Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  “There.” His eyes darted to a cupboard on the opposite side of the room.

  I crossed the room, pulled on the door handle, and realised the door was locked. “Key,” I demanded, and he dug into his pocket, and slid a key across the worktop.

  I opened the door, and peered into the darkness.

  A flight of stairs lead down to a cellar. A dim bulb came on when I flicked the switch, and – with Ray and Dash grabbing an almost flaccid Mike Green, we – en masse – descended the stairs.

  What followed wasn’t pretty.

  We found Elaine – seemingly healthy – tied to a straight back chair that had obviously been intended, originally, for the restaurant. Two linen napkins, knotted together, had been used to form a gag. Her eyes – as red and puffy as Mike’s - blazed with fury, and, in seeing us, she went into convulsions in an attempt to tear her bindings free.

  I shushed her, went behind and, along with Ali, began untiring her.

  As soon as the knot on her left wrist loosened, she tore her hand free, ripped the gag from her mouth, and commenced hurling abuse at a now openly weeping Mike Green,

  “You are so fucking dead, you fucking psycho.”

  “Shush, Elaine,” I said, struggling with the next knot.

  “Shush?” She twisted in her chair, her fury transferring to me. “Did you just fucking shush me? You’re fucking dead an’ all, you fucking nonce.”

  “Really?” I stepped back, gesturing to Ali to do the same.

  “You let this fucking lunatic lose in my Nannu’s pub. I’m gonna see you skinned alive and fed to the fucking pigs, you fucking loser. An’ as for you,” she turned her eyes back on Mike Green. “He’ll cut your fucking bollocks off an’ feed them to you first, you cunt.”

  I shook my head. “Where’d you learn such language, young lady?”

  “Language? Language? Her face was close to apoplexy, all purple sweaty snotty rage, constrained only by the fact that she’d realised that, since Ali and I had stepped back from the multiple knots on top of knots that we’d been untying, no amount of furious tugging at the ropes had actually moved her so much as an inch closer to being released. “Get me out of this fucking chair!” She suddenly screeched, her demand aimed generally into the room.

  Dash moved to release her, and I warned him off with a glance.

  “Elaine, the only reason you’re here, in this chair,” I said, but she interrupted me.

  “Is ‘cos I caught that fucking maniac trying to torch the fucking pub, you arsehole,” she shrieked, “so get me out of this fucking chair now, or I’m gonna make it even worse for you when I get out.”

  “Worse than feeding me to the pigs?” I asked.

  She paused, forced herself to step away from the fury, and switched on the sweetness – or the nearest approximation of it she could make while wishing unspeakable acts upon my person. “Look, I was goin’ back to the pub to check on something.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I – um – I thought I’d left the gas on.”

  “In the kitchen?”

  “Yeah.” She brightened. “I thought I’d let the gas on.”

  “He found the vodka,” Ali said flatly, and we watched as Elaine’s face paled, the sweetness faded, and she was left with a wordless ‘Oh’ on her lips.

  “Look,” she said, “I pinched a bottle of Voddie. So what? You think my grand pa’s going to look poorly on that when this freak tried to burn you to death and kidnapped me?”

  “You called your Grandfather up – sometime before you vanished – and told him you were going on a residential cookery course with Caz here.” I gestured at Caz, who slunk into the shadows, as though even the suggestion she’d ever be anywhere near a residential cookery course had caused the ground to open up and swallow her.

  “Says who?” Elaine demanded.

  “Says Chopper himself,” I answered. “Or is he a lying nonce too?”

  Elaine choked on her fury, and finally said, “Some friends and me were goin’ away for a couple of days. To a party.”

  “Ah,” I nodded, “The vodka.”

  “Yeah, well, it was teenage high jinks,” she said. “Gramp's’ll get that, He won't do nothing to me,” she sneered, directing her most venomous glare at a now almost gibbering Mike Green, and reserving a little leftover fury for me. “Unlike you two.”

  “No,” I said, “I suspect he’ll more likely vanish Mike here, and possibly crack a couple of my ribs. Only, he won’t find out, Elaine.”

  “He what?” Her lips moved wordlessly, her puzzlement growing deeper and deeper, until she finally laughed out loud. “Oh, you’re a fucking treasure, you are. Now get me out of this fucking chair, or so help me, I’ll help him dig your fucking grave myself.”

  “You poured plaster down the toilets. You pinched a bottle of vodka. You even told Mike, here, when to best enact his little acts of sabotage. I know, cos I caught you on the phone, and you got all defensive.”

  “I what?” Her eyes blazed at Green. “You Fuck,” she spat, before looking back at me. “What’s wrong with him? Is he out of his fucking mind?”

  “Nice try,” I said, “But the subject won’t be changed, Elaine: I don’t know when you met Mike – probably one of the first days he popped in for a pint - but I’m willing to bet it was you who told him about the Memorial lunch, and got him thinking about what would happen to his business plans if we had a big society success.

  “And on top of it all, you were about to flit off on a two day Bender with Christ knows who, after he explicitly told you to keep your mouth shut, your nose clean, and your hands out of the till. I doubt you’ll get vanished, Elaine, but I suspect that there’s only so much that even a doting grandfather can take. And if there’s one wrong word from you, then I shall ensure that Chopper finds out the whole story.”

  “I stopped,” Elaine whimpered, nodding at Mike Green. “at first, I was really fed up. I got dumped here. Punished. I didn't want to be here, and not one of you liked me.”

  “I did,” Dash said quietly, so quietly that Elaine seemed not even to hear him.

  “You all treated me like shit, like you didn’t want me round, and I was stupid and useless. Then he said he hated the whole place too, and asked if I wanted to help him fuck with you all. But after a while, I started to like it here.” She half smiled in Dash’s direction. “Ali started showing me how to do stuff. Dash was looking out for me if I messed up. Even you weren’t as fucking miserable as you were at the start. So I told him I didn’t want to do it no more.”

  “Jesus, Elaine. You’re a pain in the arse, but once you put your mind to it, you get things done. You just,” I shrugged, “Were putting your mind to the sort of things that your Nannu would not look very kindly on.

  “And if he sent you to us as punishment for your last little escapade, think what he’ll do to you this time, if I have a word.”

  “You wouldn't dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Once again, she returned to tugging at her bindings, the chair rocking backwards and forwards as she yanked.

  I stepped forward, squatted down by the chair, and put a hand up. “Stop,” I said, and, as she calmed, I looked her in the eye. “Mistakes, Elaine. Everyone makes them. Doesn’t mean they have to have their lives destroyed by them,” and, as the rocking finally slowed, I untied the rest of the ropes.

  The instant she was free, she flew at Mike Green, punching him full force in the face, resulting in a shrieking and now profusely bleeding Green collapsing to the floor as his diminutive blonde assailant wound up for another attack, yelled, “That’s for tying me up you fucking loon,” and collapsed in tears onto Dash, who stood, shocked, for a moment, before enclosing her in his arms, and hugging her tightly.

  I looked around me at the darkened cellar, as Ali and Ray helped Mike Green to his feet, then I said, “Mike: I’d suggest you go upstairs, collect what you can, and go away. Now. Before Elaine – or I – change our minds and make that call.”

/>   Ray and Ali walked with Mike.

  “Dash, can you take Elaine back to The Marq. Get her some tea – sweet. No fucking booze – she’s sixteen – and keep her company. We’ll be over in a bit, and get this sorted.”

  Dash, his arms still around Elaine, nodded seriously, and the two slowly made their way up the stairs.

  “So when did you become so Zen,” Caz asked quietly from the shadows.

  “I dunno,” I smiled, “maybe when a friend of mine taught me to be less judgemental. Mistakes were made.”

  “Doesn’t mean they have to destroy people's lives,” she echoed my earlier comment.

  “I know,” I nodded. “I’ll make the call.”

  “Tonight?”

  I nodded. “Just as soon as we’ve sorted this mess.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I lifted the beer bottle, looking at the myriad droplets condensed on it, and pressed the cool glass to my forehead, closing my eyes as the events of the past few days replayed in my mind.

  The kitchen was empty, the whole pub silent.

  Mike Green had been seen into a mini cab, what little he could grab of his dreams stuffed into a couple of suitcases, and had last been seen heading North, towards Saint Pancras.

  Elaine had been mollified, then coached on the story she was to feed Chopper if asked about her experiences at Holloway Hall. To ensure she’d have some homework to feed him, I’d shown her how to cook an omelette.

  “An omelette?” She snapped. “I was supposed to be at a Fucking Cordon Bleu school. And you want me to make him an omelette?”

  “Call it a soufflé,” I answered, “And let him think you’re just not very good. Oh, and Elaine, get some new friends. The ones you had – you know: the ones you were going to party with? None of them even looked for you when you didn’t show. They didn’t call your dear old Gramps to ask where you were. They didn’t call here to find out if we’d seen you. If it wasn’t for Dash and Ray, we’d all have assumed you were just at home sulking. Mates should be there for you. Just saying.”

  And off she’d gone into the night, accompanied by Ali who, for once, she was not abusing, leaving the ASBO twins, Caz and I.

  And, after giving Ray a request to do a little more research for me, and thanking Dash for taking care of Elaine, I’d mimed a wide yawn, and wished them all goodnight.

  “You’re going to call?” Caz had prompted, and I’d nodded, promising that, yes, just as I’d given Mike Green a second chance, I would call Nick and allow him to explain and make good.

  And that’s exactly what I’d done, calling his mobile number, waiting as it had rung three, four, five times, and, as I was just about to hang up, hearing the pickup, and a female voice, sleepily, saying “Hello?”

  I froze.

  “Hello?” She said again, a little more awake now, an edge – perhaps, it seemed, of fear – present in her voice.

  “Hi,” I coughed to clear my voice, started again: “Hi. Is Nick there?”

  There was a pause, the sound of rustling, as, I suppose, she sat up in bed, then: “No,” she said. “He’s at work. On nights. He forgot his mobile. Left it behind by mistake.”

  “Oh.” I wanted to hang up, to end the call then, and not have to humiliate myself or – and I knew how egotistical this sounded – hurt her. But I didn’t. “You must be his wife,” I heard myself saying.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, almost noncommittally. “And you must be Danny. Hello. It’s nice to finally talk to you.”

  “You know who I am?” I asked, my heart racing as I tried to figure out what she could possibly know, what he could have told her, and how I could get away from this call without making things worse for us all.

  “Your number,” there was a pause as, I presume, she checked the display on the phone, “is…” and she recited my number back to me, “Right?”

  I agreed that, yes, that was my number, and she said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up.

  I didn’t wait long – maybe a minute, maybe less. Long enough for me to walk to the fridge, pull out, and open a bottle of beer, lug from it, return to the table, and pick the phone up.

  At which point, it rang, it’s shrill tone making me jump. I hit answer, noticing, as I did, that she was calling me back from a land line, and held the phone to my ear.

  “Danny?” She was fully awake now, her voice still retaining something of the smokiness.

  “Hi. I - I’m sorry: I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Arianne,” she said.

  Of course it is. Nora, or Rita would be too prosaic. Instead, I get Arianne.

  “There’s so much,” I said, “That I don't know about you.”

  “Yes,” she sighed, “I expect there is. But I know everything about you.”

  Everything?

  She cleared her throat. “I know, for example, that you are the man my husband is in love with,” she said. “And that’s really all I need to know.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, “I know nothing about you.”

  She laughed. “You are, I think, shocked. But yes, I understand. Nick. He tries, always, to do the right thing. To make everyone happy, and in doing so, things…”

  “Spiral,” I said.

  There was a silence, then, when next she spoke, I could hear the smile in her face. “Yes,” she said, “They spiral. All because he tries, always, to do the right thing. I love him for that.”

  I was silent.

  “You are confused,” she said. “I try to be clear, but sometimes my English – and also, I think, my – how do you say – approach – is that the right word? – confuses more than it clears. You English are so restrained, so contained, I think. You are used to subtlety, to things not being the way they seem. And then you, if I remember, are half Irish. Nick tells me this, and I remember some books I had, back,” she faltered, “before. And I remember: The Irish, always, are obsessed with words, with saying and writing, and never really making the point. And so, I think, you, Danny, perhaps, are swamped by text and subtext, and truth is drowned somewhere in there.

  “But with me, there is so little time for subtext. And that, sometimes, confuses.”

  Jesus, I thought, your English is better than Ali’s. Did Nick marry a professor of English Lit?

  Aloud, I agreed that, yes, I was very confused, wondered to myself if she was actually trying to sound like a female Yoda, and she laughed again, somewhere between a smoky chuckle and a sad recognition of the futility of trying to make sense of the motivations of this honourable man we both loved, then said, “Well I, perhaps, should explain some things.”

  And she explained.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The phone was picked up on the first ring, and he gave the name of the station, his rank, and his name, and just hearing Nick’s voice made my heart flutter.

  Yes, I know: I am a thirty-something homosexual male in a city filled with life and vibrancy and danger. I have my own successful business and a decent amount of both friends and self-respect, and yet – I can not deny it – my heart fluttered, like it used to when I was terrified on the first day of school or the last day of a relationship.

  It wasn’t like some timpani of doom, or anything; it was more like my heart – and, eventually, my whole body – was just vibrating.

  “Hey Nick,” I said, and had to clear my throat and try again. “How are you?”

  “Danny. Please don’t hang up. We need to talk. I need to explain.”

  “Nick, I called you,” I said, and he stopped.

  “Oh. Yeah, that’s right. You did.” He was silent a moment. “I’ve been calling, but I either get voicemail, or Ali tells me she’ll leave a message.”

  “She’s been leaving them,” I said. “But I haven’t been calling back.”

  He was silent.

  “Wanna know why?”

  “Look, Danny-”

  “Shut up. Shut up and listen. I’ll tell you why: Cos I was afraid. Afraid of what I’d hear if I called y
ou back. Afraid of what you’d say. Afraid that I’d say I Love You again, and you’d say I’m very fond of you. And then I spoke to someone this evening, and they told me a story, and I wanted to call and tell you the story.”

  He was silent for a moment, then, I assume, realising he didn’t have his mobile with him, he said, simply, “Arianne.”

  “It’s a story about a woman who doesn’t remember anything until she woke up, as a young girl, in a cold bare room in a city somewhere, alone.

  “Who wishes she didn't remember all the things that were done to her – who still struggles to believe that even the things she did were things that were, ultimately, done to her. For years. Who doesn’t even know her own name, only the name that was done to her.”

  “I should have told you,” he said.

  I swallowed. I needed to get this out, needed him to know I understood. “Until one day the man who owned her – she still thinks of him as her owner, though she knows this is wrong, knows he had no ownership over her; that the very concept of ownership over someone is impossible – the man who owned her was murdered. Violently, and in a way that brought the police into her bare room.

  “And she remembers how the local police – some immured to this scene they had seen so many time before, some corrupt enough to be part of the mechanism that created the scene – wanted to just move her on – to the streets, to the side, to whichever man would own her next.

  “Until one of the policemen – a foreigner – began to ask questions, and realised – as she had at eight or nine – that there were no answers, only the blankness of walls, looks, sky.”

  “I couldn’t,” he choked, started to cry at the other end of the line, in what I assumed was a darkened office. “I just couldn’t.”

  “It’s alright,” I said. “If it was you, Nick, if you were that foreign copper only there on an exchange scheme, you would have had problems. If it was you, the local plod would have told you to mind your own business, knowing that you’d be going home soon, and could hardly take the evidence with you. I mean: she had no papers, and could hardly travel with you.