Something You Are

by Hanna Jameson

  ‘I was right, though.’ He raised his eyebrows, still seated at the table. ‘Wasn’t I?’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I went back to my room and tried to go to sleep. Every time I shut my eyes I saw the inside of a coffin or the bruises on Clare’s wrists, the scars. Every so often I’d sit up, convinced I could feel someone exhaling against my ear.

  12

  I waited in my car, drinking orange juice from a can and listening to Radio 2, until I saw Pat leave the house at around eight in the morning. Now that it was December the radio had begun a persistent assault of Christmas songs.

  This morning Mark had been in the living room when I’d left, doing sit-ups to Shakin’ Stevens. Neither of us had mentioned the conversation of the night before. Like most couples who had lived together for a long time we didn’t talk about disputes, although, unlike most couples who had lived together for a long time, we’d never had real disputes.

  I looked at my watch. It wasn’t Pat I wanted to see; it never was.

  After a further ten minutes I got out of my car into the light drizzle, and watched for any sign of movement at the windows as I walked up to the house next door. It was a more attractive house than the Dyers’, with hanging baskets full of dejected plants and an ironic sign on the door that said, ‘Posh Floor, No Shoes’.

  After I knocked there was such a long pause that I started to think no one was in, but as I started to turn back I heard the front door open.

  A blonde woman in her mid-forties eyed me without a greeting. She was dressed entirely in white. Attractive, but passively so, like an ornament.

  ‘Hi, my name’s DCI Terracciano.’ It was a name that had been linked to my family for almost as long as Caruana. ‘I’m investigating a small incident next door, to do with your neighbour, Pat Dyer.’

  Pale eyes looked me up and down, hugging a white shawl around her shoulders. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know the Dyers very well?’

  ‘We say hello sometimes.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

  ‘My husband’s at work.’

  ‘I don’t mind speaking to you.’ I smiled and showed an ID badge that looked official enough to convince people who had little experience with the law. ‘Just a few questions.’

  I knew she wouldn’t say no. I was dressed smartly. People were too polite and suggestible to say no.

  ‘OK, come in.’

  The house smelt of floral air-freshener and the carpets and walls were white. Some of the photos in the living room had two children in them; blonde, like their mother. There was no sign of her husband.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ she said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Yes please, er, Mrs…?’

  ‘Garwood, Sara Garwood.’

  She went into the kitchen. I noticed that the smell was coming from the lilies by the window. It was nice to sit in a house and feel as though something in it was alive.

  Sara returned with a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa, arms still tight across her chest and looking at me past a wave of hair.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Anthony.’ It was both my brother and father’s name. ‘DCI Anthony Terracciano.’

  ‘And what did you want to know?’

  ‘Do you see much of Pat Dyer, apart from saying hello?’

  ‘No, not much. He keeps himself to himself.’ She crossed her legs, showing pale skin that looked as though it would bruise easily. ‘He works a lot, gets back late most nights.’

  ‘Do you know what he does for a living?’ I asked, trying to work out what Sara Garwood’s husband did for a living: perhaps a stockbroker or lawyer or something equally emotionless and distant. I suspected that she wouldn’t have invited me in if her husband were here, not without his permission.

  ‘No. He wears a suit, but that’s all I know about it,’ she said without a smile. ‘I heard about their daughter though. I went round but I didn’t stay long. I suppose this is your case?’

  ‘Um… excuse me?’

  ‘I recognize you, from that night. I looked out and you were leaving with her. I assume this is your case?’

  I wished I had handled the question better. ‘Yeah… yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Right.’

  The expression on her face reminded me of Mark. There was nothing to indicate it yet, but I couldn’t help feeling as if she knew I was lying.

  ‘Do you have children yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘Three, I had.’

  I was surprised; this didn’t seem like a house full of children. ‘Really? They at uni now?’

  ‘Had,’ she repeated.

  I glanced at the photographs.

  She looked down at her hands.

  Everywhere I went there were more dead children.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling ill.

  ‘Mrs Dyer was ever so nice when it happened… the car accident.’ She was watching the lilies. ‘The third, well, he was never… She was really nice when that happened too. She asked me to come over if I wanted to talk about it but I never did.’

  ‘Talking never really helps, does it?’ I said.

  ‘I hear shouting sometimes. They’ll go a while without arguing and then we’ll hear them again.’

  ‘Do you know what they argue about?’

  ‘No, but one time an ambulance came to the house.’ She glanced through the window as if it were out there now. ‘She broke her arm. When I asked if she needed any help she said she had fallen, but… It might be nothing. I suppose no one would believe a woman any more if she said she’d fallen down the stairs and it was true.’

  ‘Do you think it happens often?’

  ‘I only saw an ambulance once but she has bruises sometimes. That’s one of the reasons I don’t speak to him very much.’

  I followed her gaze to next-door’s driveway.

  ‘What exactly are you investigating?’ she asked. ‘The murder?’

  ‘Well, that, and a disturbance. That was everything I wanted to know.’

  ‘I know you’re not the police.’

  I put down my cup of tea and met her eyes. All of a sudden it felt as if this could end in so many ways and none of them were good. I didn’t make a move though, didn’t even blink. What happened next was up to her.

  ‘My father was a DCI,’ she said. ‘You’re not. That’s not even a real badge.’

  I stared at her but she didn’t look away.

  ‘You… let me in,’ I said, unsure as to whether it was a question or a statement.

  ‘I talk to ghosts. Do you think I care who you are?’

  I looked over the cold surface and wide eyes. Underneath that I could almost see the grief and loneliness and the blood running down the insides of her thighs on to the white carpets.

  I didn’t have to leave; I knew that.

  She watched me, legs crossed, her expression simultaneously expectant and indifferent.

  I stood up and for a moment I didn’t know what I had stood up for.

  She still didn’t move.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’ I looked down at her and she nodded.

  She came and opened the front door for me. Up close her eyes seemed even wider, too wide for her face.

  ‘Bye, Terracciano.’

  That was all she said before she shut the door

  I stood on the doorstep for a while between the white house and the house next door, with an aching hard-on and thinking of dead children, more dead children and mothers talking to ghosts.

  I walked down the path and tried phoning Brinks from my car, not trusting myself to go next door straight away.

  No answer.

  I tried again.

  No answer.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, you bastard…’

  I got back out of the car, breathless and disoriented. My phone vibrated and I looked down to see a text from Edie. I’d been p
utting off seeing her for days, but now all I felt was relief at the diversion.

  CALL ROUND THE CLUB SOMETIME. LOVE AND LOVE, EDIE XXX

  It was probably for the best that she had contacted me, I thought as I got back in the car.

  On the way to Edie’s it occurred to me that I could catch Brinks, and made a diversion to his house.

  Closer to Christmas now but there were no lights in these windows.

  I waited and watched in my car until I saw Brinks leave the house just before half nine, wearing a suit that looked too big for him and carrying his case as usual. It was like him to sulk, but this stubborn silence was starting to grate on my nerves.

  I followed the blue Saab as far as the inner city where it pulled into a lay-by. A U-turn at the next lights and I pulled over also.

  Brinks had gone into a café and sat down on a plastic chair, taking off his tie and jacket. He was paler than usual, paler and thinner with larger shadows under his eyes, as if someone had turned up the brightness and contrast.

  It was a while before I followed him in. Grease hung in the air like a mist above the orange tablecloths. It was obviously his natural environment.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ He picked up his case. ‘Can’t you just leave me alone?’

  I had expected a less-than-enthused reaction, but I hadn’t expected a reaction of this scale.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said.

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Why have you been avoiding my calls?’

  The lady behind the counter stared but said nothing.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he spat, standing.

  ‘Geoff—’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Shrugging on his jacket.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Attempting to get to the door.

  I blocked his path. ‘Come on, I’ve paid you! You can’t—’

  ‘Fuck the money!’ Brinks threw down his case. ‘Fuck the money and fuck you!’

  Then he was crying, sobbing into his hands, tears running on to the creased white shirt in dirty grey flecks.

  I stepped back, aghast. Shouting I could deal with, but not this. I’d rather be faced with violence than tears.

  ‘Come on now,’ I said, trying not to let him touch my clothes. ‘Come on, sit down.’

  ‘My life… my fucking life…’

  ‘Come on, sit down.’ I gestured at the lady behind the counter and mouthed, ‘Tea?’

  She nodded and left us to it.

  ‘And what the fuck are you looking at?’ I snapped at the two men eating breakfast in the corner.

  They looked back at their plates and forced chatter.

  I sat down opposite Brinks and handed him a napkin. ‘OK, stop crying now.’

  He wiped tears and snot off his face, still sniffing. ‘Fuck… fuck, Nic, I’m fucked.’

  ‘Why?’ I glanced around. ‘And why are you in a place like this on a work day?’

  ‘It’s not—’

  ‘No, Geoff, it is that bad.’ I flicked a fossilized baked bean off the tablecloth and took my arms off the table, worrying about catching something.

  He wiped his eyes again. ‘A work day…’

  ‘What?’

  To my horror he started to cry again.

  ‘Oh God, she thinks I’m at work…’

  ‘OK, OK, just… stop.’ I leant back and tried to keep the distaste from my expression. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

  ‘What do you think happened? I got rumbled, that’s what happened! That’s what I told you would happen but you wouldn’t fucking listen!’

  The rant ground to a halt as two teas were brought over, and I lowered my voice.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got pulled in, taken to one of the cells, asked a load of questions—’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘People I was talking to,’ he said, rubbing at a cigarette burn on the table with shaking hands. ‘Photos—’

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘People, just people! Jesus…’

  ‘Did they ask you anything about me?’

  ‘That’s all you fucking care about!’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘No, they asked nothing about you. Happy?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ I said, softening my voice until I had almost feigned concern. ‘What’s happening now? Are you being charged?’

  ‘No, I’ve been suspended. They’ve offered me a deal though. The only way I’ll avoid charges is to give names, give evidence, get more evidence…’

  ‘How many other people were you talking to?’

  ‘Enough.’ His eyes filled up again and he sipped his tea to avoid my eyes. ‘You don’t have kids, you don’t know what it’s like. I only did it for them, every fucking thing I’ve done was for them.’

  I looked down at Brinks twisting his wedding ring around his finger.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell her at some point,’ I said.

  ‘How can I?’ His voice rose again, becoming shrill. ‘How can I tell her? I betrayed everyone I worked with, I betrayed her, for what? For money? Well, I won’t have to worry about money any more seeing as I won’t fucking have any.’

  ‘Look, calm down.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down, it’s not your life gone down the fucking pan!’

  I glared at the men in the corner again, making sure that everyone was pretending not to listen.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked, hoping that there wasn’t.

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Brinks shook his head, resting it on his hand. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

  ‘Is there anything else you found out on the Emma Dyer case that I should know about?’

  He glowered at me, lip curling. ‘You’ve got no soul at all, have you? No fucking soul.’

  I smirked. ‘Don’t give me that, at least with people like me you know where you stand.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘At least you know what side of the tracks I’m on. What about you?’ This time I couldn’t hide the scorn. ‘I don’t champion our glorious fucking system and then take pay-offs from the gutter.’

  ‘I did it for my family – what the fuck would you know about family?’

  ‘Bullshit!’ I said, not caring who heard now. ‘I know people who would rather go away for a twenty-year stretch than betray their enemies, so don’t sit there and talk like you’re any better than the people you send to court because they have more honesty in their fingernails than you have in your entire fucking institution.’

  Brinks said nothing and I hated him. I hated him and I hated every other suit that spoke as though their hand was on the Bible, preaching integrity and truth when I knew they had bent over and let themselves be fucked, by arms dealers and drug barons and contract killers, to keep themselves at the top.

  Whores, the lot of them, useless fucking whores.

  ‘I suppose you want your money back then,’ he sneered. ‘If you’re so into integrity.’

  ‘Keep the money.’ I stood up. ‘I think you’ll need it more than me.’

  I left Brinks and the greasy café to go back to my car.

  Light reflected off glass from across the road.

  Click click click click click…

  This wasn’t a place for tourists.

  Someone had left a note under my windscreen wiper. No power hath he of evil in himself. I picked it up, turned to get a closer look at where the clicking had come from, but there was too much traffic and the light was gone.

  Closer to Christmas now and there were no lights.

  No lights in these windows.

  13

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be home soon, you head out and I’ll meet you there.’ I cut the call off and turned the car around, looking forward to a night out with Mark to whitewash my mind.

  It was two hours since I had left Brinks and I was stuck in commuter traffic, unable to take my eyes off the note on the dashboard. In the end I had to park the car in a lay-by and take a tube
to Edie’s club, the Underground. When I arrived a young black girl in a halter-necked gold dress let me in.

  ‘Edie’s expecting me,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not her fucking PA, sweetheart. She’s upstairs.’

  I blinked. ‘Um… sorry.’

  She smiled and indicated her head at the concrete stairs, lit at each side with purple fluorescent strips. The club floor and tables were empty, bowing to a vast expanse of black and grey stage. Exposed copper pipes in the ceiling supported low hanging lamps on lengths of red flex. Red velvet banquettes against the walls made the space feel smaller, and the area around the bar glowed with lamplight reflected off the rhinestone bar-top. It worked. It shouldn’t have done, but it worked. It was a stylish place, despite Edie’s inclination towards tack; it had everything that was appealing to the sort of people who could afford to go there.

  I left the girl and took the stairwell up to Edie’s office.

  It wasn’t often that she was here, as this was only one of the many places she owned. Compared to other places, I knew that the girls who worked here liked and respected Edie. She wouldn’t stand for anyone being treated unfairly in business, and wouldn’t stand for Ronnie or Noel taking advantage of their positions in the way other club managers would.

  I knocked. ‘Edie?’

  ‘Come in.’

  When I opened the door she was sitting behind her desk, wearing a black leotard and not much else.

  ‘Nic, baby.’ She stood up, smiling.

  I ducked as something huge and white was thrown at my head.

  Motherfucker!

  ‘Wo, Edie, what the fuck!’ I dodged to one side, looked down and saw that it was one of her monstrous platforms that had hit the doorway.

  ‘Don’t “what the fuck” me!’ She was coming around the desk.

  ‘Edie, wait! Wait!’

  She swung at me with the other shoe.

  ‘Jesus!’

  I grabbed her wrist and she punched me in the stomach, hard.

  ‘Edie, stop!’

  I took her other arm and pushed her back, right across the office until she was against her desk. For the first time ever, during the shortest of seconds, she looked scared, and I felt the tremor go through her body. Then it was gone. Her nails were digging into my hands.