by Andy Bailey
She decided to get back into the bed with him and leant forward to place the book on the coffee table. As she did this she noticed, for the first time, a white Samsung mobile, lying next to Martin’s keys; obviously another mobile, different from his usual red Nokia that had been left back at Michael’s flat. After only the slightest hesitation, she picked it up and pressed the button at the bottom of the device. It wasn’t locked and the screen lit up with the various options icons. She pressed ‘Calls’ to bring up a list of the most recent incoming and outgoing numbers and names. At the top of the list was a call received: ‘Michael Broad – Today – 1:02 a.m.’ She thought for a moment; curled her lip sardonically; put the phone back down; and rose to pad through into the bedroom, finally exhausted.
28.
As usual, the path from unconscious sleep to clear wakefulness had been uncertain and broken. There was a hinterland of dark, rolling shapeshifters and noises off; pull focus into shadowy recesses of the dreamscape, only to kick back in fright once the unknown hove horribly into view. Susan’s mind swayed back and forth through jumbled scenes and garbled dialogue, returning all the while to a recurring motif – a deep, slow rhythm like a giant heart beating in the depths of the ocean, heard at several removes in the treacle of the brine. And a visceral pain as her hands – bound behind her back – are wrenched upward so that her exposed neck is thrust down towards the block and her eye catches a glint of light flashing across the edge of the blade held high in the bleak sky that presses down upon all of them the same.
In due course, she came to realise that she had fallen back into the world of primary dreams and was lying, once more, in the same bed from whence she had embarked. As the pieces of her person slipped back into place the obvious question finally set itself: where was Martin? She raised her head slightly from the horizontal – not an easy task with the murderous synapses exacting a spiteful revenge for the previous night’s indulgences and impositions.
No sign of him across the crumpled landscape of linen and duvet. She called out ‘Martin?’ and her voice sounded harsh and disembodied, weak and shocking all at the same time. Still, no reply.
After five more minutes painfully trying to manoeuvre her inner balance to an even keel, and her reluctant fortitude to a state of readiness, she slid her feet off the bed, gathered up the faithful bath robe once more and headed boldly back to the living room.
No sign of the man.
But there were worrying indications – beginning to creep into the edges of her awareness – that the hour of the day might be a shameful something not scaled since the carefree days of her early college career (before the timetable caught her up). She looked to the clock by the window, inwardly wincing.
1:30 p.m.
Bloody hell. It was the afternoon ! She was shocked but, at the same time, couldn’t deny herself a rueful grin. The smell of stale smoke and flat beer hung in the air of the flat, the dead cans and full ashtray on the coffee table again redolent of a seemingly distant hedonistic past (how and why had she become so respectable?).
Susan hauled the orange blind up its mast and the warm afternoon sun streamed in. She flinched but it was good to see the full-on daylight after the seemingly endless night she’d just endured. After a brief struggle with the catch, she was also able to get the window open and the sound of the city rose up to welcome her.
This building wasn’t on the main drag but there were still plenty of cars and vans trundling along the road, folk ambling up and down the pavements, and jazz coming from the open window of an apartment almost directly opposite Susan’s position. A disinterested bystander stood across the street would have been treated to the charming cameo of a beautiful young woman in her dressing gown (or her boyfriend’s?), dark hair tousled and wrought, blinking for the first time against the light of the day, popping up in the square frame of the window, flat in the high blank wall full of many other identical squares, like an urban advent calendar.
It was a lovely day and, right there and then, Susan decided to enjoy it, hangover or no hangover. She turned back to the interior of Martin’s flat and it now appeared so much brighter and starker. She could see more clearly her clothes on the floor (another grin, less rueful). Martin’s book on the table where she had left it. The white Samsung had gone but there was a note in its place. Her heart picked up the pace somewhat.
A note.
OK. So read it.
'Susan,
I have some things to sort out today (you can imagine . . . ) Didn’t want to wake you (I reckoned you’d be glad to catch up on the sleep !)
Should be back early evening but don’t let me hold you up if you need to go anywhere. Have left you a spare set of keys.
Love,
Martin X'
She beamed like a fool. 'Love, Martin' – and a set of keys ! At that moment she was so happy she nearly set into a proper blub. She couldn’t quite believe how things had turned around so quickly. All that time spent struggling with Martin the robot – 14 months ! The hours she’d put in, ridiculed – she knew – by many a spiteful tongue. But she’d been right all along – she’d somehow known there was something more behind Martin Dash’s blank façade and now she was going to get the reward for her faith.
He was beautiful, he was intelligent, and he was hers. She bent to grab the keys – her keys – from the table and stuffed them into the dressing gown pocket with the treasured note as she strode to the bathroom for another shower – this time solo.
29.
As she chopped the red peppers in Martin’s (their?) kitchen, Susan sang along lustily to the song playing on Martin’s (their?) hi-fi radio: Amy Winehouse doing her inimitable thing with ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’.
She had already chopped the onions and now pushed the newly made dice into a neat pile next to them so that there now stood two identical mini mountains of soft, edible Lego, one red and one white. The oil had now heated in the pan so she had to wreck the twin peaks, cosying up next to each other, by holding the chopping board over the pan and swooshing the onions – screaming mutely in terror – over the edge with her hand, to drop down into the sizzling pool of death below. Some of the pale, translucent cubes tried to evade their fate by clinging desperately to the skin of her fingers but were mercilessly flicked off to fall in with their fellows.
At a certain point late in the afternoon Susan had decided to go out to buy food so that she could cook some dinner for the two of them that evening. Martin hadn’t said exactly what time he’d be back so she figured that she could knock up some of her special chilli and then reheat it when it was needed. She always referred to this dish as her special chilli in a way that might suggest some level of accomplishment in the culinary arts but, in fact, the term was used entirely ironically as her chilli was special only in the sense of being one of just two dishes she actually knew how to cook, the other being spaghetti bolognese (and, if the truth be told, she had seized on the latter only when she discovered that, if you could do the sauce for a chilli, it really wasn’t much of a hop and a skip to be able to do a bolognese).
Prior to her grocery trip she had taxied the two miles across to her own flat in Bayswater to get a change of clothes and an overnight bag before she could tidy up the mess she and her beau had made and then settle down to watch an old film on TV.
It was now 6:00 p.m. and she’d started on a bottle of red wine to oil the wheels of this whole cooking malarkey. Amy’s lament was building to a climax and Susan bellowed out in sisterly support:
'He walks away,
The sun goes down,
He takes the day but I am grown.
And in your way,
My deep shade,
My tears dry on their own.'
The doorbell buzzed – she only just heard it above the blaring music.
Martin? But he had his own keys. Or had he left them, relying upon Susan to be in?
She came out of the kitchen area and hurried across to turn the radio off before striding to
the intercom by the flat’s door and grabbing the handset from its cradle on the wall.
“Hello?” she sang out but this was met by silence in response.
“Is that you, Martin?”
Now a man’s voice came back – but not Martin’s.
“Oh, hi. Erm . . . is that you Susan? It’s Danny – Danny Lake.” Mediated as it was through the electronic circuitry, Susan could still hear the uneasiness in the voice. Danny Lake was her father’s principal parliamentary aide / electoral agent / political fixer / bag man / whatever you might like to call the post but, if Jimmy needed something tricky sorting, it was usually Danny who was entrusted with the job. What the hell was he doing here? Couldn’t be good.
Susan hesitated but then asked: “Hi Danny – what’s up?”
“Ahm . . . your father’s sent me for you Susan. Can I come in?”
It certainly sounded like Danny’s unreconstructed Cockney twang but Susan decided to check. “Just hold on a minute please, Danny – I won’t be a moment.”
She laid the handset down on a small console table that stood next to the door and scurried across to once more open the window that faced onto the street. On poking her head out she saw that it was, indeed, Danny Lake stood before the front door but he was also flanked by another familiar face, George Kay, and they both raised their heads to look at Susan, upon hearing the window click open.
While Danny was the man Jimmy turned to for a fix, Susan had, over the years, worked out (this was never explained or admitted) that the younger, fitter George was the one called in to deal with more . . . security-related challenges (that might be considered outwith the normal duties of a Minister’s conventional guard).
Danny – hair slicked back, stick thin, in a suit that hung off him – smiled weakly and unconvincingly up at Susan, with a hesitant wave to boot. George (crew-cutted in a dark striped shirt and blue jeans, all straining to hold in the solid bulk that usually only had to be flexed to persuade those who needed persuading) smiled much more cheerily. Whatever Danny was worried about, George wasn’t. George didn’t really do worrying and, in point of fact, Susan had always found George to be hugely entertaining, with a fund of appallingly sick jokes and startling anecdotes that were even less likely to make you laugh.
But why had Danny obviously thought that he might need back-up on this mission? And why did he appear to be more than his normal jumpy self, anxiously glancing left and right and generally looking as though he would rather be anywhere else than here, stood out on this street, in front of this door?
Susan waved back, with an even weaker smile than Danny’s, and called down: “Hi – I’ll buzz you in.” George gave her the thumbs up. Danny just nodded. And decided to give the street another look up and down.
The older man edged into the main room of the flat and now put his darting eyes to scoping out this new space of potential dangers. George padded behind, doing the same but rather less obviously.
“And to what do I owe the privilege, Danny?” asked Susan, with her arms folded before her, head cocked to one side and an expression that was somehow friendly and dubious at the same time.
Danny turned to George with mock indignation – “Oh, that’s lovely, innit George? A real warm welcome !”
They all laughed and Susan relaxed, slightly.
“I’m sorry but you’ve taken me a bit by surprise. I’m not usually visited in a strange flat to be taken away by my father’s . . .” and here she hesitated just momentarily “. . . friends.”
The two men both raised their eyebrows to register the slight slight but didn’t dwell on it. Danny put his hands up: “I know – I know, love. I’m sorry to bust in on you like this, but there’s been developments and your father’s worried.”
Susan braced herself “What developments, Danny?”
Instead of answering straight away, Danny pointed his chin towards the bedroom door and asked: “E’s not in then? – Martin.”
“No, why?” Susan got the distinct impression from both men that they would really have liked to go into the bedroom to check but were conscious of the offence that would so obviously give.
“Do you know where 'e is?” Danny persisted. Susan realised that, point of fact, she didn’t – so again but more forcefully (and slowly) this time: “No. Why?”
Danny looked to George, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug, so the explanation was provided:
“Barry Rogers's been murdered.”
Susan’s jaw actually dropped. Then she suddenly felt herself unsteady and decided that she needed to sit down. Sat on the leather chair where Martin had lounged earlier that morning she looked vacantly at his book lying before her.
Danny indicated the opposite chair with his hand.
“Yes, please do sit, Danny,” and Susan looked across to George, who was still standing near the door, “and you George, please.”
“I’m OK at the moment, thanks love.” George’s response was couched in a friendly tone but the fact that he appeared to want to stay by the front door slightly unnerved Susan and Danny spotted this. He developed his explanation – “The thing is, Susan, the police are now gonna be 'unting down a number of possible suspects and friend Martin will be on that list.”
Danny’s words merely confirmed the fear that had leapt into Susan’s thoughts the moment Danny had given her the news: Would they suspect Martin? Why would they suspect Martin? – Why?
Susan started turning this over and the more she did so, the worse things appeared. This was the Martin Dash who had assumed a false identity to hide a previous trial for murder. Who, by his own admission, had been engaged in a massive fraud with the now deceased Barry Rogers (who, according to the testimony of her own father, was the one most likely to bring them all down, with his big mouth). And this was the Martin Dash / Dayton who appeared to swing in and out of severe mental conditions at the mere drop of a hat. And who was now in cahoots with a multi-millionaire sleaze merchant for whom the word ‘dubious’ might have been specially coined.
Susan shut her eyes and put her head in her hands. Danny turned round in his chair to look again at George, who merely cocked his head towards the door.
“Listen, Susan,” Danny, now adopting a caring, protective tone, “Your dad’s sent us here to fetch you because ‘e wants to protect you, love. 'E wants to 'elp – you and Martin . . . you’ve no idea where ‘e is?”
Susan pulled her head up from her hands to look straight at Danny.
“How can my father help Martin?”
Danny shifted in his seat and moved his lips, momentarily wordlessly, apparently unprepared for that line of inquiry.
“I . . . I imagine ‘e’ll get 'im a good brief,” Danny tried, but not too convincingly. And then gave up. “I don’t know to be 'onest, love – that’s your father’s department. You know ‘ow 'e is. 'E’s got a lot of influence. 'E can get things done. All I know is your dad will be Martin’s best 'ope.”
“But it’s your department too, isn’t it Danny?” Susan’s view was hardening. Danny shuffled a bit more and decided to change tack.
“Look, the thing is, the police don’t know about this place yet, do they? Martin gave them the flat in Islington as 'is address.”
This was news to Susan but a thought popped up straight away.
“So how do you know?”
Danny grimaced and shrugged and appeared to be in danger of slipping into a total meltdown of ticks and twitches.
“Again – your father . . . OK, we . . . get to know lots of things. ‘Sno big deal.”
It was precisely this sort of thing that had always put Susan off delving too deeply into her father’s business and, again, she had the powerful feeling that the more she found out, the less she wanted to know.
Danny pressed on – “But they will find out about it soon. Quite soon. We’ve taken a chance, your father’s taken a chance sending us 'ere, so we need to get out of 'ere now before anyone else arrives. Your dad wants to talk to you Susan and we
can take you to 'im. Where you’ll be safe.”
“Why doesn’t he just phone me?”
Danny shook his head slowly and smiled – no grimaced (as though he’d felt some minor discomfort). “Best not on the phone at the moment.”
Again, that all-too-conscious feeling of an unnamed dread inching a little closer toward Susan.
“So where is he now?”
“Well, 'e’s actually at Westminster at the moment an' 'e said to bring you there if you were on your own . . .” Danny saw the frown that this produced on Susan’s face but tried to make light of it and smirked – “Probably wouldn’t be a good idea to parade Mr Dash – who is quite . . . noticeable – through the 'Ahzes of Parliament as a guest of your father just right now?” He cocked his head by way of suggestion that she might agree. “But you're obviously OK; you’ve been plenty of times before, 'aven’t you? And, as daft as it sounds, it’s probably the safest place you could wish for in many ways. Private. Protected . . . privileged. There’s no snoopers can get in . . .”
Susan knew that all of this was right. A smell penetrated her senses and Danny obviously caught it at the same time – they both looked to the kitchen area to see little clouds of grey smoke rising happily from the saucepan.
“Shit ! The fucking onions !” she cried and jumped to her feet.
Danny and George grinned. As Susan pulled the pan off the hob and scraped the now blackened mush into the bin (tragic légumes, doomed to be cooked pointlessly), she shot a look at the two men: “Don’t you dare tell my father you’ve heard me curse like that,” and they chuckled, relieved.
30.
As they glided down Birdcage Walk – George at the wheel of the black Audi, Danny and Susan sat in the back – the sun was only an hour off setting behind them and Susan, now and then, caught flashes of its orange blaze in the rear view mirror.
Tourists and students and office workers were still milling about on the grassy expanse of St James’ Park on their left and relaxing on the benches that ran along its perimeter. The evenings were still warm and Susan felt the contrast between the informal, bustling panorama framed in the car’s tinted windows and the gloomy, paranoid space she found herself in.
