The Light of Day

by Graham Swift

Bridget waves me through. Is that a special look in her eye?

  “Bye, Bridget.”

  “Bye, George. Be good now.”

  “I’ll try.”

  And the world’s still there. It’s always a faint surprise: it didn’t go away. And there’s always the faint sweet rush of gratitude, of guilty gratitude.

  Then it hits you, like another wall: another fortnight.

  The cold strikes. I emerge with the others. For a moment we could be some strange class being let out of lessons (but I’m the only one who hands in homework, I think). Then we disperse quickly and silently, as if to blend as soon as we can into the surroundings and become just innocent passers-by.

  A rule, a superstition: I never look back. Just in case the magic, the miracle, might work that way. An ache in my back. Just in case she’s behind me and the tap on the shoulder is her.

  George, it’s me. Don’t go without me.

  It’s twenty past four. The sun has dipped behind the rooftops. There’s a red bloom low in the sky. Up above, it fades to pink, then gas-flame blue. A slice of moon. A vapour trail, thin and twinkly as a needle. Another bitter night coming, the air hard as glass.

  Write it down for me, George, what it’s like out there. Bring the world in here. Not like a police report, you understand?

  A tall order. Asking the world. But I’ve done my best.

  “You deserve the world, sweetheart.”

  “No, I deserve what I’ve got.”

  A piece of the world on a piece of paper. I’d never thought of it like that. The world brought in bit by bit, like prisoners—the other way round—chipping away, stone by stone, at a wall.

  But no homework to collect today. Not today.

  I cross the main road and walk on in the direction of my car. The street lamps have come on. In half an hour it will be dark. I think of his grave, the smooth granite glinting like ice. He has to get through these hours too. If she does, he does. If things can be relived.

  What do they do in cemeteries when night falls? Close the gates, lock up? All visitors out. No funerals after dark.

  The trees along the side of the road are turning to silhouettes. Against the sky every twig and last leaf is distinct. Cars becoming just their floating lights.

  Dusk. Twilight. She taught me to look at words. The way I think she once taught Kristina. Strange English words. Their shape, their trace, their scent. Dusk. Why is it so strangely thrilling—winter dusk? A curtain falling, a divide. As if we should be home now, safe behind doors. But we’re not, it’s not yet half-past four and everything becomes a mystery, an adventure. Now everything we do will be in the dark.

  I turn the corner into the street where I’ve parked. One day I’ll do this a last time.

  I unlock the car. It’s like a fridge. It’s like a bed in a disused room.

  It’s my punishment too—but I don’t say this. I never say it. To have and not to have. But, this way, you could say I do have her. She’s not going anywhere. You could say I have her where she can’t get away.

  My punishment and my reward.

  And my remorse. An ache in my back.

  If I’d carried the job through to the end, delivered him back—special delivery, to the door, like a gift. Matrimonial and Missing Persons. Here he is—there were problems on the way, but here he is. As if he was the prisoner set free.

  Was it possible? And she might have been happy. Was it ever possible?

  I turn on the ignition with the heater full on. It throws out a freezing blast.

  So happy she’d have come in to see me, a last time, to settle the bill, to thank me in person, a few moments in my office instead of years—of this. To sign a cheque and thank me (“It was nothing—nothing, really”) and suddenly hug me, maybe, kiss me even, on the cheek.

  She’d have walked out free and happy. Was it possible? I’d have watched her heels, the backs of her knees. Departures. I’d have watched her from my window, crossing the Broadway, walking back to her life. And that might have been and should have been gift enough for me.

  52

  Since they do thank you. Thank you and more. The strangest thing—I never expected it—they thank you even when the news is bad.

  “It’s not just that they’re women, Helen …”

  “No?”

  Suddenly all ears. “Well, you can’t leave it at that—you’ve got to go on.”

  Chicken Marsala, Sole Véronique … But it wasn’t just the cooking. This dad of hers that she’d never known.

  Rita said, “Are you married yourself, Mr. Webb?”

  “Was.”

  A cock of her blonde head.

  “A long story.”

  (Though it wasn’t really: a quick goodbye then off she went to school.)

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  She glanced round my office—the way Helen had glanced round at the house. The tiniest hint of a tut-tut.

  There are all kinds of motive: information, confirmation, desperation … Sometimes it’s an act of war. It’s savage, it’s rough. And there’s always the rebound factor. I’d got wise to that.

  The tiniest hint of a sigh.

  I’d already given her the news: the who and the where. She’d already half-known. The no-nonsense, dry-eyed type. She worked in a factory—cardboard products—manager’s PA. I imagined she could do the job for him, do it all with her eyes shut, but she had to know her place.

  She sat now in my office, legs crossed, eyes clear, the black point of one shoe now and then prodding the air.

  And I’m a detective. I’m not a fool. I can read signs. I ought to have had a sign on my door: “George Webb: Private Investigator and Rebound Consultant.”

  And wasn’t I on the rebound too? A long story. A long, slow rebound.

  She wasn’t finished, so it proved. She wanted me to go one step further. A little extra job. She wanted me to take her to the house, the address—while the husband was there—and just wait outside while she went and knocked. That was all, a simple job. She’d only be a moment.

  Would I do this? She’d pay.

  The point of her shoe poked forward, like something being aimed. She took her eyes off me and looked along the stretched-out line: knee, ankle, toe.

  • • •

  So we went. A modern house on a new estate. Nine in the evening. They thank you, you become allies.

  I parked outside. A cold January night. She was all grim, steady silence, but before she got out, while my hand rested on the wheel, she reached across and pressed her fingers against my wrist. “Wish me luck,” she said—as if no particular reply was needed. Then she took away her fingers, leant across further, took my face in both hands and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Wish me luck.” I did.

  She got out, straightened her skirt. She might have said, “Keep me covered.” What was she going to do? Pull a gun? (From where?) A knife, a jar of acid? While I sat here drumming on the steering wheel?

  She walked up the front path. It’s an inspiring sight, a magnificent sight, the striding hips of a woman who hasn’t got much to lose and, right now, means serious business.

  I waited. The door was opened, a shaft of light. She was actually let in. I waited to hear yells, screams, breaking glass. Remembering my police training. Put in your call first. It was more than a moment, it was almost ten minutes. Then she reappeared.

  I’ll never know what she did or said in there, but she walked out in a way that was magnificent too, but different from the way she’d walked in. She held her head up high, breathed the air. She might have swiped one brisk palm against the other. Her moment of glory, of make-do glory, of hollow revenge. I thought of Rachel: where was she now?

  Though the revenge wasn’t over yet.

  She got back in. She said nothing. For an instant she sat still and rigid as a statue, then she went into cascades of tears, she went liquid. I put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. I felt I shouldn’t have been there. Then she pulled herself up, groping in her h
andbag for a tissue, and said, “Drive! Drive! Get us out of here!” So I drove. She said, “Put your foot down!” as if we’d just robbed a bank.

  I drove—in no particular direction. I drove like an ambulance driver, like a cop who’d done time on cars.

  Then after a while she said, “Stop! Stop!” There was a dark empty side street, a grass verge, dimly lit. “Stop here, George, stop here!” I thought she was going to be sick—she’d fling open the door and throw up. So I stopped.

  Then she lurched across towards me and—how to put this?—dived into my trousers.

  In the morning, in her bedroom: more tears. She oozed tears. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.” As if she’d dragged me there by force. A hand clapped over her face. “Oh God, what a mess. You’d better go.”

  But it was a Sunday morning in January, grey, bleak and cold, and after a while she got up and was gone for maybe half an hour. She’d paused and turned in the doorway first. “How do you like your eggs?”

  She came back with a tray. Tea, toast, marmalade. She’d taken a shower, she’d done things to her face, her hair, slapped on some scent. And she was wearing a pale-pink fluffy dressing-gown, inside which her tits huddled and snuggled up to each other.

  An empty bed, George.

  Mr. Rebound.

  The truth is she wasn’t the first. Who else do they have to lean on, to console them? And, God knows, you have to have a heart. And sometimes it’s just at the point that you think they’ll collapse completely, they’ll go to pieces, that, strangely, they brighten up, they bristle, they find a new fire. Their friend in need. Mr. Quick Revenge.

  I’d never have guessed it. It’s supposed to be a loner’s job, a loser’s job. A shabby, shady, dead-end job. Matrimonial work.

  And I’d never have guessed there was this other person inside me: a womanizer, a woman specialist. Sleeping with my clients. Each one with the same worrying complaint: they aren’t getting loved any more. All part of the service. Your agent, your confidant, your bosom-pal.

  Though it’s true: not every one. One or two—well, three. Some of them wouldn’t have touched me with a barge-pole.

  I told Helen. Maybe she’d guessed—she could read my face. It was after she told me about Clare. My turn now. And the strange thing was a bit of her was shocked—or she was good at pretending—more shocked than I’d been. Though what she did next was laugh. Well, who’d have guessed? Her old dad, her policeman dad.

  But wasn’t it a time-honoured remedy—and only what she’d half-recommended, half-urged? Sitting there in the candlelight, being wined and dined. You wash away one woman with a blur of others. You press away memories as you press down flesh.

  (And it was her revenge, too, on her mother?)

  “So there you are, Helen—now you know.”

  What shall I say? I let myself be used, get pounced on? But I didn’t exactly resist. I was even ready to pounce, myself. All included, no extra charge. The first time I slept with a client I thought: so what happens now, about the fee—I forget it? But what would that make her? So I took the cheque. What did that make me?

  A phase? A cure? Hollow revenge? A different kind of hound on a different kind of scent.

  Until I felt used-up, or emptied, or just plain worse-for-wear. Till Helen’s look was no longer intrigued, amused, even vaguely conspiring—just a little sad.

  Was this how it was? I was just going to the bad? Looking after myself (eating well), but letting myself go. Fucking clients. Swigging now and then out of that bottle in the office that was meant to be just for them.

  Corrupt as they come.

  I thought her husband might come back at any moment (his name was Terry). The standard scene. A Sunday morning: bursting in. Double revenge. But she said no, no chance of that. Not after last night.

  Whatever she’d done.

  So I didn’t leave till after four in the afternoon. Sneaking away under cover of dark.

  She couldn’t cook scrambled eggs (you have to take them from the heat when they’re still not quite done). Later I found out she couldn’t cook much at all. Not her strong point. Her strong points were elsewhere—like in walking into an office, taking a cool look around and knowing how to put it into shape. But they didn’t stop there. She had a talent for detection too, so it proved. She’d never known it was there.

  Something else that happens too: they get a taste, a glimpse, a hankering. Undercover work. I could do this too.

  But with Rita it wasn’t just a fancy, it was real. She had the knack, she had the makings. She was good at it. All her life and she’d never known: she could be a detective. These unsuspected people inside us. And why work in a factory making empty cardboard boxes, letting your talents go to waste?

  “You need help, you know, George” (while she cleared away the tray). “That office is a tip. You need sorting out—you need more than just you.”

  So in the end I took her on. I took her in. On a strictly professional basis, of course. And I started giving her jobs—assignments—outside the office. Nothing too tricky at first. But there are some jobs that are best done by a woman, or in combination with a woman. And she was good at it, no question, she’s never let me down. A real find. One of those women whose fate it is to be told they’re worth their weight in gold.

  “My weight in gold? That won’t help me keep my figure, will it, George?” Running her hands down over her hips.

  She’s there right now—holding the fort.

  Where would I be without you, Rita? I think I’m about to find out.

  And I might have given her the Nash job, I nearly might.

  53

  Marsh said, “But in fact nothing happened on the journey back. Mr. Nash got home safely.”

  “Yes,” I said, “he got home safely.”

  If “safely” wasn’t an unfortunate word.

  “You watched him drive into Beecham Close at eight thirty-five. You always note precise times?”

  “It’s an old habit.”

  “Even when you’d finished the job?”

  “I was still finishing it.”

  “ ‘Making sure,’ you mean—seeing him home?”

  “Yes. Suppose, after I’d told Mrs. Nash he was coming home, he hadn’t.”

  “Though where else would he have gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looked at my statement, unsigned, in front of him. “He drove into Beecham Close at eight thirty-five. He left the airport just after seven. That’s still a long time …”

  But I wasn’t going to tell him. Some things are best left unsaid, and they can’t arrest you for what stays in your head.

  “Traffic,” I said.

  He could always check. Traffic Division: M4 to A4 east-bound, between seven and eight.

  “Traffic—of course. Eight thirty-five. And Mrs. Nash’s call was logged at eight forty-six. Eleven minutes. You saw him into Beecham Close. Then you drove away. Then, ten to fifteen minutes later—because of your ‘intuition,’ because you thought something bad was going to happen—you turned round.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why then? Why not when Mr. Nash arrived home? Why drive away first? If you were going to—intervene—why not then?”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “But you must have thought something—ten minutes later. ‘I know what I’m doing’ you said to the constable. If you were going to make it your concern.”

  The superior officer’s stare. When is a cop not a cop? So—I’d failed him? Failed Marsh?

  “I should have intervened earlier,” I said.

  “Were you thinking of him—of Mr. Nash—or of her?”

  I should have intervened when he came out of that flat, but I let him pass. Thinking he was spared. Sarah was spared. We were all spared.

  “Were you thinking of her—were you thinking of Mrs. Nash the way you think about all your clients?”

  “Can’t I see her?” I said again. “Just for a moment?”

  He l
ooked at me as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. The flint coming and going in his eye.

  “You know I can’t do that,” he said. My statement was still clamped under his hands.

  He looked at me for a long time, as if he was standing on some edge—might even have needed my help.

  He pushed the statement across to me.

  “Okay,” he said, “I think that’ll do. Sign.”

  Then he said, “You know—we got Dyson. We got him in the end. He’ll be put away for years.”

  54

  I put the car in gear and drive off. Almost four-thirty. I need to be back in the office by five forty-five, for Mrs. Lucas. But I know what I have to do first. Now it’s dark.

  He got back into the Saab, took his time to start. I crept back to my car, watched him pull out. Pulled out myself and followed him again, as if we were a team.

  He’d have driven those last three miles back to Wimbledon knowing it was the last time he’d make that journey (not knowing it was the last journey he’d ever make): that sneaking, skulking, but conceded journey. Each homecoming like a little charade. Her not needing to ask where he’d been and not bothering to ask—the absurdity of the question—how his day had been. The mockery, the misery of it. But better an unhappy peace, she’d said. Did she say it to him?

  The lights will be on in the prison now, in the cells. At a certain time they all go off.

  How would it end? How could it end? He’d wanted that war—out there—to go on for ever. Or wanted the Croats to get beaten, smashed—so she might ditch this idea of one day returning. Not caring about the killing and maiming. And him in a caring profession. Jealous of another country, “Croatia,” like you might be jealous of another man.

  Better an unhappy war …

  But the Croats had won, and he’d lost.

  How would it end? Well, now he knew—or almost knew. That flat in Fulham, like an empty cage. He might have locked himself up in it for good. Somehow he’d burst out.

  So—was he free, released?

  Always the hope that if it had to end he might become “himself” again, the real Bob Nash—only that other man would suffer. But wasn’t that other man (and wasn’t this the heart of it?) the real Bob Nash?