Pretend We're Dead

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Oh God. For a moment I thought I’d dreamt the whole thing and I could go back to sleep.’

  ‘Don’t do this to me, Chas,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry. I’m almost ready.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re almost out of bed, and I’m getting hitched in…’ I looked at my watch, ‘… sixty-two minutes exactly.’

  ‘Nick. Don’t worry. I’ll be there.’

  ‘No, Chas. Be here.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Thirty minutes tops.’

  Chas lived in Docklands. A cute little development by Tobacco Wharf. He was going to have to move his arse to do it.

  ‘Do you want me to meet you at the registry office?’ I said. ‘It’s closer.’

  ‘No. Trust me. I’ll be there.’

  ‘Don’t forget the ring,’ I said. But he was gone.

  I put the receiver down carefully and made the second big mistake of the day. I went over to my little collection of bottles and poured out a stiff Jack Daniel’s.

  Oh yeah – the first had been taking the Jay Harrison case, but I didn’t know it yet.

  3

  I went over to the window, drew the curtains back and winced at the brightness outside. I stood for half an hour, thirty-five minutes, three-quarters of an hour, smoking cigarettes, sipping at my JD and chewing on my fingernails. Finally at ten to twelve I saw Chas’s red Sierra tear up the road and screech to a halt in front of my house. I shook my head sadly and went downstairs to meet him.

  He looked like a wreck inside a smart suit. His face was pale and his hair had obviously been plastered down with water. He stood by his car and shrugged apologetically. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  I got into the Caprice and started it up. I leant over and opened the passenger door, and Chas joined me on the wide bench seat. ‘Sorry, Nick,’ he said. ‘It took me longer than I thought to get here.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I replied. ‘Got the ring?’

  His face crumpled.

  ‘Chas,’ I said. ‘If you’ve lost it…’

  He started patting his pockets and I saw him relax as he reached into one and pulled out the twenty-four carat I’d bought for Dawn. ‘No problem,’ he said.

  I stuck the column change into reverse and pulled smoothly out into the street, put the car into drive and headed for Brixton.

  We arrived at the registry office at one minute to twelve. A Chevy Caprice is almost twenty feet long and not the easiest car to park, but luckily I found a space and manoeuvred it in and switched off the engine. There was no sign of the Cadillac, or Dawn, Tracey and Judith, although I saw a couple of people who’d been invited to the wedding, lurking about in the street smoking cigarettes and pretending they weren’t there.

  I said hello to them, and got the usual offers of fast cars and ferry tickets. My friends have never been noted for the originality of their wit.

  Chas and I went inside the foyer, where the previous wedding group was standing around having their photographs taken, and looking self-conscious on a carpet of cheap confetti and a few rose petals.

  Chas went off to see the registrar and I lit another cigarette, which contravened all the local bylaws, and stood and waited for something to happen.

  The previous wedding party made for the door, and I smiled at the bride who smiled back and wished me luck. With my track record I was going to need all the luck I could get, and I wished her the same.

  Chas returned to the foyer and gave me the thumbs up, which I took to mean that no one had expired or been arrested overnight. He came over and said, ‘Any sign of Dawn yet?’

  ‘Not so far,’ I said, ‘but with her and her pals, and unlimited booze, anything could have happened.’

  ‘The registrar’s getting a bit antsy,’ he said. ‘Saturday’s their busy day. They’ve got another wedding booked for half past. I’ll go and have a look outside.’ And he did. I lit another cigarette and wished I was anywhere else but there.

  A minute later Chas stuck his head back through the front door and said, ‘They’re here. Where did you get that bloody car?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I said.

  The guests started filtering in, straightening ties and adjusting hats as they came, and Chas pulled me into the registrar’s office, where she was waiting, book in hand, looking at her watch.

  Chas and I took our places at the front of the room, and the guests sat in the chairs provided, and I turned and looked at the door, as some cheesy organ music filtered through the cheap speakers on either side of the big window covered in a dusty Venetian blind.

  At ten past the hour precisely, the door opened, and Dawn, Tracey and Judith came in. Dawn looked like a flame in her red dress, Tracey had gone the Nashville route in an outfit of denim and lace teamed with spike-heeled ankle boots, and Judith was a picture in an ivory dress and matching shoes. All three carried bouquets of white roses. I looked at Chas and raised my eyebrows, and he raised his eyebrows back, as the music on the tape changed to the Wedding March.

  I won’t bore you with details of the ceremony. But by twelve-thirty, Dawn and I were husband and wife and Judith had a new step-mum. So the world turns.

  When we left the registrar’s office, we stopped in the foyer to have our photographs taken.

  Then my new bride and I, plus her matron of honour and bridesmaid, went out to the ridiculously bulbous Cadillac convertible, complete with spotlights and sirens that was blocking the Brixton Road outside, to be carried off to the bar where the reception was taking place. No one threw confetti. But then no one threw bricks either.

  The bar was in West Norwood. I’d actually worked there once for a while when times had been hard. Not that they were ever much else. The geezer I’d worked for, JJ Jeffries, had sold up and moved to Hollywood. Hollywood in Ireland, that is. And the place had been bought by a bloke called Simon. He was all right, except for his penchant for red glasses. But then, changing times make fashion victims of us all.

  Simon ran the place with his wife and kept a couple of small children barking in the flat above.

  We’d hired the place for the whole day, twelve to twelve. I knew the kind of people who’d been invited, and I didn’t want them let loose on the streets of south London until well past the end of licensing hours.

  The driver of the Caddy dropped us off outside the bar, at just before one, and the four of us entered the premises to be greeted by the guv’nor and two barmaids.

  The counter was covered with dishes containing a buffet lunch, and half a dozen bottles of champagne were standing in a big tub of ice. They were just for starters. Like I said, I knew the kind of people who’d been invited. Simon and the barmaids congratulated us, and cracked open the first bottle, as the vanguard of guests started arriving. I pulled Judith to one side.

  ‘Did you have a good time last night?’ I asked.

  She went pink and nodded.

  ‘Don’t ever tell your mother,’ I said. ‘Or I’m dead meat.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I hope you didn’t get drunk.’

  ‘I only had orange juice,’ she protested, and I smiled.

  ‘I believe you. Do you want some champagne?’

  She nodded.

  ‘With orange juice?’ I said.

  She nodded again, and I ordered a Buck’s Fizz from one of the barmaids and a glass of champagne for myself. Not that I like the stuff, but it was that kind of day, and I needed something as an antidote for the JD I’d been swigging at home earlier.

  When the drinks arrived Judith bobbed up and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, Daddy,’ she said. ‘I think Dawn is terrific.’

  I almost cried.

  ‘So do I, love,’ I said, and we toasted each other and drank.

  By then, the bar
was starting to fill up, both with people who’d been to the ceremony and with those Dawn and I had asked just to the reception. As I looked through the big plate-glass window into the street, a bright red Porsche 911 with full racing trim pulled up outside, parked on the bus stop, and out from behind the wheel appeared the rotund form of my old pal Christopher Kennedy-Sloane, one of the last of the city whizz-kids who still had a seat to his pants. He ran round to the passenger door as fast as his little legs would carry him, opened it, and gave his hand to whoever was sitting inside. The world seemed to hold its breath as a dream in cream silk emerged, unfolded herself to her full six foot, and stood dwarfing Kennedy-Sloane as he closed the door behind her and set the locks and alarm with the little remote control he held in his hand.

  I looked round and found Dawn’s eye and she followed mine to the scene outside, and I saw her smile and shake her head as Kennedy-Sloane and his companion entered the bar.

  I hadn’t been the only one to witness the two of them arrive. I think every geezer in the bar stood pop-eyed as Kennedy-Sloane ushered her inside, and the conversation level dropped to the floor.

  I pushed through the crowd to welcome them.

  ‘Nick,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘I was in two minds whether or not to venture down into the badlands where you insist on living. I thought the whole thing would have ended in tears by now.’

  ‘Thanks, Chris,’ I said. ‘Your confidence in my new marriage is duly noted.’

  ‘I just didn’t think you’d go through with it, old boy. You or your lady wife. More likely the latter, as she discovered what a reprobate you are. I take it the ceremony did take place.’

  ‘We’re street legal, son,’ I said. Then looked at the woman he was with, who close up I saw was no more than a girl. At least twenty-five years his junior, whose doe eyes were fixed intently on mine. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ I asked.

  He looked up into her face. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Do forgive me. Angela Shakespeare-Lane, allow me to introduce the blushing bridegroom. An old adversary of mine, Nick Sharman. Who is just about to make a comment about double-barrelled surnames.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ I said, and stuck out my hand in Angela’s direction. ‘How do you do,’ I said. ‘Welcome to the party.’

  Angela took my hand in her gloved right. I could feel her bones through the fabric and the skin and flesh beneath it. ‘Delighted,’ she breathed.

  ‘Angela is a clothes horse,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘Eighteen years old and making a mint. Front cover of Vogue as we speak.’

  ‘From which you take your percentage,’ I said.

  ‘Certainly. You don’t mind, do you, Ange?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Can I get you both a drink?’ I asked. ‘Champagne. And don’t ask about the vintage, Chris.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said. ‘Not in this neck of the woods. You’re likely to get a kick in the head if you do, I imagine.’

  I turned and rescued two glasses of bubbly off the counter behind me, and passed one to Kennedy-Sloane and one to Angela, who had pulled a cigarette out of her handbag and stood with it between pursed lips while as many lighters as you see at the encore of a Barry Manilow concert were fired up and stuffed under her nose. She didn’t flinch. Just took a light from one, inhaled and breathed the smoke out through her nose in two grey streams, and nodded regally at the lucky man who’d ignited her cigarette.

  ‘I’ve got a little something for you in the car by way of a wedding present,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘I was going to get you a pair of engraved, his and hers pump-action shotguns, but I imagine you’ve already got all you need of those.’

  Funny man.

  ‘So instead I settled for a couple of lead crystal tumblers. Super king size. Just right for a couple of gin and tonics when you come home after a hard day’s sleuthing.’

  You had to give it to the man. He was a prat of the first order. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And thanks for putting that American geezer on to me.’

  ‘Lamar. He phoned you did he?’

  ‘He sure did. First thing this morning. At least, first thing for me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I took the job. I was always a big fan of Dog Soldier.’

  ‘I suspected you might have had leanings towards the gothic in your youth.’

  I just nodded, then said, ‘He’s sending a fax over with a copy of the letter and some other stuff to your office. He seemed positively offended that I didn’t have a machine of my own.’

  It was Kennedy-Sloane’s turn to nod. ‘Fine. I’ll keep an eye out for it. And I’ve got authorisation to pay you a week’s fee in advance. Plus something towards your expenses. Lamar wants me to oversee the job this end. So it looks as if I’ll be your boss. At least temporarily.’

  ‘That’s terrific,’ I said drily.

  ‘At a grand a day, I should think almost anything would be terrific for a newly married man,’ he said. ‘Plus exes. When will you come in and pick up the cheque?’

  ‘On Tuesday. I’m taking Dawn away for a few days’ honeymoon.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Hastings. We’re driving down later.’

  ‘You’re an incurable romantic, Sharman.’

  ‘She likes Hastings,’ I said.

  ‘I like Langan’s Brasserie. But I wouldn’t want to go there for my honeymoon.’

  ‘You’d have to find somebody to marry you first,’ I said.

  ‘Bitchy,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘Well, enjoy yourself, and try not to expire from the excitement of the place.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said, then noticed over his shoulder someone who’d just come through the door and was scoping the place in a professional way. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ I said. ‘There’s someone just arrived who I must say hello to.’

  ‘Carry on, dear boy,’ said Kennedy-Sloane. ‘It’s your day, and I can see that you’ve spared no expense to get your friends together. It’s a bit like This Is Your Life on angel dust in here.’

  ‘I try to please,’ I said, and with a nod to Angela went to greet an uninvited guest.

  He was standing by the door, sort of half in, half out of the bar, when I reached him. ‘Hello, Mr Robber,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’ I didn’t say if it was a pleasant or an unpleasant one. Only time would tell.

  Detective Inspector Jack Robber was his usual grubby self, in an old trench coat unbuttoned over a shiny suit, greyish-looking white shirt, and food-stained tie.

  ‘I think my invite must have got lost in the post,’ he said. ‘So I came anyway.’

  I ignored the comment. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I heard it through the grapevine,’ he said. ‘They’ve been taking bets up the station whether or not you’d go through with it.’

  ‘I did,’ I said. ‘Have you met my wife?’

  ‘I think I nicked her once for tomming. Her and her mate.’

  ‘I don’t think we have to go into all that today, do we?’ I asked.

  ‘No, son,’ he said. ‘Let bygones be bygones. I don’t give a fuck anyway. I’ll be retiring soon. I’ve had enough of this shithouse of a town. I’m off to the coast. I’ve got a sister down there. Her husband died last Christmas. Children gone. She wants to look after me. Make sure I eat regular.’

  I’d never previously pictured Robber as having a family. ‘That’s good,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll probably have a heart attack within a year. It often happens you know.’

  I nodded. It was a fact. It did. Take coppers away from the stress of the job, the late nights and bad food, too many cigarettes and too much booze, and they dropped like flies.

  He shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I came to wish you two the best of luck. Maybe she’ll keep you in order, and you her.’

  ‘We’ll try,’ I said, strangely
touched by the ugly old detective’s words. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Do rabbits fuck? A single malt. Large one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of getting you anything else,’ I said. ‘Won’t be a minute. Help yourself to food.’ And I went over to the bar and caught Simon’s eye. When he came over I said, ‘Check out one of the local Old Bill. The geezer I was talking to, who looks like a flasher gone bad.’

  I saw Simon’s eyes move in Robber’s direction.

  ‘Get me a triple single malt for him,’ I said. ‘Stick it on the tab.’

  Simon nodded, and got down the best in the house, poured out three measures, and gave me the glass. ‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘See you in a minute.’

  He nodded again, and I took the drink over to Robber, grabbing another glass of champagne on the way. Robber had moved to the bar and was piling up a plate with food. ‘She won’t have much trouble, will she?’ I asked, as I put his glass down.

  ‘Who? What?’ he said.

  ‘Your sister. Making sure you eat properly,’ I explained, gesturing at his plate.

  He almost smiled. Almost, but not quite. I don’t think Inspector Robber smiled much. Then he nodded. ‘But this is buckshee,’ he said.

  ‘Enjoy it. And the barman will get you what you want to drink. I’ll see you in a minute. I think I’d better find my wife and mingle a bit.’

  ‘Not in public, son,’ he said. ‘You can get arrested for that.’

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Robber crack a joke. Blimey, I thought. Things are looking up.

  I smiled, and nodded, and turned towards the back of the bar where Dawn, Tracey and Judith were holding court.

  I battled through the crowd, accepting congratulations and greeting people I hadn’t seen before, until I reached the restaurant at the rear, where my wife, her matron of honour and bridesmaid were sitting at a table covered in bottles and glasses.

  ‘You haven’t wasted much time,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, darlin’,’ said Dawn. I knew from the tone she used that she was getting pissed. And why not? It was her wedding day.

  ‘I hope you’re not corrupting my daughter,’ I said to her.