Dance of Ghosts pjc-1

by Kevin Brooks

  ‘Hey, Genna,’ Fitch said, suddenly all smiles again. ‘You know this guy?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a drink, Fitch?’ she suggested.

  ‘You buying?’ he grinned.

  She stared at him.

  He turned to me, still grinning, and said, ‘I’ll see you later, OK?’

  And then he went back into the bar.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Genna said. ‘But he wouldn’t have done anything anyway. He’s all mouth. Most of them are.’

  I smiled at her.

  She dropped her cigarette to the ground and lit another. ‘So … you’re a private investigator?’

  I reached into my pocket and passed her one of my business cards. She glanced briefly at it, then slipped it in her back pocket.

  ‘Who are you working for?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ I said. ‘You know, client confidentiality — ’

  ‘It’s Anna’s mum, isn’t it?’

  I smiled, but said nothing.

  Genna puffed on her cigarette. ‘Well, it’s either her mum or her dad, and that dirty old bastard’s not going to want anyone poking around in his business, so it’s got to be her mum.’

  I lit a cigarette. ‘Do you know Anna’s father then?’

  ‘Not personally, no. But I know his type.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I should be telling you this …’

  ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ I assured her. ‘It’s entirely up to you what you tell me. But if you think it might help me to find Anna …’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t even know if it’s the truth or not. For all I know she was just making it up …’

  ‘Making what up?’

  ‘This stuff about her old man … how he used to fuck her and everything, you know …’

  ‘He abused her?’

  ‘Yeah … it went on for fucking years, according to Anna. Started when she was just a little kid, and the dirty fucker carried on doing it until she was … well, I don’t know, until she left home, I suppose.’

  I took a long drink of beer. ‘When did Anna tell you about this?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, quite a while ago. It was after work one night. It was someone’s birthday and we all stayed on for a few drinks and stuff … Anna didn’t usually join in with that kind of thing, but I think she was pretty out of it that night. I found her crying her eyes out in the toilets … this would have been about two or three in the morning, and when I asked her what was the matter, she started pouring her fucking heart out to me about her bastard fucking father. She told me everything … and I mean everything. Poor bitch.’ Genna pulled on her cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘It’s no wonder she was so fucked up.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, her whole life, you know … everything. She was a total fucking mess.’

  ‘How long had she been using heroin?’

  Genna looked at me. ‘You know about that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Not all that long,’ Genna said. ‘A few years, maybe.’

  ‘How much did she use?’

  Genna shrugged. ‘She was always trying to quit, so sometimes she got it right down to hardly anything, but then she’d get back on it again and start using more.’

  ‘Do you know where she got it from?’

  ‘Could be anyone. It’s not hard to buy stuff round here.’

  ‘What about money? I imagine it’d be hard to maintain a habit on just a barmaid’s wages.’

  ‘Fucking right.’

  ‘So where did Anna get the extra money from?’

  Genna shrugged. ‘No idea …’

  ‘Did she earn anything from modelling?’

  Genna just laughed.

  ‘How about prostitution then?’ I said.

  She stopped laughing. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that …’

  ‘About what?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Come on, Genna,’ I said gently. ‘I just need to know, that’s all.’

  She looked at me. ‘Anna wasn’t a whore, OK? I mean, she didn’t do it all the time or anything. She just … well, she just needed the money sometimes. A lot of them do it, you know …’

  ‘Addicts?’

  ‘Yeah … it’s the only way they can get enough cash.’

  I nodded. ‘Would Anna have worked through an escort agency or anything?’

  ‘Christ, no. She’d just … well, sometimes she might pick up someone in here, but most of the time I think she just worked the streets.’

  ‘Would she do that after work?’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘Do you think that’s where she was going the night she disappeared?’

  ‘Probably. I mean, we all knew, you know … she’d finish work, get herself all tarted up in the toilets, probably shoot up at the same time, then she’d put on her coat and fuck off.’

  The door to the smoking area swung open then, and Psycho Billy leaned through and called out, ‘Fuck’s sake, Genna, how much longer are you going to be?’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ she called back. ‘I’m just coming.’ As Billy went back inside, she dropped her cigarette on the ground and said to me, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Did you see anyone following Anna that night?’ I asked her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Pimp?’

  Genna shook her head. ‘Anna didn’t have anybody. She knew plenty of people — work colleagues, customers, dealers — and it wasn’t as if she didn’t get on with them, or that they didn’t like her … I mean, she wasn’t lonely or anti-social or anything. She was just … I don’t know …’

  ‘Solitary?’ I suggested.

  Genna nodded. ‘Yeah … it was like she lived in her own little world, her own little bubble … do you know what I mean? You could be with her, talk to her, spend a night working with her, and it’d all seem fine … but then afterwards, later on, there’d just be this empty space in your head where your memories of her should be.’ Genna looked at me. ‘Does that make any sense?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said slowly. ‘Yeah, it does.’

  She sniffed and sighed. ‘Look, I really have to go — ’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘And thanks, you know … thanks for taking the time to talk to me. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘OK,’ she said hurriedly, turning to go.

  ‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’ I asked her.

  She paused. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They never asked me anything.’

  ‘Right … well, thanks again, Genna. And if you think of anything else, my number’s on the card I gave you — office and mobile. Call me any time.’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘And good luck with it,’ I said.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Staying clean.’

  She looked at me for a moment, instinctively rubbing at the faded old needle tracks on her arm, and then, without another word, she turned round and left.

  I didn’t stay there much longer. Another quick drink and a cigarette while I mulled over what Genna had told me, and then I was on my way. The rain had stopped altogether now, and although the night was still cold, the air felt fresh and clear. As I headed back down the street, I could hear the heavy bass thump of music in the distance — doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp — and I guessed the nightclubs were beginning to come alive.

  I looked at my watch. It was 10.45.

  Later than I’d thought.

  And now that I was out in the fresh air, I was also beginning to realise that I was a little bit drunker than I’d thought. I started thinking about a taxi then. I knew it was the sensible thing to do, but it would mean leaving my car here overnight, and that would mean having to come back and get it in the morning.
But if I didn’t get a taxi, if I drove home in this condition and got stopped by the police …

  That’s what I was thinking about, not really paying attention to anything else, when three things happened almost at once. The first thing was, I spotted the silver-grey Renault parked halfway down the street, and although there was undoubtedly a gap of about half a second or so between seeing it and realising that I’d seen it, I really don’t think that half-second delay made any difference. The second thing was, as I paused to think about the Renault, a voice called out to me from the shadows of an alley on my left.

  ‘Got a light, mate?’

  And the third thing was, as I turned instinctively to the sound of the voice, a heavily-ringed fist hammered into the side of my head.

  After that, it’s all a bit vague. I half-remember staggering back against a brick wall, almost knocked out by the blow, and then I think someone hit me again, this time low in the belly, and as I doubled over in pain, someone else grabbed me by the arm and kind of half-swung, half-dragged me into the alley, and then I think I must have lost my balance and fallen over — or maybe they hit me again — because the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground getting the shit kicked out of me.

  It was too dark, and it happened too quickly, for me to get a look at them, and I didn’t get to hear their voices either, because they never said a word. They just piled into me — kicking, punching, stomping … all in furious silence, and all I could do was lie there and take it. After a while my body didn’t seem to belong to me any more. It was just a thing, a lump of meat, and whatever was happening to it was happening a long way away.

  I don’t know how long the beating lasted — probably no more than thirty seconds or so — and I have no recollection whatsoever of the kick to the head that finally knocked me out … all I know is that some time later I woke up in the alley, slumped against the wall, covered in blood and hurting like hell.

  I was cold and wet.

  It was raining again.

  I checked all my pockets, but nothing was missing. Wallet, phone, keys, money … it was all still there. As I took a deep breath, sucking down the ice-cold air, I felt something bubbling in the back of my throat.

  I coughed, bringing up blood.

  It hurt.

  I spat it out.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said.

  Then I leaned over and threw up.

  7

  I drove home via the back roads, keeping to a steady 40 mph all the way, and somehow I managed to get back without crashing the car or getting stopped by the police. Lights were showing in the windows of Bridget’s flat, and her boyfriend’s car was parked outside the house. And when I went inside, I could hear the sound of soft music playing upstairs.

  I let myself into my flat, went into the front room, and poured myself a glass of whisky. I drank half of it, topped it up, then lit a cigarette and went into the bathroom. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I was surprised to see that my face wasn’t too badly mashed up. There was an ugly red swelling on the side of my head where the first punch had landed, a deep gash above my left eye, and a nasty-looking cut on the bridge of my nose. But apart from that, and a split bottom lip, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.

  I drank more whisky and leaned in closer to the mirror, my attention drawn to a very faint indentation in the swollen red skin on the side of my face. When I looked even closer, I could just make out the outline of a ring-sized skull embedded in the broken skin. For some reason, I found myself smiling for a moment … but it didn’t last long. Smiling hurt too much.

  I turned to one side and cautiously examined the back of my head. It didn’t feel so good — bruised, swollen, painful to the touch — and when I took my hand away it was thick with blood. The rest of my body felt pretty bad too — my belly, sides, shoulders, legs … everything ached like hell. I opened the cupboard over the sink, found some painkillers, and swallowed them down with a mouthful of whisky. Then I turned on the shower, running it as hot as it would get, and as the steam built up, misting the mirror and opening my pores, I got undressed and looked down at my beaten-up body. It was a mess — bruised all over, swollen and discoloured, the skin cut open and red-raw in places — but, again, there didn’t seem to be any serious injuries.

  I finished my cigarette, dropped it in the toilet, and got into the shower.

  I stood there for a long time, ignoring the pain as the hot water rinsed all the blood and dirt from my skin, then I turned the shower to cold for as long as I could bear, which wasn’t long, then I got out and carefully dried myself, put on my ratty old dressing gown, went back into the front room and sank down into the armchair beneath the high window.

  Another glass of whisky, another cigarette …

  I looked at the clock.

  It was just gone midnight.

  Rain-mottled street light filtered in through the window, lifting the darkness just enough to show me the shapes of things. Shelves, furniture, walls. Things. I glanced up at the clock again, watching the second hand sketch its slow, blind circle …

  A moment in time — gone.

  And another.

  And another.

  And another …

  The seconds passed, taking too much away.

  Taking nothing.

  I was tired. Drunk. My head was throbbing. I wanted to close my eyes and not open them again until everything was all right. But I knew that nothing was ever going to be all right.

  I didn’t want to think about anything — Anna Gerrish, her mother, her father … Genna Raven, the silver-grey Renault, the faceless men who’d beaten me up. I didn’t want to wonder who they were or why they’d attacked me. But what else did I have to do?

  Just as I was starting to think about it though, muffled sex sounds began lumping down through the ceiling. Rhythmic creaks, oomfs and moans … the sounds of coupling bodies.

  Bridget and Dave.

  I turned on the television, cranked up the volume, and searched through the channels until I found something I didn’t mind too much. It was an old film, a Western — either Rio Bravo or El Dorado. I can never remember which is which. This was the one with John Wayne, Dean Martin, and Ricky Nelson … not that it really mattered. I set the volume loud enough to cover the noise from upstairs, filled my glass with whisky, and drank myself to sleep.

  8

  At some point during the night I must have got up out of the armchair, turned off the television, and got into bed. I have no recollection of doing it, but when I woke up in the morning, the television wasn’t turned on any more, and I was definitely in my bed, and — as far as I knew — no one else had been in my flat. So it must have been me.

  It was still quite early, not quite seven o’clock, and the grey light of day was only just beginning to creep through the windows. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and cold. A blustery autumn wind was rattling the glass in the kitchen window.

  My body had stiffened up during the night, and it took me a while to get out of bed and start getting ready for the day, but after I’d been through the usual routine — bathroom, coffee, painkillers, cigarette, toast, eggs, coffee, cigarette, bathroom — well, I didn’t actually feel any better, but I certainly didn’t feel any worse.

  For the next half-hour or so, I busied myself doing not very much, then at eight o’clock I called Ada at home.

  ‘What?’ she answered bluntly.

  ‘And a very good morning to you, too,’ I said.

  ‘What’s good about it? And why are you calling me so early?’

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be coming in this morning, that’s all. Is it OK if I leave everything to you?’

  ‘You always leave everything to me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I just meant — ’

  ‘I know what you meant, John,’ she said gently. ‘Of course it’s all right. Where are you going to be if I need to get in touch?’

  ‘I’ve got a meeting with Bishop at 11.30, and I want t
o try and see Cal before I go.’

  ‘Bishop called you then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s a nasty fucker, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I heard her lighting a cigarette. ‘So how did it go last night? Did you find anything at Anna’s flat?’

  I gave Ada a brief rundown of what I’d found out about Anna — the heroin, the prostitution, the possibility that her father might have abused her — but I didn’t mention anything about the Renault or the beating.

  ‘So,’ Ada said when I’d finished. ‘What do you think it all means?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that her life was a fucking mess.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose …’

  ‘Why are you talking like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘All lispy and puffy.’

  ‘Puffy?’

  ‘You said thuppothe. It sounds like you’ve got a mouth full of cotton wool.’

  I ran my tongue over my split lip. ‘Uh, yeah … it’s just a … it’s nothing. Just a cut lip. I’ll tell you about it later on.’

  ‘Ooh,’ she mocked. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘Yeah … well, I’ll probably get back to the office some time this afternoon, OK?’

  ‘All right.’

  At about half past eight, just as I was about to leave, I heard the sound of raised voices upstairs. Bridget and Dave, arguing. I couldn’t make out most of the words, but I could hear the tone of the emotions: anger, frustration, placation, pleas — You don’t understand … I do … No, you don’t …

  After a while, the argument subsided and a low sobbing began. Bridget, crying. A few minutes later, angry footsteps came thudding down the stairs, the front door opened, then slammed shut. Dave Dave, storming out.

  I waited until I’d heard his car start up and pull away, with the inevitable screech of tyres, then I opened my door and went out into the hallway. I could still hear Bridget crying quietly, and just for a moment — a very brief moment — I found myself gazing up the stairs, wondering if maybe I should go up there and …