Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

  When she reaches the bar, nobody rushes across to serve her. The only staff member in sight is a huge bald man in a tight-fitting T-shirt displaying the contours beneath. Sara can’t decide whether more work has gone into developing his biceps or the pot belly. A tattoo of a snake is wrapped around his forearm.

  The man glances in her direction, then returns to talking to one of his customers.

  Sara waits.

  When he looks her way a second time, she smiles and raises her index finger. Somewhat reluctantly, the man hefts his bulk away from the counter and saunters towards her. She can see now that his T-shirt is emblazoned with a cartoon image of a Second World War German fighter plane and the message ‘Cheeky Fokka’. She decides not to tell him that it doesn’t seem appropriate.

  The bartender squares up to her and rests hands that are like bear paws on the sticky counter. He doesn’t speak; his invitation for her to do so comes in the form of a chin-tilt towards her.

  Great customer interface skills, she thinks.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’d like some information, please.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I think you’ve taken a wrong turning, love. The tourist information office is miles away.’

  He doesn’t smile as he says this, but Sara hears the unsubtle laughs of others around the bar.

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Aren’t we all, love? But we’re not a dating agency, either. We’re a pub. We serve drinks. Look around you. Do you think we make massive profits here? On a good day I might make enough to keep the bailiffs off my back. So unless you’re intending to brighten my day with a picture of the Queen, I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  ‘A picture of the Queen?’

  ‘Yes, love. I don’t know where you’re from, but over here we carry her picture on little bits of paper called money.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Sara digs a ten-pound note out of her pocket, unfolds it and shows it to the barman. ‘I think she has a nice face, don’t you?’

  The man sighs heavily. ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘Er, a Coke, please. Diet.’

  Sara hears sniggers behind her. Someone mutters, ‘Jesus.’

  ‘A Diet Coke? And that’s it? No brandy in it? No vodka?’

  She shrugs. ‘I’m driving.’

  The barman shakes his head. ‘One Diet Coke coming up.’ He quickly fills a glass with ice, opens a bottle, and then slams the two items down on the counter in front of her.

  Sara smiles as she passes her money across. As she receives her change she says, ‘About my information—’

  Before she can get any further, another customer shouts over: ‘Two pints of lager when you’re ready, Billy.’

  Billy the barman gives Sara an unapologetic look. ‘Maybe later. I talk more when I’m not worrying about the bailiffs, if you catch my drift.’

  His drift flies by very much uncaught by Sara, who stares at him uncomprehendingly. In return he widens his eyes and turns them on the change still clutched in her hand. Then he moves away to his beckoning customer.

  Sara picks up the glass and bottle, then turns and moves away from the bar. She tries not to catch any of the many eyes still locked onto her, but instead zeroes in on an empty table in the corner of the room. She takes a seat facing the bar, her back to the wall, and pours her drink.

  And then she waits.

  19

  It’s not long before she has company.

  A young buck plonks himself down on the chair opposite her. He could be good-looking if he tried, but he has the pallor of someone who has just been let out of jail after a long sentence, and there are shiny stains of uncertain origin on his top.

  ‘All right, girl,’ he says. ‘Don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

  ‘Am I coming apart?’ she replies.

  He looks mystified.

  ‘Joke,’ she says.

  It takes a second or two to penetrate to his brain, then another second for his brain to contort his rubbery lips into an inane grin. He looks over his shoulder at his mates, who raise their glasses, egging him on after his apparent initial success.

  ‘That’s a weird accent you’ve got. Where you from, girl?’ he asks.

  ‘Wales,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah? I shoulda realised. Been there loads of times. We used to go to a caravan in Llandudno. Do you know it?’

  ‘You’d have to give me a few more details. Caravans all look the same to me.’

  ‘No . . . I meant Llandudno.’

  She shakes her head as she tries to see past him to the bar. ‘I’m from the other side of Wales.’

  ‘Oh. The other side, eh? I haven’t been there. What’re you doing here, then?’

  ‘I’m studying,’ she says.

  ‘Studying? You a student, then? Are you at the uni?’

  ‘No. It’s just a hobby.’

  He looks confused again. ‘What is?’

  ‘Studying. I study people.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to understand what makes them tick. I’m interested in the nature of social intercourse.’

  He laughs, then his mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, ‘Er, okay. What?’

  ‘Social intercourse. Like we’re having now.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Yes. Hadn’t you realised? It’s artificial, though.’

  He nods sagely, then frowns. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We have different agenda. Yours is to chat me up. Mine is to put you under the microscope.’

  He leans back in his chair, smiling and splaying his legs. ‘You won’t need no microscope with me, girl.’

  Sara looks across at the bar again. She’s beginning to tire of this game. Pulling the strings of this drunken moron is too easy. Her anger and frustration are growing too. Matthew deserves more than this.

  She gets up from her chair, starts to head towards the bar.

  ‘Hang on, girl. Where you going?’

  He grabs hold of her wrist. She halts, looks down at him.

  ‘Let go now, or I’ll break every one of your fingers.’

  Even through his haze, he can see that she means it, and he releases her.

  ‘Bit strong, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I was only being friendly.’

  But his voice is already lost to her, drowned out by the jeers of his mates, deriding his performance.

  Sara reaches the bar. Billy the bartender squares up to her again.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he says. ‘Another Diet Coke, right?’

  ‘No,’ she answers. ‘Six pints of lager.’

  He stares at her, checking to see if she is taking the piss.

  ‘Six pints of lager.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you were driving.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But you’re going to drink six pints of lager?’

  ‘No.’

  Billy sighs again. ‘You’re not going to drink the lager?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you ordering six pints of lager that you’re not going to drink?’

  ‘I’m keeping the bailiffs off your back, and I’m keeping you in front of me for the time that it takes to serve the drinks.’ She pulls some more money out of her pocket and places it on the table. ‘You can give the beer to your other customers, or you can drink it yourself, or you can throw it down the drain. I really don’t care. You can also keep the change. All I want in return is for you to give me some information while you’re pouring the beer.’

  Billy looks down at the money. ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know his real name. I think he gets called Metro.’

  She sees the hesitation, the flicker of the eyes to Sara’s right.

  He shakes his head, but he finds it difficult to look her in the face. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  Sara turns and looks to her right. Two young men a
re watching her closely. One of the men blinks incessantly, as though he is wearing contacts that are irritating him. The other has short-cropped ginger hair and a million freckles.

  Sara faces the bartender again. Slides the money towards him on the counter.

  ‘Think harder. Metro. He’s been here, hasn’t he? Is he here now?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I’ve never heard of him.’

  She searches his face for a few seconds and realises this is going nowhere.

  ‘I’m changing my order,’ she says. She jerks her thumb towards the two men on surveillance. ‘Whatever they’re having. It’s on me for the rest of the night.’ And then she turns and walks back to her table.

  The lothario who was here earlier has disappeared. Sara picks up her drink and sips at it, her eyes on the bar. She sees the two men swagger over to fill the space she vacated in front of Billy. Despite being much bigger than his questioners, Billy seems a little afraid of them. He is suddenly a lot more talkative, although Sara cannot hear what he is saying. When he gestures in her direction, the two men turn and give her a hard stare. Then the one with freckles says something else to Billy and points to his beer bottle. Billy immediately fetches two more bottles from his fridge, opens them, and sets them in front of the lads.

  Sara realises she has lit a fuse. What the other end is attached to is anyone’s guess.

  The two men come across to her table, their faces set. Sara sips her Coke. She expects them to sit on the hard chairs opposite, but instead they plonk themselves down on the cushioned bench she is on, one on each side. They sit very close, their thighs in contact with hers.

  Sara swirls the ice cubes in her drink. Takes another sip.

  ‘All right, darling,’ says Freckles to her right. ‘Thought we’d better come across and say thank you.’

  ‘For the drinks,’ says Blinky. ‘It’s only good manners.’

  ‘Is right,’ says Freckles. ‘That’s how we were brought up. Never does any harm to be polite, my mam used to say.’ He slides his arm along the backrest of the bench, so that it’s poised just above Sara’s shoulders. ‘’Course, the question in my mind is why would you be buying us drinks?’

  ‘It’s a natural enough question,’ says Blinky. ‘We don’t know each other, do we? It’s very weird when some foreign bird comes in here and pays for our drinks all night.’

  ‘Very weird,’ Freckles echoes. ‘It’s almost as if you want something from us. Is that right, darling? Have we got something you want?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sara says. ‘The barman over there seems to think so.’

  ‘Does he now? I didn’t hear him say anything like that.’

  ‘He didn’t need to. I can read him like a book.’

  ‘Really? Mind-reader, are you?’

  ‘Telepathic, are you?’ says Blinky.

  ‘I have my moments,’ says Sara. ‘Like now, for instance. I can tell what you’re both thinking.’

  ‘Is that right? Go ’ead, then. Do your stuff. What am I thinking right now?’

  As he says this, Freckles makes a show of turning his eyes on Sara’s chest.

  Sara thinks, You’re not intimidating me, little boy.

  ‘You’re afraid,’ she says.

  ‘You what?’ Freckles splutters. ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Yes. You’re afraid of a man called Metro, and you’re afraid of me because I’m asking about Metro. And your mate here,’ – she indicates Blinky on her left – ‘is scared of both of those things, but he’s also afraid of you, which is why he’s playing second fiddle.’

  As psychology goes, it’s fundamental stuff. It was driven into her hard in her army days. When faced with an angry rabble, you need to assess instantly what is really bothering them, and who speaks for them. Deal with the organ grinder, not the monkey, as the curious English expression has it.

  There follows much hollow laughter. The two minions trying to show how tough they are.

  ‘She thinks we’re frightened,’ says Freckles. ‘Look at me, quaking in my boots.’

  ‘I’m terrified, me,’ says Blinky. ‘I think I might wet myself in a minute.’

  And then the laughing stops, and the two become deadly serious.

  ‘Okay, darling, what’s going on? Why all the fucking questions? Are you a bizzy?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A copper. A policewoman. Jesus, you really are from another planet, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not from the police. I’m here for a friend. Someone who got hurt.’

  ‘I see. And you think this Metro person had something to do with it?’

  Sara turns her head and looks Freckles directly in the eye. ‘Did he?’

  Keep looking at me, she thinks. Stare right at me while you deny all knowledge, and then I might believe you.

  Freckles breaks eye contact and takes a swig of his beer. ‘You’re in the wrong place, darling. Asking the wrong questions. You could get into trouble doing that.’

  ‘Big trouble,’ says Blinky.

  She turns towards the sidekick. ‘Why do you do that with your eyes? Are you nervous around women?’

  She sees his mouth tighten, and wonders if she’s pushed too far. But then she feels the touch of a hand in her hair. She whips her head right to face Freckles, who is leaning in towards her.

  ‘A good-looking tart like you shouldn’t be in here, all by yourself, asking about people you know nothing about. You never know what might happen. We could do what we like with you, do you realise that? Nobody here would lift a finger to help you. In fact, they’d probably cheer us on while we had our bit of fun. And afterwards they’d all go deaf, dumb and blind, unable to answer any questions about what happened here. Is that what you want?’ He continues to twirl his fingers in her hair. ‘Yeah, maybe it is. Maybe it’s getting you all hot and bothered, the thought of us doing stuff to you while everyone watches. Am I right about that? Am I?’

  She feels it, then. The cold wetness. She jumps and pushes the man’s bottle away. Stares down at the beer stain in her lap.

  Freckles explodes into laughter. ‘Oh, crap,’ he says. ‘I’ve got her too excited. Have you seen this?’

  His mate looks down, then whoops and claps his hands. ‘Shit, you’ve got her all moist, lad. Nice one!’

  Sara stands up and tries to brush the beer away. Her action serves only to make others aware of her predicament, and they join in the laughter.

  ‘I think she needs to take them off and dry them,’ says Blinky.

  Freckles stands up and speaks quietly in her ear again. ‘I think you’d better leave, love. While you’re still wearing clothes. Know what I mean?’

  Sara looks at him again. Weighs up her chances. They’re not good.

  She walks away. Past the leering males and the clucking females, and out into the cold darkness.

  20

  Cody is late getting home. It’s always the same in the early days of a murder investigation. All the balls are in the air; all the cogs are in motion; nothing is yet resolved. The cops can’t afford to relax, to let anything escape their attention in this crucial phase. Given time, evidence will deteriorate or be corrupted; suspects will disappear or cover their tracks; witness memories will fade or become confused. And so the detectives will work until they drop in this first couple of days.

  Cody is ready to drop now. With a bit of luck, he might even get a few hours of precious sleep tonight.

  Sleep is not the close companion it used to be. Now it often prefers to dance just beyond Cody’s reach, teasing him with its promises. He has learnt to cope with the scant time it begrudgingly grants him.

  It goes through peaks and troughs. Six months ago, he was at his lowest. Night terrors kept him awake, and the sleep deprivation helped to fuel hallucinations in a vicious cycle that threatened to dismantle his sanity beyond repair.

  Then things changed.

  He didn’t tell the psychologist about this change, of course, and has no intention of ever doing so. It’s always on
his mind, but that’s where it will stay.

  He thinks about it now as he unlocks his front door on Rodney Street. It used to be the case that he would just wander in, pick up his mail, head upstairs, eat, drink and relax.

  Not anymore.

  Now, he half-expects someone to jump out at him. He tenses at every noise, however slight. Before he can do anything else, he has to check every room of the flat for unwanted surprises.

  He’s not being paranoid.

  They’ve been here.

  Waldo and his pals have been here.

  It started with the phone calls. They occurred regularly for months. Nothing was said during the calls, and no matter what questions or insults Cody fired down the line, he got nothing in return. But Cody had an idea who was making them.

  His suspicions were confirmed when his own screams were played back at him over the door intercom. Then, on later occasions, there were signs that Waldo had entered his building. Had even been into his apartment.

  He is undeniably terrified that the clowns are back in his life. He never knows when they will come knocking again.

  But here’s the thing . . .

  It’s what he wants.

  As scared as he is of Waldo and his followers, Cody welcomes their return. It means he has a chance of catching them, of carrying out some kind of retribution he has yet to decide upon. It means he may finally achieve closure.

  That is everything to Cody. Without that prospect, he knows his mind would crumble and his career would be over. His life would be over.

  So bring it on, Waldo.

  Are you here? Hiding in the shadows of the ground-floor hallway? Behind one of those doors belonging to the dental practice, perhaps? Or that particularly scary door that leads down to the basement?

  Or here, on the next floor up, just waiting for me to pass so that you can leap out at me?

  Are you on the other side of this door I’m unlocking now – the one that leads up to my flat?

  No? Then what about the flat itself? In my bedroom? The kitchen? The living room?