by David Mark
“Which paper are you with?” he asks.
“Press Association,” I say.
“A fine organisation. No frills. I presume this will be going national?”
“Oh yeah. Big story. Should get Roper a few headlines.”
He raises his eyebrows and gives a little smile. “He will be pleased,” he says.
We share a look that says we both know Roper and the things that make him tick. He thaws a little.
“Oh aye, he’s not averse to seeing his name in lights,” I say.
“No, he’s certainly got a profile.”
“I’d love to see his psychological one.”
We laugh, making friends, two blokes together. Then he back-pedals, as if concerned he’s given too much of himself away.
“It’s important, though,” he says. “The media can play a crucial role in any investigation…”
He sounds like he’s reading from course notes, and I lose interest. He seems to sense it.
“I’m sure he does it out of decency and a burning desire for justice,” I say, dripping sarcasm. “Not just so he can see his face on the telly and lick the screen.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stands there, looking daft and nervous. I feel for him. I can’t imagine how it must feel to be almost inert with indecision and self doubt. I sense a pathological willingness to please. I sense that if I made a gentle jibe about his roots or his hair, he wouldn’t sleep tonight for wondering what I’d meant by it. Wouldn’t fit in with the press crowd, I decide. Not one of the boys.
He makes to leave, then stops. “You’re covering the trial as well, are you?”
“Oh yes. Busy bee.”
“What do you think?” His big face is earnest and genuinely interested. I’m taken aback to be asked. Reporters don’t often get a chance to offer opinions to anybody who isn’t part of the hack-pack.
“He’s going to go down,” I reply. “Roper wouldn’t have let it get this far unless he was sure. I’ve heard about this witness but I reckon Cadbury’s a good bet.”
“I didn’t mean about being found guilty. I meant about being responsible.”
I pause, smoke in my mouth and throat. I give him a puzzled glance, and he tries to laugh it off. It comes out as a high-pitched cough. He’s got no style at all, this one. But there’s something in his eyes that makes me want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him he’s a good egg. Picking on him would be like kicking a puppy, and I haven’t done that in years.
“You not on the same hymn sheet as the boss?” I ask, journalist reflexes kicking in, nose for a story, ear for a yarn.
“Best get back inside,” he says, then extends a large, clean hand. I take it and am surprised at the roughness of the skin. It’s weather-worn and used to hard work. Like Dad’s.
“McAvoy,” he says. “Sergeant.”
“Owen Lee,” I reply.
His face freezes. For a second various expressions seem to duel on the large canvas of his face. Then he nods and turns away, stepping back inside the police station.
I’m puzzled, for the briefest of moments, then forget it and try to enjoy the last of my cigarette, looking around at nothing very much. I notice a fair few uniformed coppers milling about out in the rain. Yellow coats, hunched at the shoulders. Loads of them, now I look again.
They’re looking at me. Glancing over shoulders, throwing sly eyes. Milling about, like they’re trying to appear relaxed.
More, by the gate.
I can see arms being raised. Fingers to earpieces, walkie-talkies to mouths.
And I’m feeling paranoid. Trapped. Set up.
I can feel every bump and prickle on the gun’s handle, pressing into my back. Can hear the wet thump of a skull cracking; the hiss and squelch of a thorax being pulped.
And I’m trembling. Dropping my cigarette. Bending to pick it up but feeling a constriction as the gun digs in, and stopping, hunched, halfway to the floor.
I want to stay here. Trapped between moments. Hiding. Each foot on a different road.
A sudden movement to my left. People taking seats, switching off phones, rolling cameras.
Those young enough, angle one leg across the other, notebook on thigh.
And I tumble, still shivering, to a seat at the back, plonking down next to one of the assistant press officers. Juliet. Forty-six and blonde. Moderately well-kept. Designer glasses bought cheap from Asda. Trouser suit in a tasteful green.
And then Roper is here. A swish of leather and a cloud of Aramis; camera crew and two sergeants following like apostles.
Looking bright. Well-rested. In his element, here. Cameras. An audience. A chance to perform. Probably nipped into the toilets to touch himself up beforehand.
Flops into his chair like a dandy. White shirt and matching white tie today. Black pinstripe. Tan shoes. Chunky knot in his tie.
Leaves an empty seat beside himself.
I put a heading on a new page of my notebook, and the date, but the letters blur as I look at them and I don’t know if they’re shorthand or longhand.
Me smashing my eyes shut, scraping the top layer off my tongue against my teeth. Whimpering, quietly. Pen leaking ink onto the page.
Everyone straining for a better view, as though Roper’s a fucking rock star.
Sip of water. Flash of a smile.
“Good morning. Thank you for coming. I’m aware that it was quite short notice and many of you have to cover the ongoing trial at Hull Crown Court, so I’ll keep this brief. It’s been a long twenty-four hours for everyone.”
Another sip of water. Scans the room. Spots me. Smiles.
“As you are all aware, two bodies were found yesterday morning in the Humber Bridge Country Park. One had been the victim of a bullet wound, the other a particularly savage attack. It should be mentioned that the injuries were some of the worst ever seen by experienced members of this police force. Our inquiries have quickly identified a vehicle that was parked in the nearby car park around the time we believe the killings took place, which was shortly after midnight. Unfortunately we have no registration plate, but we believe the vehicle to be an early-Eighties Vauxhall Cavalier. We are currently searching a large database of vehicles, but I would urge anybody in the East Yorkshire area who drives such a car to contact myself or my officers so they can be eliminated from our enquiries. The names of the victims have already been made public and I don’t propose to waste your time by going through it all again. However, I am concerned that people understand what a horrific crime has been perpetrated and feel that can be best illustrated by providing some more information about one of the victims. Darren Norton was just twenty-three when he was killed, two nights ago. He was originally from Goole, but had lived in Hull since leaving school at sixteen. He worked for a time as a porter at Castle Hill Hospital, and as a barman onboard one of the North Sea ferries for several months. He was known as an aspiring DJ, and had a younger brother with whom he was no longer in contact. Yes, I can confirm that at the time of his death he was a registered methadone user who had struggled with a heroin addiction for some time, but he was nonetheless a victim of murder, and those who knew him have painted a picture of a caring, intelligent, ambitious young man. His family are understandably too upset to comment, but Darren’s girlfriend has agreed to read a pre-prepared statement to help with the investigation. A copy of the statement will be handed out when she has finished and she will not be answering questions. Thank you.”
My heart, bouncing off the inside of my skull and dropping through my arse.
Door swinging open to my left, and Kerry shuffling in. Family liaison officer supporting her arm. Same grey T-shirt. Face white as angel-wings, eyes like a snowman. Floaty skirt and flip-flops. Shaking. Small. Disintegrating. Wrapped up tight in her brother’s coat.
High as a kite.
Roper, clearing a path to me with his eyes, and winking.
Tony H looking up, seeing Kerry, and spinning round to me as though he’s on a spit. Eyebrows in his hairline.
&n
bsp; Me melting into my chair. Ashamed. Humiliated. Beaten.
And suddenly, so very fucking angry.
“Fuck you, Roper. Fuck you!”
Out of my chair, picking it up by a leg. Hurling it at the crest behind his grinning, smug head.
Roper not moving as the chair ricochets off and the crest topples over behind him.
Everyone ducking. Girls shrieking.
Film crew swinging their lenses in my direction.
Me kicking over a camera, shoving Aled, bundling past the same young copper who, yesterday, seemed to want to be my friend. Times change.
Out the door and into the rain.
Coppers running towards me on all sides.
Me reaching for the gun.
Slipping on the wet grass, soaked through. Everything slick. Oiled. Coppers’ feet going out from under them as they reach me and slide by. Melee in the car park. Wet hands in my face. Me, fighting on my back. Faces and boots and nasty yellow raincoats. Grunting and swearing.
Mud wrestling. Me, a giant bar of soap in the bath, popping out of clutches and squirting into gaps.
Back on my feet and running.
Blood thundering in my head. Tears on my cheeks.
Six bullets lining up in my mind, pleading to be used.
Looking back as I run, at the faces at the canteen window, at the rolling cameras. The coppers sprawled on the floor.
Roper’s voice crackling on the radio.
“Let him go.”
Through the car park, up the road.
Running from myself.
Heart beating. Brain banging.
Crunching out a back tooth and spitting it out. Gruesome trail of spit and blood on my suit. Sticking my tongue in the hole and getting off on the agony.
Rain falling like a guillotine.
31
I can’t get my teeth into the vein. I’m a yapping dog trying to bite through a football. The flesh keeps sliding away from my gnashing teeth.
There’s something thick and buttery at the back of my mouth. My throat’s closed up; the screams and tears twisting it shut.
Tears soak my face and shirt. Snot runs into my mouth. There’s gristle in my back, my neck, scaffolding my stoop over the steering wheel.
Noise like a rumbling stomach escaping my lips, a ululating whine that makes my eyes twitch.
Sinuses tingling.
Chewing on the wrist of my right hand. Grabbing the biggest vein between my front teeth and pulling, tearing. Gnawing. Grunting.
Blood escaping the frayed graze. Bubbling up and spilling out as I chew deeper. Taste of meat filling my mouth. Claret soaking my cuff.
Can’t even formulate thoughts. Can’t analyse or introspect. Can’t talk myself through. Just lumps of sound, banging in my head alongside song snatches and film dialogue.
Roper. Kerry. Beaten. Jilted. Her, taken from me. Her, acting without asking. Led by another. Directed. Twisted. Bodies. Gun. Drugs. Duty. Kill. Kill. And Jess. Christ, I want Jess.
Fighting the traffic and losing.
I’m staring out the side window, still chewing myself like a teething baby.
The cars have their headlights on half-beam, bringing more shade to the gloom. Mine aren’t switched on. I don’t want to extinguish the dark. It’s where I live.
Fuck!
Cursing my temper. My lack of control. Why didn’t she ask me if she should do it? Why didn’t Roper give me a fucking courtesy call? Why did I let myself show? Knowing, now, that I must be truly nothing, that I must be the fucking joke I always feared. I should be striking fear into people’s very souls. But nobody’s frightened of me. Nobody even thinks of me at all.
I spit on the inside of the window and wipe it into the steam on the glass. It’s gruesome with pink, frothy blood.
Flick on the lights. Half-beam. Full.
Me, lighting a fag. Blowing on the ember.
Turn the cigarette around in my fingers, insert it, ash first, into the black hole of my gob.
Press the hot embers into the gap where my tooth was.
If I scream, I’ll fail.
Penance. Absolution.
Whole body vibrating with agony. Grit.
Smelling my burning skin.
Into the wrong lane.
First, second, third, fourth.
Cars swerving. Horns honking.
Me in a bubble of pain. Protected, in the knowledge it can’t get any worse.
Fuck the gun.
I’m a bomb.
32
“Went well,” says the young copper, standing at the urinal and talking back over his shoulder as Doug Roper washes his hands in the sink.
“Oh yeah,” he replies. “Peachy.”
Roper’s not ready to congratulate himself yet, but things are panning out perfectly. Superiors happy with the way things are going. He’s got evidence that’s only a casual drop and an easily-wrung confession away from a conviction. The Cadbury trial just about on track, when the pieces fall into place. And now Owen, fucking himself royally for the world to see.
“She gone?”
“Who? The girlfriend? Yeah, got a squad car to drop her back at that shit-tip of hers. I’ll go back and get the statement signed when you tell me what it should say.”
He’s learning quick, this one, thinks Roper. Not quite a protégé, but certainly a useful lad to have on side. Looks chinchilla-soft, but he’s already shown what he can do when his blood’s up, and he’s ever so keen to learn from his hero.
“When are we going to have him in then?” asks the young lad, eager to please.
“Laddo? Don’t worry, son. I’ve got plans. Got the call this morning. Minns has been spotted.”
“How do you keep it all in one head, sir?”
“You’ve either got it or you haven’t, sunbeam.”
“Have I, sir?”
Roper says nothing. Just thinks: We’ll know by tonight.
He walks back down the corridor past the canteen and up the empty staircase to his office. He’d insisted on a room with a view, and the large glass window stares out across farmers’ fields and pastures filled with grazing, shaggy-legged horses.
He shuffles papers for a while, watches the horses in the hope that two of them might have a shag. Draws something pornographic on the cover of a mauve file in his in-tray, then picks up his phone and tells reception that they can tell the film crew he’s ready for them again.
Sometimes, he thinks, in these bored moments of waiting for the world to catch up with his thoughts and for his prey to fall into the traps he has dug, he wonders what it would be like to be a normal person. A Mr Average. A DS McAvoy. He shudders the thought away.
Impossible, sunbeam, he thinks, and cups his balls, as if testing a melon for freshness. That would be a world gone mad.
33
10.17 a.m.
Owen Lee the Lonely, jogging up the steps to Hull Crown Court.
Only one news van today. Nationals bored already.
Me in my second best clothes. Soft grey suit with a sky-blue lining. White shirt. Leather gloves. Knee-length, battered leather jacket. Receipts from four years ago in the pocket: admission for two to the amphitheatre in Verona; large cheese and tomato pizza, two bottles of Bud and a cooking apple soaked in rum and powdered sugar.
Remembering the jewels in Jess’s eyes, catching the light of ten thousand candles. Her, shivering, goose-pimpled, snuggling into my broad arms as the tenor’s voice soared in the cashmere darkness.
Through the door, lost in memories, regrets.
Scary Sal, lighting up as she sees me.
“Late today.”
“Busy man, Sal. I spread myself thin, but some people want butter both sides.”
Umpteen beeps as I step through the metal detector. Jim looking on.
“Missed much, have I?”
“Don’t think they’ve started yet. Cadbury’s late again. You weren’t here for the mum’s evidence, were you?”
“No. Heard it was pretty
raw.”
“Very. Did herself proud though. What’s today?”
“Think we should be on to the fiancé, and then it’s showtime. Cadbury’s mate – the one who found her body. Rumour is, Choudhury’s going to try and pin it on him. Young lad did a bit of time a few weeks after the body was found and somehow, Choudhury’s got his cellmate onside. Going to say he confessed to everything. Bit of DNA to back it up. Tin-Tin’s going to make this his finest hour, the crooked bastard.”
“Fireworks, then?”
“Like the sky when I make love to you, princess.”
I feel the heat of her blush as I turn away and head up the stairs, steeling myself, ready to face the eyes of my little world.
Nonchalant. Carefree. Shitting myself.
Whole fucking bench of them, facing the stairs. Tom and Tony T. Steve. National lads. Radio jokes. Nudging each other and pointing with their stares.
Me, shrugging. Searching for a facial expression.
And then Tony H appears. Melting out of nowhere, all long face and yellow teeth. A vampire forming from a cloud of mist.
Taking my elbow, and leading me away.
Gossip and glares, burning the back of my head.
He says nothing until we’re tucked in a corner. He’s half hidden by a potted plant. I’m in the shadow of the toilet wall.
Checks over both shoulders. Ducks his head, then he’s off.
“She’s all right, mate,” he says, face earnest. “She said her piece and then left. Nobody bothered her. No questions. Just a statement, if you’re wanting it. Picked you up a copy.”
Me silent. Glowing, somewhere between my dick and my belly, in the knowledge that I have a friend.
I nod, try and articulate something, but I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how I feel. I have a hard enough time remembering my opinions without remembering my reasons for them.
He shakes his head, puts an arm on mine. And says: “Fuck, mate. I’d have lost it too.”
I shrink as my breath escapes; like a deflating doll. My limbs are suddenly floppy and loose. My back bent. I press a clammy palm to my brow and straighten my knees. Hold myself up by the head.
“I just lost it, Tone,” I say, and shudder as the words run across my tongue with the scuttling of a spider’s footsteps. I hear it in my head as a tinny sound. Small. Like fingers on a keyboard. I cough, carry on. “When she walked in there, I just went mad.”