'SHUT UP!'
He shook me, hard. 'I ought to smash your fucking face in. It took a lot of organising to get those fucking trousers, you hear me?'
I nodded, but my mind was racing.
Trousers?
'And now she's dumped me as well, and the boss has sacked me, and it's your fucking fault for sticking your fucking nose in. Where the fuck are they anyway?'
He gave me another shake. 'Where are what?' I cried.
'The leather fucking trousers!'
I stared at him. It wasn't the assassin! It was the boyfriend. The Case of Mrs Geary's Leather Trousers back to haunt me. I couldn't help myself. I laughed right in his face.
'Nobody wanted them! I threw them out! They cut the hole off me!'
He slapped me again, but it didn't matter! He wasn't going to kill me over a pair of bloody trousers. I was alive! I had a future!
'You fucking little shit! Where's your wallet?' He pulled open my jacket and reached inside. He pulled out my leather wallet and opened it. 'Is that it?' he growled.
'I live frugally,' I said.
'Into the fucking shop, open the fucking till or I swear to—'
'There's nothing there! I went to the night drop at the bank hours ago!'
'You're a fucking liar!'
'I'm not, I'm not, you can check if you want!'
He let out an anguished yell. 'I've lost my girl, I've lost my job, and now you've no fucking money?' He grabbed suddenly at my other pockets. 'Tell you what I'm going to do,' he spat, pulling out my van keys. 'I'm going to take your fucking wheels, man. Now they're my wheels. And if you go near the cops with this, if you squeal to anyone, I'm going to come back and I'm going to burn your fucking shop out with you fucking in it, do you hear me?'
'Yes! Take it!'
He pushed himself up and off me. I turned to one side, coughing. He could have the wheels. I was alive. The No Alibis van was three years past its MOT date and its tyres were threadbare. It was a death trap.
He jabbed a farewell finger at me. 'I'm fucking warning you!'
I just smiled stupidly at him. As he disappeared round the corner I lay back on the gravel and glass, breathing hard, and laughed and laughed.
31
I like the night, always have. I've never been scared of the dark, and quite often prefer it. I particularly like the streets at night. I like the idea of being able to walk and not be seen, or if seen, not in detail. People examine people too much. My creative writing guru Brendan Coyle thought he'd come up with something unique in describing the writer's muscle, but he was just putting into words what everybody does every second of every minute of every day anyway: they look at other people and they judge. The sexy girl, the old man, the fat thighs, the dodgy hairstyle. I don't like people looking at me and thinking anything. The night suits me: hood up; nail out; I walk for miles.
I stand behind trees.
Just stand.
This city has changed so much. It used to be divided, now it's divided into quarters. War zone to gentrification. T.B. Sheets to continental quilts.
In the night I have watched badgers snuffle and foxes quest. Sleeked cats. I have listened to lovers' tiffs and secret singers. I have haunted deserted mansions and paced wet-plastered new builds. I have written Please Clean Me in the grime of white vans and put nuts on neglected bird tables. I have imitated Spitfires on manicured lawns and pruned roses while gardeners slept. I have felt the dew settle.
Never once arrested for loitering with intent, for Peeping Tomness, never once threatened with an exclusion order, or probation, or made the subject of a curfew or community service.
Lately I have stood in the shadows close to Alison's house and watched her move from room to room. I have seen the effort she puts into her art. I have watched her lose herself in thought while cooking and then listened to her tantrum at her burned dinner. I have watched for her lovers and found none, and I have pondered for hours why she chose me.
That night, after the attack, I could easily have knocked on her door. I bruise up easily and well. And I had my story prepared. As soon as Alison finished peppering my poor face with kisses I could give a blow-by-blow account of my battle to hold on to the No Alibis van. I look bad, but you should see the other guy. I would have made a citizen's arrest but the sneaky bastard blindsided me; before I could recover he had the keys and was away.
But I didn't. I watched. I made mental notes of the cars parked around. I didn't locate any personalised number plates.
I am not odd. I am protecting her. Who else is going to do it? I could have been in there with her, but you cannot look from light into dark, you cannot see the devil coming. If you dwell in the darkness, you can see in the dark, and look into the light. But in choosing the darkness, you know you are destined to walk alone.
I walked home. It was a little after three a.m. on a summer's morning and a hint of the approaching dawn was already in the night sky. In the old days there would have been milk floats.
I was tired. If I was lucky, once I'd jotted down the number plates stored in my head, there would be a couple of hours' sleep.
Tired and stupid.
My earlier fight in the alley should have taught me to be alert at all times, but particularly when approaching places where I was expected to be. When I got to my corner, I should have held back and checked the plates, and the doorways, or gone in the back way, but I just walked straight up, yawning, and failed to spot that there was someone in the car parked directly outside my front door.
I was just reaching for my key when a voice said, 'You're out late.'
It shook me. I turned slowly, fearing the worst.
DI Robinson was just climbing out of the car.
Christ.
'Out for a walk,' I said.
He nodded towards the house. 'I tried the bell, but nobody answered.'
'She'll be asleep.'
'That's . . . Alison?'
'My mother.'
'I rang for a long time.'
'She won't answer the door after dark. What are you doing here?'
'Wanted a chat.'
'It's very late.'
'You're the one out walking. We should go inside.'
I looked up at my home. I was trying to remember the state of it and if there was anything lying around that might disturb him. But no, I'm pretty careful. I nodded, and he followed me up the steps. I opened the door and led him down the hall and into the kitchen. I indicated for him to sit at the table. I filled the kettle and stood facing away from him while I waited for it to boil.
'You have books everywhere,' he observed. 'You can't have read them all.'
'Most,' I said.
'I'd never get any work done,' he said.
'It is my work. You would expect a surgeon to keep up to date with the latest developments. And a stockbroker to keep an eye on the markets.'
When I turned with two coffees, he got his first proper look at me in the light.
'Been in a fight?' he asked.
'Yes,' I said, 'with a door. A bit clumsy'
'Look like you've been in a fight.'
'You should see the door.'
'I enjoyed looking at your limited editions earlier. I like the shop. Did anything unusual happen after I left?'
'Like what?'
'You tell me.'
I sat at the table and stirred my coffee. He knew something. He knew that I knew he knew something. But I had started with a lie and was prepared to see it through.
He studied me. Maybe he had overheard more than I thought last night and it had just taken a while to distil itself into a theory. Perhaps he'd found the missing file on Rosemary and realised there was a connection.
'Where's your van?' DI Robinson asked suddenly.
'Gone,' I said quickly. 'For scrap.'
'Scrap? Why would you do that?'
'Because it was old and decrepit and useless. It kept breaking down. And I haven't the sense to fix it myself. It was costing me a fortune.'
'Yeah, he only collected it later on.'
'Who he?'
'No idea. Someone who heard on the grapevine I was looking to get rid of it.'
'How much did he pay you for it?'
'He didn't. I gave it to him. It would have cost me more than it was worth to have it towed away, so he came and took it off my hands.'
'It didn't look that bad.'
'The paint job was holding it together. Riddled with rust. Why are you so interested in my van at three in the morning?'
'A couple of hours ago I got called out to a park in West Belfast. There was a van on fire. Real inferno. Your number plates.'
'So he got rid of it. I would have thought you were a bit above attending burning vehicles.'
'Thing is, there was someone in the front seat.'
'Someone in the front seat? You mean . . . ?'
'Dead in the front seat. Burned to a crisp.'
He didn't say anything for really quite a long, long time. It might only have been seconds, but when there's a feeling of dread growing on you it can feel like an eternity. He kept looking at me. I kept my gaze steady in return, although hopefully not mad steady. I think I'm quite difficult to read. Inside everything was racing. Dead? Burned to a crisp? How was that possible? Only a couple of hours ago he . . .
I knew how it was possible. I absolutely knew.
'Some of my colleagues checked the plates, made the connection, called me in. I took a look at the guy and guessed it wasn't you, wrong body shape.'
'Was he murdered?'
'Why do you ask?'
'It seems like a natural thing to ask. Was it an accident?'
'Too early to say. An accident. Suicide. Murder. It just seems to me like death is following you around.'
I took a sip of my coffee. 'I don't know about that.'
'Malcolm Carlyle. This guy. Is there anything you want to tell me, because it might save a lot of time and effort and do you some good in the end.'
It would have been easy to tell him about the guy who had stolen Mrs Geary's leather trousers, about the real reason I'd invited him, a cop, to the book sale, about Mark Mayerova, and Anne Mayerova, and the concentration camp, and the disappearance of Rosemary Trevor, and the death of Manfredd, and my discovery of Malcolm Carlyle. But I couldn't tell him. Because he was right. Death was following me around, and if he knew the full extent of the violence, sitting where he was sitting, I was the obvious, easy connection. He proved as much with his next question.
'So where were you tonight, one a.m.?'
'Alison's.'
'Your girlfriend?'
'I just looked in on her.'
'She'll corroborate.'
'If she knows what's good for her.'
'You think this is funny?'
'No. Sorry. I'm just . . . shocked. I was only talking to the guy a couple of hours ago. Presuming it's him. And he's dead? Jesus.'
'I'll be talking to the pathologist in the morning. I'll be wanting a statement from you anyway about how he came by the van. But I'd think about things if I were you. There's something going on that doesn't feel right. I know you get off on your little cases, but sometimes when you throw a stone in a pond there are ripples, and when it sinks to the floor it kicks up a lot of dirt. Do you know what I mean?'
I nodded.
He got up. 'Thanks for the coffee. And apologise to your mother for the disturbance.'
Apologising to Mother. That would be a first.
I sat in the darkness of the front room for a long time and watched the street outside. Leather Trouser guy had been angry, he'd lost his girl and his job and was short of money. But he had not seemed suicidal. Unless the dire state of the van had been enough to finally tip him over the edge. No – he had been murdered. The killer had presumed it was me in the van, had followed it and torched it but made the basic error of not actually checking for sure that it really was me. I had a period of grace, when he would think that he had done his job. At least until the police released the identity of the victim. Then it would start all over again. There was no longer any doubt.
I had known this as soon as DI Robinson told me. So why hadn't I confessed all? Weren't my fears of being framed for murder based on nothing much? Why, when I was allergic to stress, was I making a point of encouraging it? How many warnings did I need?
There were no answers. There was just something dragging me along. Something unknown. The victim inside me.
I phoned Alison. She answered groggily. 'Brian?'
After a moment I said, 'Who's Brian?'
'What? Hold on, who . . . oh. I'm sorry. Asleep. Dreaming. What time is it? What's wrong?'
'I need a favour.'
'At . . . six fifteen?'
'If anyone asks, I was with you tonight.'
'Anyone?' She sounded more together. 'Who's going to ask, the postman?'
'No . . . you know. Something's happened.'
'What?' Not only together, but alert. 'What's happened?'
Concern. I liked it. I told her about leaving the shop, and getting jumped, and fighting to save my van, but losing, and being upset about it, and going for a walk and losing track of time, and coming home to the news that my assailant had been burned to death and DI Robinson suspected me of murder and I had no alibi. 'But you know I wouldn't hurt a fly,' I said.
'I know you wouldn't. Of course you can say you were here. If he asks I'll tell him we made love for hours on end.'
'Who's Brian?' I asked.
'My husband,' she said.
32
'When I was twelve I was bitten by an earwig. I hoped it might have been radioactive. I spent several months thinking that I might turn into Earwigman.'
'What special powers would Earwigman have?'
'Big pincers. Flight. And I could crawl into the ears of my enemies and lay eggs.'
'If you're trying to inspire me to a new comic creation, I'm afraid you're well wide of the mark. I'm into gritty reality.'
Well, she had it.
In spades.
And talking of spades, that's exactly what we could have used, if we'd been so inclined, to dig a big hole and bury ourselves, or had we done that already? We were on the beach. Fourteen miles from Belfast, her little car sitting on the sand. No Alibis was shuttered, and my only feeble excuse was that there was a killer on the loose with my name in his little black book. It was the first time the shop hadn't opened on time since I'd gone into business by myself. Mother was always angry that her prediction that I'd be out of business in six months hadn't come to pass. I was so determined to prove her wrong. I thought that if I once weakened, and began to close up at every sign of illness or on every Blue Monday, a creeping lethargy would irrevocably lead to the fulfilment of her prophecy. Yet here we were, thoughts of bookselling a million miles away, crowded out by paranoia, confusion and jealousy.
I hate beaches. I hate sand in things. Alison wanted to get out and walk, but I insisted on staying. I wasn't just thinking of the sand. I was thinking about telescopic sights and the end of Get Carter. I also hated the fact that she was married to someone called Brian, and had previously had sex with him, and perhaps recently as well.
She said, 'How do you think someone as pretty as I am could get to my age without being married?
I shrugged.
'Wait'll you meet the kids,' she said.
She was funny, but I'd a face like the Tomb of Ligeia. I hated Brian, but I wasn't scared of him. I was scared of someone trying to kill me. I could not reopen the shop unless I had some kind of security. I could not walk home. I could barely risk crossing from the shop to a waiting taxi for fear of someone taking me out before I got inside. And what if the taxi driver turned out to be the killer? That was how the Shankill Butchers had done it. Or what if the taxi itself was an evil Transformer? Alison, on the other hand, could probably fend for herself. She had hands and feet that could kill. My hands were brittle, and unless my Nazi assassin was allergic to
verrucas then my feet were useless as well. I was utterly defenceless.
'In America,' I said, 'people don't have verrucas.'
She looked at me, eyes scrunched up. 'What?'
'They call them plantar warts. Same thing, but confusing.'
'Alison calling Planet Earth, are you receiving me? We're here, lovely beach, sunny morning, we should walk and talk this through.'
'Which through?'
'Whatever you want. Me and Brian. You and your ability to attract mayhem and death. Depends which you think is the most relevant.'
'When I was younger I had this recurring nightmare where I was forced to count the grains of sand on a beach. I've been wary of them ever since.'
The real problem was that ever since, whenever I see a beach, I get tempted to attempt it. But I would have needed someone to stop the tide, because it could really bugger things up.
'Do you know something? I think you've been saying no to things for too long. It's just a walk on the beach, you know? Have you ever skied?'
'What? No, of course not.'
'Climbed a mountain?'
'No.'
'Run naked through a field of corn?'
'No.'
'Hurled eggs at an Ulsterbus?'
'No. Of course not.'
'Man, dear, you only live once. Do you know what I think? I think you're like a bottle of Coke someone shakes once in a while. There's turmoil in there . . .' and she poked me gently in the chest, 'and I bet you would just explode into life if someone came along and took your top off.'
There were dog-walkers carrying bags of crap dotted about the sand. A teenager in a rubber suit was carrying a surfboard and sail towards the waves. Elderly couples were taking their constitutionals on the promenade.
'Brian came along and took your top off.'
She sighed. 'Yes. Amongst other things.' She shook her head. 'Look at you, you look hurt by that. Do you expect all of your women to be virgins or something?'
I liked the phrase all of my women. It was so ridiculous.
'No,' I said. 'That would be unrealistic.'
We stared ahead for a little while. Then she blew air out of her cheeks, opened her door and snapped, 'Well, I'm going for a walk. Are you coming?'
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