Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  She closed her eyes for a moment, tried to focus, muttered to herself, took some deep breaths and tried to calm herself down. She talked to herself some more, and when she spoke, she felt the panic retreat.

  She leant back in the car seat, stuck at a red light by the Manchester Arena, the railway bridge coming out of Victoria the shadow on her horizon, red and gold, the Victorian north. She could see the shadows of Deansgate gathering in front of her, cars bunching, getting busier, with the new steel and glass of Manchester ahead, the rebuilding after the bomb, modern and dynamic, sharp angles shining light behind the dark stone of the cathedral. In her mirror, she could see Strangeways, the Manchester prison.

  She moved on when she got the green and then the sun disappeared as she drove between the tight buildings of Deansgate. It went out altogether as she pulled into a car park below an apartment building. The wind was no longer in her ears, no more of the city sounds. Now it was dark and full of echoes, with the sound of her warm tyres screeching on the dry concrete.

  She pulled into a parking bay, her stomach taking a roll when she saw the Porsche, his mid-life crisis. She thought she heard someone laugh. She gritted her teeth, knew not to look behind.

  She did a slow count to ten, then stepped out of the car, her bag swinging, playing the part, and took the lift into the lobby.

  As she stepped out, the security guard gave her a nod, a look of recognition.

  She made it to the lift that led to the apartments, not wanting to talk, the silence almost crushing her, her breaths bouncing around the walls. Ten floors up, almost as high as she could go, she stepped out and paused outside his door. She took another deep breath and screwed up her eyes to keep the voices away.

  She went into the apartment slowly, using the spare key she’d coaxed out of him, peering round, working out where he was. She could hear the shower running.

  She saw The Times on a chair. She turned away. She’d read all she could about the shooting. No one had mentioned the chain yet. Not even on the television. Maybe she had pushed it too far in? Maybe they didn’t understand it? She would have to do something about that.

  She walked quietly into the bedroom. She could hear singing coming out of the bathroom just off to its right, out-of-tune opera, and through the steam she could see him, a middle-aged divorced accountant happy to believe that she was interested in him.

  She tried to slow down her breathing. She had been waiting for this moment, ever since that first time, when she had met him in a bar near the courts, when he had bragged to her where he lived, in the plush new high-rise with a central location and a view right into the city bustle. She had been trying to find a location for part of her plan when she realised that the answer was in front of her, bragging to her, chatting her up. She had smiled back, her eyes full of promise, and when she had seen the view out of the window, she had known it was perfect. Since then, it had just been a matter of keeping him interested.

  She pulled back the shower curtain quickly.

  He jumped back, gasping in shock, covering himself with his hands. When he saw who it was, he laughed, splashing water at her.

  ‘Hey sweetness, you’re early.’

  She raised a smile. ‘I like surprises.’ She turned away. ‘I’m going to get a drink. You joining me?’

  She left the bathroom and went to the living room. Modern and minimalist. Cream carpets, black chairs, big windows, and a view to die for. The irony almost made her laugh.

  She went to the drinks cabinet and poured two vodkas. She would need hers.

  She walked to the window. The apartment was on the corner of the building, all modern steel, the signs of Manchester coming up, balconies all around. The site of the IRA bomb was just at the end of the street, and what it had blown away had been replaced by optimism, by a new start. What had survived had been the old buildings, the grand Victorian buildings, solid in stone, the people below scurrying between them, all busy and small, St Ann’s Square as thriving as ever. The city was growing in front of her, a different place to the Manchester she had visited as a child.

  She was looking down, thinking about the city, when she felt him approach her from behind, in a dressing gown, his passion pressing into her. He murmured in her ear, nibbling at her, pushing against her.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he whispered, his breaths short and hot.

  She stared down at the sunlight as it glanced off the roofs below. His hands made their way up her stomach. ‘Hey, slow down. We’ve got all day.’ She felt cold inside.

  He began to fumble with her shirt buttons. ‘I can’t wait all day.’

  He pulled her close, breathing hard into her neck.

  Not long now, she told herself. Keep calm. Not long.

  Bob Garrett was in the Sunshine Cafe, a quiet breakfast place on the edge of the town triangle, in the shadow of the town hall and the Horrocks clock. Bright vinyl seats gave the colour, red and dated, either bolted to the floor against the counter or in rows against sparkling white tables. The counter ran in front of the large windows, so it attracted the biker crowd, summer afternoons a parade of leather and chrome. During the week it was labourers and workmen looking for a good start to the day, or the retired and out-of-work looking to waste an hour with cheap coffee. Art deco pink tiles made it stand out, giving it the feel of the sixties. It served up honest food while the rest of the country marched under golden arches.

  Bob was just coming off his night shift, making his way through sausage and fried bread, eggs and bacon, draining his tea. He looked up and smiled at the waitress as she sauntered over to wipe a table. She was pretty and young, but her face was getting hard, council-house blonde, too many rings on her fingers.

  As she reached him, she smiled, nodding back towards the television in the background. ‘I saw that last night,’ she said. ‘Sounds pretty bad?’

  He nodded thoughtfully, chewing. ‘It is.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll catch him?’

  He smiled at that, infectious innocence.

  ‘I hope so, but it’s a big city down there.’

  She wandered back to the counter. ‘I went to London once. Bloody crazy place. Why would anyone want to spend all day rushing around? No one speaks, no one smiles. Not much please, thank you, goodbye.’ She wandered back. ‘Glad I stayed in the Fold.’

  ‘The best breakfast this side of Pendle Hill.’

  At that, she sighed. ‘I’d always hoped for more.’

  He turned back to his breakfast. He couldn’t provide an answer for that.

  He was halfway through his next mouthful when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. He looked round and saw Jim Smith, one of his drinking partners from the Swan.

  ‘You’re out early.’

  ‘Peggy’s in one of her tidying moods. One of the problems with retirement. You spend all day with the person you went to work to avoid.’ He looked at the counter. ‘Same as Bob, flower.’

  The order was shouted towards the kitchen, where the cook’s hands could be seen through a serving hatch, breaking eggs and flipping bacon.

  ‘No food at home, Bob?’

  He shook his head, his mouth full of food, and then dabbed a napkin to his mouth. ‘If I feel like a treat, I eat out.’

  ‘Busy night?’

  He sighed. ‘Couple of drink drivers and some kids growing up on White Lightning. Apart from that, nothing.’

  Jim puffed as he shuffled his large frame along the vinyl bench opposite Bob, and then pointed at the television. ‘Makes me mad the more I think about that. He must have been up to something. Too much money on an empty head, and this is what you get. Football has turned to shite.’

  Bob didn’t say anything. It had been a few years since he had cared about football. It had been his life once, but things had happened to change that.

  ‘Anything new yet?’ Jim continued.

  Bob shook his head. ‘They just keep on talking until they catch somebody.’

  Jim rearranged his tr
ousers, and then asked, ‘Nothing on the police grapevine? No rumours from London?’

  Bob laughed. ‘I keep off the police grapevine; it’s usually full of shit. But they’ll get somebody. They always do, with crimes like that.’ He looked at Jim. ‘It’s going to happen again.’

  Jim was about to answer, but he was cut short when a plate of fried food landed on the table in front of him, so Bob slid off his seat, tossed his napkin onto his plate, and smiled at the waitress. He patted Jim on the shoulder and went to leave. ‘See you around, big man. I need to sleep.’

  ‘Yeah, get some beauty sleep,’ came the reply, mumbled through a mouthful of food.

  The bell over the door tinkled as he went back outside. The sun was sharp but the streets were virtually empty. He saw a couple of tracksuits heading for the Fold’s only solicitor’s office, he guessed for a lift to court. A couple of old chaps, brown trousers, were heading for the greengrocer’s, hoping for the best of the early fruit. The butcher’s shop rolled out its red awning. The charity shop moved a rail of old clothes onto the pavement.

  Another ordinary day in Turners Fold.

  ELEVEN

  In an apartment high above the streets of Manchester, she was at work.

  They were in the bedroom, naked, white curtains keeping the room in a softer version of daylight. She was kissing his shoulder as she straddled him, her hand gripping his neck slightly, her urgency mistaken for passion. His arms were stretched out, his wrists tied to the steel bedstead with two of his own silk ties. His short breaths were loud in her ear, his forehead glistening with sweat.

  She turned her head to whisper, ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  He slowed down and opened his eyes.. ‘You’re doing pretty well.’

  Her hand stroked his hair. ‘No, something else.’

  He smiled dreamily. ‘Will I like it?’

  She smiled back, still rocking gently. ‘I think so.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘It feels like a yes.’

  She smiled again and pulled herself off him. ‘Keep your eyes closed.’

  He nodded and lay back. The bedstead clanged against the wall.

  She walked over to the corner of the room and knelt down to her bag. She looked round and saw him looking over. His legs were pale and blotchy, his paunch like a basketball in his lap.

  ‘Eyes closed,’ she scolded, schoolteacher style.

  He grinned and did as he was told.

  She rummaged in the bag, her eyes on him all the time. When her hands locked onto the silk scarf, she smiled. She could hear deep breaths, expectant, waiting. She didn’t know if they were his or hers.

  She stood up and turned round, her hand behind her back. He looked at her, up and down. She knew she was framed against the window, the light outside shadowing her eyes. There was just an outline of her body, long and slender. He settled back, his eyes closed again, smiling.

  She walked over slowly, feeling the carpet give way under her feet. He was grinning now. The voices in her head got faster, louder. She stood naked next to the bed, the scarf held behind her back, her chin trembling with tears. He had his tongue on his lip, expectant.

  She straddled him again, felt a tear run down her face as they joined together. She stretched herself out, buried her face in his neck, her arms behind his head, rocking gently. She could feel the rise and fall of his hips, could hear his pleasure, light gasps in her ear.

  She sat back up again and held out the scarf, one end in each hand. She watched his face, his pleasure, and then she leant forward to wrap the scarf gently around his neck.

  He opened his eyes, stopped moving for a moment.

  She pulled the scarf tight, just so that it made the skin pinch. The voices in her head were screaming, ‘Now, now, now.’ She tried out a smile and rocked faster. He understood.

  His breaths got shorter as he rocked with her. She closed her eyes, screwed them tight. He pushed harder, so she pulled harder on the scarf. He was gasping, half-pain, half-pleasure. She began to cry, soft sobs, felt his legs go taut, his breaths coming fast. She pulled tighter. His chest puffed out, his eyes open, his teeth bared, his face red, searching for the air as he pushed. She put her head up and wailed. He put his head back, moaned, smiled.

  She pulled tight on the scarf, felt him rise beneath her, then again. She leant forward, kept her hands on the scarf, gritted her teeth, pulled it hard. He gasped. There was nothing there. She started to cry out loud, rocking faster, pulling tighter. His eyes were wide open now, his face blood-red. He gagged. His chest puffed out, wouldn’t go back in. The bed started to crash against the wall as his arms pulled at the ties. Confusion mixed with passion mixed with fear, they all ran across his eyes, his body pushed out to meet hers. She kept on rocking, backwards, forwards, screaming at the noise in her head.

  He started to struggle but he had no air left for the fight. Her hands were red, her fingers white as she pulled, and then he started to shake. He bucked hard beneath her but she still held on tight, her tears running onto his shoulder. She held him tight until he stopped shaking, the voices getting quieter now.

  As the room fell still, she was aware of the silence.

  The security guard nodded and smiled as he listened, and then he put the phone down. He shook his head. People can’t even have a noisy fuck these days without someone complaining.

  He came out from behind his desk. He’d just make sure everyone was okay, and then he could get back to his newspaper.

  She didn’t hear the door buzzer at first.

  She was in the shower, her head in her hands, the water pounding her legs. Then the buzzer went again and she pulled her head up, startled.

  She pulled the curtain back and saw him there, lying back on the bed, dead. The scarf was still around his neck, a gold neck-chain across his chest. She could see the medallion, the words ‘Rath Dé Ort EW’ etched across it. She took a heavy breath. Stay focused, stay sharp, think of the end.

  The buzzer went again, this time for longer. She moved her head to the sound and stepped out onto the floor. She crept out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and went towards the door. As she got nearer, she heard a cough, nervous, embarrassed. She pressed her eye to the peephole and saw a fisheye view of the security guard. She pulled her eye away, worried, thinking back to the noise of the bed. Had one of the neighbours called the police? She put her head to the door. She saw him looking around, bored.

  She pulled away from the door. She looked down at herself, wet and naked.

  ‘Who is it?’ she shouted, trying to calm her nerves, not knowing what she would do if things went wrong. This hadn’t been in the plan.

  There was a pause, and then, ‘It’s Carl, miss, from downstairs. Someone called me, saying they were worried about the noises.’

  ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  ‘Are you both okay, miss? I just need to check you’re all right. Would you open the door please?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  She looked around for her bag. She saw it by the window. She ran over and found a handgun. It felt cold, like it had no memory of what it had done the day before. She went back to the door. As she looked through the peephole, Carl was pacing around.

  She put the gun flat against the door, and with her other hand she put on the chain and opened the door slowly. She put wet hair and a bare shoulder into view.

  She saw him step back slightly. He looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, but someone said they heard someone choking and gasping, like they were having a heart attack or something.’

  She blinked, and then caught herself. She put more of her body into the open door, felt her hand tighten around the gun. Her left leg was showing and most of her shoulders and breast. He stared down, taking in the view, couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘It’s okay. We were, well, you know, it’s been a while.’ Her eyes were all mischief, her face mock-innocent.

  He looked back up and blushed. ‘Okay, thanks. I’m sorry.’

  She grin
ned. ‘Everything’s fine. Thanks for your concern.’

  He held up his hand in apology and turned away. Her grin turned off like a light.

  She watched him go and then closed the door quietly. She leant back on the door and heaved a big sigh, her heart beating hard. She looked at her hand. The gun was trembling. That wouldn’t help.

  She stayed like that for a few minutes, the water running down her body and gathering around her feet. Once she’d recomposed herself, she looked over to the window. Her rifle was in the bag. All she had to do was set it up and get the sights trained. And then wait.

  The billow of the curtains as the wind blew through made her twitch. A laugh came from somewhere. She spun around. She told herself to stay calm. She knew she had to get this done right. The element of surprise would be lost this time. She had to fire the shot and get out within three minutes. That would give her enough time to get to the lift and get off at the second floor, then take the service stairs to the garage in the basement. She’d done the run many times, practice runs when she’d had the apartment to herself. No need to rush, just fire the shot, dismantle the rifle, and get out. Walk down the hall like she was going out for milk and leave.

  She peeled herself off the door and walked back to the bedroom, her wet feet making footprints on the light carpet, lighting up her trail back to the bedroom.

  She had work to do.

  Johnny Nixon, tough defender, pride of the Manchester blues.

  He wasn’t feeling good about himself. He looked around, twitchy, nervous.

  He was on the corner of St Ann’s Square. The street was busy around him. There were people streaming in and out of Marks and Spencer just across the road, and in the square behind him bank workers and lawyers strolled around, peacock struts, enjoying the rush, the vibe, summer in the city.

  His chest felt tight. He knew it was his own fault, but it was always his fault. He had a beautiful wife and three beautiful children. So why did he always stray when he got away from home? He knew he had a self-destruct button. It had plagued him throughout his career, from the over-the-top tackles – and there had been too many – to the fights in bars. He had always seemed like he was trying to wreck his career.