‘It would actually be more acceptable if I… drank too much or smoked or did, you know, something more fashionable.’ She smiled at me. ‘People don’t seem to get that it’s only another way of making yourself feel something else, just for a bit. So why is everyone else considered normal and I’m the one that’s screwed up?’
‘I think you’re right,’ I said.
‘I thought you would get it. If I just explained it right.’
‘How long have you… you know?’
‘I’ve always done it, it’s just…’ She shrugged. ‘It’s just what I do.’
‘Why did you start?’
‘When they told me I’d never go professional. I carried on for a bit, and then I got pregnant with Emma and got married, and that was it.’ When I didn’t reply she looked up at me and laughed. ‘No, really. That’s the whole story.’
‘So Pat… never…?’
‘No.’ For a moment she looked sad. ‘No, he wouldn’t even hurt me if I asked him to. But he’s just always let people think what they want. I suppose it’s easier than trying to explain. She… Emma always hated that people thought that. It was my fault, I guess.’
‘So… when he put you in hospital…?’
‘Did my mum tell you that?’ she said with a trace of a smile. ‘No, I… I fell down the stairs. Well, I didn’t fall down the stairs, I… kinda meant to. It’s OK, you can think it’s weird. It is probably weird… I think.’
I felt profoundly stupid, for everything I had believed, all the scenarios I had made up in my head.
She looked smaller than she was, sitting down there by the table.
I crossed the kitchen and sat on the floor beside her, sighing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Are you kidding?’ She snorted, rubbing her eyes. ‘All I wanted was to not think about it for a while. It feels so good to not think about it… I’m fine, just… please, don’t talk to me for a moment.’
A couple of minutes went by, and she shifted closer, buried her face in the crook of my neck. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to wash the blood off.
29
Brinks’s house looked even more tragic than usual. I wasn’t sure why, maybe it was the weather, or the hilarity of the message he had left me. I still laughed thinking about it. Mark had sent me a text as I was leaving Clare’s house that said nothing but I NEEEEEEEEEEEEED YOU! HAHA M XXX.
My skin felt raw. I knew I should have been thinking about Felix Hudson, but all I could think about was when I could go back to Clare’s house again. In a way, I had almost believed that having sex with her would put an end to it, make it easier to stop obsessing over every aspect of her life, over knowing her better, knowing her completely. But it had made things worse. Now the moments in between touching her were nothing but interludes to me; time to be endured until I could invent another reason.
I went to the side gate out of habit, through the garden and in through the back door. Brinks was in his kitchen, sitting at his table, and didn’t look up at me as I came in.
‘There’s no need,’ he said, blowing across the top of a bottle of beer. ‘She’s gone.’
I shut the door, taking in how much thinner he looked. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Annoyed that I couldn’t immediately drag the discussion to business, I put my bag down. ‘What happened?’
‘She called work… They said I wasn’t there.’
‘Jesus, Geoff, why didn’t you just tell her?’
‘Well, how the fuck do you tell her? Oh, hey, sweetheart, I’ve been fired and the only way I might escape jail is to carry on selling people out who are even more fucking dangerous than my colleagues… Oh, merry Christmas!’
‘Surely she would have preferred the truth, though? She might have stayed?’
‘Well, that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? Monsieur fucking Hindsight.’ He gestured at the fridge. ‘Get me another beer while you’re up, will you?’
‘You haven’t had enough?’
‘Do you live to fucking torment me?’
‘Fine, Jesus… Fine.’
I crossed the room, took another bottle out of the fridge and handed it to him. There wasn’t much food in there, I noticed; a few eggs and some fruit that had gone bad.
‘So what happened?’ I asked again, guessing that he would have that interminable urge to talk about it.
‘I thought it would be louder,’ he said, never looking at me when he spoke. ‘When people leave, end things… I thought it would be louder, but she didn’t shout at all, didn’t make a scene. That’s one of the reasons I loved… love her so much. She never was one to cause a scene, for drama or throwing wine in your face in fancy restaurants, you know, that kind of shit. She just asked me to explain myself… so I did. She took her ring off, put it on the side’ – he indicated across the room with his bottle, to where I presumed it still was – ‘and then she just left, took the kids to her parents’ place.’
Brinks’s wife sounded dignified, I thought. But when I began to consider what sort of woman would allow herself to marry someone like him, the glimmer of respect dissipated.
You couldn’t tell that anyone had vacated the house from the state of the kitchen. There were still no photos. No defining features at all. Much like Brinks, who even the most astute of individuals would struggle to distinguish in a line-up.
‘You think she’ll come back?’ I asked, bored with asking him questions.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve blown it, Nic. I fucked up. Big time.’
‘What about your kids?’
‘She’s a decent person, she didn’t tell them. I imagine I’ll still be able to see them… at… weekends, or something.’ He sniffed and wiped his hand over his face.
Don’t cry, I prayed. Don’t you dare fucking cry, you bastard.
‘Women aren’t everything,’ I said, with a poor attempt at a smile.
‘Yeah? Never heard you mention one. No offence, but I assumed you were bent, mate.’
I shrugged, ignoring the slight.
‘I wish… I actually wish I was like you sometimes, ain’t that fucking funny?’ he said, smiling, drunk.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Young, single, no responsibilities… maybe just the no responsibilities. Don’t get me wrong, I liked having a proper profession and being married and I love my kids more than anything, you have no idea how much I love my kids, but… Well, you always want what you don’t have.’
‘I don’t want kids.’
‘No one in their right mind would,’ he agreed. ‘But if you do, you wouldn’t change it for anything.’
‘Seems too much hassle.’
‘It is, when it hasn’t happened yet.’
Getting tired of standing up, I joined him at the table.
‘You know anyone in there I can work with?’ I asked.
‘A few. I can give you one or two names.’ He smirked at me. ‘Or you could just do what you did with me, eh? Get them young, reel them in.’
When he spoke his cheeks disappeared between his teeth, sucked into his jaws. His buttoned shirt had stains down it. Without thinking, I checked the zip of my coat in case he could see any of the blood on my clothes.
‘You getting anywhere with that Emma Dyer girl?’ he asked.
‘A little bit. You?’
‘Not really. Following legalities can hold you back somewhat. We let the taxi driver go, if that’s what you’re getting at?’
‘It wasn’t the taxi driver,’ I said.
‘Yeah, thanks, we worked that one out for ourselves.’
I frowned. ‘You mentioned before there was no drug use?’
‘Yeah, nothing. No alcohol either.’
Another reason why Matt’s story didn’t check out. Coked out of our minds, he had said…
I was sorry about Meds, and had thought about him more than I’d expected to since finding out about his death. I had started to hate Matt Masters, with a deep visceral hate that I c
ould feel in my veins. It could only be a good thing.
‘So why did you need to see me?’ I asked. ‘You sounded… in a bad way on the phone.’
‘Yeah…’ He was still speaking to his beer and it was starting to irritate me. ‘I needed to talk to you, you know, about all this.’
‘Yeah?’
‘They were tipped off, my department. Someone told them about me, told them where to look, sent them photos. I was so… fucking scared of going to prison that I never even thought about it.’
Any mention of photos brought me back to Hudson, even though the idea was ridiculous.
‘I got a call to my house the other night,’ he continued. ‘They never said who they were, but it was funny… They said it was you who’d shopped me.’
His eyes were still on his beer.
I searched for something to say, rendered speechless.
‘That was why I wanted to speak to you.’
I wished I could have thought of something more interesting to say, or more convincing, but all that came out was, ‘What?’
The bottle cracked in half against my forehead.
I landed on my hands and knees, unable to see, coughing, hacking up nothing. My head had become nothing more than white pain. Brinks was shouting at me, but I couldn’t hear him properly.
There was a gun in my bag, but I didn’t know where my bag was.
I tried to stand, and Brinks punched me in the face.
I was on my back, blinking, still reeling from the impact of the bottle.
Brinks was ranting, pacing back and forth, alternate words leaping out at me but nothing making sense.
‘Fucking… life… mug… fucking…’
I kicked him in the shin and crawled backwards into his hallway until I found some strength in my arms.
My bag…
As I managed to get on to my knees, Brinks caught up with me and kicked me square in the back. I turned and grappled with him, his hands around my throat and his teeth bared, grey and peppered with black fillings.
His fingers dug into my jugular, my heartbeat thudding against his hands.
I let go of his wrists and grabbed his head, jamming my thumbs into his eyes. He clutched them, howling, and I was free. Pushing back on my hands, I made it to my knees again, tried to stand but fell sideways against the stairs.
My head throbbed, draining all the life from my legs.
You’re in trouble. It wasn’t a voice, so much as an awareness going round and around my mind. You’re in trouble.
I made a grab for the front door but it was locked, and Brinks cracked my forehead into it. Blood ran down the bridge of my nose. He grabbed the back of my coat and threw me on to my back on the stairs. I could fight him… I could if it wasn’t for that fucking bottle.
‘Ruin my life and why? WHY?’ he was screaming at me.
My arms were shaking as I pushed myself up the stairs, away from him, six stairs up before he caught up with me and I kicked him again. I didn’t know where I was going, just up.
I made it as far as the first landing. There was another flight of stairs and a corner. I couldn’t do it. My arms gave way. If I passed out I was dead.
I was dead. The last blow against the door had done it.
How fucking sad, that I had never seen this coming.
Brinks was choking me.
My eyes clenched shut, trying to breathe, trying not to let his hideous face be the last thing I saw.
Would he do with me what I had done with so many other bodies? Would Mark be able to track him down? Probably not. Who knew?
His hands left my throat, like a tonne of weight being lifted off my chest. I was aware of breathing, air rushing in and out of my lungs, but when I opened my eyes I saw only the bottom of a picture hanging on the wall of the landing.
It was the first picture I’d seen in his house.
Feeling that I had been given a chance, I dragged myself up on to my elbows.
Brinks was at the bottom of the stairs, his legs at strange angles, like a crushed spider.
There was someone standing over me, I could see them in my peripheral vision.
I wasn’t conscious enough to feel proper shock. I inclined my head, struggling to focus my vision. As I turned I smelt chloroform, saw glasses, and thankfully, with a wave of relief, everything went dark.
30
Disappointment was the first thing I remembered feeling when I came around. That, and a horrible attack of nausea. I’d almost hoped that had been it. Everything seemed like too much effort now, even breathing, through this level of pain.
I opened my eyes. I was lying in a hospital bed; I could feel the bars either side of me, but the ceiling wasn’t right. It was dark, and too high.
When I moved my hands and tried to sit up I realized I was hooked-up to an IV line, going into the crook of my arm.
‘It’s important to get enough fluids,’ someone said.
I started.
‘When you have concussion.’
It was Felix Hudson, sitting next to me in a different coloured golfing jumper.
‘Where are we?’ I said, too tired to acknowledge fear.
‘A safe place.’ Felix smiled at me, creasing that scar across his cheek. ‘Tristan used to be a medical student. You’re being well looked after. He’s outside if you start to feel woozy, the dust in here aggravates his asthma.’
‘Tris…’
‘You may recognize him. Though not well, I imagine.’
I found some moisture in my mouth. ‘Your messenger boy?’
‘He leaves my notes but he is much more than that. More qualified than you, I dare say. Did you like them, by the way?’
My coat was gone.
I lifted my head to get a better look round the room, but I felt sick and lay back down. There was a persistent nagging ache at the front of my skull.
‘Why have you been following me?’ I asked.
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘Did you kill Emma Dyer?’
‘Emma Dyer…’ He said the name softly, as if she was a distant memory to him. ‘She had such pretty cheekbones, a lovely structure.’
‘Matt said you killed her.’
‘I know.’ He smiled. ‘If you’re as good as people say you are, you’ll have worked out he was lying by now.’
I was too weak for conversation, so I just stared at him.
‘Do you want me to tell you the story?’
Placing his accent was impossible. He was well spoken, could pass for a southerner, but he spoke with the self-conscious finesse of someone who had learnt English as a second language.
I gave the IV line a gentle tug, but knew I wouldn’t stand a chance if I tried to make a run for it.
After a small hesitation, I met his eyes and nodded. ‘OK, I’m listening… but I want you to answer a few questions.’
A nerve under his scar twitched. ‘Of course.’
‘Was it you who sent photos to Edie Franco?’
Twitch. ‘Yes.’
‘And told Geoff Brinks that it was me who grassed him up?’
‘Yes.’
There was anger, at him, but mostly at myself, for allowing myself to feel this fear. Roman Katz scared me, with the way his lips moved like wrinkled leaves when he spoke, but this guy scared me more.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Why do we do anything in life?’ he replied, spreading his hands. ‘For fun.’
‘Huh, fun?’
‘But it is fun. Your job is fun, just like mine. If I were to lean forwards right now and stick a knife through your throat, you wouldn’t be able to react in time to stop me. You’re not seriously telling me that isn’t fun?’
My eyes flicked down to his hands, but they were folded across his knee. It annoyed me that he had seen my discomfort.
‘Once you’ve listened, you leave me alone,’ he said.
‘What if you’re not telling the truth and I can’t leave you alone?’
He
looked at his hands, at his perfectly manicured nails. A lot about his attitude reminded me of Mark, but without any of Mark’s humanity. He answered my question with a question.
‘Do you know what lye is?’
I swallowed. ‘It’s, er… a bleach, right?’
‘If I or, more accurately, if Tristan were to pour it directly down your throat, it would corrode through the walls of the stomach. Your stomach acids would, effectively, do the rest of the work on your internal organs. I’ve never seen it injected before, but I imagine the results must be fascinating. I wonder, does it corrode straight through the walls of your veins?’
I felt sick, and looked at his hands again, thinking of Mackie’s slit throat.
‘Sounds… bracing,’ I said, lip curling.
He smiled. ‘People have been known to throw themselves through plate-glass windows in their death-throes after drinking it. Of course… there’s nothing like that here.’
I thought of Matt, throwing himself through a window… The man outside, puffing on his inhaler. I imagined that the eyes behind his glasses were as blank and reflective as his lenses. I’d rather have died looking at Brinks than him, waiting for my own stomach acids to eat away at me.
‘Go on then, keep talking,’ I said.
‘Matt wanted you to kill me, to make sure I never tracked him down and tied up the last of the loose ends. It’s rather ingenious really, the complexity of the story he must have come up with to paint me as a scapegoat. What angle did he go for? A witness story? The people trafficking? Some kind of illicit affair?’
‘Trafficking. He said she saw a nasty shipment and that you shot her when she wouldn’t stop screaming.’
‘Inventive. He had a talent for thinking on his feet.’
It crossed my mind that he might just kill me anyway, if he was all about the fun. After all, he had killed Mackie without hesitation. It was the sort of thing Mark would do, tell someone a story they would never be given the chance to remember.
‘Why did he kill her?’ I asked. ‘Assuming he did kill her? It wasn’t Kyle or anything?’
‘No, no it wasn’t Kyle… Matt killed her on one of their pick-ups, of a shipment. It was a shipment of drugs, I might add. Kyle told me they had been arguing in the car, about the girl being pregnant.’
Something You Are Page 23
