He Died with His Eyes Open (Factory 1)

by Raymond, Derek

  When I didn’t answer at once she said: ‘It’s strange, hardly anyone calls me Mrs Staniland anymore. I reverted to my maiden name quite a while ago.’

  ‘But you were married to Charles Locksley Alwin Staniland?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you something unpleasant,’ I said. ‘Just try and take it easy.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said flatly. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Knew it?’

  ‘Well, I dreamed it. It was a horrible dream.’ Her fingers started to pick at each other in a busy, meaningless way, then she fell back in the sofa without crying. She was silent for what seemed a long time. Then she said: ‘Was he murdered?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘It was all in the dream. He reached out for me the way he used to, then his face suddenly turned shapeless. I dreamed it on Friday night, and I was only just recovering.’

  ‘He died on Friday. Look, let me get you something.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Just tell me everything you know.’

  I did and then said: ‘You might be able to help me catch whoever’s responsible. Are you up to talking about it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The shock won’t hit me for a while yet. Not till after you’re gone.’

  ‘He had enemies,’ I said.

  ‘Did he, did he?’ she said, nodding. She jerked her head up at me and declared: ‘Well, I loved him.’ She started to talk too fast: ‘The trouble with Charles was that he shot past everyone; he went like a meteor. I loved him as best I knew how, but he kept breaking away from me. He was always looking forward. Always doing it! How am I going to tell my daughter? Charlotte always said he’d come back! I ought never to have left him, but he didn’t give me any choice. Quarrel, quarrel, analyse, no money …’

  She burst into tears; they made a dreadful noise in her throat, like someone raking gravel on a road. When there was a lull she snatched up her bag, hunted in it and produced a crumpled snapshot. She held it out to me. ‘That was him holding Charlotte’s hand back at Duéjouls, where we lived in France. She’s ever so like him, isn’t she?’

  ‘Now take it easy.’

  ‘It’s like the tragedy of the whole world in a little glass,’ she said. ‘Great things are all smashed to pulp, and none of us who are left have the spirit to carry on.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I want to talk about him,’ she said, as if I’d told her not to. ‘I want to. This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t left him. A stupid quarrel. Oh, yes, I loved him. He was a great man. He wouldn’t allow himself to be recognized. I knew. He was engaged in a kind of work,’ she said desperately. ‘I should have just followed him and tried to understand, instead of making us argue and quarrel. But I was angry at him because he seemed to me to be so wasted, working on the land.’ Her face had lost its shape and was red and ugly. But her eyes were beautiful, a dark grey. ‘I’ve got a little money,’ she said, ‘I’d always have looked after him. I never really cared what he did or where he went, as long as he came back to me.’

  ‘I think he was pretty destroyed when you and Charlotte left,’ I said. It was a stupid thing to say on the face of it, but I had a feeling it would make her feel better and it did, anyway for a while.

  ‘Yes, I was best for him’—she nodded—‘no other woman would ever have treated him right. He used to tell me that. There was nothing we couldn’t discuss together.’ She went on: ‘I didn’t care how often he got drunk as long as he didn’t get hurt. I’m guilty, you know. It wasn’t till after Charlotte and I had gone that I realized how badly he had needed us. He was the best and sweetest man I ever had. I’ve had lots, but he was the only one who touched me. Best lover, best and sweetest man—and don’t let people tell you anything different, because plenty of them will try. And he was generous. Too generous. I’ve never been mean about money, but he was something else.’

  ‘I’ll get to the bottom of his death, Mrs Staniland,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe, maybe,’ she said dully, ‘but it won’t bring him back to me. I’ll always wait for you, Charlie. Never back! Never, never, never, never back!’ After a while she said: ‘Let me have him when you’re finished, I want to bury him myself.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘I can afford it,’ she said anxiously. ‘I’ve got this money, it’s in the post office. I can look after the expenses. See? I’ll show you my post office book; I’ve got the money, I can prove it.’

  ‘There’s no need for that at all.’

  After another timeless pause in the darkening room, she said: ‘Someone will have to tell my son, Eric, and I don’t see much of him. I don’t think I could face it.’ She said in a rush: ‘Would you do it?’

  ‘Certainly I will,’ I said. ‘If you’d just give me the address.’

  ‘It’s in Soho.’

  I copied down the address she gave me.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on Eric,’ she said. ‘A lot of people are.’ She yawned suddenly, worn out. ‘But Charles was never hard on him.’

  ‘Your son by a previous marriage?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, things were very hard for me in those days, with a baby and no husband. You’re a police officer. You give me your word you’ll tell him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I promise,’ I said.

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ she said, her voice trailing away, and when I saw that she was asleep with exhaustion, her blotched face buried in the sofa, I got up and left.

  I went out into Callow Street, which was filled with golden evening light. The traffic in Fulham Road which made a T with it was jammed solid; what wind there was blew from the south, taking the petrol fumes away with it. I look at my car, noted that someone had run into the front of it while trying to park, and left it to walk down to a drinking club I knew, not far from Hollywood Road.

  There were only four drunks in there when I arrived; also an attractive dwarf with big breasts who had once got a Cabinet minister busted. I ordered a ring-a-ding and drank it alone, slowly, at the end of the bar, staring into the glass. I shook my head over it, and the lady attending the bar who was dressed like a paratrooper came over and asked me if I wanted another.

  I said I did. My watch said nine o’clock. When I felt better I finished my second drink, paid—though they didn’t want me to, on the mistaken grounds that I might do them some good with Chelsea law—and walked up the moth-eaten carpet to the street.

  Young people holding each other tight were drifting into the restaurants, and a new moon rocked over the Thames, attended by a single cloud.

  19

  I parked on a double yellow line in Old Compton Street and pushed my way into the German pub. One corner was packed with young men from good homes, the kind that draw unemployment benefit and do moonlight building and plumbing work on the side; they wore paint-stained Falmer jeans, sneakers and T-shirts, and accounted for the row of bikes on the pavement outside. They were big young men and were drinking lager. The other customers were Greeks, Italians, Asians or Maltese. Some of them were local delicatessen owners and shopkeepers, but most of them were pimps for the whores lounging around the two bars; we knew it was a pick-up centre, but we never did anything about it. It was a pub where the police couldn’t win—sited in just the right spot, with the whores’ flats, the sex shops and a porno cinema opposite. Also the governor’s kickbacks for copping a deaf ’un were too big. The brewers had good legal advice too—the best. So we let it go and just felt a collar or two from time to time without making a lot of fuss about it.

  When I ordered a lager I had to shout. ‘Just like a Butterfly Does’ and ‘Woman in Love’ roared out of the jukebox, which was surrounded by girls (most, though not all of them, black) and by punters, most, though not all of them, hesitant, and none of them very appetizing. I drank some beer, then carried my glass over to the group of young men.

  ‘Evening,’ I
said pleasantly. ‘Anyone here seen Eric?’

  ‘Eric the Knack, you mean? No, he’s not in tonight.’

  ‘He’s broke,’ said someone. ‘He’s out grafting.’

  ‘He couldn’t graft his way out of a wet paper bag, Eric couldn’t.’

  ‘Pity, I’ve got something for him,’ I said.

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, you could try his pad. You a friend of his?’

  ‘I’m sort of like his uncle,’ I said.

  ‘Eighteen, Petworth Street, third floor. This end of Berwick Street market.’

  ‘I know it,’ I said. ‘But I thought that building was condemned.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ said the young man I was talking to. ‘It’s a squat.’

  ‘You’re not a writ-server, are you?’ said the boy next to him.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Not from the council, either?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Well, if it’s really money you’ve got for him, he owes me a tenner.’

  ‘And me! He’s into me for fifteen quid.’

  One of the young men said suddenly: ‘God, I fancy that black bird over there, the one with the sequins.’

  ‘Bet you the next round you don’t go over and tell her.’

  The one who fancied her blushed violently under his short fair hair. ‘Do what?’ he said. ‘No way.’

  ‘Here,’ I said, ‘why don’t I introduce you to her?’

  ‘Oh, no. Really. I just sort of fancied her, that’s all.’

  ‘You never know,’ I said. ‘It’s the sort of relationship that might mature.’

  ‘No, honestly.’

  I knew her by sight. She called herself Gloria Lovely, and I had come across her years before when I was with the Vice Squad. I just hoped she didn’t remember my face, but she saw so many faces in her line that I doubted it.

  ‘Hello, Gloria.’

  She put her sweet martini on the bar. ‘How did you know my name?’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘Through a friend. Do you know Eric the Knack?’

  She was a bit drunk. She didn’t look as if she had the kind of liver that could manage too many sweet martinis, and she was on grass as well. ‘The one that can’t get it up, you mean? Thin? Bad teeth?’

  ‘That sounds like him.’

  ‘I know him,’ she said broodingly, ‘he owes me a fiver. He was sick in the bed the night I had him, and he hadn’t got all the money. I said I wouldn’t get him razored for it this time.’ She sighed gustily. ‘I don’t know why, I never learn.’

  ‘There’s one of those boys over there badly wants to meet you,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ she said, arching her eyebrows, which she had done orange to match her hair. ‘What? One of those virgins over there?’

  ‘They’ve got to start some time.’

  ‘Yeah, but why with me?’ she said bitterly. ‘They’re all skint.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’ve nothing on over here. There’s no harm in it, and they’ll buy you some drinks at least.’

  ‘I suppose if I’ve got to, I’ve got to. But if a real punter shows up, they’ve had it.’

  ‘They know that,’ I said. ‘That’s in the standard contract.’

  ‘How many of them are there? What, all that lot? What are they gointer do? Gang-bang me?’ She looked at me. ‘I’m not sure I don’t fancy you better.’

  ‘Not me. I’m married with three kids.’

  ‘You mostly are.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford it anyway. I’ve got a mortgage to cope with.’ Something clicked in her eyes. ‘You ain’t fuzz, are you?’

  ‘Christ, no. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just that I can usually spot it.’

  ‘No sweat,’ I said, ‘I work on the office side of British Rail.’ I took her by the arm. ‘Come on, Gloria. That’s a Latin name, did you know?’

  She came reluctantly. ‘I reckon it’s you older guys always get it up better.’ She added: ‘Not that it matters much either way, I suppose, as long as they ain’t sick.’

  We joined the young men, and I said: ‘Okay, this is Gloria, who’s going to buy her a drink?’

  ‘What’ll you have?’ said the one with fair hair eagerly.

  ‘A double brandy,’ she said with a lethargic shrug. When he had gone off to the bar she said to me: ‘His accent comes right out through his pants, don’t it?’ After a pause she added: ‘You really know Eric the Knack?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ain’t none of my business, but you got funny friends.’

  ‘What’s funny about him?’

  ‘A woman wants to be careful with Eric,’ she said. ‘He’s strictly negative, no-go, no-no-land. He likes to do strange things to a girl.’ She thought hard and then said: ‘You know? He’s exploded like a tape recorder when you put too much juice through it. Like burnt out.’

  20

  Petworth Street was no distance from the pub, and I soon found number eighteen; it was the door that banged in the dark wind and had a pile of costermongers’ garbage three feet high beside it. The door banged because it didn’t lock, and it didn’t lock because the traders used the street-level passageway for parking their barrows and empty crates. I stood at the foot of the stairs in the gloom for a minute, then got my flashlight out—where would anybody be in modern London without one? I looked for a push button to light the cement stairs that yawned in front of me; there was one, but it didn’t work. On the inside of the street door was a wire basket full of mail. It looked like disagreeable mail, the kind that arrives in buff envelopes, and evidently nobody ever read it, because it looked as if it had been there a long time. I looked through it all the same, but there was nothing for Eric. After climbing three floors’ worth of stairs—two doors to a floor, one left, one right—I reached the third floor. It had two kicked-in doors on the landing, both toilets, one with a broken cistern and no seat. The whole building smelled bad. At the end of the landing a green rail ran across a wide, unglazed aperture. I leaned out over it and looked down into the well of the building; at the bottom lay some rotten bedding and a wrecked bike. There were the same two doors facing each other at the end; the left-hand one had a line of light running under it and gave off the sound of rock. I went up to that door and banged on it. There was a noise of breathing through the thin wood planks, and when I banged on it again a reedy voice shouted: ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘It’s me, Eric.’

  ‘I don’t know your voice. I don’t know you.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I said, ‘but you’ve been waiting for someone like me to call.’

  ‘I’m not opening up!’

  ‘That’s a drag,’ I said. ‘It means I shall have to come back with the help.’

  ‘You can’t be from the council, not at this time of night. Look, what do you want?’

  ‘Open up and you’ll find out. Come on. You’ll have to sooner or later, and the more bother you give me, the more you’ll get into.’

  He got the point. I heard steps shuffling over to the door, and a hand fiddled with the Yale lock. When the door opened a crack I moved in. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘What a lot of fuss.’

  Eric was tall, thin, and ill-looking. He was about twenty-five and did have rotten teeth. He didn’t look much like his mother, except that his hair, what there was of it, had a reddish tinge. Behind him the music roared out:

  I like to rock all day!

  I like to rock all night!

  ‘Turn that off,’ I said, ‘I want to talk to you.’

  He turned it down and said: ‘What about?’

  ‘About your stepfather, Charles Staniland.’

  ‘Well, what about him?’

  ‘Well, he’s dead.’

  ‘As if I fucking cared,’ he said. ‘Who are you, you cunt?’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ I said. ‘And watch your tongue. One more slip like that with it, and I’ll tear it out of your hea
d.’

  ‘Let’s see your identification,’ he said in a world-weary voice.

  When I showed it to him, he said: ‘Oh, Christ. Look, I’m worn down, man, I’m strung right out.’ He had a voice as thin as the rest of him; it seesawed up and down like an out-of-tune violin. ‘I’m too old for life, too old for the gigs, man—no one lasts for ever.’

  ‘You certainly don’t look as if you were going to,’ I said. He didn’t quite make sense yet; I thought his indifference to me, to Staniland’s death, meant that he was on his way down from a trip of some kind. But I didn’t care; we had any amount of time.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four. Shows, doesn’t it, dad?’

  ‘Yes, it looks as if you’d lived,’ I admitted, ‘only the film seems to have been run through mostly backwards.’

  ‘Oh, well, you gotter live. I’m at the age where a man’s gotter live, gotter enjoy himself. You gotter get through it somehow. It’s hell, it’s strictly hell, but that’s how it crumbles, dad.’

  ‘You want to get your valves ground in a bit, son,’ I said. ‘I’m forty-one, but I could bounce you up and down like a rubber ball.’

  ‘Anyone can use insults or violence,’ he said with trembling disdain, ‘especially if they’re fuzz.’

  ‘Quite,’ I said absently. I was looking round the room. There was a table with the dirty remains of a frozen meal on it, shepherd’s pie for one, and a segment of Mother’s Pride, two chairs and a bed covered with screwed-up army blankets; a soft-porn mag lay on the chair cushion that stood in for a pillow.

  I looked Eric up and down. He wore a brown, flowing robe like a monk’s, the hem of which, as he sat down, he tucked up round his groin, displaying a lot of white, apparently boneless leg and then, far away where his feet were, sandals which had died slowly, perhaps while hitching a ride. He produced, out of the folds of his cassock, a plastic wallet which proclaimed that it had once contained Dutch tobacco. It was held shut with a rubber band in which a lighter acted as a tourniquet; he twisted the lighter round in the band as he stared at me until it seemed bound to snap—which it did, showering a brown detritus over the floor.