Death & the City Book Two

by Lisa Scullard

  “We took the landowners out at night and showed them rats and wild dogs and donkeys raiding their stores, then took them out the next day, and they witnessed us shooting the pests. Built some new more secure storage for them, put new doors on the farmhouses, installed some electric fencing, did the job. There’s still stories of curses, but no revenge action being taken. The tribes send each other seasonal curses like Christmas greetings now. Happy new harvest, may the sands take you and all you grow become as dust, by the way, thank you for the help you gave us digging a new well, it’s still working fine. That sort of thing. Pest Control visit twice a year and take care of maintenance. My job in that case was to disprove human cause when the concern came up, and as other cases came in that were similar, I got those too as my way of dealing with it got the message across in those territories. And I ended up with Pest Control full-time, instead of boring day-to-day police paperwork. So coming over here, joining the force again, and dealing with hit-men was a step backwards for me. Like blackmail would be for you.”

  “You de-bunked targets?” I remarked. “I looked on your computer earlier. I thought you seemed to be interested in researching a lot of stuff that wasn’t what I thought you dealt with.”

  He shrugged.

  “It worked in more basic fundamental societies, and some religious ones,” he admitted. “Westernized culture is more complicated, and less moral. And where there’s money being offered, there’s always a taker. Just cause or none. I’ve done case studies on it from recent files and it’s probably the hardest scenario to crack. Hit-man sees money, hit-man wants money, hit-man seeks target. But we have to look into every one in fine detail to the exclusion of all prejudices, otherwise it’d just be at risk of turning into a witch-doctoring-hunt to get our hands on their property if we fancied it, same as the tribes were doing - like Warren and Yuri stripping cars afterwards. Your profile that head office are looking into now has possibilities though. It’s like the farmer thinking a pest is a person, or an evil spirit controlled by a person. If a former soldier, looking for a zombie to kill, could be persuaded to identify a target alternatively as a drunk person or a sick one, empathise with them as neutral, you’ve got a chance of reversing his psychosis.”

  “I think that’s why doormen have always been on the To Do List,” I told him. “In our everyday job, there is no such thing as neutral. Civilians, soldiers, police - if it’s off-duty and drinking in our venue, it’s all a legitimate enemy at some point.”

  “Not a job you want someone in who’s likely to abuse it,” Connor agreed.

  “Is that why you were spending a lot of time analysing surveillance data in your overtime?” I asked him. “Do you still look for the underlying vermin as a cause, metaphorically speaking?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can only hope to get the facts straight doing that,” he sighed. “Today’s society is every man and hit-man for himself. Making up his own justifications for doing it. If only it was that easy, as finding the big boss in a video game and shooting him down, or the head vampire or whatever in a movie. In the West, we’re not at the mercy of super-pests or predators, except each other in little everyday and not-so-everyday ways. And the risks to our own sanity THAT brings.”

  So while we stand at the bar, in public, not talking freely once we arrive, I have time to think over what’s already been said, while his hand resting idly on the back of my waist reassures me that the connection hasn’t gone away entirely, just because we’re in work mode - although I’d rather the reason for it wasn’t just that we’re MEANT to appear loved-up as part of our cover.

  I notice that I’m sounding insecure and demanding and possessive in my head, and how annoying it is to feel like that. Like my brain is a method actor, trying to get into a new character that’s unfamiliar to me. It’s as if my brain was also an easier place for me to occupy while I didn’t trust him. Keeping the two of us defined as separate.

  “That’s for you,” he says, pushing a glass towards me. “Bet you can’t down it.”

  “Bet I don’t want to,” I reply. I look around the bar, judging the other customers. Not the kind of crowd you see out clubbing. More hair and beards. More lumberjack shirts. More Dolly Parton than Barbie Doll.

  “Hey,” Connor nudges me with his elbow, making me turn back to the bar. “Stop being a doorman, staring at people. Drink your Pimm’s and lemonade.”

  “My what?” I ask, staring at the glass.

  “How many customers in the bar so far, without looking behind you again?” he asks me quietly.

  “Twenty-three of them, one of me,” I reply at once, still looking at the drink, thinking it sounds like a really gay thing to order in a Blues bar.

  “Pimm’s o’clock,” he nods, and grins. “Cheers.”

  He clinks glasses with mine and drinks, and I pick mine up and take a sip. Actually it tastes kind of nice. I don’t have much of a taste for alcohol. I think it’s all mostly nasty, unless it’s with Elaine, who I trust to get tipsy with once in a while as she won’t make me try anything new or yucky, or more than 5% proof.

  “What’s in yours?” I ask.

  “Vod cola,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m not driving us back. We’re getting a designated driver. One of the perks.”

  “Good,” I say, and take another sip, getting used to the taste.

  “No - I didn’t put anything in it,” he groans.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” I tell him. “I just haven’t tried it before. I’m getting used to it. It’s nice, by the way.”

  He grins at me.

  “Want to go and sit down?” he says, picking up his glass and nodding towards a small circular table with two free chairs. A bit belatedly, part of me hesitates, because it’s away from the main lights of the bar in a darker corner. But I take my drink anyway and follow, to sit opposite him in the more secluded spot.

  I admire his logic immediately, because the darker vantage point gives him the opportunity to watch the bar’s activity more surreptitiously, than my doorman-style open ogling people.

  While he glances round the bar casually, he puts his drink down, and then reaches under the table to rub my knee.

  “I know what we can talk about,” he says. “You still want to go out this Sunday?”

  “Sure,” I reply, dropping my hand to cover his, awkwardly worried how far he might let it stray, in front of people I don’t even know. But he’s not pushing it, and seems to be half preoccupied with the pool table some way behind me. I start to look over my shoulder, but he warns me with a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  “Pssst,” he adds discouragingly, to get the point across.

  “Not yet,” I joke, taking another gulp of my drink. It feels really strange being in a bar, out of uniform, knowing that a job is in progress but it’s not mine, and I’m merely the passenger. Like being at work without a radio to communicate with my colleagues. Not having the inside information.

  “Have you got any coins?” I ask him, seeing something I can get distracted with behind him. “I think I’ll go and see if there’s anything good on the jukebox.”

  “Course.” He pulls a handful of change from his pocket and puts it on the table, as I slip my jacket off to leave it on the back of the chair.

  I get to my feet, sweep the coins off the table into my hand, and move quickly around out of his line of sight, towards the jukebox in the corner. I see him turn slightly and fidget in distraction out of the corner of my eye. I start feeling a bit guilty, immediately hoping I did the right thing - because now he’s trying not to watch me as well.

  I flip through the album menu. Lots of Country, lots of Blues, some Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone. Sheryl Crow. Tom Waits. Skip James. Stevie Ray Vaughn…

  “That’s good,” Connor’s voice says next to my ear, reaching past and tapping Little Wing on the list of titles.

  “Thought you were busy,” I say, glad he’s standing close behind me, because I’ve just visibly jumped
at the interruption.

  “Nothing to worry about yet.” His fingertips brush my upper arms lightly. I know it’s meant to be casual, but it feels like electricity coursing across my skin. “Keane. That’s a good album.”

  “Yeah, I like it,” I remark, wondering where I’ve heard Keane recently. I remember it was in Joel’s car when we went for coffee at Casanegra the other night, and feel exposed, as if Connor was eavesdropping at the time. Reminding me of his jealousy game about competition. I recognise a warning light coming on in my head about possible psychosis, if I let myself worry about that too much. “I heard it the other day. One of the guys had it in his car.”

  “Glad to hear at least some of your workmates have also got good taste,” he concedes evenly. “Was that the same Joel guy sending you group texts after work a couple of nights ago?”

  “Yeah.” I recall that was the night Connor turned up at my house when he finished, and I was awake thinking about random stuff. “Were you checking up on me, then?”

  “Maybe.” He loops his arm around my waist so that he can lower his voice. “Wouldn’t want anyone else following you home, would I? Anyway, I know you don’t like public confrontations, so drop it. I just happen to like Keane too. I can always go round and find some excuse to nick him, if I think he’s trying to play you away. Never mind about that.”

  “I thought you said music was too much like brainwashing,” I remind him, putting the money in and picking Little Wing as the first track. “Your turn.”

  “Depends on what words it’s trying to put in my mouth,” he says, typing in the numbers for a couple of tracks, by Keane, and Skip James. “Some women can read far too much into what men listen to.”

  “Ah, I get it,” I nod. “Optional extra delusions.”

  “You pick the last one.”

  “Okay.” I add Sheryl Crow’s If It Makes You Happy. “That’s for the rest of the customers. To keep them happy.”

  “If you say so,” Connor teases, squeezes my waist and leads the way back to where we were sitting. “Do you want another? Stay there, I’ll go.”

  I sit back down and sip the last of my first drink, watching him as he returns to the bar. He exchanges a few quips with the barman as he orders, and I get the impression he’s not unfamiliar with the venue. So he does socialize, I think. Or he’s just good at setting up the groundwork, and has been here recently with that purpose. Either way, he looks more comfortable than I feel.

  I only have my door supervisor confidence, which is to know that bars come with Fire Exits, cellars, toilets and glass-wash rooms, with the occasional kitchen for good measure. I usually make a map of the floor plan of any new venue in my head early on, so that I know my way around should the worst ever happen, remembering where the notices are, and things like fire extinguishers, CCTV and alarms. I’m still amazed how many customers ask for directions to toilets, while they’re facing the big sign on the wall with the arrow pointing the way for them. I guess it livens things up going to the loo, to have a conversation about it on the way, instead of to mooch around silently until it becomes obvious to them where it is. By process of elimination, quite often.

  “Davy Crockett at the bar recommends nachos,” Connor announces, returning with new drinks. I look over at the middle-aged guy with glasses, a grey beard and ponytail in the raccoon-molested cowboy hat, who nods and smiles, raising his glass in greeting. More customers are still entering the bar. Looks like it’s a popular night around here. “Mind you, he also recommends naked meditation on the beaches of Goa. You hungry?”

  I shake my head.

  “Had Chinese earlier with Junior. I guessed there might be some alcohol later to displace in my stomach.” I raise an eyebrow, as he grins and puts a shot glass next to my second Pimm’s, which he’d kept out of sight in his other hand. “You’ll regret wanting to see me drunk later. You go ahead if you want food though. That better not be tequila. The only shot I can do is lager shandy.”

  “I know,” he chuckles, putting down his own shot glass on the table as well, as the barman comes over and places the salt shaker and a lime wedge between us, on a little silver dish. Connor pulls my hand across towards him, squeezes a drop of lime on the back of it, and adds a dash of salt. “I’ll race you. First to get the lime wins.”

  He salts his own hand and replaces the lime segment back on the dish, putting his prepared hand flat on the table opposite mine, fingertips touching.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, truthfully. He winks, reminding me that we’re play-acting. I’m not meant to be being myself. I’m supposed to be in character.

  “Go.” He snatches his hand away.

  The first thing I register is, yuck, salt, then grab my shot glass, and think, double yuck - tequila. I’m just putting the glass back when Connor slams his down, the energy of hitting the table flipping the edge of the silver dish, and the lime wedge jumps into the air before I reach it. When I look up, he’s holding it in his teeth, tauntingly.

  On the spur of the moment I lean across the table and kiss him, biting the lime in half in the process. I don’t quite catch him by surprise, but I back away into my seat again quickly as he tries to snag hold of a belt loop on my skirt. My hand covers my mouth to check the piece of lime I’ve retrieved, sucking it to drain the juice out and get rid of the aftertaste of salt and tequila. At least the citrus sourness is a relief.

  “You cheated,” I blurt out, once I’ve finished with the peel, dropping it back on the righted dish.

  “You didn’t play fair either,” he points out, after swallowing his. “Fancy a re-match?”

  I shake my head, feeling my brain treading water already, above very slowly rising alcohol. He leans over to kiss me back, properly this time, and stops with a groan as his phone rings in his pocket. He takes it out and shows me the caller’s I.D: Head Office.

  “Yeah,” he answers it, sitting back down and picking up his vodka & cola. “No, we’re all good. Just killing time.”

  My phone vibrates for attention in my jacket pocket with a text. Head office as well. Canem’s girl on site, gingham & pigtails Wiz of Oz stylee. Check out her Scarecrow. No action required. Stand by only.

  I show it to Connor, who nods, still listening on his own phone. I make a ‘T’ sign with my hands, and get up to explore the bar, with the excuse of looking for the toilets.

  I navigate my way around the pool tables, finding they’re flanked by French windows leading onto a beer garden, lit with solar lamps. And in passing the doorway, I spot Dorothy From Kansas, lighting a cigarette outside.

  She’s with a young man, who certainly does resemble a scarecrow. Straggly blond hair, a grey trench coat, and quite a bad case of eczema or post-adolescent acne under his stubble. Otherwise there’s little remarkable about him, although I do scope his posture and clothing quickly for any hint of concealed weapon. Visibly it’s non-conclusive, but I don’t think his attitude suggests it to be the case.

  ‘Dorothy’ however, is a tall and slightly anorexic-looking, pale, freckled Caucasian girl, with curly chestnut braids, whose Wizard of Oz look appears consciously deliberate. Her height is enhanced even more by patent red high-heeled pumps, and frilled white ankle socks, with her tight gingham blouse and denim hot-pants. Her look says more eccentric than slut. As she poses Vogue-like with her cigarette, I notice a rock on her finger, which if it’s real would probably buy her quite a chunk of Kansas, never mind more than just question what she’d have been doing with a piece of work like Kaavey Canem.

  With that thought, I continue scouting past the exit, avoiding the paved beer garden where the subjects of observation are hanging out. I pass the cigarette machine, and find the toilets in a small corridor. They’re nothing flashy, fully-functional pub-style, with very tiny old-school, metal-barred, wired-glass frosted windows, which I recall were to keep out underage drinkers, burglars and bathroom pests. Brings back memories. Of the kind when you could chase away unwanted visitors to a venue wi
th a baseball bat.

  I wash my hands and check my reflection in the mirror to see if I look drunk yet. Instead I see a reflection of a girl wondering how long she can be gone, before her boyfriend starts worrying. It’s alien to me, but even more alien knowing it’s exactly what’s going on, and I’m one half of that same scenario. The play-acting just being a snapshot of the reality.

  What’s strange is it feels more real to be only a performer in the situation, as my cover story working in public tonight, than it does to be living and experiencing it. Maybe it’s force of habit. The inventive portion of my brain that lives by cover stories, and excuses about artificial relationships - to avoid involvement with customers at work. Used to getting more exercise and having a stronger sense of identity than any other part of my conscious mind, that’s never experienced anything of the sort.

  I try to shut out the thoughts as they confuse me. It’s all a matter of perception, I think. People see what they want to see. Or more accurately, what they’ve learned to recognise.

  I wonder if there’s anything particular I’d read into the appearance of, or recognise in Canem’s final free-ranging hooker, which means they’ve sent me to have a look at her and her compadre. Before using Intervention to get her into hospital, for potential dingo rabies treatment.

  I return from the toilets and pass the exit to the garden again, where a few more customers have gathered outside to smoke, and Dorothy is chatting to the much older Davy Crockett. I get the distinct impression that she has a bit of a superiority complex. Not just that she’s charming and entertaining a man that she’s clearly not interested in, just flexing her flirting muscles for a bit of sport - and he doesn’t mind, because the rest of the pub clientele see him chilling out comfortably with a younger woman who’s not wearing very much - but that her attitude to the place as a whole seems to be that she looks down on it. That it’s an easy base from which to be a Queen Bee, as she doesn’t consider that she has any serious competition here. I don’t mean just for male attention either. I detect a class arrogance about her, that disregarding her background job-description information, she considers coming here to hang out is ‘slumming it’ for fun. Which is kind of weird, because among the other customers I can sense some perfectly well-to-do people, who happen to like fringed suede and southern to mid-west Stateside music.