The Long Dark Road

by P. R. Black

  ‘How about when he was a student?’

  ‘Oh, he was a busy lad at university. I’m sure you know all about it.’

  ‘I don’t. I’d like to know more.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask him, then.’

  Over at the bar, the girl clattered out towards the main door. Her boyfriend sighed, shook his head, drained a drink, and followed her. He waved towards Scott Trickett, who responded with a ‘what can you do?’ shrug.

  ‘Looks like it went the other way,’ Georgia said.

  ‘Yep.’ Trickett drummed his fingers and looked around, his face darkening. ‘It’s a fucking morgue in here tonight. Damn. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Seems lively enough.’ Georgia got up from her seat and sat down beside the big man. He radiated heat, and a faint sour smell that could have been stale beer.

  He put his pint down and gazed at her with open astonishment. ‘Hello. What’s this then?’

  ‘Whatever you like. Milfy, that’s what you called me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. And seeing it. Is this for real?’

  ‘As real as you want it to be.’

  ‘Are you… Is this you coming on to me?’

  Georgia nudged him and giggled. He actually got a fright, his shoulders cinching in shock. ‘Oh, I’m just sitting and having a conversation. That’s all we’re having. Unless you wanted a little bit more?’

  ‘Well. Ah…’ He took a drink, but he sported a look of almost child-like glee.

  ‘As you say – not much happening in here. And it looks like you want something out of the evening. Unless you came to see the band?’

  ‘I was meant to be watching ’em… Bit of solidarity. It’s that Prat Spaniel nonsense again. Doing an acoustic set, the singer, Howie, and the guitar player. Wonder where they got that idea from?’

  ‘Nothing stopping you leaving. Is there?’ She sat closer again, and bent close to him. A little bit of cleavage; he took the bait, too, gazing at her with brutal fervour.

  So fucking easy.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve done it with someone on the seniors tour before,’ he said, quietly. ‘Anything I should know?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing a seasoned groupie master like yourself can’t handle, I’m sure. Unless you want mothering. Do you?’

  ‘You kinky bitch! I love it. You’re on.’

  He leaned close to her, lips parted, the beard and the battle-damaged T-shirt, and then God, that smell again, and of course she couldn’t do it. She drew back, shook her head. ‘Not here. But you can come with me.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘You got something better to do?’

  ‘Fast work,’ Trickett said. He gulped down the rest of his pint, lathered the suds into his beard, and grinned. ‘Your place or yours, o Lady in Black?’

  23

  It’s funny how you can change the parameters, the background, the ground you stand on, the very air you breathe… and they stay needy. Needy, jealous little boys. It never changes.

  From the diary of Stephanie Healey

  The big man had struggled to make it as far as the bed. Luckily, Georgia had plenty of practice when it came to moving people on top of blankets. She was more worried about getting the bedclothes in a mess – the soles of his boots were filthy. Unlacing them and letting them drop to the floor with dull sound, she imagined Boris Karloff as Frankenstein.

  ‘Cosy here…’ he murmured. His eyes were all but closed; only a glimmer of light hinted at animation, and his breathing was shallow, barely stirring the undergrowth at his nostrils. ‘Nice ’n’ warm.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Georgia said. She turned the light out. The room was completely dark.

  ‘Hey. Where… where you go?’

  He had almost not got here. The taxi driver had shaken his head as Georgia had sat him down and belted him in. ‘He on something, love?’

  ‘He’s just had a couple of beers. I think he’s been working hard.’

  ‘Just as well he’s got his mother to look after him. If he’s sick, you pay, I’ll tell you that now.’

  ‘He’s just a little sleepy.’

  ‘Hell of a pint, that,’ Trickett had muttered, resting his head on the window.

  It had been a close-run thing. But she’d kept him awake.

  Georgia waited for her eyes to adjust, then came closer. She could only make out the shape of the body on the bed.

  ‘Sorry for the cloak and dagger,’ she said. ‘I thought it’d be difficult to get you to myself. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘You OK… you OK if we do it tomorrow? I’m kinda beered out,’ he wheezed. ‘Head’s spinning. Might take forty winks. What’s with all the lights? Like a fucking… fairground in here. Piccadilly or something.’

  ‘Oh, stay with me a while longer,’ she whispered. ‘Stay with me.’ She clicked a torch in his face. The eyebrows pinched, slightly, and she saw there was some movement behind the razor-cut of the eyelids, the way she might discern activity and animation at the bottom of her wheelie bin.

  ‘That the one you shine in people’s eyes?’ He grinned. That wasn’t so good; she wanted him stupefied, not sharp. ‘When you check for things?’

  ‘It’s clinical equipment, you’re right. This is the torch I use to check for souls.’

  ‘What’s the verdict, Doc? Long have I got?’ he chuckled. ‘Did you spike my drink?’

  ‘What a crazy idea! Why would you think that?’

  ‘This ain’t no beer rush… Maybe it was the bitch with the kinky boots. Could have been, I guess.’ He yawned, suddenly, jaw creaking.

  ‘What happened to me the other night did give me a little idea, I do declare.’

  ‘That the night when you went cray-zee?’ He drew out the last syllable, and laughed at his own joke.

  ‘Yeah. Funny how that can happen to a body. I thought we could have a chat, in fact.’

  ‘You into dirty talk, that kind of thing? Guess I can… Go for it.’ He turned to one side and yawned again, cuddling into a pillow.

  Georgia slapped him. It was a hard thing to do, through his Mr Twit beard, but she got enough purchase in the blow to unshutter his eyes.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘Don’t be fading out on me. It’s not nighty-night time yet.’

  ‘Did you just hit me?’

  ‘No, you must have dreamed it. I want to talk about Stephanie.’

  ‘Stephanie. Cold where she is.’

  Instead of reacting, Georgia went along with it. ‘And where is that?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’ He giggled. ‘Speaking of which… where are we again?’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  ‘Well enough. Didn’t shag her, if that’s what you’re asking. Guess it’s ironic, that, eh? Me being here and all that.’

  ‘Very droll. Yes, I suppose there’s something amusing in that. Did Riley shag her?’

  ‘Just the once, I think. She weirded him out a bit. Too heavy into it, you know? Poets, what can I tell you? They’re all the same. Wound up too tight. Riley’s like that. He’s not mellow, you know? Not too mellow. Not mellow like me. Can I sleep now?’

  ‘You can’t sleep. What happened the night of the fight?’

  ‘What fight?’

  ‘The night Stephanie vanished.’ Blockhead, she muttered under her breath. ‘The fight between Martin Duke and Riley. Was it over Stephanie?’

  ‘Nah not really. Well, kinda. Duke was sweet on her; everyone knew that. He wrote a poem to the Hephaestians that was clearly about her. Embarrassing. I could hardly listen to it. Riley burst out laughing. Think that was the start of it, you know. The insult. The insult.’ He yawned again. ‘Anyway, think there was some sort of row about the other bitch.’

  ‘What other bitch?’

  ‘The little gothy piece. I think Riley went through her too. But she did it to spite Duke, cos he was sweet on Stephanie. I thought Colette was better-looking, but that’s my opinion. It all got a bit… doof doof doof-
doof doof doof-doof…’ He mimed along to the EastEnders cliffhanger drumbeat, but it cost him a lot of effort to do so. His hands flopped back onto the bedspread.

  ‘Martin Duke and Riley were fighting over Colette? Not Stephanie?’

  ‘You disappointed?’

  ‘I thought they were fighting over Stephanie.’

  ‘Did someone actually tell you that? Or did you just think it, and nobody corrected you? The mind’s a funny thing… Funny thing.’

  ‘Why wasn’t Stephanie there?’

  ‘Nobody knows. She was meant to be there. If someone knew, then we wouldn’t be talking, would we? Shame. I was hoping her and Colette would have a showdown. Cat fight, you know?’ Then he emitted a shockingly life-like feline screech; Georgia jumped, and almost dropped the torch. ‘Was hoping they’d get into it. On the undercard. Titties flying everywhere. Bras and blouses ripped to buggery. I saw that once. In a movie. But no dice, mama. No one knows why she didn’t turn up.’ He yawned again. ‘That’s the big mystery, isn’t it?’

  ‘What about the lecturer?’

  ‘Sillars? Yeah, he was there. Waded into the fight, broke it up actually. Quite handy, for a book-learnin’ boy.’

  ‘I thought you said it wasn’t a fight? I thought Riley beat Martin up?’

  ‘Nah… I say that just to protect his feelings. He sorta ran in and smacked Duke, then lots of people intervened. Bit like the other night. I wouldn’t give Riley tuppence-worth of a chance against a cardboard cut-out of Martin Duke. He’s a lover, not a fighter, I s’pose. I mean Duke’s a ponce – he’s just less of a ponce than Riley.’

  ‘Did you see Stephanie before she went missing? Had she been seeing Riley, in the lead-up to it?’

  ‘Nah, she was interested in other things.’ He giggled.

  ‘Like Cornfed?’

  ‘Oh, the lady knows. How interesting.’

  ‘Who is Cornfed? Tell me, Scott. I’ll let you sleep if you tell me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s top secret.’ He sniggered.

  Georgia’s temper came to the boil. She let it go – only a little. ‘You know, you’ve probably got a nice bright future, Scott. Even though you’re basically the fat friend of a better-looking boy, it’s a good position to be in. Life will be good for you. I don’t know how you manage it. I would only put you on a record cover with me to make me look better. Maybe that’s what it boils down to.’

  ‘Aww,’ Scott said, in a mock-American dweeb accent, ‘that’s hurts my… feelings… nothing more than… feelings…’

  ‘And I get it, the sick jokes, the weirdness. I understand you. You’re basically a nonentity. You have to struggle hard for attention, even up there on a stage for your professional life. “Oh no, I didn’t say that, did I? What am I like?” I’ve seen it all before. Riley will go solo before long – you know that? It’s what happens.’

  ‘Well aware of that. I know it’s a short ride. But I’ll ride it to the end.’

  ‘You might make an interesting footnote to his career. Especially after you go missing.’

  ‘What?’ he said, dreamily.

  Georgia clicked off the light. ‘You know how I said I was going to take you back to my place? I kind of lied.’

  She listened to him breathe for a moment or two. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re not back at my place. You’re in a caravan.’

  ‘Caravan? Are you tripping as well?’

  Georgia knocked the walls. ‘Quite a tight squeeze in here. You hear that? Not much space to echo out. Very narrow walls.’

  ‘Heh, I saw you knocking the wall… it turned into stars, like bonfire night. What in God’s name did you dose me with? It’s good stuff, I’ll say that. Nuclear grade.’

  ‘Pharmaceutical grade, actually. It’ll make you tired and confused. You’ll see some visuals. You probably won’t remember much of this. But you’re present in the here and now. Which is good, because I want you to understand what happens, once I roll this caravan into Hunters Bar Reservoir.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You know Hunters Bar Reservoir, don’t you? Steep drop-off. The thing about the drugs I gave you is, the effect is so much greater when you fight sleep. So, imagine how great the special effects will be when you try to swim in a great big coffin.’

  ‘What? Where are you? I said, where are you?’ He shuffled on the bed – but no more than that.

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t gone. Not yet. I want you to think about it, Scott. You’ve got a vivid imagination. You tell me all those things about Stephanie. About her being in a grave. Or in the water somewhere. Well, you can be both. You can lie in here while the whole thing fills with water. You’ll have a few seconds to think all about it. Before the real panic starts. Then you’ve got up to a minute, maybe two minutes, depending on how deep a breath you can take at the end. And how long you can hold it. Maybe like Stephanie did, too?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I don’t know what happened…’ Trickett’s tone of voice had changed. Panic was there, now. ‘No one knows what happened to Stephanie.’

  ‘I know you didn’t kill her. But I think someone did. Which is why I’ve brought you out here. Because you know something you’re not telling me. And I’m getting fed up with being polite about things. I might be ready to do something desperate. So, unless you want to know what drowning feels like, you best tell me something.’

  He struggled to a sitting position; Georgia guessed correctly where his chest was, and shoved him back onto the bed. The headboard reverberated.

  ‘Who is Cornfed?’

  Despite the impact, despite the panic, he managed a chuckle. ‘You think it’s a person? An actual guy?’

  ‘I’ll ask you once more – who is Cornfed?’

  ‘Cornfed’s not a who, it’s a what.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A code name. Shorthand. It’s what Riley and me say when we want the Good Stuff.’

  ‘Good stuff?’

  ‘Yeah. It goes by a million names, that’s one of them. Smack. Junk. Heroin. The big stuff.’

  A bell rang out somewhere in Georgia’s head – shrill, not sonorous. ‘Heroin? Cornfed is heroin?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘But Stephanie… When she talked about Cornfed, she mentioned…’ Georgia’s hand went to her mouth. ‘She was taking it? Stephanie was taking heroin?’

  ‘She took it, and she took to it, like the big beautiful goose she was, taking to water.’

  ‘You’re kidding. That can’t be right, it can’t be.’

  ‘One hit is all it takes for some. Wouldn’t touch it, myself. It was Riley’s game for a while, but he was never a serious player. Tried it, loved it, didn’t get over his head. Like those tits who tell you they only smoke on a night out. He got her into it. She liked the romance of it, he said. She thought she was like some beat poet in Paris or something. When in fact, all she was, from the get-go, was a fucking junkie. Don’t you know this? Don’t the police tell you anything?’

  ‘No… My God, no.’

  ‘It’s true. Cornfed is the gear. And she was on it. Now… I think I’d like to go home.’ He yawned. ‘You’re not really going to roll the caravan into the reservoir, are you?’

  Georgia cracked one of the blackout curtains; streetlighting came in like a kick in the balls. They weren’t up at the reservoir. They were in fact in Georgia’s room. ‘I’ll call you a cab, Scott. Thanks for another lovely night. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep, yes?’

  24

  When an angel sleeps

  They stay afloat, somehow,

  Wings folded, head resting on one shoulder,

  But eyes wide open, rolled back

  And then suddenly they’re bent double,

  Halfway between death and heaven

  Untitled poem, by Stephanie Healey

  Georgia yawned, jaw cracking. Long day. Long couple of days. ‘The big man would have found this ironic,’ she muttered, starting the car.

  There was an unse
asonal bite in the air, a poison pen letter from winter where she reminded you in no uncertain terms what would happen once she was back. Uncertain about exactly where she was going, she turned on the satnav, cringing a little at the high volume as she made her way along quiet streets.

  Bewley Street, like just about everywhere else, had attained a kind of respectability in recent years. It was a legal enclave, lots of double- and triple-barrelled names attached to signs, brass plates on the doors, high windows and closed curtains. Georgia remembered a lot of these old Victorian town houses had been run-down; one had even burnt out one night while she was a student here. The developers had come in, and the scuzz had gone out. The one notable exception was the girls standing under the streetlights at the wall.

  This was the place she had come to the other night in the midst of her ravings, an event she saw more as a dream rather than something that had actually taken place. Somewhere that was the punchline to a million smutty jokes by knock-kneed young men, usually with a woman on the receiving end. Bewley Street… She’s off to Bewley Street to make up the rent this month… Sure I saw her getting kicked out a car on Bewley Street… So on and so forth. The wall itself was behind a brick wall topped off with glass shards – Georgia always wanted to meet the people who designed such things – which hid a massive electricity substation from view.

  Along a row of streetlights that lit up the ruddy-faced façade, the women stood in full view.

  Not knowing where to start, Georgia picked the first one. It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was – she was pretty, and horribly young. High cheekbones and a clear brow; it might have been the face of a waitress, or someone serving you at an expensive bar. The girl frowned when Georgia came to a stop and opened the window.

  ‘This a joke or something?’ Local accent. A real edge on it.

  Georgia cleared her throat. ‘I’m looking for someone. It’s…’

  She pulled out the picture from her bag, but before she could introduce her daughter, the girl said: ‘Sorry, can’t help you,’ and began to step back.