, those beautiful mocha eyes, were not sunken under their heavy lids but were prominent, over bright. He smiled, but he forced it, like he was trying for his best headshot look. “So, I got your letter.” He tried to say it casual but like the rest of him, the voice was still off balance.
“I only sent it half an hour ago. You must have been nearby.”
“Paris,” he said, and laughed again. “Nah, Notting Hill. With Danny, some of the old Central crowd.”
“Oh.” She picked up the paper, licked the edges, did the twist. Putting it between her lips, she reached for her Zippo, struck, lit, inhaled. Put the Zippo down. All her movements were slow, deliberately so.
“Can I have some ?”
Instead of replying, she leaned down and pushed the fixings towards him. He did not reach for them. She knew why. The actor could nearly always control the voice. His hands would be another matter.
He must have read her mind. “Lottie, what you said in the letter? The coke? I promise. I’m stopping it. It’s fucking stupid, I know it, it’s cost me. I’m not talking about the job, though that’s - ” he swallowed. “I’m talking about you.”
“It’s not just that. If you read - ”
But he wasn’t listening to her. He’d prepared this scene, she could see, and wouldn’t be distracted. And it came with props.
He took off the straw hat, courtesy of Venice Beach, California. The wrap was in the brim, another trick he’d learned there. He extracted the folded paper with two fingers, and dropped it and the hat on the table. “It’s the last of it, Lots,” he said, fingering the wrap. “I swear. Done. Where’s the bin here? Under the sink?”
He rose as he spoke, strode to the kitchen; vanished through the door and appeared again in the rectangular gap that gave onto the living room, above the dining table. It was like a screen, and he moved into the centre of it for his close up. “Done,” he said, waving the wrap for emphasis. Then he bent.
“Patrick!”
He rose. “What?’
“I’m a tenant here. I don’t want Coke wraps around, even in my garbage.”
“Oh! Of course, love. Silly me. I’ll, uh…” She could watch his brain ticking, as he considered how to keep his gestures grand. “I’ll do this then,” he said, and unfolded the origami. “Voila,” he said, and tipped the powder – she assumed, she couldn’t see – into the sink. What she could see though, just before he reached for the tap with his left hand, was his right dipping… out of frame. Didn’t need to see the finger scrape up some of the white powder, nor what he did with it after he turned on the tap to wash the evidence away. She knew, in the moment after he disappeared from the rectangle and the one before he reappeared by the table, that the finger had brushed over his gums.
He returned, sat, rubbed his head. “There you go. Done. Basta!”
He made a chopping gesture with his right hand. It reminded her of her dad. He had given up the ciggies half a dozen times. He usually did it with a flourish too – crumpling a packet with three left in it and throwing it onto the fireplace, or some such. But the following week he smelt of tobacco again. It was a good smell. Why anyone would ever think of giving up fags was beyond her.
Speaking of, hers was out. She bent, but Patrick was quick, coke quick, and beat her do the Zippo. “My lady,” he said, struck, held out the flame. She took his hand to stop it shaking, and drew. They were close, as close as lovers. “Baby,” he said, his voice shaking again. “Please. Don’t. I can’t make it without you.”
She looked into his eyes, those eyes she’d so loved. Moments of looking into them this close came back in snapshots – a tatty dressing room, a hill in Shropshire, a beach at a winter sunset. She loved him. She had loved him. She’d always loved him. But she’d written all she had to say in a letter.
“You’ll have to,” she said, and blew out the flame on the lighter.
He started, pulled back. His eyes narrowed. “Is there someone else?”
Her reply was a fraction slow. “No.”
“There is!” He pulled back, dropped the Zippo, still open, onto the coffee table. It bounced, skittered over the glass. “There fucking is! I knew it. I knew it wasn’t… anything else.” He ran his tongue around his gums. He jumped up, went to the balcony, looked out, did not stop there, moved to the table, then around till he was looming over the sofa, over her, his back to the short corridor and the front door. “Who is it? Who?”
She dropped her roll up into the ash tray, closed the zippo, rose to face him. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is - ”
But Patrick was beyond listening. “It’s not this cunt who put you up in this place is it?” Something in her face must have changed because he shouted, “It is! It fucking is. I thought there was something funny about the whole set up. You’re selling yourself. And you… you get onto me because of… you…” He leaned forward, and stumbled slightly. He looked down, and puzzlement replaced the fury. “What’s this?”
“What?”
“This.” He reached, straightened. He had a red bag in his hand, a beautiful, soft leather bag. “But this… this belongs to…” He looked at her, and then turned and looked at the closed
bedroom door. Wonder displaced everything else in his eyes. “You are shitting me,” he breathed.
He took a step towards the door. “Patrick!” Lottie snapped, so loud he halted. “It is not… she’s not. She needed a friend.”
“A friend?” Fury was back. “Bullshit!”
He crossed to the door, flung it open. Sonya was standing in front of the bed, her hands clasped in front of her. “Hello, Patrick,” she said.
Her words froze him. “I don’t… I don’t understand.” He looked back at Lottie, shook his head. “What the fuck?”
There was no way to explain it. She wasn’t even sure she could explain it to herself. “Patrick,” she said softly. “You need to go.”
“I need to go?”
“Yes.”
“Wait.” He stuck the heel of his one hand into an eye, rubbed. “If she’s here, you’re paying her. If you’re paying her,” he dropped his hand, and grinned, “we can have some fun.”
Lottie actually gasped. “You’re not serious?”
“I am.” His grin went wider. “The letter? It doesn’t matter. You write one thing one moment – and do this,” he jerked his thumb towards Sonya, still unmoving in the bedroom, “the next. You don’t know what you want, anymore than I do. Only she does,” the thumb went again, “’cos she’s clear, it’s her job.” He took a step back, reached out his hand. “C’mon, Lots. I mean,” his grin widened, “if this really is goodbye, then we may as well go out with a bang.”
He laughed then, and Lottie saw it all. Who he was, who he actually was now. The drug magnified it. But it magnified what was already there. And when she saw it, instead of the anger that had been waiting to burst like a bust dam over him, she felt the surge recede. “I’d like you to go now please,” she said, her voice calm.
One London Day Page 17