by Bill James
But she walked quickly past him across the room towards the closed door. For a moment, fear of what she might see on the other side paralysed her and she stood in front of it, defeated. Then, somehow, she forced herself to subdue the dread and reached out and pulled the door fully open. The floor of the corridor was grey tiles and she saw a broad, smudged and broken red line leading along them, like evening cloud pushed about by wind, as if blood had dropped from one or both of the injured man’s wounds and then been spread by his dragging knees and feet. Perhaps Ralph had seen something similar, but less clear, on the carpet in the dark. The line of blood led past the Gents and Ladies to the end of the corridor, where a fire exit had been opened. The doors still stood ajar, and beyond she saw a dark yard.
Before terror could disable her again, she went forward, walking awkwardly, one foot on each side of the red trail, like a child avoiding lines in pavement stones. As she neared the door, she became aware of Ian again, following a little way behind. He did not speak, perhaps troubled that she was out alone in front.
She stopped at the open fire doors. The yard lay beyond, black and impenetrable except for a little patch immediately ahead, reached by light from the corridor. She thought she could make out some parked cars, or perhaps wrecks, and possibly a builder’s rubble container, but nothing was clear, and the boldness that had brought her this far suddenly began to shrink, just as her courage had wobbled inside the club. Although she still worried about the injured man, and felt indignation that everybody except her wanted to ignore what had happened, she could not bring herself to step out into the darkness of the yards and look for the group. Fear had made a brilliant and total and disgusting comeback. She listened for the laboured breathing but cars were passing not far away and she heard nothing above their engines. In any case, he might not be breathing at all any longer. ‘Tell Ralph to get his flashlight,’ she said, turning to Ian. She saw then that Ralph had come into the corridor, too, and was not far behind him, still looking angry and very tense. ‘Or can you put yard lights on? You’re good with switches, Ralph.’
He pushed swiftly past Ian and her and pulled the doors closed. ‘You’ve done remarkably well,’ he said. ‘Best leave it, now, though, don’t you think?’
Ian took her arm to lead her back to the bar. ‘The stuff on the floor,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see it, what it is?’ She had begun to cry.
‘It’ll swab out, no problem,’ Ralph replied.
‘A little water clears us of this deed,’ she said.
‘What?’ Ian asked.
‘A quotation Desmond spouts sometimes.’
‘Now, what about that brandy?’ Ralph boomed, a lovely, mine host smile in his voice.
Ian still had her gently by the arm ‘Yes, come on, Sarah.’ She began to move with him, back towards the bar. ‘What does it mean?’ Ian said.
‘That’s what I wanted you to tell me.’
‘I’m talking about the quotation. What’s it saying – the little water? He’s got some reading, then, your husband. Is he like those detectives in novels, always able to get a classical reference in when he’s discussing burglaries and money with menaces?’
Ralph put the brandies on the bar. ‘Did you say with water?’
‘No, we were talking about something else.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Sarah hissed at him. ‘I meant swabbing out the blood and swabbing out all trace and memory of what’s just gone on here, Ralph.’
‘Nothing’s gone on here. Whatever happened had happened before they arrived. They were just passing through. That’s obvious. Absolutely nothing took place here.’
‘Ralph, you sound like a hypnotist,’ she said. ‘I want to sit down.’ Ian picked up the drinks and they went back to their table. She took a good gulp of the brandy. It tasted smooth and helpful. Ralph must have produced his best. This was a special moment. Only a few people were left in the bar and he served them now with whatever they asked for. The place became almost lively again, in its own seedy way. There was some relieved, edgy laughter from a couple of men she had seen here often before and spoken with briefly once or twice.
For some reason, Ian wanted to continue talking about Desmond, perhaps to take her mind off the injured man and the others. ‘I don’t really get it with you, Sarah. Never have. Powerful, educated husband, and look at you – Mrs Desmond Iles, nay, Mrs Assistant Chief Constable Iles, down town again among the dross and dawdlers while her better half’s at home alone sipping Bovril and reading worthy books. How did it happen, Sarah?’
Her mind was still on the dark, outside yard, preoccupied with trying to gauge why she had turned away, and with trying to rediscover her bits of courage so she could try again, but she said: ‘Look, Ian, there’s a hell of a lot about him that’s great, yes, a lot that’s magic.’ She realized she was jumping rather too fast to defend him, as if she felt he needed it.
‘Don’t I know? You’re not one to pick a nobody.’
‘Ian, I don’t want stupid jokes about Desmond or snide talk.’
‘No, of course, of course. But –’
‘Things can die. Have you ever lived with anybody, I mean for years?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘It can work, obviously.’
Well, look at the Queen,’ he said.
‘Maybe if we’d had kids –’
‘He didn’t want that?’
‘You know that instruction on medicine bottles, “Keep away from children”? Des always says he will.’
‘Yes, but –’
She began to find this conversation painful. ‘Look, Ian, I don’t know why, but I’m here. That’s how it is. Let’s leave it?’ And that’s how it had to be. Ian was too genial and sharp-eyed to keep on at her. These were a further couple of the qualities that kept bringing her back to him and the Monty, although half a dozen times or more she had tried to finish it all. He was probably as tough as any of them in the club – but not crooked, he assured her, again and again of that, and she had to believe him – yet he could sense in a moment how she felt and would be careful not to hurt her. It was a change from home. Des would not hurt her, either, not deliberately, but over the years there had been too many times when he failed to see what pain he gave, and how bleak and lifeless things between them had become. That damage was done now, was part of her like a scar, and she did not feel committed enough or interested enough any longer to try to put it right. And so, Ian and the Monty.
She heard Ralph drawing water from the bar tap, and in a moment he came out with a bucket and mop and went to the corridor where the blood trail lay, softly whistling In a Monastery Garden.
Perhaps Ian would have been as considerate with any woman he liked going to bed with, but she could convince herself sometimes that it was only for her. She had grown very nifty lately at persuading herself to believe what she needed to believe, and although that sort of comfort never lasted, which sort did?
All the same, what had happened tonight stirred her uneasiness about the Monty. The disaster she had always feared might have come a little closer. ‘Ian, wouldn’t it be better if we met elsewhere?’
‘The Monty’s part of me.’
‘It’s got to be dangerous for you – I mean, us two together all the time.’
‘Because they want you, too? I suppose so. Yes, you’re a cracker, Sarah.’
‘Fool. No. Just imagine a prize project goes badly wrong for them one day. Say the police are waiting, an ambush. It happens. The lads here start wondering who’s the leak, and your name floats to the top. It would.’
‘No. I don’t know about their projects, never have, not just because of you. I don’t want to. I drink here because I’ve drunk here from the old days, when the Monty was something else. Why should I let them muck up my way of life?’
‘Love me, love the Monty, even if it is tainted?’ she asked. Christ, but she must get a look at that yard, at the rubble container out there and the rest.
‘Sa
rah, sweetie, calm down,’ Ian said. ‘If there’s ever the threat of trouble, I’ll pick up early warnings and disappear, don’t worry. Ralph would hear and tip me. He’s not just owner of this place, he’s a mate.’
She said something then which, when she thought about it very soon afterwards, looked to contain a fair degree of clairvoyance. ‘Oh, Christ, Ian, you know as well as I do, there are villains in this patch who could scare Ralph dumb, terrify even him. He’s still got both eyes and pretty kids. They come first. He wouldn’t want more damage.’
He laughed. ‘Some black picture of the world! We’re not New York or even Peckham.’
‘Des says it’s harder every day to tell the difference.’
‘Police hype. To get their pay up.’
‘What did he mean, Ian, the injured man? “A silver day?”’
‘Search me. Delirious?’
‘It could be. And “in case”. In case of what? In case he dies?’
‘Might be,’ Ian said, ‘but Ralph’s got to be right, hasn’t he? It’s obvious something had gone on earlier.’
From the corridor came the healthy, cheerful slap of the mop on the tiles, and Ralph began to let in a bit of tremolo to his whistling. Nearer, there was the nice sound of pool balls clipping one another, and people had begun talking again, even laughing. Everyone appreciated getting back to normality.
Sarah took another drop of brandy. ‘I hate it when people keep saying something’s obvious. It’s because it’s not.’ But she felt the drink begin to work real comfort on her now, doing just what it had lain waiting in the bottle over all the years improving itself for, smoothing the spiky bits of life, melting trouble and truth away for a time, warming the facts until they melted into something else. She sensed her determination to look outside in the yard begin to fade and she was sliding fast again towards a convenient agreement with Ralph and Ian. They did have a case. It might be easier and simpler, more mature, to let what had taken place fade in her mind. She should not be here and should not have seen it, whatever it was, so she had not seen it. Yes, just close your eyes.
‘Sarah, I told him to do the lights because, well, I just thought it would be better all round if you saw as little as possible,’ Ian said. ‘Occasionally, it can be more comfortable like that. I mean, for you, as much as anyone.’
‘Yes, I understand.’ As sometimes happened, she began to grow bored with the Monty, its stresses, its concealments, its less than half-truths. ‘Ian, can we go to your place now?’
He laughed. ‘A minute ago you insisted on staying.’
‘I want you.’
‘I wish you’d contain yourself.’
‘Now I want to contain you.’
What he called ‘rough talk’ always embarrassed him, which made her use it more. He reddened and glanced about, then whispered, ‘Sarah, I –’
‘Sorry, I forget they’re all angels and shockable virgins here.’ She leaned into him on the bench and turned her hand over, to lace her fingers with his. Often in this grubby den she could be as happy as she ever remembered being, happier than since the very earliest days with Des. Ralph, returning to the bar, gave them his fulsome, marriage-broker smile, the old knife scar from under his ear and two or three inches along the jaw-bone looking very pale and creamy in the subdued light, like a line of mayonnaise on a plate rim.
‘We’ll go soon, now,’ Ian said. ‘Not quite yet. Things have changed. I don’t want it to look as if we’re deserting Ralph after the bother, like those other two creeps.’
‘No.’ That would be one of those important male considerations: the compulsion not just to be loyal but to show the loyalty. In a way it was admirable, and came from real sensitivity. Sensitivity could stop, though, when the person needing it was not regarded as a friend, no matter how bad a state he might be in. Did anyone expect sensitivity to reach a lavatory corridor or an unlit yard? Men laughed at women’s inconsistencies, but they weren’t all that hot themselves. Anyway, she did not prize consistency very much. Who wanted to be consistently wrong?
‘One more drink,’ Ian said. He went to the handsome old mahogany bar, with its beautiful brass inlay and lovely, original beer handles, and began chatting and laughing with Ralph as if everything was as well as it could possibly be. Monty’s had a good history. Once, apparently, it had been a select meeting place for businessmen, but now business had moved out to the high-tech industrial estates, and this district was entering its second decade of inner city dereliction. Men like Ralph were part of the new scene, maybe men like Ian, too.
She watched the two of them, clearly comfortable with each other, and felt almost envious of the ease and quickness of their conversation. She felt, too, a worry that came her way continually, despite all Ian’s assurances: how had he got himself so well in with these sharp-clawed, cagey people? Ralph guffawed at something Ian said and thumped the bar with his fist, in delight. Nice. Such understanding between them. Perhaps Ralph really would look after him if the worst happened. Her doubts might be only the cynicism picked up as a cop wife. All the same, big laughs cost nothing. Comradeship came and went, like happiness, unless it was trained into you, grained into you, the way the police did things: canteen culture.
Watching them, she felt excluded, even resentful, and suddenly realized that the niggling, persistent wish to know the truth was edging its way back again, subduing the brandy and the boredom, and even the fear. She had to smash that shady, smug alliance between the two men. In any case, she never reacted very well to restrictions. After all, social considerations would say she should not be in the Monty at all, but she was. Now, though, she felt irked by the club’s own particular inhibitions, couldn’t swallow these, either. ‘Listen, Ralph, sorry about this, but I’m still bothered. May we borrow your flashlight?’ she asked.
‘But for what?’ he said.
‘I’d really like to have a look at that yard. The rubble container.’
‘The builder’s skip? Why? Nothing out there,’ Ralph said. ‘They’ll be miles away. I heard a car.’
‘Not all of them might be miles away.’
Ian was embarrassed. ‘Once she’s got her teeth into something.’
‘This is stupid,’ Ralph said.
‘Can I borrow it?’ she asked.
Ralph looked sullen and tried to sound untroubled. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Thanks, Ralph.’ She stood up at once and took the flashlight from him across the bar. Again she led into the lavatory corridor and again Ian came sheepishly behind her. She pushed the fire doors open and, switching on the beam, stepped out into the yard.
‘What are you hoping to find, Sarah?’ Ian put a hand on her wrist and helped direct the light slowly around, taking in a couple of vandalized, decaying cars and a newish-looking Montego that might be Ralph’s. They all seemed empty. Ian said: ‘Who’d hang about in a place like –?’
‘Hush,’ Sarah told him. She was listening for the appalling din of the injured man dredging into himself for breath, but heard nothing except occasional traffic and the gentle rush and rustle of a few sheets of newspaper whisked by the wind across the yard surface. The beam reached the loaded rubble container and she kept it there, resisting the slight pressure on her wrist from Ian to move it on. ‘Let’s go closer, Ian.’ She began to walk.
‘Debris. Ralph’s having some outhouses cleared, that’s all. They weren’t safe.’
‘I’d like to look.’ She felt as she had felt earlier, afraid, crazily pushy, weak in the legs, wanting to give it all a miss, and determined to keep going and to find out what was wrong. Schizo? Maybe. But sometimes she understood why she had married the police.
They stood alongside the builder’s skip, leaning on the side, like languid passengers at the rail of a liner, and she shone the flashlight in. The acrid, depressing smell of rubble and rotten wood hit her and she gazed at old beams, clusters of bricks held together by ancient mortar, slates, splintered rafters. A couple of wooden doors lay on top, overlapping each other an
d making it hard to see very far in. She reached out with her free hand and tried to shift one of the doors to the side, but it would not budge.
‘What? Have you seen something?’ Ian asked.
‘Can we move it together?’
‘Sarah, what for? We’re going to get filthy.’
She put the flashlight out and placed it on the ground, to make two hands available. ‘Come on,’ she said and took hold of one of the doors.
‘This is mad.’ He gripped it with her, though, and they shoved. The door slid a little towards the far edge of the skip and the other one moved with it.
‘A bit more,’ she said. They had to lean over further to push again. The doors moved, though much less this time because the top one came up against the skip’s far side. ‘Right.’ She stood back and bent down to pick up the flashlight, then switched it on again and hung over the edge, letting the beam reach now into the heart of the container. Her own breathing felt tight. Ian gazed with her.
‘So?’ he said.
Still leaning over, she moved the whole length of the skip, the light still searching. She switched off and turned to face him. ‘All right. Nothing. Nothing but your genuine rubbish. There might have been.’
‘Like?’
‘You know what like.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Honestly, Sarah, I –’
Ralph called from the fire-door exit. ‘What the hell are you two doing? Looking for treasure? Come on back in before you hurt yourselves.’
‘Yes, we’re coming,’ Ian said.
‘No, let’s go to your place now, Ian. I’ve had enough here.’ She took his arm.
‘Why not?’
In his bed a little later they tried to put aside the events at the Monty and she said: ‘This is no fly-by-night, empty affair. Don’t think I don’t know exactly what I love in you, Ian Aston.’
‘God, what’s that mean, all the don’ts?’
‘And not just your hands, although your hands seem to know everything there is to know about – Oh, your hands can put everything right, can’t they? Like now. Yes, yes, just like now.’ She knew she was grinning with pleasure like an idiot at what he was doing to her. One day she must start working on efforts to ration her responsiveness with him: it was such a give-away. ‘Your hands are good, and all the rest of it, but it’s not everything.’ Her own hands reached out silkily under the clothes to him.
