by David Mark
“Petrovsky? Remind me.” I know Simmo’s trying to pretend he knows all about the big boys of the criminal world, but we both know he’s only just found all this out.
“Russian bloke in his 60s. Doing time for shooting a copper who gave him a speeding ticket, and still running things. Got a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, but it’s mostly drugs and illegals. There’s barely a ship arrives in Hull that hasn’t got some of Petrovsky’s merchandise on board. And a heck of a lot of Kosovans, Albanians. Even a few Ukranians, for old times’ sake. Not one to cross. Our boy has basically been making sure people still realise Petrovsky is the boss. Could be out on appeal before long and wants his business to still be there. Laddo was making that happen. Been putting dents in faces. Making sure people don’t take liberties.”
“And is that why he was in the woods with the other bloke, you reckon? Sorting out a problem for the boss?”
“It’s definitely a possibility. The other chap was a bit of a nobody really. Been done for dealing a couple of times but there was never anything to suggest he was into anything major. Maybe he was playing out of his league and got caught out. Might have been cutting his crack with brick-dust and baking powder. Maybe he just said the wrong thing. Roper will find out. You know what he’s like.”
I feel a dig in my ribs. It’s not a gentle gesture. Somebodoy pissed off; somebody out to make a point.
My right hand drops into my coat pocket, and closes on the gun. I keep Simmo pressed to the left side of my head, which is wet and sweating, like an open oyster stuck to my skull. I feel ten feet fucking tall. Ten feet of shit and misery, but ten feet nonetheless.
“You picked the wrong fucking horse, lad ….”
I stop, mid-flow, as I stare into the face of an angry blonde. Eleanor. Lenny, to her mates. To Jess. My Jess. Best friends since school. When Jess left me, it was to go and stay at Lenny’s place, a ground floor flat on the edge of the city centre. I often imagined them living out a Manhattan lifestyle, all red wine from big glasses and Doritos in a bowl, Sex and the City DVDs and fluffy pyjamas, scented candles and delicious gossip. It was Lenny who came by for Jess’s stuff when we split, who had brokered meetings and financial settlements. She thinks she’s tough.
“Owen? Owen, you still there?”
Simmo’s voice is chirruping in my ear, but I ignore him.
Lenny is staring at me, hard, waiting for me to finish my call. She’s angry. Intense. If her eyes had teeth they’d have swallowed half of my face by now. I’m staring back. Tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. A deluge of memories swamps me, images of happier times.
“Won’t be a tick, princess,” I say.
“Princess?” Simmo’s voice in my ear again. “You sound busy. I won’t hold you back then. Look, I’ll see you at the press conference in the morning, and I’m not sure what you can do with this at this time, but a couple of officers have viewed the CCTV. It’s really poor quality, but it shows there was a car in the car park at the time that we reckon all this happened.”
“Poor quality? I thought you could get cameras that can read the brand name off a packet of cigarettes from the top of a bock of flats.”
“Yeah, you can, but this is your absolute basic one. They only put it in because they were getting trouble with blokes meeting up in the toilets after dark and doing the nasty.”
“Nice.”
“Quite. Anyway, we can’t get a number plate but we can get a vehicle type. It’s a Vauxhall Cavalier, real old piece of crap. Mid-eighties. Not even a classic. Can’t be many of them around so it shouldn’t be long before we find who it belongs to. Could be nothing to do with all this but it has to be a priority as a line of enquiry. We’ll be putting out a press release in the morning. We’re going through the database now. I’m sure I know somebody who drives one but my brain just isn’t in gear tonight.” Simmo stops, as Depeche Mode give way to James Brown. It’s an eclectic juke-box.
“All right?” asks Simmo.
I’ve been silent for a few seconds, watching Lenny go through her repertoire of facial expressions. Eventually, she’ll have to smile. She looks good tonight. She’s 28. In good shape. Likes floaty dresses and leg warmers. Pale skin and rosy cheeks. Rings in the shape of flowers and butterflies. Beautiful smile when she unshackles it.
“Cool, mate,” I say. “Thanks for that.” I’m surprised by how little I care. “Owt else useful?”
“Just that whoever did this has more to worry about than the coppers. Petrovsky’s not going to be happy to have lost one of his boys. The other one’s a nobody, but the big lad? Let’s hope the killer’s got some bullets left.”
“Reckon he can handle himself. See ya later.”
“Yeah, bye.”
I close the phone slowly, and slip it into my pocket, where it clinks against the gun. It’s a reassuring sound and sensation, playing just for me.
“Hi, beautiful,” I say. Once upon a time, I’d have greeted her with a kiss on the edge of the lips and a hug, taking my time to breathe in her perfume and press her tits against my chest. Don’t think she’d appreciate it now.
“Your phone is working then,” she says.
“What?” I ask, thrown.
“I’ve been calling you back all day. I was telling myself that your phone must be broken. I’ve already tried her friends in Nottingham. I’m not stupid. They haven’t seen her.” She sounds scared and angry.
“Maybe she just needs her space,” I say, hopeful, and cling to the thought like a lifeline. “I bet you she’s there and told her friend not to say. She buggered off one night when we were together and her friend swore blind she wasn’t with them. I went and knocked on the door and guess who fucking answered?”
“But her friends are my friends. They know me. They wouldn’t lie to me.”
I shrug, suggesting that I don’t want to hurt Lenny’s feelings.
“Why don’t you go down there. You’re obviously out of your mind with worry. Be best to put it to rest.”
“I don’t know.” Then, hopeful, wide-eyed: “Why don’t you come with me? We can compare notes, have a think …”
“I can’t Len,” I say, terrified at the prospect of even thinking about Jess, and where she might be. “You go. They’ll talk to you more than they’ll talk to me.”
Lenny puts her head to one side. “You don’t care. You never cared.”
“What are you talking about. I’m sick with worry …”
“Bollocks. She’s missing and you just care about yourself.”
“What do you want, Lenny?”
“I want to know where she is. She didn’t come home.”
“When?”
“Last night. After she met up with you.”
I frown, not having the first bloody clue what she’s talking about. “I never saw her last night.”
Lenny shakes her head angrily and opens her mouth in stages before she speaks, as though they’re climbing stairs to do justice to the size of her fury. There’s spit dangling between her top and bottom teeth. “Don’t lie to me Owen. She said! She said she was going to see you. I couldn’t stop her this time.”
Her voice has gone from an angry whisper to a semi-shout, and we’re getting a few looks. I’m feeling self-conscious and my sides are starting to prickle with sweat again. I fear my face may be red.
“Lenny I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Owen, don’t do this! I got in about 10-ish yesterday and she was just pulling her coat on. She was going to see you. I didn’t even get any time to talk her out of it. When she didn’t come home I figured you’d just worked your magic but she still isn’t back. She had her… I think she was carrying her… Fuck, I don’t know. Over her arm, you know. She was manic. Oh I don’t know.” She stops, deflating, looking down at her feet as though the answers may be there. “I’m really worried.”
Silence. My brain whirring. Trying not to let my feelings reach my face.
Lenny looks up, directly into my
eyes. My reflection is a pencil sketch, all black outline and shading. I’m colourless, empty, just waiting to be rubbed out. I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the image. When I open my eyes again, Lenny’s face is close to mine, and I see a crowd of mildly diverted spectators staring over her shoulder. I realise I’m losing this, and spread my arms expansively, banish the blood from my cheeks and feel the sickly paleness melt into my face. I settle back into my skin.
“I was in the pub till gone 11 last night,” I say, softly, as though lulling a baby to sleep. “I haven’t seen Jess in days. It’s too fucking painful! And you keep such a close guard on her brain, she wouldn’t have come to see me even if I’d asked. She was the one who said it was best if we didn’t even try to be friends. You’ve cleaned the place out of anything she might need. Last I heard you were setting her up on fucking dates. You reckon she’d suddenly just come running if I called?”
“Yes! Just because she can’t stand you doesn’t mean she’s not in love with you. Why do you think I keep such a close eye on her? It’s because the second I turn my back she’s sneaking out the house to see you or trying to send you messages. She’s written and deleted more bloody messages to you than I can keep count of. Christ, you know what she did on Saturday? She went and picked up her wedding dress! The one she told you she’d cancelled. The one she said she would never wear? She picked it up and brought it home. I found her, crying, sobbing that you, fucking you of all people, would never see her in it.”
“Hang on,” I say, starting to shiver, as though blanketed in a wet towel on a cold day. “I can’t be held accountable for what she does, Lenny. I want to see her in that dress. I always did. That’s why I proposed. I didn’t want her to cancel the wedding. I didn’t want it to end. It just couldn’t continue, or so she said. I couldn’t be what she needed. I was killing her, and dying from the pain of it. And we both feel worse when we’re apart. I’m so fucking confused. Why are we apart, Len?”
“Because it’s best for everyone,” Lenny cries, exasperated, astonished at my ignorance. She doesn’t seem to know how stupid she sounds.
I run my hand over my brow. It’s like stroking wet porcelain. “Look, honestly, I never saw her yesterday and never contacted her.” I suddenly look concerned. Then: “Try Nottingham. Honestly. Call me when you get there. She’ll just be getting her head straight.”
“Or she’s copped off,” says Lenny, letting a sigh turn into a half laugh and almost halving in size as the weight of righteous indignation escapes with a rush. “I can’t… I just don’t know, Owen. You made her so happy, and so sad, and she doesn’t see what you are, not really...”
I pull a face, suddenly bored, and not really in the mood for hearing any more about how shit I am. “You’re a good friend,” I say, quietly, then lean in, and let my lips touch her ear. “Don’t blame yourself for losing track of her...”
Lenny’s eyes fill with tears. She gulps, once or twice, and then throws her arms up and pushes herself away, storming out of the pub through the throng.
I smile at my own reflection, but there’s no pleasure in it. I’m the worst man I’ve ever known. I should be floating downstream towards the River Trent, muddy water in my lungs and absolute nothingness in my gloated eyes.
And then I’m just drinking, and thinking of dead bodies and criminals and bullets and victims, and the unfairness of it all. Thinking of the people charged with finding justice for the innocents, and their unsuitability for the task. Wondering at the madness of the world we have created and my hatred of my place within it.
Taking solace in alcohol.
Drinking until I’m numb.
22
“Daddy brush?”
Fin McAvoy looks at his father through a veil of frothy soap. He’s been told that brave boys and girls tolerate the stinging sensation in their eyes. He’s stoic in his tolerance of the discomfort, squinting up at his dad as the suds drip down his face.
“Brush, son?”
“Yep. Mammy say it punk. What punk?”
McAvoy, damp to his waist, smiles indulgently at his son. As instructed, he takes the soft Mason-Pearson hairbrush from the windowsill, and begins to brush his son’s soft, red curls into a Mohawk. Fin, as instructed, sits quietly.
“This is the look you’re going for, is it?” asks McAvoy, softly. “Suits you. I’m not sure my dad would have approved of this. Did I ever tell you that my dad used to cut my hair. Your Uncle Duncan too. He used the same scissors that he used on the sheep. Can you imagine that?”
McAvoy doesn’t await a response. He disappears inside his own head for a moment, remembering the croft. Himself: Duncan; his big strong dad, making a living from the land in a little white-painted croft not far from Loch Ewe in the Western Highlands. The memories are never entirely happy. He has never forgiven himself for taking his mother’s offer. She walked out on his father when McAcoy was only five-years-old. At ten, she came back. Told him she was remarrying. A wealthy man; a man with connections. He was welcome to come and take advantage of them. Welcome to make the best of himself. His brother; his father; his teachers – they all told him that there would never be an opportunity like this. That he owed it to whichever deity had given him a big brain then dumped him in Aultbea. He did what everybody seemed to be telling him to do. He’s regretted it ever since.
“Look good, Daddy?”
McAvoy considers his son. He’s brushed his curls into a magnificent peak, sticking up as if greased with hard butter. McAvoy grins, indulgently. Lowers his forehead to Fin’s and tells him, in a quiet voice, that he is what life is for.
“Jesus, I’m sorry...”
McAvoy turns as Roisin scurries into the bathroom, unfastening her dressing gown. She gives him a look: desperate, beseeching, and then she is lowering herself to the toilet seat.
McAvoy looks down to the floor. Closes his eyes. Prays, and wishes, and wonders which has more potency…
Roisin looks between her bare knees. Raises her head and gives McAvoy a look. Then she shakes her head. “Gone,” she says, quietly. “I’m so sorry...”
McAvoy holds himself together as if afraid he were made of sugar. He walks to his wife on his knees. Puts his head against hers. “It’s not your fault,” he says, softly. “Oh Roisin. We should stop. This isn’t fair...”
Fierce, face-flushed, she shakes her head. “No,” she says, and rubs her face against his shoulder. “No, we keep trying. Whatever happens, we don’t give up.”
McAvoy strokes his wife’s hand. Looks away, as she rises from the toilet seat, and looks, dejectedly, into the bloody water. She says a small prayer. Fastens her gown. Presses herself to McAvoy. Sniffs, and wipes the tears from her eyes.
“Looking good, boyo,” she says, to her son. Fin is making no complaint about the goose-pimples which pattern his flesh. He knows mummy is sad. Knows that Daddy would slice off a limb it if made her pain go away.
“Me a punk,” says Fin, cautiously. “Me in Prodigy. Me Twisted Firestarter...”
Through the tears and the pain and the desperate desire to make everything different, Aector and Roisin McAvoy hold their son, and weep, silently, for the child that will not be.
“I’m sorry,” says Roisin, again.
At her side, her husband wraps his arm around her waist. He can find no words of comfort. Just holds her, and hopes it is enough.
Knows, to his bones, that it is not.
23
9.17pm.
Owen Lee, Press Association Hull and East Riding correspondent, staggering across Spring Bank.
Rain; an upright sea.
The night, dark and unforgiving: all neon signs and dirty yellow street lights. Circles of illumination as cars swish by. Me in the spotlight. Horns honking.
Too much blood in my head. Face feeling full. Fit to burst.
Passing the pizza place at the top of Kerry’s street. Bright inside. Too bright. All white walls and photographs of fried chicken and lasagne. Pizza boxes stacked behind the c
ounter. Vaguely ethnic guy in a white T-shirt talking to two teenagers in the warm. Looks inviting. Friendly. Sort of place that beckons you in on a wet December night.
Staggering on down Morpeth Street.
Sick with hunger. Sick with drink. Sick of myself.
My coat heavy with water, pulling me down. Bent over, mouth open, eyes glazed, working my jaw in circles to relieve the pressure in my head. Fear my ears may pop. Or my eyes.
Halfway down the street, trying to focus. Walk into a wheelie bin and fall over.
Cars parked along the length of the street. None with a registration plate fewer than three years old. White vans. One by my head.
Kick open the gate to Kerry’s place. Pain. Think I may have twisted my ankle. Think I might do it again.
Front door wide open. Light on in the hall. Bare bulb, no shade. Migraine exploding behind my eyes. Wet, muddy palms screwed into my face. Shapes moving behind my eyelids. Colours around the edges of the picture, moving rhythmically, delicately. Black kaleidoscope. Central flame, now. A perfect circle of white darkness, glowing among the blurs.
Sliding up the wall. Moby CD playing in a downstairs room. Dusty carpet, edged with cobwebs, turning to sludge beneath my feet.
First floor. Stop moving. Payphone nailed to the wall, impeding my progress.
Bumble around it. Half blind.
Fingers scrabbling at the doorframe.
Door swinging slowly open.
Pictures of Audrey Hepburn on the wall.
Lights bright.
Sofa-bed, still in sofa form, draped with an Afghan scarf. Coffee table, covered in paper, ragged envelopes, empty bottles of 7up. Foil dishes. Dirty teaspoons. Personalised coffee mugs bearing other people’s names.
Kerry, laid out on her back, head draped over the far arm. Wearing nothing but a faded grey T-shirt. Riding up.
Hairy legs. Filthy soles to her feet.
Eyes closed. Nobody home.
Man in blue overalls, standing over her.
The names of the Hull City promotion winning side of 2004, winding around his neck.
