My Little Eye

by Stephanie Marland

  The cabbie twists round to face me. ‘You want me to move a bit—’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I move across the back seat for a better view. Peer through the window.

  The door opens, a few inches at first, then wider. A skinny blonde stands in the doorway. She says something, then Dominic Bell goes inside and she shuts the door behind him.

  I want to know who she is, and what she is to him. Adrenaline buzzes through me, making my legs feel twitchy. I can’t bear to be contained inside the cab any longer. I need to move.

  I look at the meter. ‘I’ll get out here, thanks. What do I owe you?’

  The cabbie presses a button on the meter to show the price of my ride; fourteen pounds eighty. ‘Boyfriend doing the dirty on you, love?’

  I stay silent. Don’t deny it.

  ‘Looks a bit old for you if you, ask me, and if he’s messing you about he’s a fool. Kick him to the kerb.’

  I take a twenty from my purse and hand it to him. ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thank you, very kind.’ There’s pity in his eyes. ‘You take care.’

  I yank the handle, push the door open and jump out into the darkness.

  41

  DOM

  Therese looks surprised when she sees him on the doorstep. She looks slim, too slim, her baggy jogging bottoms and faded navy sweatshirt hang off her. Unlike yesterday, her hair is clean, but it’s lank, all its usual shine is gone. Her skin is so pale it looks almost translucent. She’s holding her right arm across her ribs as if trying to protect herself. Who from, Dom wonders?

  ‘Surprise,’ he says, but there’s no fun in his tone. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I guess you’d better.’ She steps back, making room for him to go inside.

  He walks along the hallway to the kitchen. He glances back at Therese. ‘Any of the others here?’

  Therese house-shares with three nurses from the local hospital. He’d never met them, was only ever allowed round when all three were out, but he’d often joked with her about them. He doesn’t today, though. He’s not in the mood.

  She shakes her head.

  He pretends not to notice her wince from the movement. ‘Work?’

  ‘They’re on lates,’ Therese says.

  Reaching the kitchen, he props himself against the breakfast bar and asks, ‘So how are you doing?’

  She shrugs. ‘OK, I guess. It feels weird to be home, but so far, so good.’ She picks up a couple of miniature cups. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Therese makes the drinks. Her fancy coffee maker makes more noise than it does coffee. It’s espresso, not really Dom’s thing, but he’s never told her that.

  She hands him one of the tiny cups. ‘So what have I done to deserve a house call?’

  He puts the cup down. ‘You’ve heard about Harris getting pulled in for another interview?’

  ‘Lindsay said. I don’t understand why Holsworth needs to prolong this further. Surely he’s got enough information?’

  ‘He thinks one of us helped Genk get out.’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. I think at least one of us did.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Dom stares at her. The skin on her neck has flushed pink. He wants to reach out and touch her, hold her, but he can’t.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, it wasn’t me!’ She shakes her head. ‘And Harris is one of our own, a good guy – Lindsay too.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  She steps closer to him. ‘Dom, what is this, how can you suspect your own—’

  ‘Have you remembered any more about what happened after I got taken out?’

  Therese frowns. Looks hurt. ‘Are you interrogating me?’

  ‘You’d know if I was.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I know I was with Genk and some of his heavies when shots were fired. I think someone else entered the room before it kicked off, but I don’t know who.’

  ‘Have you and Lindsay been reminiscing about it?’

  Her eyes flit towards the door. She takes a sip of coffee before answering. ‘I’ve asked him a few questions. He’s been helpful, a good mate.’

  ‘I bet he bloody has.’ Dom’s tone is hard. He knows she won’t like it.

  She looks part angry, part confused. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  ‘He was hanging around your hospital room every day from what I hear, holding your hand, mopping your—’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything, I’m asking you, what did you tell him about what happened inside our operation?’

  ‘Our operation?’ There’s a vein pulsing in Therese’s jaw. She looks furious. ‘It was my operation. Mine, get it?’

  ‘I get it, all right.’ Dom steps closer. He can smell the herbal scent of her shampoo. ‘So tell me what you told Lindsay.’

  ‘I told him about my patchy memory, just the same as I told you, you dick.’

  ‘Did you tell him what Genk said? How you’d tried to get him to take the bait a different—’

  ‘No.’ Something flashes across her face: confusion. Hurt. ‘I’ve only talked to you about that.’

  ‘Come on, Therese! Don’t lie to me. You tell him stuff, I get that, you confide in him.’

  Therese hugs her arm around her ribs. ‘I said nothing, OK? I didn’t tell Lindsay a damn thing about what happened inside the house even though he banged on and on about it, pushed me to say who I saw, what I saw. I still didn’t say, couldn’t say.’

  Dom frowns. ‘Why did he push you on it?’

  Therese looks down. Exhales hard. ‘He said he was following the chain of command, that there’s someone who needed to know, a higher-up. Wanted to be sure nothing bad for them would come out in the IPCC investigation.’ She looks up, meets his eye. ‘Something’s rotten somewhere up the chain. Someone’s protecting Genk. But I don’t bloody know who. You happy now?’

  ‘Fuck.’

  She puts her hand over his and strokes the back of his hand with her finger.

  He’s acutely aware of her touch. He wants to tell her to stop, but he doesn’t. His head’s buzzing. Lindsay wanted to know what had happened, but Therese didn’t tell him. Neither of them had told him. But if the comms really had been down from the moment Dom was taken out, and Lindsay didn’t hear the abort command, there’s no way he could have heard what Genk said next about Therese going back to her whore business. But still he knows.

  Someone is lying.

  ‘I meant what I said, Dom. I really am sorry. I didn’t realise you’d got so … invested. I thought we were having—’

  ‘Everything all right in here?’ Lindsay appears in the doorway. His shirt’s half-unbuttoned. His hair looks wet from the shower. ‘I heard raised voices.’

  Dom’s stomach lurches. He looks from Lindsay to Therese. ‘What the fuck is this? You lied to me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I—’

  ‘Another sorry, that’s just great.’ Dom can’t keep the bitterness from his tone. He steps closer to Therese. Heart banging. Anger rising. ‘So he’s why we can’t have a future? You’re shagging him, too. You’ve been playing me like an idiot, while you behave like some cheap tart—’

  The slap is harder, connects faster, than he’d anticipated. It knocks him off balance.

  He steps back, rubbing his jaw. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’

  Therese looks like she might cry. ‘You’re a real cunt, you know that?’

  Shaking his head, Dom says, ‘I’m not the one who’s a cunt.’

  Slamming the coffee cup onto the worktop so hard it shatters, he pushes past Therese and Lindsay and charges out into the street without closing the door. As he marches along the pavement, he realises that whatever Therese and him had before, it’s gone for good.

  As his anger dissolves, all he feels is sadness.

  42

  CLEMENTINE

  Ten minutes later he leaves the house. I
let him get a head start before falling in step behind him. I pull up my hood and am careful not to get too close. At the end of the street he swings left onto the main road. I follow him past a Thai restaurant and a few shops. He takes a right across the road. I wonder what he’s planning, where he’s going and what happened inside the house with the skinny blonde woman.

  I wonder why I care.

  I tell myself it’s because of what Wade said yesterday; that Death Stalker’s main advantage is his police contact, and that it would be a good idea for me to have a police contact of my own. I tell myself that’s why I’m following him.

  But I know it’s a lie. That’s not why I’m drawn to him.

  Dirty copper.

  What has Dominic Bell done? It matters to me. It matters like a punch to the chest. I want him not to be guilty.

  Minutes pass. Then the detective takes a sharp right and disappears. I speed up. As I hurry past a pub, I spot a gap in the wall. Slipping through, I follow a narrow path between two high wooden fences. I still can’t see Dominic Bell. I break into a jog.

  I round a bend and the path ends as abruptly as it began. Ahead is a one-storey building set back from a narrow street. It looks like an old library or hall, the once-grand stone frontage now shabby, weeds growing in the cracks around the paving. But it’s not abandoned. A couple of large guys in suits are standing outside, either side of a strip of grubby red carpet. The makeshift sign propped beside the door says Crème.

  Dominic Bell approaches the entrance. The bouncers must know him as they nod him through with a slap on the back. As he opens the door I hear the banging thump of dance music.

  I know that getting into clubs is all about attitude, but I hate the way the bouncers are staring at me. My heart’s thumping against my ribs as I approach the red carpet; fake confidence, I need to fake it. I set my face in a haughty expression and the bouncers wave me through. I hide my relief I as enter the club.

  Inside it’s dark and hot. There’s a small bar at ground level, where a few kids are drinking shots, but the rest of the action must be happening in the basement. I shudder at the thought of going below ground. The memory of my aborted attempt at taking the tube is still fresh in my mind. But there’s no choice here. If I want to find the detective I need to go down.

  I take the stairs. The rubberised treads are sticky beneath the soles of my boots. With each step the light gets gloomier, making it feel like the dead of night. The music gets louder. It vibrates through me.

  The space is cramped and airless. A rotating strobe illuminates glimpses of the place: whitewash flaking from the exposed brickwork, low ceiling painted black, neon-lit DJ booth on the farthest side of the room, hundreds of bodies jammed against each other, dancing to the endless beat. Somewhere among them is Dominic Bell.

  Fighting the desire to turn and run, I shove my way into the crowd. Sweaty bodies press against me, forcing me to move with them. I’m trapped, straitjacketed by the dancing horde, unable to escape.

  I feel the tightness growing in my chest. Try to take shallower breaths to calm myself. I cannot give in to the panic. The fear brings its own sour taste, and I need a drink to chase it away and give me a little more courage. Ignoring the stares of the men around the bar, I order a gin and soda. Tell the barman to make it a double.

  I down my drink in three gulps. I push away from the bar and move back into the crowd, letting them swallow me into their mass. I don’t fight them this time; instead I flow with them, dance alongside them, all the time searching for Dominic Bell.

  He’s near the DJ booth, dancing with a beer in his hand, and it looks like it’s not his first. There are a couple of fake-tanned blondes in short glittery dresses dancing near to him. They’re clutching bottles of WKD, although they look like they’ve had more than enough already. One of them is obviously trying to catch his eye, but he seems oblivious, eyes closed, lost in the music.

  I dance closer. The crowd around me whoop and laugh. The atmosphere is stoked with the forced euphoria of drink and drugs. I wonder if Dominic Bell’s only vice is alcohol; or whether he’s taken something extra. He’s unaware of any woman who gets close to him. Ignoring the girls writhing against each other and making ‘fuck me’ eyes at any half-decent-looking guy.

  The blonde with the shortest dress and the best legs taps him on the shoulder. He looks confused as she whispers something in his ear, then kisses him hard. Her lipstick leaves a candy-pink smear over his mouth. She necks her drink, then takes his hand and leads him out of the crush.

  I squeeze through the crowd, trying not to lose sight of them. Watch as the blonde pulls him towards the ladies’. See him halt, shaking his head, and point upwards, towards the exit. They change course, head up the stairs.

  I wait twenty seconds before I follow.

  43

  DOM

  He was a bloody idiot to come here. To think that dancing in this club would be a substitute for working his frustrations out at the gym. To hope the music would help him forget.

  He’s shocked. This woman, little more than a girl, kissed him. He hadn’t wanted that, isn’t looking for company, just wanted to lose himself in the music for a couple of hours to stop himself thinking about Therese, about Operation Atlantis and about the case.

  This girl has put a stop to all that. Now he feels responsible.

  As they exit the club, the blonde trips. Giggling, she loses her balance and falls sideways. Dom reaches for her arm, helps her straighten up. Her dark eyeliner is smudged. Grinning, she shuffles closer.

  He holds her at a distance. Doesn’t want her getting the wrong idea. ‘How old are you?’

  The girl reaches out for him. ‘Old enough.’

  But she isn’t, she’s young, too young. Just like Chrissie had been when all those bastards took advantage of her. ‘No, you’re not. You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she slurs, taking a step closer to him. ‘Legal.’

  Maybe just, but it still isn’t right. She should be at home. Safe.

  He backs away. Feels the rough brick of the building against his jacket. The music pulses through the wall into his body. As the beats vibrate through him, the things he’s been trying to forget start flashing on a loop in his mind’s eye. In the first beat he sees Kate Adams lying perfectly straight in the centre of the double bed; in the next he sees Therese standing in front of Genk. Then he sees Chrissie, arms around Darren Harris; her young son, Robbie, laughing as he plays with his toy truck.

  The girl giggles again. Wobbles on her high heels.

  I didn’t think this through. Couldn’t leave her inside, though. Not in this state.

  Dom tries to hold her steady, but he’s been drinking himself and the alcohol is playing silly buggers with his head. He sees Therese again in his mind’s eye, standing beside Genk. He hears Lindsay prattling in his ear, then the gunshot. Sees the blood. Watches Therese falling. The image changes, morphs into Lindsay in Therese’s bed, screwing her. Laughing.

  Bastard.

  The girl cries out, wrenching her arm from his grasp. Rubs it where he’s been holding her. Dom hasn’t realised he’s been gripping her so tight.

  He blinks. Forces away the images. Concentrates on the drunk girl in front of him. Her pupils are fully dilated, her eyelids heavy, half-closed. She looks like she’s barely a clue where she is, what she’s doing.

  Just like Chrissie used to look.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  She giggles. Turning, she tries to press her bum against him. ‘Sophia.’

  He puts his hands on her shoulders. Manoeuvres her back to face him. She’s shivering. Her eyes are unfocused. She’s totally out of it. He can’t let her go back inside the club. She could end up sleeping with some man she won’t even remember, or worse. He hates that he feels responsible for her. That he always feels responsible.

  The music’s still banging.

  In his mind he sees Kate Adams. Her eyes open, gazing back at him. Dead.
<
br />   With the next beat he sees Zara Bretton.

  In the next, her face changes to Jenna Malik’s.

  Eyes open. Dead eyes. Their faces flash across his mind like a strobe.

  He puts his jacket around the girl and leads her towards the taxi rank. ‘You should go home.’

  44

  CLEMENTINE

  The blonde is angry. I’m standing, shielded by the other smokers, watching the detective struggling to persuade the girl to get into a cab. Even I can see that he needs to back off.

  I take a drag of my cigarette and wince as she slaps him hard across the face.

  ‘Get away from me, you loser,’ she yells. ‘I’ve just had a few drinks, what’s your problem?’

  He’s holding his hands up, trying to reason with her. ‘Look, Sophie, I—’

  ‘Sophia, you prick.’ The blonde’s tone is venomous and loud.

  He’s pointing to the taxi. ‘Sophia, take the cab, get home safe and—’

  ‘Don’t fucking bother.’ She turns and stomps back towards the club.

  He watches the girl go. When she disappears inside, he leans through the taxi’s window, saying something to the driver. He hands him a tenner.

  The taxi drives off and Dominic Bell heads towards the smoking area I’m standing in. That haunted expression is on his face again. He looks beaten, broken. I take a step towards him before I realise what I’m doing.

  It’s too late. He’s seen me.

  He’s staring right at me. Turning away, I crush my cigarette out against the top of the metal bin. Then take another from the pack and light up with trembling fingers.

  ‘You got a spare?’

  I know it’s him before I turn to look. There’s something about his energy that gives me a weird feeling; like a silent alarm tingling down my spine. I hold out the cigarettes. Remind myself to smile. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He takes one and leans forward for me to light it. Inhales long and deep. Exhales slowly.