by John Dalton
‘You gonna kick Winston out? You must be mad!’
‘Trust, Bev, it’s all about trust, an one thing me do know – only me I trust.’
‘Dis horse, it won fuckin hell. Me had fifty soddin quid almost in me hand an den the bastards mek it disqualify!’
‘That is cruel . . .’
‘You truly are a sweet-looking woman, you know. Why don’t we go driving, up to the airport, have a slick supper and watch the planes come in?’
‘Promise to take me on one and I just might go . . .’
There wasn’t anyone Des could see that he knew. Familiar faces, yes, but no one he could latch onto amid the strident scene. Des knew he shouldn’t have come. He’d missed the momentum of the night. The boozy groovers were well off into pleasures shared and Des was just a wet rag, a rain-sodden piece of reality that no one would give two fucks for at that point in time. Des groaned again and then slunk away from the door.
Jerry was still there in the crowd, a smug smile on his face and thoughts of spliffs soon to drift him onto dawn. There was only one thing more he needed that would make it perfect. Jerry scanned the crowd and finally saw her. He began to squeeze his way towards Mary. Yes, it was a bit of a gamble. They were supposed to be just friends but Jerry couldn’t help himself, it was the extra buzz he craved. He’d almost reached the bar when he suddenly stopped. Mary was talking to another bloke, a suited geezer with receding black hair and a ponytail, and she was talking in ‘that’ kind of way, almost drooling over the creep. Jerry’s spirits sank. He began to stare vindictively at the git in the suit, seeing there was a finger missing from his left hand. But as he stared, he became conscious of someone else watching him. Jerry turned and found himself looking into a pair of dark, malicious eyes. He shivered like he’d just had a premonition of pain. The eyes narrowed. He saw a deep frown above them and sneering lips below. The tough guy’s head nodded towards the door. Jerry was expected to leave. He didn’t hesitate. Frustrated and fearful, Jerry walked off and out into the unconsoling rain.
* * *
It seemed to be raining everywhere that night. Well beyond the city limits, among the leafy lanes, farmworker Bob Grainger drove home from his local. Fit to burst, he had to stop and take a leak. He pulled in at a lay-by and stumbled over to the bushes. Just as he was about to let go with huge relief, he looked down. The naked corpse of a woman – white skin dripping, eyes puddled with rain – lay right where he was about to piss.
3
Des McGinlay was back in his kitchen and looking out at the rain. A poplar tree shimmered in the breeze; its twisted leaves caught city light and sparkled. Des scowled angrily. He turned on his own light, ignored his gaunt reflection and went to the table to write.
Dear Miranda
Yeh, it is a mess. And yeh, I’m feeling lousy. But this cold shoulder of yours, it’s really screwing me up. What am I supposed to do? You’re shagging other guys and I want to shag you . . .
The ball of crumpled paper missed the waste bin. It bounced over lino and hit a wall. The pen bounced too, became silent and blunted on the kitchen floor. Des hugged himself tight. He looked warily at the walls, feeling that the spiders were back again.
‘I can’t bleedin well take this!’
Grabbing a raincoat, Des again escaped the claustrophobia of his house and hit the streets. He ducked his head into sheets of rain and walked. Up Argent Street, past the Lime Tree and onwards. He trudged twelve miles that night, through the pelting rain, the nameless streets, alone but for half a bottle of whisky. The onslaught of the weather, the pounding his legs received helped to keep at bay those awful questions, that writhing feeling that he was zero and out of control. But the booze was a mistake. The whisky numbed the pain but it sent his mind reeling with unwanted thoughts. Miranda, Miranda, Miranda . . .
The pictures in his mind: smiling eyes, intimate laughter, breasts like speckled pears. He wanted them, wanted to ravish – but someone else would be there. Des groaned up at the streetlights, stashed his empty bottle in a hedge, crawled on through the rain-drenched night.
* * *
‘Where is he then?’
‘Fuck knows.’
‘It’s gone twelve o’clock.’
‘I know, he ain’t been himself lately.’
‘What, he’s still moping over that bird of his?’
‘Yeh, like a lost dog looking for its master.’
‘A wanker if you ask me.’
‘The cops want to speak to him now.’
‘Jesus, what’s that about, Wayne?’
‘Fuck knows.’
The Fedora used to be called the Black Boy. No one was quite sure what the old name referred to. Some swarthy king from the past? The times when aristocrats paraded their houseboy Negroes around? Or a reference to those Victorian urchins shoved up chimneys or pushed down mines? Whatever, in modern times, Black Boy was no name a brewery would wish to be saddled with. But Fedora, that had glamour; it was Hollywood stars and cool dudes in the gleaming city.
Midday, Des McGinlay looked through the pub window and saw the grainy black and white blow-ups of famous faces. But no one sat by the parlour palms. No smoke drifted to the ceiling fans. There were no heavy-drinking role-players on the New Orleans scene. Des sighed as he pushed through the doors.
Wayne was slotting pint mugs on a rack above the bar. He didn’t look at Des when he entered. Dick O’Malley sat on a bar stool and grinned. The ever-present, ever-grinning Dick nodded at Des and then gormlessly stared into his beer.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
There was no immediate response. Wayne carried on stacking glasses and his grizzled chin gave nothing away. Finally, however, the words came.
‘You look really bad, Des. Terminal. You look like you got TB, cancer and Aids all in one go.’
‘There’s a hangover for you.’
‘You’ve got to pull yourself together, mate.’ Wayne brought his hairy forearms down to the bar and gave Des a sad look. ‘You know I don’t mind a bit of slack, but this ain’t no sheltered home for the fucked up.’
‘I know.’
‘I mean, there’s gotta be some point to me being boss, like I can put my feet up and give you the run around.’
Des had been working at the Fedora for six months. It was temporary, of course, until his other job picked up. But the whole set-up there was a temporary affair. The Fedora was the kind of city centre pub which had a different clientele every day (grinning Dick was an exception). It went through bar staff on a monthly basis and even Wayne had no inclinations to stay around. The Fedora was a kind of floating world, an on-the-off-chance place that meant nothing to no one.
‘Maybe you should take the rest of the week off?’ Wayne was now picking his teeth with a match. ‘That new bird Kim was asking for a few extra hours.’
‘I don’t know, Wayne. It might be better if I came in.’
‘Come on, you ain’t that desperate. A break’d probably do you good.’
Wayne had a thing about matches. He cleaned his nails, teeth and even his ears with them. He scraped them on his bristled chin, passed them through his fingers and made pretty patterns on the bar.
‘I don’t know what I’d do, though. You know, things are still slack.’
‘Anyways, you’re wanted. The police are asking for you.’
‘Oh no . . .’
‘Don’t ask me why. You do anything stupid lately?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Better to keep yourself scarce.’ Wayne proceeded to slot some matches into his fist. ‘And that client of yours, posh Rebecca, she rang up, wants to know how you’re getting on.’
Des found it hard to focus on the idea that he was wanted, even if by the police. A world-weary sigh hissed out of him.
‘Come on, Des, the whole boring load of crap will still be here when you get back.’ Wayne raised his fist. Suddenly he scraped the match heads against his stubble. There was laughter all round when his hand became fire.
<
br /> * * *
Lunchtime was a gaping hole, an empty stomach, a great white craving for a fag. Jerry Coton, having spent hours climbing out of sleep, finally climbed out of bed. He threw on his dressing gown and shuffled to the fire-escape door. ‘Shit,’ he moaned, ‘save me from oblivion.’ Pushing the door open, he saw red roofs and rain-washed leaves. His bleary eyes tried to focus and his whole body wavered, almost shrank from the painful glare. Jerry lit a cigarette and waited for the view to sink in, for the world to stop being upside down. Once adjusted, he moved onto the top step and looked out. ‘Another aimless d-day in the sprawl, another stroll on the streets of d-deferred opportunity,’ he muttered, half smiling to himself. But it wasn’t a comfortable smile. Dope smugness worked up to a point, but anxiety always lurked somewhere. Jerry thought then that he saw the houses shift as though they were floating on water and he was relieved when he heard noises coming from the kitchen below. Gripping the shaky banister hard, Jerry sighed and went on down. Mary was there, starting to wash up. She offered to make him toast. Jerry gave the door some support and tried not to leer.
‘So, Jerry, you want to know what happened?’
Since waking, in the back of his mind Jerry had been wondering and hoping that last night had been a flop for Mary. Now she was looking at him as friend and confidant and he was forced to brace himself.
‘You know, with that guy last night?’
‘Oh, yeh . . . the one with the f-finger m-missing.’
‘Weird and a turn-on. I know he did look a bit slimy but we kind of hit it off.’
Jerry clamped his lips together and tried to look unmoved.
‘His name was Ross, said he sold cars.’ Mary grimaced. ‘That was a turn-off.’
‘S-So what h-happened?’
‘You know. I mean, why am I telling you?’
‘The g-geezer stayed the n-night?’
Jerry’s heart plummeted and squirmed with jealousy. He struggled to hide it.
‘See what you miss when you get up late?’
‘S-So,’ Jerry managed to gulp, ‘h-how, how was it?’
‘Interesting. You should’ve heard what he said about his finger.’
‘I – I c-can imagine.’
‘But it wasn’t that good. To tell the truth, at the end of it, he seemed more interested in my darkroom than me, and kept asking if I took dirty pictures.’
‘You said he looked s-slimy.’ Jerry began to feel relieved.
‘Yeh, one down to experience I reckon.’
Mary went back to washing up while Jerry struggled to settle his feelings. Ponytailed little ponce! Slime bag! But then he remembered the eyes, the cold little eyes that had sent him running and he shivered. Mary, those careless risks she took . . .
* * *
It was all laid out there in front of him. A pile of beer cans on the living-room floor, overflowing ashtrays and a few roaches stubbed out in a plant pot. The kitchen told the same story, only this time a bottle of Scotch lorded it above the crumpled balls of paper on the floor. Des stood in the doorway and could feel the pull. The ‘big wallow’ that grinned and whispered seductively, Come on, man, sit down and let’s binge. He did his best at self-control, grabbed a bin bag and flung the mess of the night’s turmoil into it. Outside, the garbage got squashed satisfyingly into an already full bin. Cautiously, Des breathed in cool air, wondering whether this could be his fresh start. He wiped rain off a plastic chair, sat down and got out the local newspaper.
The headline on the front page was briefly intriguing. The body of a naked woman, possibly a prostitute, had been found in a lay-by five miles outside the city. Reference was made to the fact that several others had been found in similar circumstances over the past two years. Des was interested in that. One of the bodies previously found was that of a whore who’d lived just down the road and at the time he’d put out feelers to see if it could bring him some work. This woman had had no friends or adult relatives, though. Just a five-year-old girl left in the worst of lurches. Des sighed; he was in the wrong neighbourhood, close to the wrong clientele. He threw the newspaper down. The patio seemed dismal and empty. He stared at the grime on the paving stones and took a wary look at an insipid sky.
The colour caught his eye first. A hint of red amid the dreary backs of the houses. Des turned his head and saw it properly. A red balloon was bouncing down from his roof. Slowly it drifted and, catching a current of air from the entry, it suddenly flung itself forwards and landed at Des’s feet. Des smiled slightly at the surprise, but then felt a stab of resentment at the intrusion and kicked out. A square of polythene was attached to the balloon. Des picked it up. On one side of the square he read: Open me. I want to be let out! Please!!!!!
Des carefully unstuck the sellotape at the side and drew out a pink card. More writing: From the mystry? Who loves you and is ready for it – sex. This is from Lisa. I love you. I live at 108 Kingsvale Tower.
Des stared at the message. He looked back up at the blanket of clouds. It was then that the ache began to return, that thwarted hunger as chillingly tangible as the need for food.
It took some time to find the A–Z, such was the mess of his house. He began to flick through the pages. He must’ve been up that way when he was taxi-driving. But that was then, when he was with Miranda. Now the lines and letters were just a blur. The map book to the city had a random index and false reference codes. But Kingsvale Tower did exist. The name finally pointed itself out of the confusion and Des realized that a westerly wind must have brought the balloon two miles through the polluted air. He pondered. Was this luck or just a hoax from a silly girl? Could it be a real message from a lusting damsel locked up high in a tower? Could this be his escape from the claws that dug into him? Des closed the A–Z, put it in his back pocket and went to the phone.
‘Is Rebecca there, please?’
‘Sorry, she hasn’t been in work for a couple of days.’
Des smiled with relief. ‘Could you tell her Mr McGinlay rang, yeh?’
‘Certainly.’
Des grabbed his coat and hurried to the front door. As he opened it, two burly policemen stopped and stared at him. One had a scar that halved his nose.
4
The cop with the scar-spliced nose leaned over towards Des and snarled. You could tell he’d had his fair share of abuse about his deformity and toughed it out. In fact, he wore it with pride.
‘Look, when Miranda said “shove it”, she didn’t mean shove a house brick through the windscreen of her car!’
‘But, I didn’t . . . I don’t –’
‘Were you out last night?’
‘In most of the time though I did go for a bit of a walk.’
‘Pissed, were you?’
‘I suppose I was a –’
‘Stoned?’
‘You don’t expect me to –’
‘Yeh, too bloody high to know it. Too red with rage to care.’
‘Come on, she lives six miles from me. You think I’d walk there and back, twelve miles in the pouring rain, just to smash a car window?’
‘She’s a tasty bird, Miranda. You must be pretty sick at losing her.’
‘And smashing her car will help me get her back?’
‘It was a cry from the heart, attention-seeking; and you got it too. Miranda clocked you, mate.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe I did do it. But if I did, it was a mistake. I was pissed and –’
‘That’s no defence.’
‘Oh sod it, man. Miranda won’t press charges anyway.’
The cop ceased to flaunt his disfigurement. He eased back in his chair and allowed an indulgent smile to soften his mean interrogator’s face.
‘Well, if you did do it, and Miranda does press charges, then you’re in deep shit, aren’t you?’
‘What you mean?’
‘This Mickey Mouse licence of yours, “private investigator”. Business good, is it?’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Oh yeh? Well, ma
te, your days of snooping on unfaithful wives could be over. Mickey Mouses ain’t supposed to have criminal records.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’
‘So, we’d better get the charge sheet filled out, and a statement written down.’
* * *
There comes a time, in the stages of splitting up, when lost love becomes hate. When all those yearning touchstones of desire are turned on their head and become foul urges to destroy. As he walked out of the police station, Des got a sense of that, like a sudden spurt of acid through his veins. But, valiantly, he clung to hope and dived for the first phone box he found.
‘Is Miranda there, please?’
‘It is me.’
‘Yeh? Well this is Des, I’ve just got out of the cop shop!’
‘You mean they haven’t locked you up?’
‘Come on, Miranda. I was pissed and angry.’
‘I don’t want you harassing me. I don’t want you anywhere near me!’
‘Look, I’ll pay for the windscreen and everything.’
‘I don’t want this phone call, Des.’
‘You’re not really going to press charges, are you?’
‘Oh yes I bloody well am! I’d press for the death penalty if I had the chance, anything to get you out of my hair.’
‘Jesus, you don’t have to be such a shit. I could lose my PI licence and be stuck down the Fedora for the rest of my life.’
‘Look, Des, I’m sorry, but it is over, and your day in court will hopefully make it plain to you that it is finally and totally finished. So please, just get off the phone and get on with your own life.’
Des stared at the silent mouthpiece and the streaks of grime around its rim. He sensed something within him that was becoming familiar. A draining away inside, a feeling that the ground beneath his feet was turning liquid.
‘I’ve got to do something!’
Des dashed up the road, clambered into his rusty old Lancia and sped off.
