by Mark Burnell
‘Looking for someone?’
He hadn’t heard her open the door. He turned round. She wore a crimson satin gown and when she turned to close the door, Proctor noticed a large dragon running down the back of it. The gown was open and beneath it, she wore black underwear, a suspender-belt and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Her hair was blonde—chemically blonde—but her dark roots were showing. It was shoulder-length and, even in the relative gloom, looked as though it could have been cleaner.
No trick of the light, however, could disguise her paleness, her thinness or her weariness. She had a frame for a fuller figure but she didn’t have the flesh for it. When she moved, her open gown parted further and, from across the room, Proctor could see her ribs corrugating her skin. Her face was made-up—peach cheeks, bloody lips and heavy eye-liner—but the rest of her body was utterly white, and when she smiled she only succeeded in looking tired. ‘My name’s Lisa. What’s yours?’
He ignored the question. ‘You don’t look like you do on the card.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t want to be walking down the street seeing myself in every phone-box I pass. And I don’t want people pointing at me because they’ve recognized me from my picture, do I?’
‘I guess not.’
She kept her distance and put a hand on her hip, revealing a little more of herself. ‘So, what do you want?’
Proctor’s hand was in his coat pocket. He felt the torn yellow card. ‘I just want to talk.’
Her cheap smile faded. ‘I don’t charge less than thirty for anything. And for that, you get a massage and hand-relief.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘I told you. Lisa.’
‘Is that your real name?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’d just like to know, that’s all.’
She paused for a moment. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you tell me? Who do you think I am? Lisa, or someone else?’
‘I think you’re someone else.’
‘Really?’ She smiled again but it failed to soften the hardness in her gaze. ‘Who?’
‘I think your real name might be … Stephanie.’ Not even a flinch. Proctor was disappointed. ‘Are you Stephanie?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On your money. If I don’t see some, I’m nobody. If you just want to talk, that’s fine but it’ll still cost you thirty. I don’t do anything for free.’
Proctor reached for his wallet. ‘Thirty?’
She nodded. ‘Thirty. And for thirty, I’ll be Stephanie, or Lisa, or whoever you want.’
Proctor held three tens just out of her grasp. ‘Will you be yourself?’
She said nothing until he handed her the notes. And then, as she was folding them in half, she asked, ‘What are you doing here? What do you really want?’
‘The truth.’
‘I’m a prostitute, not a priest. There’s no truth here. Not from me, not from you.’ When Proctor frowned at this, she added: ‘When you get home this evening, are you going to tell your wife you went to see a hooker? That you paid her money?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Your girlfriend, then. Anyone…’ Proctor didn’t need to say anything. ‘I thought not. So don’t come here and talk to me about the truth.’
Not only was her tone changing, so was her accent; south London was being displaced by something less readily identifiable. Just as her opening remarks had been laced with a dose of sleazy tease, now she was cold and direct.
Proctor was equally blunt. ‘I think your real name is Stephanie Patrick.’
This time, he knew he was right. The surname betrayed her and she froze, if only for a fraction of a second. He saw her try to shrug it off but he also saw that she knew he’d seen it.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
For the first time, she looked openly hostile. ‘Who are you?’
‘Your name is Stephanie Patrick, isn’t it?’
She looked down at the money in her fist and said, ‘Let me give this to the maid and then we’ll talk. Okay?’
It took Proctor a couple of seconds to realize that the ‘maid’ was the fat woman who had admitted him to the flat. ‘Okay.’
Lisa—for that was who she still seemed to be—turned away and left him alone in the room. When she returned, a couple of minutes later, she had transformed into a man who was six-foot-four and built like a weight-lifter. He had no neck, his huge shaven head merging with the grotesque bulges of his shoulder muscles. His white T-shirt was so tight it could have been body-paint.
He didn’t need to raise his voice when he pointed at Proctor and murmured, ‘You. Outside. Now.’
* * *
Proctor rolled over, vaguely aware of the soggy rubbish that was squashed beneath his body. The drizzle fell softly on to his stinging face. One eye was closing. Through the other, he saw two walls of blackened brick converging as they rose. He was in an alley of some sort and it stank.
The beating had been short, brutal and depressingly efficient; the administrator was clearly no novice. After a final kick to the ribs, he’d hissed a blunt warning: ‘If I ever see you here again, I’ll tear your fucking balls off. And that’s just for starters. Now piss off out of here.’
With that, a door had slammed shut and Proctor had been by himself, lying on a bed of rotting rubbish. For a while, he made no attempt to move. He lay on his back, his arms wrapped around his burning ribs. He tasted blood in his mouth.
He looked up and saw smudges of buttery light seeping from cracks in drawn curtains. And from a partially-opened window, he heard Bing Crosby crooning on a radio.
I’m dreaming of a White Christmas …
2
Proctor saw her before she saw him. He was standing in a restaurant doorway, trying to keep dry. The drizzle of the previous night had matured into real rain. When he glimpsed her, she was heading his way, so he retreated from view. Inside the restaurant, staff were preparing for lunch, placing tall wine glasses and small dishes of chilled butter on tables draped in starched white cloth.
He waited until she was close. ‘Lisa?’
She stopped but it took a moment for her to recognize him beneath his mask of bruises. Proctor raised his hands in surrender. ‘I don’t want any trouble. I just want to talk.’
She looked as though she would run. ‘Leave me alone,’ she hissed.
‘Please. It’s important.’
He saw the hardness in her gaze again. ‘Which part don’t you understand? Or maybe you just enjoy getting your head kicked in.’
‘No, I don’t. That’s why I waited for you here and not in Brewer Street.’
‘How’d you know I’d come this way?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t. But I guessed you didn’t live there so you’d be coming from somewhere else. And then I guessed you’d come on the Underground, not a bus. And since this is on the shortest route between the nearest station and Brewer Street…’
‘Smart,’ she said, flatly. ‘But I could’ve come another way. I often do.’
‘You could’ve. But you didn’t.’
According to Proctor’s information, Stephanie Patrick was twenty-two. The woman in front of him looked at least ten years older than that. Her dyed blonde hair was dishevelled and with her make-up removed, her face was as colourless as the rest of her. Except for the dark smudges around both eyes. But now, in the morning, they were natural, not cosmetic.
She wore a tatty, black, leather bomber-jacket over a grey sweatshirt. Her jeans were frayed at the knees and down the thighs; given the weather, this seemed more like a financial statement than one of fashion. Her blue canvas trainers were soaked.
‘How long have you been here?’ she asked him.
‘Since nine-thirty.’
She glanced at her plastic watch. It was after eleven. ‘You must be cold.’
‘And wet. And in pain.’
/>
He saw a hint of a smile.
‘I can imagine. He’s not known for his subtlety. Just for his thoroughness.’ She examined Proctor’s face. ‘You look like shit.’
Proctor hadn’t slept. When the paracetamol had failed, he’d resorted to alcoholic painkiller, which had also failed. And not being a seasoned drinker, the experience had left him with a hangover to compound his misery. His body was peppered with bruises, his left eye was badly swollen, his ribs ached with every breath and his right ankle, which had been twisted on the stairs, was aflame.
‘Look, if you’re not going to talk to me, fine. But let me ask you one question. Are you or are you not Stephanie Patrick, daughter of Dr Andrew Patrick and Monica Patrick?’
He needed to hear the answer that he already knew. She took her time.
‘First, who are you?’
‘My name is Keith Proctor.’
‘Why are you asking me these things?’
‘It’s part of my job.’
‘Which is what?’
‘I’m a journalist.’ Predictably, she grew yet more defensive, her posture betraying her silence. Proctor said, ‘Your parents were on the North Eastern Airlines flight that crashed into the Atlantic two years ago. So were your sister and your younger brother.’
He watched her run through the phrases in her mind before she chose one. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. Leave me alone. Leave it alone.’
‘Believe me, I’d like to. But I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it wasn’t an accident.’
The bait was cast and she considered it for a moment. Before ignoring it. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I don’t expect you to. Not yet. Not until you’ve given me a chance.’ She shook her head but Proctor persisted. ‘I need a cup of coffee, Miss Patrick. Will you let me buy you one, too? I’ll pay for your time.’
‘People pay me for my body, not my time.’
‘They pay for both. Come on. Just one cup of coffee.’
* * *
Bar Bruno, on the corner of Wardour Street and Peter Street, was half-full. It offered fried breakfasts all day. There was a large Coke vending machine just inside the door. Behind a long glass counter, sandwich fillings were displayed in dishes. The table-tops looked like wood but weren’t. The banquettes were covered in shiny green plastic.
They ordered coffee and sat at the back where there were fewer people. Stephanie wriggled out of her leather jacket and dumped it beside her. Proctor’s eyes were immediately drawn to her wrists. Both were seriously bruised. She looked as if she was wearing purple handcuffs. They hadn’t been there the previous night; he was sure he would have noticed. She saw him looking at them.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ she snapped.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk. Have you looked in a mirror this morning?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Momentarily angry, she thrust both wrists in front of Proctor’s face for closer inspection. ‘You want to know what this is? It’s an occasional occupational hazard, that’s what it is.’ Then she was calm and stirring sugar into her milky coffee, before changing the subject. ‘Have you got any cigarettes on you?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘I didn’t think so, but you never know until you ask.’ Proctor watched her produce a packet of her own from her jacket pocket. She lit one and dropped the dead match on her saucer. ‘So, you’re a journalist.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t look like one.’
‘I didn’t realize there was a look.’
‘I’m not saying there is. I’m talking about the way you look. Good haircut, nice suit, expensive shoes and clear skin—apart from the bruises, of course. You look like you take care of yourself.’
‘I try to.’
‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m freelance. But I used to work for The Independent and then the Financial Times.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Not to you, I shouldn’t think.’
Stephanie took a sip of coffee. ‘You haven’t a clue what I think.’
More than anything, she looked nervous, despite the aggression in her small talk. She fidgeted incessantly and her eyes never settled on anything. Proctor took a sip of his own coffee and grimaced.
‘Your parents were murdered,’ he said for effect. She seemed oblivious, as though she hadn’t even heard him. ‘Along with everyone else on that flight.’
‘That’s not true. There was an investigation–’
‘Faulty electrics in the belly of the aircraft which produced a spark igniting aviation fuel fumes, causing the first of two catastrophic explosions? I read the FAA and CAA findings like everyone else. And until recently, I believed them. Everyone believed them. And, as a consequence of that, some of the electrical systems on some of the older 747s were changed. Problem addressed, problem solved. Except it wasn’t. The problem’s still out there, walking around with a pulse, a brain and a name.’
Her look said it all. You’re either crazy or you’re stupid. Proctor leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘It was a bomb that destroyed that aircraft. It wasn’t an accident.’
He waited for the reaction; a gasp of shock, or a denial, or something else. Instead, he got nothing. Stephanie picked at her fingernails and he noticed how dirty they were. And cracked. Her fingertips looked raw.
‘How much money have you got on you?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Cash. How much have you got on you?’
‘I don’t know.’
She looked up to meet his eyes. ‘I need money and you said you’d pay me.’
Proctor was at sea. ‘Look, I’m trying to explain to you–’
‘I know. But I need this money now.’
‘Aren’t you interested?’
‘Are you going to give it to me or not? Because if you’re not, I’m leaving.’
‘I paid you thirty last night and look what it bought me.’
She stood up and picked up her jacket.
To buy himself time, Proctor reached for his wallet again. ‘There was a bomb on that flight. The authorities know this but they’re keeping it secret.’
Stephanie sounded bored. ‘You reckon?’
‘They even know who planted it.’
‘Right.’ Her eyes were on the wallet.
‘He’s alive and he’s here, in London. But they’re making no attempt to apprehend him.’
She held out her hand. ‘Whatever you say.’
Proctor gave her two twenties. ‘I don’t get it. This is your family we’re talking about, not mine.’
‘Forty? I need a hundred. Seventy-five, at least.’
Proctor gave a cough of bitter laughter. ‘For what? Your time? Do me a favour…’
‘Bastard.’
He reached across the table and grabbed a purple wrist. She winced but he didn’t loosen his grip. With his other hand, he pressed a business card on to the two twenties and then closed her cold fingers over it. ‘Why don’t you go home and think about it, and then give me a call?’
She stared him down with a face as full of hatred as any he had ever seen. ‘Let go of me.’
* * *
I am difficult. I always have been and I always will be. I’m not proud of it but I’m not ashamed of it, either. It’s just the way I am, it’s my nature. In the past, I was aggressively difficult—sometimes out of pure malice—but these days, I would say that I am difficult in a more defensive way. It’s a form of protection.
Proctor was wrong when he accused me of not listening. I listen to everything. I just don’t absorb much. I am like a stone; a product of molten heat turned cold and hard. Yes, we were talking about my family. But the four that are dead cannot be retrieved—nor, for that matter, can the one that still lives—and that is all there is to it.
So as I walk along Wardour Stre
et leaving Bar Bruno behind me, I don’t think about Keith Proctor. I am not interested in his conspiracy theories. I think about the hours ahead and those who will come to see me. The regulars and the strangers. And the one who left these bands of bruising around both my wrists last night. I doubt a man like Proctor could understand how I accept that and then return the following day to run the risk of receiving the same treatment. Or something even worse. The truth is, it’s not so hard. Not anymore. I live alone inside a fortress of my own construction. Physical pain means nothing to me.
I am sure there are analysts out there who would enjoy studying me. Of course, they would be frustrated by me since I would refuse to speak to them. Nobody is allowed inside. That is how I survive. I am two different people; the protected, vulnerable soul within the walls and the indestructible, empty soul on the outside. When I am on track, this is how I live; but when I am derailed, it’s a different story.
It’s not easy being two different people at once. The pressure never ceases. Unless you have experienced it, you cannot know. So sometimes, when the borders blur, I fall apart. When I am cold and hard, I have to be in total control of myself—even in the worst situations. If I lose the slightest fraction of that control, I effectively lose it all. And then I crash. Spectacularly. Alcohol and narcotics are what I resort to in my pursuit of utter oblivion. When I come round from one bout of drinking or drug-taking, I immediately embark upon the next. It’s critical that I allow no time for sober thought because it’s during these prolonged lows that I see myself as others see me. Then the guilt, the shame and the self-disgust set in. In these moments, the hatred I feel for myself is too much to bear and it scares me to consider the options. So I’ll ignore the taste of vomit in my mouth and reach for the vodka bottle again. And I’ll keep going until I wake up and find the phase has passed and that I am as hard as stone once more.
Those analysts would probably say that my situation is, in part, a consequence of circumstance. And, in part, they might be right. But the greater truth is this: my situation is a product of choice. I chose this life. I could have had any life I wanted. I’m certainly intelligent enough. In fact, immodest as it sounds, I can’t remember the last time I encountered an intellectual equal. Most of the time, though, I pretend I’m stupid so as to avoid unnecessary trouble; in this business, nobody likes a smart mouth. They prefer a willing mouth.
