by John Dalton
‘Don’t worry too much, as long as you get the basics.’
‘You mean the faces and the fucking.’
‘Perfectly put.’
There was a sudden crashing noise behind them. Des raised his eyes to the ceiling. Liam didn’t even look up.
‘Stop pissing about, you stupid bugger!’ he shouted.
‘But I’m bored, Dad!’
‘I told you to do a bit of drawing on the table over there.’
‘Bloody hell! Them’re dirty pictures!’ The kid had poked his head around Des and was ogling at Sir Martin’s happy hour.
‘Get back to that table and mind your own business!’
Des eased the boy out of the way and gave off one of his hard-man stares. It did the trick. He turned back to Liam, wondering whether he’d chosen the right person for the job. ‘This gonna be much longer?’
‘Ten minutes at the most.’
While Liam fretted over getting the lighting right and set up a camera stand, Des sat at a worktable, one eye on the kid, and pulled out an envelope. He addressed it to Miranda. Then he wrote out a cheque for the cost of her windscreen and began to write a note to go with it. His intention was to send off one of the snapshots too as a form of insurance in case the worst should happen. He hadn’t really dared to think about the ‘worst’, but he was aware that this was the sort of thing you were supposed to do. Sending it to Miranda was awkward, though. She could well trash it, or come back and complain he was trying out emotional blackmail.
‘In the event of something happening to me . . . What is this, Des? What tricks are you up to now?’
Des cringed. Maybe deep down he did see it as a way of getting back in with her?
He gave Liam’s restless kid a scowl and finally wrote: ‘Just keep this safe, yeh? No comebacks. Show it to Errol if you feel the need.’
Pretty lousy, but it would have to do. By then Liam had finished shooting copies of the prints. Des took one and put it in the envelope. The other he stashed in his shirt.
‘So how long you reckon then, Liam?’
‘I’ll get the negs processed now, mate, the sprog willing, and then leave them to dry. Some time this afternoon I’ll print them up for you.’
‘No one’s gotta know about this.’
‘Fifty quid’ll keep me quiet.’
‘You could be in danger if someone did find out.’
‘Jesus, don’t put the shits up me, man. It’s just an odd job on the side, right?’
‘If it makes you feel better, and a fifty quid bonus if it works out OK . . .’
‘Wow. Now did I put a film in the camera or not?’
Des walked back to Argent Street.
He kept his head low, following a trail of chewing gum, the odd spot of phlegm and the usual stirrings of litter. He was trying to think of his next move but felt at a loss. Constanza seemed the main candidate to check but he hadn’t come up with much that made a direct connection. He wondered whether he should go back to Pauline and her psycho bodyguard of a boyfriend. She at least knew more than she’d let on. The prospect didn’t enthral him and was soon forgotten. On the corner of his street, a Jaguar sat waiting, and as he approached, its rear door opened wide. Des knew what was expected. He calmly sat in the back and got a whiff of real leather. He realized that maybe he didn’t need to search but that those involved would surely come to him. And there was one, the thinly clipped moustache and the seriously grey face presenting Des with another move.
‘Following me, are you?’
‘I was going to call, but then I saw you in the street, looking like a washed-out derelict wandering about.’
‘It’s what it does to me, thinking.’
‘Huh-uh, and what has this thinking come up with in terms of my offer?’
‘Ah, well that one’s slipped away, got lost a bit.’
‘You’d be a fool to turn it down. This business, it’s not yours, is it? This is just a job for you with a pay day at the end of it.’
‘I didn’t say I’d turned it down, Sir Martin, just somehow mislaid the thought of it. But you’re wrong about it being just money. The itch –’ Des began to scratch at his armpit ‘– this bleeding itchy curiosity thing, it gets to you. You want to know answers and you know you can’t stop scratching till you do. It’s bad, no doubt about it; it throws money out the window.’
Des looked out of the window. The presence of a Jag in his neighbourhood was attracting some attention and he felt somehow that being in it wouldn’t do his reputation any good. Sir Martin stopped leaning around in his seat and focused on the rear-view mirror instead. The burnt eyes seemed more threatening that way.
‘I suppose I could tell you all you want to know. It would just be hearsay since there’s no proof. Perhaps that can be the deal, McGinlay? I’ll give you the money, name the names and you return the photos?’
‘That is tempting, I must say.’
‘So?’
‘I’d have to speak to my client first.’
The brow in the rear-view mirror furrowed and the dark eyes became intense.
‘I’m getting extremely annoyed with you, McGinlay. You don’t seem to realize the clout I have. I can get the police to remove your licence. I can get the media to ignore those photos. I can get you killed if need be. So let’s stop the prevarications, shall we? I want the photos by the end of the day or else I do all I can to finish you. That plain enough?’
Des certainly found the gaze intimidating. He was looking at power and a sense of fear began to rise in his gut. He knew also that this was just a play; it was the force of a privileged personality and the substance of the threat could well be less strong. Even so, Des struggled to give as good as he’d received. He smiled as casually as he could and opened the car door.
‘Be careful now, Sir Martin. Think who’s got most to lose. You corner me, what the fuck do I care if we both go down?’
Des eased out of the car and felt the relief of cool air on his sweating face.
* * *
‘So how c-come I never see you eat?’ Jerry said as he lay back on the bed stark naked.
‘Guess I don’t have much of an appetite. I mean, food, you don’t know where the stuff comes from, do you?’
‘B-But, you know, M-Mouse, y-you are . . . w-well b-built.’
‘Jesus, don’t you start. I mean, all this fucking sizeism crap, it –’
‘N-No, d-don’t get me wrong, I l-love it. You’ve g-got tits like s-soft ripe squashes, a b-belly like a volup-t-t-uous b-blancmange and an arse . . . Jesus, y-you’re all soft and fruitful and really d-delicious.’
‘Keep saying that and I might eat you.’
‘Yeh? D-Do it, Mouse.’
‘Well, you certainly seem to be feeling better.’
‘I guess that’s d-down to you, and this.’
‘What makes you flip like that, Stray? You were a complete quivering wreck.’
‘I d-dunno, it’s like, there’s s-something st-stuck. I dunno, like inside there’s a hole, a d-deep well or something and I’m c-constantly fearful I’m g-gonna fall down and I have to hold on. I d-don’t seem to be able to really let go. And then some things, they j-just seem to p-push me over the edge . . . I dunno, I can’t explain it, I j-just know something is crying out inside m-me.’
‘Jesus, we’re all fucked up to the eyeballs, I guess.’
‘Let’s not g-go on about it, huh?’
‘You feeling funny?’
‘J-Just hold me, Mouse, j-just shove those big tits of yours into my f-face and let me d-drown.’
‘Huh-uh. OK, just this once. But then, Stray my dear, we should start to think positively about what to do. You know, ways to get out of ourselves, ways to get ourselves back.’
* * *
Des was thinking about Bertha as he approached his house. She hadn’t been in touch. No wounded voice or harsh words. He began to feel that she must be up to something, but couldn’t see the angle she might have. Maybe, as Errol had hinted, old t
ies had been revived. Des knew that he hadn’t been all that square with her as an employee. He knew the sex was going to turn things nasty. He suddenly became worried that he would never see his final cheque. But all this quickly became lost to him. The catch was down on the Yale in his front door.
Sweat returned to Des’s brow. He looked through his front window. The sofa was upside-down and gutted. He made his way down the side entry and into his back yard. The kitchen door was wide open. His feet crunched glass as he went inside. He found a hammer under the sink, held onto it firmly and then began to look around. The kitchen hadn’t been messed with and so he crept forward into his sitting room. Bookshelves had been tipped over, chairs upended and the TV kicked in. Des looked down at a spread of dirt where a plant pot had been toppled. A neat chisel-shaped shoeprint sat in the middle of it. Des let out a weary groan but as he looked around at the chaos, a cold sense of rage began to grow. He edged his way through the mess on the floor, his hammer poised to swing, and started to check out the rest of the house.
The front room was supposed to be his office. Des didn’t have much in the way of paperwork, but what there was carpeted the floor in between the broken furniture and flung-away drawers. He saw some of the letters he’d had from Miranda and a lot of photos of the doomed affair, all cast off and trampled by the chisel-toed shoes. The anger grew, ice blue turning hot red as Des clenched the hammer with a surge of vindictiveness. This wasn’t part of the deal. This is too shit close for anyone. This is totally not on! Des headed for the stairs, fuming with an outrage that impaired his senses. The creak on the landing didn’t register. He only raised his head when halfway up. Des didn’t have time to react.
With one hand pressed against the wall and the other sliding on the banister, the man with floppy hair launched himself forward feet first. The chisel-shaped shoes thumped Des in the chest. Des got the sight of a peculiar grin and then he was freefalling. A rush of air in his ears. A split-second thought of pain. Then pain became reality. A solid thump into his back and his head whiplashing to the ground with a ferocious crunch. A swirl of noise and light, and a mouth that didn’t know how to breathe.
Des, winded and confused, knew the intruder would be coming after him. He flapped around for his hammer, tried to ease himself up but all his strength had gone. The grin was right above him, coming in closer. Des felt knees pinioning his arms and the dead weight of the man sitting on his chest.
‘All good things come to an end, eh mate?’
Des thought he was looking at two faces and he could hardly hear the words that sneered down for all the bees that swarmed in his brain.
‘That’s if your life had any good things in it.’
Des began to consider how he might reply. There was enough abuse in amid the swarm to fill his mouth, but the problem was his mouth wasn’t working too well. It was like a broken bellows sucking, gasping and barely processing any air. Above him, Des saw his assailant donning a pair of gloves.
‘Thing is, mate, you might just have a chance. You know, get in a few more fucks, a few more nights down the pub . . .’
The gloved hands splayed out in front of Des. They came down slowly, began to cling to his neck, the thumbs smoothing his windpipe.
‘All I need to know is where the photos are.’
The man leaned in closer. Des saw a swirl of lines like dancing centipedes on his forehead.
‘YOU GOT THAT? THE PHOTOS!’ he shouted.
At first, Des wanted to say that he couldn’t speak. Ridiculous. The thought doubled his fear and made him strain desperately to get his mouth working.
‘F-F-Fuck . . .’ was all he could manage.
‘You stupid, daft bastard.’
The thumbs began to press down. Des tried to get more words into his mouth but it was like his mouth was no longer there. He looked up and there seemed to be no sign of his attacker. All he could see was what looked like snow. Snow in late summer? That’s something to tell Miranda about. Miranda? Why the hell am I thinking about her at death’s door. What about Pearl? Jesus, Miranda, still . . . how bloody deep does it go?
The snow seemed to be getting heavier and Des became aware of hands pawing over his body as though perhaps he was already dead and the authorities had come to take him away. ‘Hold on!’ Des screamed to himself. ‘Not yet! I’ve got to come up with a better last thought, you know, something warm and hopeful.’ Des struggled. Night seemed to be descending fast. Fuck words . . . Mere snowflakes falling on a deep-running river . . . huh, now there’s something to put in the mouth if I ever find it . . .
20
There was someone in the other room. Or maybe they were in the same room but far away. Des could hear clumping steps, clattering noises and scrapes. This would be the autopsy. The coroner preparing scalpels, saws and drills ready for dissection. It always had been a thing Des found disgusting and would never wish for, even after death. He tried to move but knew it was impossible. The bastards! Who sanctions such casual butchery? I like my body! I want it going to the grave in one piece! The noises were getting closer, the footsteps and the rattling. Des could hear breathing and then something wet being put on his face. Jesus! Not the head first, not the rotary skull-opener! They’re not going to pull out my brain, are they? Des felt hands on his shoulders, pulling and shaking; and he thought he heard a voice saying his name. Name? Wasn’t he just a number now, a number on a tag on a big toe? More confusion. Des felt hair on his face and thought he could see an eye looking at him, an eye and a mouth saying, ‘Des.’ Then it all became clear. Bertha.
‘Bloody hell, Des, I really thought you were a goner.’
‘You – you don’t need to . . . do it. I can tell you the cause.’ Des was surprised that his mouth was working, sort of, a croaking mouth full of sand, ball-bearings and sounds that may not have been words.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come round,’ Bertha said. ‘When I got here, Jesus, what a shock, you were lying stone cold in the hall. I don’t know fuck about first aid but I thought I could feel some sort of pulse so then I lugged you onto the sofa.’
‘God. I ache everywhere.’
‘I was panicking. Thought I should’ve called an ambulance. You’ve been out for ages, Des.’
‘Guess I’m back now. Still snowing outside, is it?’
‘What? Des, have some hot tea, try to move a bit, and tell me who the bastard was who did this!’
The tea helped. It burned and felt weird going down his throat but it gave Des some sense of equilibrium back. He sat up on the sofa, light-headed and wobbly, and looked at Bertha’s frowning face.
‘I should’ve been more prepared . . . in more ways than one.’ It felt strange speaking, like the ball-bearings were still there, but Des got the hang of it.
‘So who was it?’
‘I’ve seen him around. Wild yellowish hair, stocky, had a heavy frown and a sort of sneering face.’
‘I think I know who that is.’
‘I think I can guess.’
‘Scobie Brent, Ross’s heavy.’
‘That’s what I reckoned.’
‘God, it makes the connection clear, doesn’t it?’
‘Seems to.’
‘What a bastard!’ Bertha looked edgily round the room. ‘He’s not going to give in easily.’
‘Why should he? He’s looking at a big fall.’
‘So how are you now, Des?’
‘Shaky, but OK.’
‘You think we should call this whole thing off?’
Des wasn’t quite with the situation. There was Bertha, a woman he was vaguely aware he was involved with, but who sat some distance away and looked as nervous as hell. Shouldn’t she be holding him now, giving him comfort and succour? But then Des didn’t really want her as he was also vaguely conscious of a river and of a voice calling up from the depths. He didn’t know where to focus so tried to stay in work mode; it was impersonal that way.
‘We can’t call if off now,’ he said, wondering whether his words
had any expression. ‘We’re on the threshold of success. We’ve got the sods panicking.’
‘But, Des, it’s getting dangerous. Ross’ll kill you if you get any nearer.’
‘I’ll be ready next time, so don’t worry about me.’
‘I dunno, Des . . .’
Des could now see that Bertha was extremely nervy and that her attitude had changed. No more sensual intrigue or sexy looks. This change urged him to try out some reckless bravado.
‘Anyway, I’m near enough ready to bring Ross out into the open, set a trap with the help of the police.’
‘Oh no, Des, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Come on, if you want to nail Claudette’s killer, we’re going to have to exert pressure.’
‘No.’ Bertha eased forward and tried to look calm. ‘I think maybe we should call it off now. You give me the photos and we’ll work out how much cash I owe you.’
It wasn’t hard for Des to look stunned. He was stunned, all over, and functioning on automatic pilot. Bertha’s words were disturbing, but he couldn’t quite grasp why. A sudden sense of thwarted lust and job insecurity swept along the river beneath him and Des shivered.
‘I don’t believe this. I mean, don’t you want to do right by your daughter?’
‘Des, don’t. Just give me the photos, eh, and we’ll talk about the rest later, when you’re feeling better.’
‘The photos . . .’
She still hadn’t looked him in the eye. Des continued to try to work out Bertha’s attitude but then the issue of the photos sank in.
‘Well, I’ve only got one, the other is in a safe place –’ He stalled and felt under his shirt. ‘Jesus, that’s it. That’s probably why I’m still here!’
‘What is going on, Des?’
‘I had one in my shirt. Scobie must’ve found it and stopped throttling me.’
‘God, Des, what’s happening? Where’s the other one?’
‘You’d never guess. But don’t worry, I’ve got lots of copies of both of them ready and waiting.’
‘Des, I want them, all of them! Me, I’ve paid for the lot.’
