Maloney's Law

by Anne Brooke

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, go on, if there’s something else on your mind — apart from warnings about jumping out of Egyptian buildings and not going to the doctor — let’s hear it.’

  There’s a silence then she says, ‘It wasn’t anything special. All I was going to say was I’m having Sunday lunch with my parents tomorrow. Do you want to come? They’ll be thrilled to see you.’

  ‘A plan to cheer me up by putting me into a family that works?’

  ‘No. It’s not like that, I was just—’

  ‘Yes, I know. I was trying to be light-hearted, but it failed. Sorry. It sounds like my idea of happiness. I’m up for it, thanks.’

  At the door, I make arrangements to pick Jade up in the morning. As I drive home, out of all the factors I can puzzle over, I choose to focus again on why someone with her looks and heart doesn’t have a regular partner. Or any kind of partner at all.

  In the kitchen, the sunlight is fading. When I get up to turn on the overhead light, my knees creak and my neck aches. Too much time spent peering at the laptop, trying to make sense of the information I’ve uploaded from the Delta Egypt CD. I stretch my muscles in the darkness before heading for the switch. It’s part of my business to spend hours going over and over the same facts or following the same person until suddenly the key will fit or the one tiny piece of the jigsaw will cry out to you and you’ll see something no-one else wanted you to see. That’s the kick, that’s what keeps me going.

  It’s not going to happen tonight. Four hours and fifty-two minutes of studying the facts, and I am nowhere near the door, let alone the key. The jigsaw is still just a mass of colours and shapes that make no sense.

  Only one thing for it. Time for a whisky. But which one? The glass sparkles in my hand, and I smile. It’s not necessary, but I wash and dry the tumbler. Slowly, as if every centimetre of it counts. The traffic outside is thinning, with just one or two groups of teenagers skulking and smoking at the corners where the shadows begin and two or three women wheeling their prams on the other side of the road to avoid them.

  I put the glass on the middle of the table, moving the laptop to one side to allow it room.

  I open the kitchen drinks cupboard and study the three choices of whisky currently in the flat, though from preference I’d rather have four. First there’s the Glenfiddich, as light as water in colour, but with a smell to it of barley and honey and the deep taste of malt. A whisky for early summer evenings that promise the full heat of the days to come. It’s not for now. Behind it, the Highland Park glistens amber, and if I open it I know the smell of medicine and smoke will envelop me, and the taste once taken will be full and sweet. It’s the drink for when I’m tired or ill. Not too strong and not too weak; it knows where I am and how to reach me. The perfect answer? No, still it’s not quite right. Last of all is The Macallan, rarely opened, its rich toffee glow hinting of secrets not yet understood, not yet known. Yes, this is the one. As I release it, the smell of new leather and dark Spanish sherry settles around me, and I pour a double measure, more, into my waiting glass. The golden liquid swings round, marking its place, waiting for me, calling. I take one deep breath of it, two, and I could already be swimming in its tempting river. My heart beats faster. My skin feels hot.

  I savour the first, the best, sip, and the pungent wave of whisky sweeps me away from all lingering thoughts. I could almost be flying.

  It’s too good for the kitchen with its smell of stale cooking and damp. So, anticipating my next sip but holding out just a little longer, just a little, I power down my laptop and take the glass and myself into the living room.

  The next sip tastes even more powerful. It reminds me of the man who bought it for me. It takes me back to Dominic and the very beginning of it all.

  Friday 12 May, 2000. I’d been working for one of my regular clients, a local insurance company, and had carried out surveillance on a bloke who was suing their insured for tens of thousands of pounds. For alleged injuries caused by non-maintenance of the drills he had to use on the road. Load of old baloney. I’d filmed him at least six times pounding away on the running machines at the gym, the idiot, and the case fell apart. One of my most satisfying moments, work-wise, and one of the most lucrative, too. My client had been grateful enough to wangle me an invite to their posh summer do in the City and, as Jade had been nagging me for ages to get out and meet more people, in the end I’d gone along. Taken her with me, too. I’m not one of those who likes to flaunt his sexuality. What’s private is private.

  When we arrived, the party was seething with suits and sparkle, canapés and champagne, and Jade’s eyes shone in the glow.

  ‘Hey,’ I whispered. ‘Bet you’re glad you’re best friends with this old queen now, aren’t you?’

  She giggled, and the next thing I knew we were engulfed in a tide of laughter, glasses, and talking to strangers. Jade disappeared, and I didn’t see her again to talk to until we both left at 1.15am. In the glimpses I had, she was laughing or dancing.

  After nearly thirty minutes, I’d said the same things to at least twelve people I’d never meet again and spoken twice to my client. Pushing my way through the crowd and seeing a side door marked “No Exit”, I opened it and slipped out into the clarity of the night air.

  At once the heat and brightness of the hotel was cut off, and I breathed in deeply, filling myself with the relative silence you get in the City sometimes. As far as I could tell, I was in a small garden, lavender and rosemary from the faint traces of scent. I’ve always thought that, at times like that, you needed a smoke, even if you were in the early stages of trying to give the demon up, and so I retrieved my emergency pack from my jacket and started to search for the lighter.

  No luck.

  ‘Damn,’ I muttered.

  A rustling sound to my left and one of the shadows detached itself from the hedge, fire flashing at its centre.

  ‘Here,’ said a voice, male, powerful, older. ‘Allow me.’

  I lowered my cigarette to the flame he offered and took a quick first drag. ‘Thanks. I’m trying to give them up.’

  ‘So I see.’

  He took out a cigarette of his own, lit it, and we both stood for a minute or two in silence. The smoke warmed my throat like a kiss.

  ‘Do you like parties?’ he said.

  Peering into the gloom, I tried to make out his face, but it was too dark.

  ‘No. Not my scene. I’m Paul, by the way. Paul Maloney.’

  ‘I know.’

  Something inside me jack-knifed, and I stubbed out my cigarette on the wall behind me. ‘Oh. How?’

  ‘I asked around. I have my sources.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Why would you want to know?’

  He didn’t reply at first and I fought the urge to get out. Fast. There was something about him that drew me to stay. Besides, I assumed it was business, and, as always, I needed the cash. His problem would be something domestic: divorce or maybe even fraud. When it came, his answer told me nothing.

  ‘That’s not important, not yet,’ he said. ‘The important thing is that neither of us wants to be in the hotel right now.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re very curious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Questions are my business,’ I said and then added, stupidly, ‘No, they’re my life.’

  Another silence then, but the quality of it had changed, as if something between us was beginning to ease itself up, out, free, into a form I couldn’t comprehend. My heart was beating fast. And still I couldn’t see his face.

  ‘There are other ways of communicating, Paul,’ he said at last. ‘Questions don’t always give people what they want.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ I replied, my voice scratchy and strange. ‘Anyway, Mr. Cigarette Lighter Provider, just what is it you want? And, yes, I know that’s a question, but you’ll just have to live with it.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what
I want, although I would have preferred a little more time to lead us there. I want to have sex with you.’

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. ‘What, here?’

  ‘Yes, here. It’s quiet, it’s not cold, and it’s dark.’ I stopped laughing. ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Okay, I thought. It was one year, seven months and nine days since I’d played the gay clubbing scene, the Saturday before I set up my company, and it had never been in a place as high-class as this. Not only that but, sexually speaking, things had been dead for a while. Maybe this would be the kick-start I needed to get living again, and at least no-one would find out.

  The decision made, I reached out and met the cool flesh of his arm.

  ‘What do you prefer?’ I asked, tugging him backwards into who knew what, but it would be away from the door. ‘Hand or mouth?’

  ‘No choice. Mouth,’ he said and kissed me. It was like opening a door to a room filled with spices, but a second later one important fact crystallised, and I pushed him away, ignoring the fizz of blood to my head.

  ‘You haven’t picked up a bloke this way before, have you?’ I said.

  ‘No. Does it matter? Anyway how did you work that out?’

  In the darkness I smiled. ‘Kissing wasn’t what I meant by “mouth”, though I’m not saying I objected.’

  There was a pause. ‘I know what you meant, but I wanted to do it. I’m not a fool.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were, but you are straight, aren’t you? At least on the whole?’

  ‘If you like to label people in that way, then yes. Perhaps. You see, in my business you learn two things, and you learn them quickly: The first is to be open to the possibility of change; and the second is to trust your instincts. When you strolled in with that unnecessary girl in tow, I knew I wanted you.’

  ‘Jade’s my friend, so leave her out of it. Okay?’

  Another pause, then, ‘Yes. Okay. So what should we do now? You seem to want to take the role of expert here, and, doing what I do, I like to consult the experts. Though I might not always take their advice.’

  This was the second time he’d mentioned work, and I laughed. ‘I see. So what is it you do then?’

  ‘That’s an interesting question,’ he said. ‘Here’s my card. When you’ve worked it out, call me.’

  And then in a haze of nicotine and seductive menace he was gone, through a narrow, tree-lined exit I hadn’t seen before, and wrong-footing me for the first of many, many times.

  It was only at home later on that I read his card and knew without a second of doubt that, unbelievable though it seemed, what it said was true.

  Dominic Allen, owner of DG Allen Enterprises Inc, the biggest IT and software company in the UK, the Attila the Hun of the Western business world and stalwart family man, had propositioned me.

  Three days after that I gave in and rang him. One hour and five minutes after the call, he was in my bed, and I was teaching him things he hadn’t experienced before. But in the end the only lesson learnt had been learnt by me.

  Don’t fall in love with a mainly straight bloke. You’ll never win.

  Nothing’s changed. I’m not winning now. When at last I leave the past and come back to the present, the four walls, the fireplace, the Staffordshire dogs are still with me, but The Macallan is mostly gone. As of course is Dominic. I’ve drained all of the whisky but a few drops at the bottom of the glass, and I haven’t tasted a thing. A shaming waste. I make the dregs of it last the length of another vital few seconds, the warmth of the malt firing my tongue.

  Then I sit back and think.

  Dominic wants to buy Delta Egypt. Or so he says. Blake Kenzie isn’t the type of man who looks as if he’s ready to be bought. Dominic hires me to check out Blake’s company, a commission that so far has gained me one near-miss escape with a knife, one amateur circus act, four gunshots, and one flesh wound. Not to mention a dead woman who might or might not be linked to anything and who might or might not be called Bluesky, and Blake’s indepth knowledge of my family life. All of it a barrel of trouble and all this so my ex-lover can find out whether Delta is clean or not. Or so he says, again. The CD hasn’t helped so far either. Maybe Jade will have more luck on Monday. At the moment none of the folders tell me anything useful, none of them give me so much as a hint of anything underhand. It’s all perfect, maybe too perfect. Thanks to Jade’s and my searches, I now know even more about the history, financial dealings, and planned future of Delta than I ever want to know. There’s no mention of DG Allen Enterprises elsewhere than in the name of the Allen folder, nothing to lay to rest the potential takeover concerns of Blake’s staff, so I estimate the talks Dominic mentioned, if any, must be at a very early stage.

  The Allen folder itself is a mystery, something for Jade to solve. I hope she’s now happily asleep and looking forward to tomorrow. I hope she’s not sitting up trying to solve the case I’ve taken on against her better judgement, or even trying to get into the Allen file. Because it’s beaten me back each time. Easy enough to hack in to the password encryption it carries in the way Jade showed me, but less easy to work out the significance of what it might contain. It’s nonsense, files that appear to have half their contents missing and long lists of names, dates, and numbers mixed up like an unreadable crossword puzzle. Not only that but it carries with it some kind of internal virus that causes the whole folder to crash three minutes and forty seconds after I’ve opened it. Each time I reopen it, the lists are in a different order, and I can’t help wondering if Mr. Blake Kenzie, in his rich Cairo residence somewhere, being waited on by his oppressed servants, is laughing at me.

  I wouldn’t be surprised. That knife attack, not to mention the gun crazies, seemed serious enough. Although the guards worked for the owner of the building, not for Blake himself, I bet he’d been first in line for allowing guards to take pot-shots at passing burglars. It wouldn’t surprise me anyway. Perhaps it’s all just a game to someone like him. Maybe the threats and hints he made in his office were a game too, along with the knife thug and the CD. After all, if Blake’s that good then why would the knifeman fail? Nobody is that lucky. Especially not me.

  But if it’s a game, then what are the rules? What are...?

  A second or two of blankness and I jump, woken by the soft thud of the empty whisky glass onto the carpet. Leaning over, I rescue it. It’s decent quality, and I don’t want to buy another. It’s gone midnight, so not that late but, hell, I’ve had a tough few days, and I ought to get some sleep. I need to be bright for Jade and her parents tomorrow.

  The morning starts with the knowledge that I’ve overslept, so when the phone rings I’m already in the shower and don’t hear the message. I just hear the ansaphone click on and off again, but there’s no time to respond. Only when I’m dragging on my jacket and grabbing my shades from the hall table do I realise it might have been Jade.

  It’s not. Neither is it Dominic. Not that I ever thought it might be, of course.

  When I pick Jade up in Stratford, she looks like a cool angel in cream linen trousers and a crisp cotton top, navy blue with a thin green stripe. Even her earrings are verging on discreet. Almost. It makes her look professional rather than arty, but by now I’m used to her concept of “parent chic” so I make no comment, pausing only to pat her tied-back hair.

  ‘Nice, very Miss Moneypenny.’

  ‘Oh yes, you do like to live dangerously, don’t you?’ She slaps my hand away, grins, and sashays into the passenger seat. Her flowery scent fills the car.

  Jade’s parents live halfway between Colchester and Clacton, in a house built by her grandfather in a time when planning permission was less rigorous. Not that there’s anything wrong with it; I just think things must have been simpler then. It’s a higgledy-piggledy sort of a place, with rooms curling off from corridors in places you least expect them, and each time I visit, her father seems to have changed something, either in the house, the garden, or the attached allotment. I
t keeps him busy in his semi-retirement years, Jade once told me, but I think the itch must always have been there.

  By the time we arrive, the A12 has gathered the car to its road-maintenance busy breast and regurgitated us after two hours twenty-seven minutes of queuing. Mrs. O’Donnell, primed from her en route conversation with her daughter, sweeps us into the living room where two large glasses of wine are waiting. As I’m the one driving, I’m forced to leave half of it.

  ‘Good journey, dears?’ Mrs. O’Donnell — whom I can never quite bring myself to call by her first name — says with a smile.

  Jade launches into a brief and bitter monologue about the state of UK roads which, being the woman she is, soon segues into a bright and gossipy monologue about what she’s been up to in the social centre of Stratford. This includes salsa, her reading group currently preparing for discussions on the latest Anne Tyler novel, and whether the late summer sales will be worth investigation. As I know about most of it already, I phase out and sip my wine.

  I’m sitting on a plush deep crimson sofa with Jade to one side and her mother in the chair opposite. The carpet is an old-fashioned ’70s patterned style, big and bold and bright, or would be if the O’Donnells were the house-proud types, and the walls are a plain sea-green. By all the laws of design, it shouldn’t work, but in a room this size it does. I love it, and I hope they never change it.

  Leaning back, I close my eyes for a second or two, the background hum of the women’s voices acting like a cradle-song. The burgeoning smell of roasting lamb and potatoes rocks me into the sort of family comfort zone I never really had. The next thing I know Jade is leaning over me, shaking my shoulder.

  ‘Hey, Paul, Mum’s asked you the same question three times, and all you can do is snore.’

  ‘I’m not snoring, I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Leave the poor boy alone, darling,’ Mrs. O’Donnell says. ‘He’s tired; it’s a long journey and he’s driven all that way.’

  ‘No, really, Mrs. O’Donnell, it’s fine. I was just listening to you, that’s all...what was it you were asking?’