by David Mark
He gives a nod and a smug little smile. Orders her a glass of white wine without being asked.
The old boy gives him a look he’s accustomed to. It says: “You with her?”
She takes a seat as far away from the bar as possible. Up near the toilets, in the draughty corner away from the open fire. Tony surveys her as he walks closer. She’s forty-five at least. Brown hair cut into a neat, highlighted bob. Designer waterproof, stripy grey-and-black jumper and a scarf at her throat. Would have been pretty once, but she looks like she’s lost interest. There are dark smudges beneath her eyes, and when she gives him a nervous smile, he sees lipstick on her teeth.
“Elle Dorcas, I presume,” he says, placing the wine on the varnished table between them and taking his seat. He never lets go of his whisky tumbler.
She gives a nod. She loses control of it, and it becomes a shake, a rapid succession of jerks that she can’t seem to stop.
“Relax,” he says, sipping his drink. “You look like you’ve got malaria. Drink your drink.”
She does. Takes a large pull. Coughs. Takes another. She looks him in the face, from beneath spider-leg eyelashes tangled with mascara.
Her voice, an urgent whisper: “You know what would happen to me…”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t care?”
“I care. Just not enough to spare you having to go through with this.”
She sneers at him. Her voice becomes a hiss. “When you called, I felt like my world was collapsing. What you’ve put me through…”
“My heart bleeds. Keep your knickers on, and you won’t have a problem.”
She slumps back in her chair, staring into her glass. “And you won’t tell a soul. That’s it. You’ll let it go.”
“Cross my heart,” he smiles.
Tony’s enjoying this, getting off on her plummy, middle class accent. She sounds proper posh. A deputy head teacher at a village prep, perhaps. Head of the local Women’s Institute and a whizz at lemon meringue pie. He knows what she’s got to lose. That’s why he’s here.
“Do you want it now? Here?”
“Best all round,” says Tony, taking another sip of his drink. He’s feeling pleasantly light-headed, slightly pissed. Blood’s rushing to places where it shouldn’t, and he finds himself gazing at the little swirl of wrinkles at the base of her throat, and wondering if she smears herself in cream before she goes to bed; whether she wears high-necked nighties that accentuate her thick arms, her fleshy, round chin. He’s got her address. Wonders if she keeps the curtains open at night…
“I hope it’s worth it,” she says, bitterly, and reaches into her bag. She pulls out a pale blue folder, fat with paper. She hesitates, takes a drink, then slides it across the table to Tony.
“It’s all there?” he asks.
“Everything I could find. If there’s more, I don’t know where it is.”
Tony nods, and pulls the folder towards himself. He savours the moment. Doesn’t want to open the flap until he’s got the privacy to properly enjoy the moment. He tries to keep himself calm. Tells himself he already has enough to turn this story into a fucking cracker when the time is right. But he wants the documents in the folder to be good. Wants them to measure up to his fantasies.
He stares at the file. At the name on the white tag. Imagines what he’ll find inside and senses his breathing becoming shallow.
He drags his eyes away. She’s staring at him.
“Well?” she asks, her palms on the varnished table. He looks at her nails; manicured but bitten, the expensive French polish scored with teeth marks. Poor bitch must have been shitting herself, he thinks.
“Well what?” he asks, enjoying this.
“The pictures. The tape.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he laughs, distantly, wishing she’d just go away and leave him to enjoy this. “They’re going on the fire tonight.”
“That wasn’t what we agreed,” she says, desperately, her lip starting to tremble and her eyes filling with salt water.
He gives her a withering stare. “It doesn’t work with me, pet,” he says. “I’ve got a mate who would slice his bollocks off to stop you crying, but the whole thing just leaves me cold. If you hadn’t been caught with your pants down, I wouldn’t be here. If you’d been happy with what you’ve got at home, you wouldn’t be in this situation. So don’t blub. Don’t fucking snotter and wail and expect me to give a shit. I don’t.”
A bubble of snot pops in her nose. She’s a picture of misery. Her whole world has dissolved slowly inwards since the letter arrived at her work address. Second class stamp. Name in block capitals. One sheet of paper, stapled to a print-out of the message she’d posted on the internet dating site. Then a line of text, and the name of the man she’d allowed to fuck her in a farmer’s field near Pocklington.
She hopes it’s over, now. Now she’s done what this feral little man with the too-big teeth and the yellow eyes has asked of her. Now she’s broken into her husband’s office and stolen the file that he’s caressing as if it were a lover.
“It was a one-off,” she says, pitifully. “My husband works such long hours. It was a mistake…”
“Dry your eyes, councillor,” he says, draining his drink and picking up her wine. “We all make mistakes.”
She sniffs back more snot. Presses her knuckles to her eyes. “And this is over? I won’t hear from you again?”
“Cross my heart,” he says, finishing the wine. “Now, if you don’t mind…”
She fumbles for her bag. Finds herself apologising for wasting his valuable time, as if this were a fundraiser and he was a benefactor. She doesn’t want to upset him. Finds herself daring to hope that this will be it. That she’s got away with it. Now she’s robbed her husband, taken what this vile little man told her to take, and paid the price for her dalliance: her vicious orgasm, ground out against the wet plastic of a black-wrapped bale of hay, a man she only knows as Neptune133 pushing himself into her and calling her by his ex-wife’s name.
She’s almost at the door, when he says, without a trace of emotion, that he’ll be in touch.
The door closes in a flood of tears and snifflings.
Tony sinks back into the chair. Makes the most of the moment. Stretches it out. Walks back to the bar and orders himself the same wine that the councillor had been drinking. A packet of scratchings and a bag of Scampi Fries. Sits down in front of the fire, and opens the file.
Twenty minutes later, he looks up, his drink untouched.
Begins to mutter as he circles key words in the psychiatric report on inmate HH539413.
Borderline personality disorder.
Hallucinations.
Visions.
RECURRING TALK OF CLASSICAL FEMALE FORM, CONDONING HIS “SINS”.
No awareness of social conventions.
Capable of extreme violence without remorse.
Shows no regret for his actions, only for the repercussions on his family.
Recommend he remains under supervision for the foreseeable future.
Tony whistles. Smiles. Christ, but this has been worth the £50 he slipped the young lad in the petrol station when he heard him wittering about the old bird his brother had found on the web. He believes in serendipity. Owes his career to it.
“Owen, Owen, Owen,” he says, savouring the wine. “You mad bastard.”
He sits for another ten minutes. Familiarises himself with the report. Begins to lay the story out in his head. Can see the name. The picture, then, and the picture, now. The same eyes. The same flame of dancing madness. The little boy, all grown up and handsome as fuck.
And then he’s settling up and heading for the door, unsteady on his feet and hard in his pants, the file clutched beneath his coat.
Doing his second favourite thing.
40
6.14 p.m.
Asleep with my head on Kerry’s belly.
She’s freezing cold, and I should have dressed her or wrapped her
up, but I haven’t. I haven’t moved in an hour.
I’m dreaming of Dad. I’m sat on his lap at the wheel of the jeep and he’s letting me steer as we bounce up the rutted track towards the south field. It’s our little secret. He’s got a hand on mine and smells of cigarettes and rain, and there are scone crumbs on his damp, green jacket and his glasses are dirty. I’m nine. And we’re talking about tortures, like we do. About the African tribes who would stake out trouble-makers on the jungle floor, cover their chests with sticky stuff and a dozen flesh-eating ants, and put a half a coconut shell over the top, and watch as they devoured them. He does lots of good noises and facial expressions as he tells me, and never takes his eyes off the dirty track that cuts through the green field. We’re talking about football, and whether Paul Gascoigne will ever come back from his injury, and laughing at the way Mum always gets song lyrics wrong. And there is a sudden beating of wings and a flash of brown and red, and a pheasant bangs off the windscreen and I swerve the wheel and yelp, and we’re suddenly flipping over and down and bouncing up, and the windows smash and I bang my head against Dad’s face and then the roof, and the wheel, and we’re bouncing down the hill, and there are strong arms around me, trying to hold me still, and I take a double-gulp of breath, without letting out the one I had, and I suck in something evil and chaotic and angry and resentful and wise and cruel and beautiful; something born in the broken glass and the torture and the violence, that will grow strong and loud and terrifying, that will be nurtured when I wake in a few days’ time to see my parents arguing at the foot of my hospital bed, talking about how they are going to afford to pay Mr Blake for the broken jeep. Keeping my eyes closed, and listening to my mum telling my father to be a man, to stand up to him, to say ‘no’. And hearing, for the first time, a whisper in the back of my mind, saying, in a rasping, sibilant tongue, “it’s not fair…”
6.31 p.m.
My head hits the floor with a bump and I spin around and look up, hoping for violence. Kerry’s sitting bolt upright, gasping, like she’s just had a shot of adrenaline to the heart. She turns and in the half-darkness, she sees Petruso’s body and cries out and pushes backwards, and her back bumps my face, and she looks at me and my mask of blood, and she squawks and pushes herself away from me and her skin is goose-pimpled and she’s trembling and crying and I’m trying to hold her and she’s fighting me and flailing her arms and I grab her wrists and I’m shushing her and trying to hold her and not to laugh, because it’s funny and silly, and then I lose patience and hit her a good one and she falls still and doesn’t move, and I think she’s dead and I feel relief and then embarrassment, and then disappointment when she starts to stir, and I pick her up and carry her to the bathroom, and wash my face and my hands in the sink and turn the towels pink and then I run a bath with lots of Jess’s special bubble bath and I fill it high and I lay Kerry in its embrace and stroke her face until she comes to, and she wakes and she’s warm and safe and with her brother, and she smiles, and I see past the yellow teeth and cracked lips and bruised face and I see the little girl she used to be. I see Dad’s little princess and Mum’s little helper, and I see the girl who I used to swordfight with in the woods, and who used to carve her initials into Mum’s pastry crusts, and who fixed the wing of the pheasant that almost killed her dad and her brother and who went off the rails when the family fell.
And she says, “I’m sorry.”
6.48 p.m.
I’m wrapping a towel around her as she steps out of the tub, dripping, onto the bathroom floor. It’s a fluffy beach towel, with stripes on it, and I smile as I remember how Jess used to say that she had to use it vertically, or it made her look fat, and I’m shaking my head as I rub Kerry dry, and telling myself that girls are stupid and men are thick.
She says: “Who were those men?”
And I say: “They were bad men. They killed Beatle. But I’ve killed them now and you’re safe and don’t need to worry.”
And she says: “You killed them?”
And I say: “Yes.”
And she cries again, and says: “Thank you.”
And I tell her it’s OK, and dress her in Jess’s linen trousers and a tight T-shirt and a snuggly purple jumper, and I brush her hair. She likes it when I fuss over her, and I make her promise to keep her eyes closed as we walk through the living room because I can’t be doing with another scene, and I steer her out the door, and pick up my coat and my gun from the floor, and I pop into the bedroom, and I pick up my sports bag and empty my top two drawers, and shove a handful of clothes and my electric razor and my picture of Dad inside, and I close the door to my flat and its ghosts and its memories and bodies, and we walk through the drizzle and the darkness and the pissy neon lights to the Royal Hotel by the railway station, and I book us in and we go upstairs, and she squeals as she sees the big bed and the comfy pillows, and we lie down and I hold her, and she falls asleep again, and I stare at the ceiling and wonder how long I have before this all catches up with me, and I watch a spider crawl from one side of the ceiling to another, then turn and walk back.
8.23 p.m.
Me, sitting on the edge of the bed, suit trousers and bare chest, dialling Tony H’s number on the white plastic telephone on the bedside table. Press 9 for an outside line.
“Hello?”
“Tony. Owen.”
Pause. Gets his brain in gear. Can hear him mentally squinting.
“Owen. Fuck. What are the headlines, mate? You’re having quite the day. You went right off the radar this afternoon. More bad news?”
“Something like that. Sorry mate.”
“Listen, mate, I’m a prick but even I don’t like to see somebody’s life go completely down the fucking bog, unless there’s something in it for me. You’re going to have to get it together. I rang your newsdesk and said you had an emergency and filed some copy for you, so you’re not in too much bother at work, but they sounded like they’d heard about the press conference incident, so you’ve probably got some explaining to do, and everybody’s trying to get a chat with your sister, but nobody can track her down.”
“She’s with me.” I say it quietly, partly so as not to wake her, and partly because I’m feeling a little floaty. Light-headed. Peculiar. So hungry I’m sick with it.
“She OK?”
“I haven’t pushed her for the exclusive, yet, Tone,” I say, meaningfully.
“Amateur,” he says, and gives a little laugh. “I had a long chat with Roper a couple of hours back.”
“And?”
“You’re definitely the itchiest of his haemorrhoids, mate. Be fair to say he’s got a bee in his bonnet about you.”
“Was it the press conference?”
There’s a pause, while he decides whether or not to voice the thoughts and theories that have been breeding in his pickled walnut of a brain for the past twelve hours. “It’s a good job I know you so well,” he says, lightly. “Anybody else might have you down as a suspect.”
I close my eyes and breathe out heavily through my nose.
“Cheers mate,” I say sarcastically.
“Well come on,” he says, urging me to follow him down this fatal path. “I’m not daft enough to think it, but one of the victims was your sister’s boyfriend, and I know for a fact you weren’t a fan. Secondly, a car just like yours was parked nearby when it happened. Third, you’re a hard bastard and you could probably do it. Fourthly, you’ve just shown the local press pack what a temper you’ve got, and most importantly – and you know I’d never say this to anybody else – you’ve got quite a colourful mental and criminal history. Maybe Roper has you down as suspect number one.” He rattles to a halt, and we both realise at the same moment that there are too many coincidences and it’s all too neat, and that I’m a killer, and that Roper knows it.
“Fuck, Owen,” he breathes, and I can hear the whiff of humanity and friendship in his voice. “What are you going to do? Fuck, I need to see you, mate. You need to see me. Give it an hour, yeah? S
ee you in Sandy, yeah? Sandringham about nine-ish? Fuck, Owen. What are you going to do?”
Rat-tat-tat.
I chuck the receiver on the bed and hear Tony’s tinny voice get smaller as I cross to the door. I open it a crack and it’s a waiter in a white shirt and a badly tied tie, holding a bottle of Chardonnay on a tray. I smile, and sign for it, and give him a quid, and I’m turning away from the door when I see the big lad with the bleached blonde hair and the stud in his lip stepping into the lift at the end of the corridor. My mate from the café. The one who thinks I’m ace. He’s in gym gear, carrying a holdall.
“Gym still open, is it?” I ask the waiter. “I told my mate I’d maybe join him for a swim.”
“Until ten,” he replies. “Wouldn’t fancy taking him on in an arm wrestle. Probably going stir crazy after a day staring at the wall.”
I look at him, feigning understanding. “Where would we be without room service, eh?”
“That’s the joy of the company credit card, eh? Are you one of Mr Choudhury’s clients too?”
I keep my face inscrutable. Smile. Nod. I close the door softly and pad back to the bed. Open the wine and take a swig from the bottle. I pick up the phone. Tony’s gone.
8.37 p.m.
Staring at my face in the mirror.
It’s too bright in here. The light is bouncing off the brilliant white tiles and the pain in my jaw is working its way up to my temples, where a migraine is starting to throb. I can’t really see myself. I feel like I’m nose to nose with somebody pretty, unable to separate or distinguish between eyes, mouth, nose, jawline, but knowing that the picture will be beautiful if I back away.
There’s a voice in there somewhere, barely audible above the squeals and cackles that pound behind my eyes, and it’s telling me I don’t have to be like this; that I beat this once before and if I just pick up the phone and call Mill View Court they’ll let me in and give me a room and I’ll get assessed again and given the pills that will make me stop feeling like this, and I’ll get a care plan, and doctors will tell me that I’m not to be ashamed and that it’s an illness like any other, and it’s the chemicals in my head that make the monsters and the desires and the rages, and that one pill a day can make it right.