by John Dalton
He knew where he was going but didn’t want to admit it to himself. Instead, he began to wonder whether he would lose his licence and whether or not it was worth having anyway. Business was barely ticking over. He hadn’t actually been properly paid since he’d sorted out Calvin Westmoreland, the guy with the gammy leg who’d ripped off Sister Bethany’s savings. True, he did have a case on the go, if only he could get round to working on it.
‘I’m sure my husband is having an affair, Mr McGinlay, and I just need the proof. And if he is, I’m going to get a divorce. I’m going to bleed the rotten bugger dry!’
Fine. Posh Rebecca had the means and Des was keen to provide the ammunition. But Rebecca’s prospective ex proved to be slippery as well as rotten and Des had yet to get conclusive proof.
‘What am I paying you for, Mr McGinlay?’
‘I’m sorry, but your husband plans his shagging like he’s a frigging spook in the Kremlin.’
‘You have two weeks or I go elsewhere!’
‘I’ll do it,’ Des grumbled to himself. ‘Miranda may have stabbed me in the back and left me writhing, but I’ll bleeding well do it.’
That was a week ago and Des had barely been sober since.
* * *
Night was falling fast around the Kings Road Estate. Already towerblocks were dark monoliths, and menacing stars were piercing the clear sky. Des shivered in the exposed grass spaces he roamed across. The towers, as their lights came on, began to seem almost homely. Kingswood, Kingsriver, Kingsacre (renamed Kingsarse by some local hood) and then, finally, Kingsvale. Des clutched his little pink card and looked up. No desperate face at the window, no balloon escaping to the stars, but Des chose to remain optimistic and blind.
Empty corridors and landings. Resolutely closed doors. There’s something ferociously hostile about a towerblock, as though when entering you defile the dead or taunt their living, ghostly spirits. Des had always hated towerblock calls when he drove his taxi. Standing on a cold landing late at night, hearing dogs growl, feeling eyes at spyholes, screams and laughter echoing down the pipes. He almost chickened out as the lift shuddered open at Kingsvale Tower, but he doggedly took the plunge. Maybe it was a stupid waste of time or maybe a sniff of adventure, but it was something that took him away from her. Des stood outside number 108, took a deep breath and rang the bell.
She could’ve been sixteen, Des thought, perhaps even seventeen. It was hard to tell, the way young girls bloom. She could’ve been twelve.
‘Yes? What d’you want?’
‘Hi there. Your name Lisa?’
‘Who’s askin?’
Whatever her age, the young lady had all the components of a perfectly formed body; and she’d made the effort to let the world know this by wearing a dress that clung to her like a coating of smooth, erotic moss.
‘Well, hope you don’t mind but . . .’
‘Yes?’
Lisa – this girl was surely her – was beginning to retreat from the door. She had a pretty face but her lips were sulky and there was hardness in her eyes.
‘I reckoned it was a good idea, this card. Literally out of the blue. Risky, yes. Crazy, but . . . you know, nice. Like the lottery, seeing what comes up – me.’ Des tried a charm smile but he was fast realizing that perhaps Lisa didn’t quite appreciate him turning up. He suddenly noticed a picture of a blue Madonna hanging like a warning sign in the hallway.
‘Oh my God! Jesus! Look, you just get –’
‘The name’s Des – I was wondering, why don’t we throw caution to the winds and meet up some time?’
‘It was a joke, you daft –’
As Lisa began to hiss and close the door, Des saw a man’s face peer into the hall. A father’s face, no doubt, large and stern-looking.
‘What’s going on, Lisa? Who is that?’
‘Dunno, Dad,’ Lisa called back and then turned to Des. ‘Just piss off, will you?’
‘You don’t reckon, huh?’
‘It’s not one of your boyfriends sniffing around, is it?’
‘No, Dad, it’s some stranger. But – he’s talking dirty, Dad, bout me.’
‘What?’
Des caught her malicious little smile before the extent of his own stupidity hit him like a punch in the gut. Seeing a burly father come down the hall towards him, he backed away, looking for a hole to jump into.
‘Let me see this bloke.’
‘I – I think he’s a bit funny, Dad.’
Des took one more step back, hit a wall and then realized that the only honourable thing to do was run. The door to 108 was flung open as Des frantically rushed to the stairs.
‘Is that the bleeder?’
‘Yeh, I think he’s one of them perverts.’
‘Eh, you, come here!’
Des pushed through the stairwell doors, footsteps pounding behind him. The rest was madness. Zigzagging pell-mell down ten sets of stairs. His steps echoing, and heavier, more menacing footsteps close behind. And then the shouts, the raucous shouts that seemed to fill the whole tower, bringing blunt shafts of embarrassment to Des’s ears.
‘Just let me get you! . . . Fuckin perverts should be trashed! . . . Gonna beat the livin shits outa you! . . . Bastaaard!!’
* * *
Vin St James sat down beside a clump of rosebay willowherb and thought about being a suspect for murder. He felt calm enough. He hadn’t done the deed but he knew that didn’t count for much if a sucker was needed. Vin knew he was sitting pretty for that, a dumb-arse black pimp would do fine if the real killer couldn’t be found. There was a lot to think about and the patch of wasteground wedged between two canals and a factory yard was the only place he could go to think. It was his place and the ganja plants that gracefully swayed in the darkness were his winter supply. Vin took out his knife and stabbed at the ground.
Me gotta tink it out firs, den feel. Shit, Claudette! It coulda bin some friggin white nut, some half-dere shit who took she away. Bad feh me, dem don’t often catch such creeps who melt away like snow in the bloodclaat suburbs. But she wasn’ s’pose fi be out on the game. Wha she a say? Gwan see a fren? Jesus, what was the bleedin bitch a doin?
Vin dropped his knife and let his hands hang against his thighs. He sighed loudly, thinking how the cops knew he wasn’t the one but were laughing at his predicament: A drink down the Earl eh, St James, one in the Vine and the Lime Tree, you shouldn’t have to worry bout witnesses then, pal, you should be cast iron in the clear. But then maybe they’ll have bad memories about knowing a piece of shit like you?
So plan one was obvious to Vin; he had to get some guys to back him up. But what if it wasn’t a nutter? What if Claudette had done something stupid and got caught up in bad business? She was pissed off enough to make that possible. Vin came face to face with his feelings then. Shit, me ain’t no pimp. We was partners, a team, man, seeking good returns an a straight way out. Jesus, me fuckin love her an me heart it bleed!
Vin knew what his second plan had to be. He’d have to start asking around, check out the other players on the scene and seek an explanation. It was dangerous but he had to know if Claudette had been messing him around. In the distance he heard trains trundling into the mainline station and above the tops of the weeds he saw the lights of city centre towers muted in grey haze. He stabbed his blade back into the wet earth and tried not to think about regret and his really big mistake.
Jesus, man, it happen. What the diff’rence, it all come out the same . . .
* * *
Driving the Lancia through sparkling city streets was soothing. Des felt the shakes recede and his heartbeat ease down to its normal level. It had been a close shave. Lisa’s angry father had tripped over, giving Des the chance to sneak off into the night. Now, feeling quite cosy amid the anonymous suburbs, he allowed himself a smile and a little self-scolding too. What a stupid dickhead! Total prat! Look what it’s doing to me, Miranda. A mistake to think that one. The name Miranda, it was a trigger; it was like a bell to a conditio
ned dog. Des didn’t actually salivate, but physiological ructions did occur. Most of all, he suddenly began to feel that awful hunger, that dreadful appetite for release. He almost howled then because his search for Lisa, no matter how stupid, had given him a goal, had put his craving on the outside. Now he was back to the prospect of a lonely house, the big wallow with its bad vibes and alcoholic stupor. Des gripped the steering wheel hard. I’ve got to do something!
It was then that a sort of solution did arise. He’d just turned into a side street when he came to a group of Asian men standing on the pavement. Des blinked. They were carrying placards. He slowed down and peered through his windscreen. KEEP KERB-CRAWLERS OUT! NO GO FOR PROS! Des realized he was coming up to Burma Road, well known for its streetwalkers and inviting window displays. An idea began to illuminate his mind but before it could grow, an Asian guy tapped on his window. Des wound it down.
‘Hope you don’t mind me askin, mate, but what’re you doin round here?’
‘Reckon I do mind.’
‘You’re not local, are you?’
‘It’s just none of your business, friend.’
‘We think it is, mate. We’re sick of kerb-crawlers and dirty pros fuckin up the lives of our women and kids and we’re out to stop them. So, are you looking for sex or what?’
‘Come off it, man. I don’t mind you demonstrating but what I do is my business and I’m not bleeding well telling you’
‘Oh yeh?’
‘Yeh.’
‘Right, we’re gonna take your number, right, and we’re gonna give it to the police and we’re gonna tell them what a dirty fucker you are.’
‘Too late, they already know.’
Des pressed down the accelerator and moved off from the group. A couple of them briefly ran after him, shouting abuse. On the corner of Burma Road a group of elderly Asian men sat on milk crates. They brandished their fists at Des. He waved back and slowly turned into the famous road. It was deserted. No bare thighs flashed out between the trees. No bosoms pressed against parlour windows. That faint spark of an idea in Des’s mind began to wane.
But it didn’t die. Des cruised down Burma Road and then on through the backstreets. Barely half a mile from the vigilantes, his headlights caught a familiar sight. Des slowed. Should he try? He never had before. Never needed to. But wasn’t that what they were for? When you were down on your luck, when there was no one else to turn to? Des stopped next to the woman and she peered in through the open window.
‘Bad time for business,’ he muttered.
‘Could say that.’
‘You’re brave to be out here.’
‘You’ve got to make a living whatever.’
‘Guess so . . . erm, what do you charge then?’
‘What d’you want?’
‘Intercourse I guess.’
‘That’s thirty.’
‘OK.’
‘I’ve got a room across the way.’
She said her name was Pearl, and a pearl she was, a yellow pearl, slightly oriental in looks and with bright ginger hair. Des followed her ample backside up the narrow stairs of a dingy house. A smell of damp caught his nostrils, a whiff of ganja and air freshener too. They entered a small bedroom on the first floor, an empty dismal place with just a bed, table and easy chair. Des began to waver. This was another nothing place, a functional fuck-room that made him feel depressed. The feeling was made worse by the token picture on the wall. A mournful clown with a big grin looked over at him. Pearl quickly put down her bag, laid a condom on the bedside table and then began to strip. It didn’t take her long. A miniskirt and top and that was it, apart from her calf-length boots, which she left on. She lay down on the bed and smiled while Des stood hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room. She was, he could see, a perfect erotic vision, the sort of vision that was meant to provoke wild love-making, but –
‘Are you OK, luv?’ she said.
‘Dunno yet.’
But Des knew what had happened. He’d messed up again. In his mind, yes, she was erotic perfection, but there on the bed, she might just as well have been a pile of flesh with a scar.
‘Would you like me to come over and undress you, help you get started?’
‘Look, Pearl, I . . .’
He couldn’t really pretend she was Miranda, they were too different. Anyway, such fantasies rarely worked, and wouldn’t in a place so perfunctory. He looked again at the sentimental clown and wanted to mash its face. Time was what he needed to get involved with Pearl’s body, to make it fit the contours of his own desire, but there wasn’t time on the game. She must’ve read his thoughts.
‘Are you going to do it or what? I haven’t got all night.’
‘Pearl, you are great but . . . I don’t think this is going to work, I’m sorry.’
‘After coming this far you don’t want to?’
‘Well, I guess I do, but . . .’
‘Bloody hell, what are you? A peeping tom or something? Jesus!’
Pearl angrily got up off the bed and began to put her clothes back on.
‘If things aren’t bad enough with these vigilantes, I have to land myself with a limp john! Fuck –’
‘I’ll pay you some money anyway.’
‘You bet you will.’
‘A tenner?’
‘It’ll do. Now, come on, out.’ Pearl smoothed over the bed and picked up her handbag. ‘Jesus, this city is full of wankers . . . religious nuts . . . murdering perverts.’
‘You knew the woman who got killed?’
‘Yeh, I knew her, thought she had more sense.’
‘The risks you take, though, Pearl.’
‘Part of the game, just like prats like you.’
‘No hard feelings I hope.’
‘Nah, you’re all right. I got part of my fee, but get out now, huh.’
Pearl opened the door. ‘What you need, sweetheart, is a nice girlfriend, right?’
She winked as Des passed her and then drifted on down the dingy stairway. He was trying to think of a journey, a different journey that didn’t cruise through familiar streets and end up at the same old bottle.
5
Posh Rebecca’s husband was called Theo. He was a university lecturer, some kind of expert on the history of sanitation. Des could see why Rebecca wanted rid of him. Theo was small and flabby. He sported a brown moustache. He had dandruff. The moustache was no doubt the sign of his eccentric trade, for otherwise Theo looked like a bland executive, stepping out sprightly in expensive suits with a sly look to his eye. Des blended in well on the campus, got a fix on him easily enough. Theo had a fancy woman all right. Naomi; a skinny, hawk-nosed lady almost half his age. Des clocked the little glances, the hand-holds beneath tables and the secret sniggers. But that was the easy part. Catching Theo on an assignation proved much harder. Twice he’d tailed him on unscheduled drives and twice he’d lost him. But this time Des was ready, he hoped.
He sat in his car outside the campus entrance on the afternoon when Theo usually went screwing. For a lovelorn, doped-up fool, Des felt quite reasonable. He’d indulged the night before, but something had shifted within him and he didn’t feel as though he was treading water so much any more. That he put down to his stupidity. Making an ass of himself, it seemed, was something he had to do. But it was perhaps due also to another kind of resolution, the late-night kind. What do washed-out guys do? Concentrate on work. So there he was, businesslike, out on the streets and doing his job. He looked with a pin-sharp eye at the campus scene and scanned for a red BMW. With effort, the M word was kept from his thoughts. He did wonder though about a possible court case. Did he really sling a brick at her car? This was a tricky problem. No way he could reason with – the accuser. One possibility came to him: a consultation with his only friend in the police force. There must be ways to sort out such things, and Errol would know them. Thus preoccupied, Des almost missed the red BMW, but recovered in time to get on its tail.
It was going to be the same switch.
Theo parked in Sainsbury’s car park, got out and went into the store. Des had worked out what would happen next. Theo would go left into the store café, exit through a side door and then slip through to the DIY warehouse on the same site. He would go in and out again and meet up with Naomi on its parking lot. Des drove round to the relevant entrance and waited. Across the vast area of cars, he soon spotted the portly figure with the trim moustache. Through his binoculars he saw the glint in the eye and the jokey, surreptitious manoeuvres Theo made as though it was a jolly good game. A blue Ford Fiesta exited the car park and Des followed his unwary prey home.
Naomi and Theo parked in the drive of a house at the end of a modern terrace. There was a low fence around the house and plenty of greenery. As the couple went inside, Des found himself stalling. How was he going to get any decent shots? Did he really want to scrabble around in the undergrowth and snoop? Wasn’t it, after all, just plain sex? Des almost convinced himself. Then a piercing view of the big wallow came to him and he wrenched open the car door. A few minutes later he was shuffling through a big rhododendron at the back of Naomi’s garden. Luck was with him. Naomi had a large picture window. She also had the courtesy to snog Theo right in the middle of Des’s lens.
‘That ought to satisfy Rebecca,’ he muttered. ‘Specially as Theo’s got his hand crawling up Naomi’s thigh. God, whatever, wouldn’t mind my hand . . .’
Des brought the camera down. This is getting too close. What if Rebecca wants the full gory details? How would I cope? he asked himself.
Des looked at the upstairs of the house and began to wonder how seasoned pros get such shots. He couldn’t see any way short of a ladder to do it. But luck was still with him. The two lovers had begun undressing each other in the living room. They were having quite a giggle and Naomi feigned great shock when she saw Theo unveil his upright tool. Then a game of ‘catch-me’ began and the two ran off naked, both laughing like little kids. Des took what pictures he could, his fingers shaky and sweat on his brow.
‘Shit,’ Des breathed as he replaced the lens cap. ‘That was too close. What do you get when you make a move? Your own bleeding needs thrown back at you. Unwanted fuckery I say, like so many memories left stale in the mouth the morning after, too damn much.’
