Cradling his arm in his lap he fishes out his phone from inside his jacket. It’s a slow, frustrating process, but at least he doesn’t drop it in the blood.
His fingers are too wet for the touch sensors to recognise him. He wipes the phone in his hair and then his fingers. Under contacts he sees Wendy’s name. He can’t remember when he got it, but she seems like a good bet. He dials.
“Hello?” Wendy sounds tired.
“Hi, Wendy. It’s Truce. Uneasy. Daniel. I’ve had a bit of bother. I wondered if you were still awake.” He stops, biting his lip, knowing he’s rambling.
“I’m generally awake when I answer the phone,” says Wendy. “What’s up?”
“If you don’t mind I’d like to come and tell you about it in person.”
“I don’t know, Daniel. It’s late.”
“This isn’t a booty call,” says Truce. He stifles a crack of laughter. “Far from it. It’s serious.”
“Oh, okay,” says Wendy, “but not too late. I’m taking my niece out tomorrow.”
“Fine,” says Truce. “Shouldn’t take too long. Where are you? Near the centre, isn’t it?”
“22c Candlemakers Avenue.”
“Great, I’ll look it up on the phone. By the way, do you have a home first-aid kit? Couple of bandages and stuff.”
“Yes, why?”
Truce rings off. He pushes his back against the wall and slowly rises to his feet. His right shoulder socket burns, and his right arm doesn’t feel quite right. His legs wobble. If he was feeling steadier, he might try to make a sling. Should he try? He could use his jacket, it’s ruined. His knees give, and he starts sliding down the wall.
“Hey, Uneasy. Up and at ‘em, mate.” The voice sounds close, but he can’t see anyone. He realises now it’s the voice he first heard when he entered the alley.
“Leighton?” he calls. “You could have given me a hand!”
No reply. As he staggers forward, he remembers Leighton said he’d be around. If Truce can find him, he doesn’t need to go to Wendy’s.
He deliberately keeps to the shadows. Time loses all meaning. He puts one foot after another. He knows if he stops again, he won’t get up. He’ll lie in the street at the mercy of passing strangers. And, god knows, there’s not much mercy in this world.
He’s losing coherence. Going fuzzy at the mental edges. Laughter wells up inside him. Who would have thought an Edinburgh alley would prove more deadly than an insurgent-filled desert?
He staggers again, trips, and almost falls. How far has he come? Mentally? Metaphorically? Physically? He leans on the doorbell. He hears it ring in the distance, as the world fades into blackness.
“Jesus, Truce,” says Wendy. “There’s blood on my front step.”
“Sorry about that,” he says, or tries to say. He doesn’t seem to have proper control over his lips or tongue. Did he get hit on the face? He can’t remember.
His jacket is gone. There’s something cold on his right cheek and his head. Something heavy over him. He tries to blink several times and eventually opens his eyes. It’s a huge effort.
Wendy is kneeling by his side. She has blood on her hands. Her hair is hanging down. She’s swept it over her head, so it all falls on her left side, out of the way. The right side of her exposed neck is lovely; long and slender, pale as marble.
“You’re lovely,” he tries to say, but only manages to mutter something inaudible and nudge the ice pack off his cheek.
“Do you have any idea of how much blood, you’ve lost?” says Wendy. “No, of course, you don’t. I need to phone an ambulance.” Her last words jolt him back to reality. As she goes to rise he reaches his left arm out and catches her wrist.
“You can’t,” he says. “I’m in it up to my neck.” And this time the words are clearer.
Wendy’s blue eyes fill his world. “Have you killed someone?”
“What?” says Truce, struggling to sit up. “They tried to kill me.”
She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he gives an involuntary yelp of pain. “Sorry. Sorry,” says Wendy. “I think you’ve broken that.”
Her voice calms him. He no longer needs to flee. Tension leeches from his body. He is safe. He is with Wendy. The realisation lends him strength.
“Dislocated,” says Truce. “Dislocated shoulder, bruised cheekbone, and nasty slash to the forearm. Also, in shock — emotional. Hopefully. Not physically. Are my hands warm?”
“Yes,” says Wendy. “Very.”
“You know what they say about warm hands …” he tries to smile. “Seriously, if my hands or my feet start getting cold, I won’t stop you calling an ambulance. That’ll be physical shock, and you can’t help with that.”
“I’m not sure I can help with this.”
“Have you got a pillow? I should try sitting up in stages.”
Wendy leaves the room. Truce takes note of his surroundings. He’s lying on a living room floor. The door in front of him is open, leading to a hall. He can see the edges of a fireplace, a blue sofa, a couple of chairs, a steel coffee table and that the carpet is cream. Shit, he thinks, not any more.
Wendy comes back and puts a pillow under his head.
“So, what do I do with you?” she asks.
“Get my shirt off and see how bad the slash is. If it’s going to need stitches. And you need to keep me warm. Put on the fire, perhaps?”
“It’s on. Takes a while to warm up.”
“Get some water and a sponge,” says Truce. “We need to soak the material away from the shirt, or the wound will start bleeding again.”
“I must like you,” says Wendy. She gets up and leaves. When she comes back, she has a bowl and some cotton wool. He notices the open first-aid kit beside her.
She sits back down on her heels. Truce registers she is wearing a dark blue slip dress, and her feet are bare. He guesses he got her out of bed, and she threw on the nearest bit of clothing.
“Right,” says Wendy, “here’s the deal. If you need stitches, you’re going to hospital. If you pass out, you’re going to hospital. If you start bleeding through the bandage, you’re going to hospital. If you start talking nonsense or shivering—”
“I’m going to hospital,” says Truce. “I get it. If you think I’m going beyond your help, you won't let me die in your living room. Sorry about the carpet by the way.”
Wendy shrugs. “I’ll wait until you’re up on your feet again before I yell at you about that.”
“You haven’t demanded that I tell you what’s happening,” says Truce.
Wendy takes a pair of scissors and snips at his cuff. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
Truce frowns. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
Wendy cuts around the cloth and starts applying wet cotton wool to the material stuck in the slash. She shakes her head. “Illegal bareknuckle fights? Cage fighting? Pub brawl?”
“Close enough,” says Truce. “Though, for the record, I wasn’t expecting trouble, and there were two of them.”
“Do you know who they were?”
“No and I don’t know who sent them either,” says Truce. He winces as Wendy eases the cloth away.
“Whoever did this wasn’t playing around. It’s long, but it’s not as deep as I feared.”
“No stitches then?”
“I’ve got a couple of butterflies I can put on it, but if it breaks open you’ll need to go to hospital.”
“And explain to Rose everything I’ve been doing. That would be worse for my health, believe me. How come you have butterfly stitches? Boyfriend a doctor?”
“No, my sister. Registrar in A&E. She’s always giving me first-aid supplies. She worries about me.”
“Yeah, she must see a lot,” says Truce.
Wendy nods. “Not as much as you have, though. She’s never been on the inside of a bomb.”
“What?” Truce’s voice comes back suddenly strong.
Wendy flinches, but doesn’t stop what she is doing. “Rose tric
ked me into reading your file. Do a profile. I thought it was for a case. I don’t profile colleagues.”
“But you did me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you should know.”
“So, you think you know me?”
Wendy shakes her head. “Hardly. But I do know something of the risks you’re likely to take — what sort of things might get to you. There. Finished. Neat, too.”
“Hmmf,” says Truce. “Can you help me get to my feet?” He shuffles to the door, puts his shoulder in the doorway. Then he closes the door on his shoulder and jams it shut with his foot.
“What—?” says Wendy, but she can’t complete her sentence before Truce twists his body hard, and there is an audible crack.
“For fuck’s sake,” exclaims Wendy.
Truce stumbles backwards and falls on the sofa. He is pale and breathless. He rubs his shoulder. “Better,” he says. “I didn’t think it was properly out, but it wasn’t—”
Wendy thumps him with the pillow.
“Ouch, careful,” says Truce, blocking with his good arm.
“You bastard,” she says. “You stupid fucking bastard. Who do you think you are, some eighties action hero?” She hits him again, then gestures towards his wounded arm. “And you’ve got blood all over my sofa!”
Truce catches her wrist and pulls her towards him. “You mean my jeans? I can take them off.”
Her eyes dilate. He slides his hand off her wrist and moves it behind her head, pulling her face gently toward his. Their lips meet, and he kisses her softly at first. She sits down next to him, and as he feels her relax against him, he kisses her with passion. “You’ll have to go on top,” he whispers. “I’m not in any state to do push-ups.”
***
After they’ve moved to the bed, Truce lies back looking at the ceiling while Wendy snores softly beside him. He feels good. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Despite his injuries, he feels it was a mutually satisfying session. He wonders if he can pay her for the sofa and the cleaning in monthly payments. He rolls onto his side to face Wendy. Her back is halfway out of the covers; her skin is ivory white peppered with a few freckles. He traces a finger down her spine. She stirs a little in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.
Truce gets up and walks naked across the flat. A glance at the neon bright alarm clock tells him it is only midnight. In the bathroom, he pees and then checks out his reflection in the mirror. It’s not too bad. He must be in a worse state mentally than he realised to have flaked out the way he did. He could do with a shower.
He goes through the living room and finds his wallet in the remains of his jeans. Then he orders a takeaway on his card. He chooses Chinese, but having no idea what Wendy likes, he orders a whole raft of dishes and a bottle of wine. While he waits, he goes through to the kitchen. It’s neat and tidy. Some kitchen company’s perfect design. There is very little of Wendy’s personality here, and he guesses she doesn’t cook often. All the pans shine like new. He takes a glass from a cupboard and guzzles down water.
By the time the doorbell rings, he has hunted up bowls, chopsticks, forks, and wine glasses. He heads for the door and then stops, suddenly aware of his nakedness. Wendy emerges from the bedroom just in time, wearing a dressing gown, her flaming hair tumbling in locks about her shoulders. She goes to the door, and he hears an exchange of voices.
Wendy comes back to the living room to find him standing there naked. She is carrying three bags and has a bottle of wine hooked under her arm. “And there was me, thinking this was a dream.”
“No such luck,” says Truce. He stands there awkwardly. “I got us some food.”
“So I see,” says Wendy. “Why didn’t you ask me if I was hungry?”
“I didn’t want to wake you. I thought we had worked up an appetite. Besides aren’t I meant to buy you dinner?” Truce half shrugs and smiles to show he is joking.
“I suppose now it’s here, we might as well eat some,” says Wendy. “Chinese isn’t like pizza.”
“Pizza?”
“Cold pizza,” says Wendy, “breakfast food of the gods.”
“Ah, right. Sorry,” says Truce. “I saw the leaflet and I thought …”
Wendy watches him lay out the food.
“I found some bowls,” says Truce
“Good,” says Wendy not moving.
“Do you have anything I could put on?” says Truce
“Dressing gown behind the door,” nods Wendy. “Not sure it’s your colour, but …”
When he returns to the kitchen, she has efficiently sorted the food into bowls and plates. “I don’t mind the colour,” he says, “but the frills?”
“My aunt bought it for me last Christmas, so I can’t quite bring myself to get rid of it. Never wear it though.”
“Wise decision,” says Truce. “Peach would clash with your hair.”
She passes him a bowl and for a while they eat in silence; neither of them realising quite how hungry they were.
Finally, Wendy says, “So what can you tell me?”
“There’s a report a friend of June Mills gave — a woman called Senga McKay — stating that June had not been drinking when she left the bingo, shortly before she was run over by the taxi driver. There’s a missing suicide note. And a body that was cremated too quickly.”
“You’d better tell me from the start,” says Wendy.
When Truce has finished, Wendy is tracing figure of eights in the bottom of her bowl with one of her chopsticks. “I understand how you can stick this together to make a conspiracy of sorts around June’s death. But I can also see how it could all be attributed to incompetence — not even malice. People make mistakes. There may even have been an element of relief that she had disappeared off the radar. All that reporting a murder that didn’t happen.”
“But you don’t think it’s more than that?”
“I think you feel responsible for her death,” says Wendy. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise why that might affect you so strongly. Why you might feel a desperate need to search for answers to, well, questions that don’t exist.”
“You think I’m wrong?”
“I think you feel guilty, and it’s making you behave irrationally. I think that guilt caused your fit yesterday. I think you’re becoming a danger to yourself.” She reaches out and takes his hand. “Please leave it alone, Daniel. They’re gone. You can’t help them. You have to start over.”
“You think I’m obsessed with this case, don’t you?”
Wendy nods her head. “Obsessed with something that isn’t real.”
Truce sighs and looks up to meet her eyes. “Do you think I need to get help?”
“Maybe. I worry how Rose would react if she found out.”
Truce grunts. “Thing is, I’ve had a feeling I was being followed for a while now, and I put it down to PTSD, but then I do actually get jumped.”
“By a pair of Edinburgh thugs, Daniel. Wrong place. Wrong time. That’s all,” She touches his thigh. “Promise me you’ll drop this.”
Truce is tired, partly satiated, fed, and warm. He looks at the beautiful woman beside him. “How about you help me have a shower, and we go back to bed? That would certainly make me forget all about it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” says Truce, leaning over and kissing her lightly, the taste of soy sauce lingering on her lips.
CHAPTER 14
Truce opens his eyes to a bright light. He vaguely remembers Wendy drawing the curtains and pointing out that some people had somewhere to be. She had left early, kissed him on the cheek, and was out the door before he was fully awake. Only when he heard the door close did he remember he didn’t have any clothes. He panicked for a moment, then decided in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter that much. He could always wait for Wendy to come home and ask her to pick something up for him. He could even phone her.
He turns over onto Wendy’s side of the bed, where her scent still lies and snuggles down. He�
�s in the midst of a dream, when Wendy opens the door, throws a plastic bag onto the bed, and races out. Deciding it is either breakfast or clothes, he drifts back to sleep, hoping to drop back where the dream left off.
When he wakes again, the sun is high in the sky, casting long shadows through the window. It must be around mid-day. He scrabbles on his side of the bed for his watch and phone. There’s something about sex after fighting that is extremely satisfying. Maybe he’s turning into as much of a Neanderthal as Leighton.
It’s later thank he guessed, 1 p.m. He wonders if Leighton is concerned for him. Probably not. Either he was around when Truce stumbled onto Wendy’s doorstep or he’s home eating cold chips out of a paper for breakfast.
Opening the bag, his shoulders slump. Wendy, similarly to Leighton, doesn’t seem to understand the concept of breakfast. She’s got him onion pakora and sauce — probably all the local newsagent has. Along with this is some knock-off designer jeans ‘Ele’ and a thin yellow t-shirt with a hazard sign on it. The clothes will do. They fit. But the pakora is not breakfast.
When he goes through to her kitchen, he ducks down to peer into the fridge. No milk. A survey of the cupboards reveals no cereal. Truce sighs. He does a quick search of the flat, during which he encounters the bloodied sofa and the long streaks of blood down the hall and into the lounge. How the hell can anyone live with cream carpets? Finally, he finds her spare key inside a false book, in a stacked pile next to her bed.
He heads out and buys bleach, cereal, milk, tomato sauce, bread, eggs, bacon and grabs a coffee from the local café. Life is too short to drink instant.
Back at her flat, he returns the key first, so he doesn’t forget. Makes himself a real breakfast, and stocks Wendy’s cupboards with the leftovers.
Although his wound is seeping through the butterfly stitches, he now turns his attention to the carpet. As he thought, he finds cleaning products under the sink. Before his arrival, the flat had been spotless. He fills up a bucket with bleach and manfully attacks the carpet with his right arm. Less than an hour later, he knows he has made a serious mistake.
Only the Dead Know Page 12
