by John Dalton
‘Like this is the stuff I’m into at the mo, low-light night shots.’
A fuzzy street-lamp shone in the top left-hand corner in one photo, all grain and blotted white with moth shapes. Below the light, pale girders loomed out of a dark background. Then Des saw a brick wall split dramatically in two by a thrusting shadow that pointed to a tattered boyband poster, their clean smirking faces made almost lunatic by the play of light. Then another shot, low-contrast grey light making barely discernible ripples on the surface of a canal. Dead-end night glimpses, images of insomnia.
‘See what you mean.’
‘I’m trying to explore the edge of things, man, you know, like where light begins to disappear and the photo is just a stop away from being no more.’
‘Sounds profound, like photographing death or something.’
‘Yeh. Yeh, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘With what I’m working on, it’s not such a crazy idea.’ Des passed over the whiskey again. ‘So, if you don’t do any hanky-panky stuff, you know someone who does, or have you heard of someone doing it?’
‘Yeh . . .’
Liam was looking at his own photos, beginning to get lost in them.
‘I mean, yeh, some time back,’ he said. ‘You meet like-minds down the resource centre and I was chatting to this bird one time and she mentioned she’d been asked to do dodgy stuff.’
‘Now this is what I’m looking for, Liam.’
‘Mary Holmes, a New Age sort of hippie-type. She lives on Ivor Road.’
Des left Liam squinting at his dark, sparse images thinking that maybe they were a kind of retreat for a harassed man. But he was also thinking of someone else whose eyes were like a shutter witnessing her last blink of light.
* * *
Mary Holmes had just got home from her part-time job at Kelly’s bookshop. It was always a good time. Just after lunch with the house quiet and no more responsibilities for the day. She could easily spend an hour lounging on the sofa, maybe reading the paper, daydreaming or thinking about the things she had to do. She was considering her options then – a nice long bath, go up and see Jerry and spend an hour or so in bed, or perhaps a good session in the darkroom. She knew she needed to do the latter most. The burglary had almost knocked her back to square one. She had hardly anything left of her portfolio and had only just got the equipment functioning again. But it all felt a bit too much like work and she was still feeling uncomfortable with the violation of the burglary. She began to feel that she should leave that until later, much later, at a time when she’d felt she’d pleasured herself well. Mary stretched and moaned sensuously. There was no argument – a spliff, a bath and a large dollop of sex.
Downstairs, at the back of the house, someone was using a window as a mirror. He ran his hand over a frowning brow and then pushed his fingers into ochre hair, enjoying the thickness of it and the curls that rippled back over his head. Scobie was very proud of his hair. A lion’s mane, virile and strong. He gave it one more tousle and began to move further round the house to the fire escape. It looked solid enough, though the rail seemed frail. Scobie noticed the open door on the first floor. This was the kind of job he enjoyed. A simple case of putting the shits up someone. And a woman at that, a blundering amateur who posed no threat. Scobie put on a casual smile and quickly made his way up the steps. He didn’t hesitate at the kitchen door, strolled on through and pulled out a sharp knife as he did so. Mary seemed to find it hard to believe he was there. Scobie smiled, bowed his head a little and then walked over and cut the phone line. Mary only really registered his presence at that point and became paralysed with fear. But she had no time to react. Scobie came round the sofa and put the knife to her throat.
‘So, darling, a bit surprised to see me, eh?’
‘Wh-Who are you? What –?’
‘I ain’t here to answer questions, dear, only to ask them.’
‘God . . . you can, you can take whatever there is, b-but there’s not much, I’ve already been done.’
‘Mmmm . . .’
Scobie suddenly lost his line of thought. He’d noticed Mary’s supine body and a familiar feeling was beginning to surface. It wasn’t supposed to. He had very strict orders from Ross. But he’d done something bad last time, really bad, and secretly knew that he’d enjoyed it too much. Scobie struggled to concentrate.
‘I know all about you being done cos it was me what done it. We found the negs, darling, but we didn’t find no prints.’
‘What n-negs?’
Mary found herself utterly frozen. She seemed to have no sensations in her body other than a vague feeling that she needed a pee. She felt as if she was just a brain, a whirring, buzzing brain with all its circuitry in panic.
‘Come on, you’re well out of your depth. You don’t know where I’m bleedin coming from?’ Scobie widened his smile. ‘But the fuck I’ll tell you, darling, that I come from something bleedin bigger than you could imagine and we’re dead unhappy with you. Straight answers, OK, darling, straight and clear or it’s a shitty bin bag and a landfill site for you.’
‘I don’t . . .’ Mary still couldn’t think straight.
Things happened very quickly then. Scobie grabbed Mary’s hair, moved round the sofa and began to wrench her up. Mary yelled in agony as she struggled to support her weight. The grinning face moved in close. ‘Where’re the bleedin prints?’
A fist suddenly thumped into Mary’s face. There was a cracking sound and blood began to pour from her nose. She fell back onto the sofa, her ears ringing loudly, and she was conscious of the words deep down that she knew she had to bring up and out. As she fell back, Mary’s skirt had swept up across her body and Scobie was suddenly looking at underwear. His next punch stalled, he found himself ogling and getting that feeling back again. Shit, he thought, what’s the rush, why turn it down, what’s Ross gonna know? He crouched and put his hands on bare knees. ‘Well, darling?’ he said.
Mary saw the change in his manner. She was shaking uncontrollably now and trying to keep the blood out of her mouth. Scobie’s hand began to paw upwards, like a butcher’s on a joint of meat.
‘I don’t have any prints,’ Mary finally managed to blurt out. ‘I gave them all to Claudette and that’s the honest truth!’
‘Did you now?’
Maybe it was the way he said the words, like he had stopped listening; or maybe it was those awful hands on her trembling flesh; but something snapped in Mary. With a shriek, she kicked Scobie in the chest and sent him tumbling backwards. Then she jumped up and ran, ran to the kitchen and stumbled through. She ran to the fire escape, hit the rail hard and then, Mary was suddenly flying, flying and falling like a swooping swift under blue sky . . .
* * *
Des should’ve been there, following leads, making progress; he could’ve arrived before Scobie; but Des actually ended up asleep in his car. It was the compensatory tipple of whiskey that did it – for having endured a mind-numbing bout of family life. The experience had brought back uneasy recollections. His own family years, splattered here and there with spurts of love and hate. One tipple led to another. One experience got generalized. All the houses in the street around him, all the streets multiplied – families sprawling for miles and miles, all cosy and self-contained, browsing drowsily and awesomely quiet. The thought comforted Des. He felt that at least he was out on the street, living in cracks and fissures where people were exposed and nothing was predictable.
One tipple leads to another. The bottle then becomes a teat, a breast of comfort for one alone in an empty street where all windows point inwards. Families . . . Des thought of Bertha, her enticing bosom and experienced hands. And maybe why not? It was some sort of nestling place in the fissured world where the fate of hearts is a mere lottery. And then Des drifted down to dreams, crazy game-show dreams with ‘real love’ prizes. Des was a contestant, shabby and exposed, watched the world over by families, fast-food grazing, bored and forever unsatisfied.
13
Ivor Road on a sunny late afternoon. Kids out playing cricket in between the long lines of parked cars. Des drove exceedingly slowly, wary of darting youths and a fierce sun that splintered through over-arching trees. Sweat dribbled down his jaw and his mouth felt like fur. As he cautiously progressed, Des peered through the street clutter to check out house numbers. He needn’t have bothered. The one he wanted was the one with the cop cars outside. Des parked and then let the sun warm his closed eyes. For a moment he could’ve been out on the coast resting from the optic sparkle of the waves. But it was only the briefest of moments where dusty plane trees had turned to tamarisk. Very soon his head was thumping. He knew he would have to open his eyes and confront more pain. As he got out of the car, the word ‘Miranda’ suddenly sounded in his mind and Des felt a surging hunger for flight.
There was quite a crowd outside Mary Holmes’s house. Intrigued, excited, sad. Brown faces mostly, warmed by the sun and maybe the knowledge that it had not happened to them. Des eased his way through. There were a couple of cops by the gate; one had a scar that spliced his nose. Des hesitated but then caught sight of Errol emerging from the rear of the house. A confident smirk began to form. Des slipped under the barrier and smirked even harder at the cop who wore his nose with pride.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
Des tried to lord it even more, feeling that there was some compensation for woe in being able to flaunt himself at the hard-faced cop.
‘Just get me DI Wilson, will you?’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
But Errol had already spotted Des and he came over. ‘How come you’re here, man?’
‘To this door a lead has brought me.’
‘Shit, you’d better come in.’
Des gave one final defiant smirk and then allowed himself to be ushered in where the big boys were.
Errol and Des stood in the overgrown back garden, the sun now lost behind a wall and the place busy with forensics.
‘Yeh, the rail on the middle landing there just gave way and she fell bout fifteen feet. Might’ve survived but for the brick yard and the serrated chimney pot she clonked her head on.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘Instant death.’
‘So was it an accident or what?’
‘Could’ve been, but there was blood on the sofa in her room and her phone line had been cut.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘We’ve got a vague description of a guy hanging around, but nothing else as yet.’
‘You say it happened a couple of hours ago. Jesus, I could’ve been here then.’
‘Huh-uh, so why weren’t you?’
‘Fell asleep on the job.’
Des had almost been wondering what the job was. Farting around with nothing but a scrap of a photo and Claudette’s death seeming like ancient history. But this development, this was a shock; it was a justification he didn’t want.
‘Come on then, Des, explain your angle.’
‘Jesus . . .’ Des sighed and felt the ache in his head even more.
‘That’s the fourth time you’ve said that, man. Could you, you know, try another word?’
‘Daytime drinking, Errol, it’s a . . .’ Des stopped himself saying ‘killer’ and then got out his scrap of photo.
‘It’s just an arse, I know, but I found this at Gary’s wrecked pad and thought maybe that him and Claudette could’ve been into porn or blackmail, so I was checking out possible snapshotters and this woman’s name comes up.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘Errol!’
‘No, what I mean, this woman had her darkroom done over a while back, had a lot of stuff nicked. One of the DCs remembers coming here, said it was a nasty break-in, a lot of damage and all of her neg boxes gone.’
‘Sod it, Errol, is this fitting into place? Is it me or what?’
‘It could still be a coincidence, but I reckon we should get together on this quick.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘A guy called Jerry Coton. Lives in the top flat. He was cut up pretty rough and couldn’t tell us much. Looked pretty stoned to me.’
‘Yeh, who wouldn’t want to be?’
‘With that guy it’s probably permanent.’
‘Seems sane enough to me.’
‘You’re not sounding too good, Des.’ Errol narrowed his eyes and gave Des a once-over. ‘I mean, are you in control of this situation? How are you handling Bertha?’
‘I don’t reckon I know, Errol. Whatever happens is about as far as it goes.’
* * *
There was a picture of Mount Everest next to the Cute of the Month. That was Ross for you, a cute cunt and a big tit of a mountain. Of course, Ross would put it in a more ‘refined’ way: ‘A peak of achievement in the glamour business.’ Scobie secretly scowled. What a tosser! The guy was just a piece of gutter shit like the rest of us. Just because he read a dictionary once doesn’t change fuck all. It’s only a line of guff anyway for the men in suits but he seems to think he can pull the same shit with everyone.
‘Are you listening to me, Scobie?’
‘Sure.’
‘I am really trying to get it into your thick skull that I am not pleased.’
‘I got it the first time.’
‘I don’t know if you did. Two-inch thick – that or you’re just pretending to be dim.’
‘Come on –’
‘No, you – Jesus, think I’ll get Gus to bring the drill in – look, final last time. I did not tell you to fuck Claudette, I told you she needed to go away permanently.’
‘So what’s it matter?’
‘What’s it matter? It matters because they’ve got your genetic fingerprint. That means they’ve got you one hundred plus per cent for doing Claudette and that means they’ve most likely got me.’
‘They don’t know anything.’
‘Right. Maybe. So then what happens? I tell you to put the shits up this photographer bitch and she ends up dead, and no doubt screwed too. What’s the matter? Are you not getting any or something? Are you losing touch with reality?’
‘No! The fuck no! I never touched her! She was the nutty one. One minute rigid as a rock, the next dashing off like a mad animal. There was nothing the fuck I could do about it.’
‘It’s an almighty mess, Scobie, it really is. Two deaths will mean four times the effort by the police and that means heat for me and diarrhoea for some of my clients!’
Words, his bleeding mouth’s got the runs! What an arsehole! Scobie thought. The cops will never make a connection anyway. A tart gets bumped off and a drugged up hippie falls off a fire escape; big bloody deal. Scobie continued to seethe quietly at the bollocking his boss was laying out. He stared at the missing finger and began to imagine slicing off the rest of them. The joke was that Ross lost his finger while touching up a Nepalese whore who had a cunt like a clam. The truth was supposed to be that a rabid dog did the business, which explained why Ross himself was a nutter and liable to do nasty things. But Scobie had other ideas. Years of wanking had worn it down, that was one. Another? The guy was talking so much one time that he bit it off himself without even knowing it.
* * *
No matter how many tart-ups it had, the Crown always ended up looking like a dive. The landlord, a West Indian old-timer, didn’t really give two shits for what the place looked like. ‘Back-a-yard dem have bleedin tin hut wid tea chest fi sit pon. A pub, it a drinkin place. Who care what it look like?’ he’d say. So Reuben just left the fingermarks and beer stains alone. Posters of past events became permanent, as did the felt-tip exhortations to Jah, long forgotten posses and the bloodclaat pros from down the road. Only the bottles of booze and the well-worn bar sparkled, as did the big screen satellite TV that flooded the ceiling blue and silver. Jerry and Frederick eased into a corner away from the old men who pumped fruit machines and slapped their way through endless dominoes. Frederick set the tone of the night by lining them both up with a pint of
bitter and a large white rum. The big screen that hung safely from the ceiling was showing some Stateside boxing match. Nobody seemed bothered with it; all the intercourse of noise was rooted to the floor.
‘You feelin a bit better now, man?’
‘I d-don’t know . . .’
‘Jus let it ride, man. Nuttin else much you can do but get piss and let it ride.’
Jerry nodded and lit up a fresh fag from the butt of his old one. His face was grey and sweat-flecked, his lips were trembling and he didn’t dare to try to keep his fingers still. But though he found it hard to utter more than two words at a go, he was pleased that Frederick had taken him in tow. Earlier, at the Lime Tree, he had sat alone looking down into a deep pit where Mary lay bloody and smashed. He couldn’t see anything else, couldn’t envisage ever closing his eyes and was scared to try to think or feel. But old grey Frederick had come along with soothing words and a fatherly arm to guide him into oblivion. The Crown was the third pub of the night.
The movement of booze began to increase. The bitters sank to halves but the rums began to rise in their glasses. The pub had become more crowded and the noise of revelry flooded in. Frederick’s tales of female conquests soon got lost in the blather. Jerry’s eyes began to glaze and stare blankly at other guys cackling in competition with each other. Then his eyes drifted to the screen in the sky and the heavy sparring that took place there. It wasn’t long before Jerry was in there with the punches, as if that was a way to exorcize his pain. Willing on thuds to the body and wincing at the slow-mo crunch of punches replayed. The whole situation seemed like a big spar. All the guys in the bar were fighting with words and gestures. The stylized slap of a domino was a provocation to war. Everyone was getting frigging worked up; the whole world was at each other’s throats, dancing up and down with the rituals of the fight. Jerry felt like standing up and getting into a boxing pose.
‘What’s your problem, huh? Let me sock you with this shit! Mary’s dead, you bastard, her skull’s all smashed in!’ he wanted to shout. But Jerry remained a pale-faced mute, a sad case in a bar of black revelry. Frederick clamped a large hand on Jerry’s shoulder and pointed across the bar.
