To Fight For

by Phillip Hunter

  We were quiet for a while. I could feel her heart beating through my chest. I could smell the sweet shampoo scent of her hair. I’d taken some pills for my head and they were making me fuzzy, but they were numbing the pain and I felt okay.

  But the longer the quiet went on, the more I thought about what Brenda had said, and the more I wondered why she’d said it. Slowly, I began to think maybe her wanting to tell me that was the reason she wanted to see me. Then I started to wonder what it meant.

  Then I realized something else; she was crying. I hadn’t noticed because she’d been trying to keep it quiet and had hidden her face from me, burying it in my shoulder.

  Only then did I understand what she’d done. She’d bared herself to me, opened herself up and let me see the thing that probably hurt her more than anything else.

  It was another of those sick jokes that the world spits at you; here was a woman who loved children, who risked her life, lost her life, to protect them, and she couldn’t bear any herself while all over the place teenage girls were popping them out every nine months. You saw them in the high streets, pram in one hand, fag in the other, chatting to their mates while their babies cried to be fed.

  I wondered if she’d told anyone else that. I thought she probably hadn’t. She didn’t have close friends and her track record with men had been lousy.

  And I, dumb fucking cunt that I was, had brushed her off without a thought.

  I lifted Brenda off me and turned her around. At first, she wouldn’t look at me, but I kept holding her, one of my thick hands on each of her slim shoulders, and she finally lifted her wet eyes to mine. They sparkled. They were wide with fear and pain and, for a moment, I was lost in them.

  What I said then I knew to be true. I hadn’t ever known it until that moment. What I said was, ‘I would have had children with you. That would’ve been okay with me.’

  It all came out. She laughed and sobbed at the same time. She crushed herself into my body, as if she was clinging to me in a wild storm. I think that’s exactly what she was doing.

  Finally, when she’d let all the grief out, emptied herself of the horrors – for then, at least – she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, ran her sleeve over her wet nose and pushed herself away from me, her hands flat on my chest. She looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Have you ever seen my photos?’ she said.

  When I told her I hadn’t, she scampered over to a chest of drawers and tugged the bottom one open. She came back with an old album and sat on the sofa beside me.

  Fuck the Arab. Let him trawl his dark places without protection, see how long he’d last. The rest of us had to do it.

  ‘Look, Joe,’ Brenda said.

  She pointed to the yellowing photo of a young black girl with pigtails. She was wearing school uniform and a smile as wide as the tie around her neck. She stood before a front door. Her knees were together, making her look self-conscious, nervous.

  ‘That’s me,’ Brenda was saying. ‘My first day of secondary school. Me mum was so proud. I remember I was nervous and excited. I don’t think I was happy, but I’m smiling, so …’

  She started turning the pages of the old album, the thick pages making cracking sounds as they unstuck. She showed me a girl with a doll, a girl with friends at some party, a girl mixed in with a large family.

  She turned another page. I saw Brenda, a young teen now, with an older woman. They were sitting on a brown sofa surrounded by wrapped boxes. Both were leaning forward. Brenda’s knees were together, her hands holding each other in her lap. They were both smiling, but Brenda’s wasn’t the natural smile I’d seen on the first picture, not the smile she smiled to me.

  ‘Me mum,’ she said. ‘That was my birthday. Can’t remember which one.’

  Then she pointed to another picture. Here, she was still young, thin. She was in a meadow on a bright sunny day. There was a man next to her. He was white with shaggy brown hair and a narrow, sharp face. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. He was ordinary looking. He could’ve been anything. He had his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t look too different from that girl in the school uniform, only she wasn’t smiling so much now. Her knees were together still, and her hands were clasped in front of her.

  ‘Me stepdad,’ she said.

  She turned the pages more quickly now, racing through her life, only giving me half a chance to see it. I suppose that’s what she’d always done; showed me parts, skipped over lots.

  She paused for a moment on a page with two photos. Her hand covered the bottom one as her fingers stroked the top. It was a photo of two women on a beach somewhere. The sky was cloudy, so I thought it was probably in Britain. I could’ve asked her, I suppose, but she seemed to be lost in the picture, her eyes a bit dreamy. She was remembering the day, the moment, and, again, it was like she’d forgotten I was there.

  One of the women was Brenda, dressed in red shorts and a white blouse. She had a straw sunhat and sunglasses. The other woman had pale skin and long, straight, black hair. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with some logo. She had dark glasses, like Brenda, and the same straw hat so that I guessed they’d bought them in the same place, maybe on that day.

  Both women were holding ice creams.

  It was a happy time, a happy memory.

  Then Brenda sighed and closed the book. She chucked it to the floor and curled up and rested herself against me. After a while, I could feel her chest rising and falling, and I could hear the small bubbly noise in the back of her throat.

  I carried her to the bedroom. I put her to bed then took my clothes off and climbed in beside her as softly as I could. The mattress flattened under me and her body rolled over so that it was up against my side, and I could feel her hot, soft skin. She put her hand out in her sleep and it lay on my chest, her fingertips just below my chin.

  I didn’t sleep so good. I lay there, afraid to move in case I woke her, and I wondered what was going on in her head. I don’t think it occurred to me to ask her. I don’t know why that was.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Is it your head, Joe?’ she said, her hand on my cheek, not smooth and cool now but cold.

  ‘You’re not here,’ I heard myself say. ‘You’re dead.’

  Then she was clamping my head tightly, one hand either side, and staring at me in wide-eyed dread.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘Joe? What the bloody hell are you on about? I’m right here. I’m not dead.’

  ‘Brenda?’

  Was that really her? Was this a memory? Did it happen?

  ‘Joe?’ she said. ‘Joe. Look at me. What’s wrong? Joe.’

  There was panic in her voice, and I thought, Don’t be scared. I mumbled something. At least, I think it was me.

  ‘Joe?’

  That wasn’t her voice. Her face fell apart in front of me.

  ‘Joe. Look at me.’

  Everything was blurry.

  ‘Look at me.’

  Then I saw Browne standing over me. It was gloomy, but I could see him well enough. There was a look of pain on his face.

  ‘Joe?’ he said. ‘Can you see me?’

  I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I nodded.

  He lifted my head and put a glass of water to my mouth. I let the stuff slip down my throat. Then he took a cloth and wiped the water around my lips. He put my head down and it sank forever into the pillow.

  When I opened my eyes again, he was still there, only now the pain had gone from his expression and, instead, he glared at me. I could see he was sober. That’s probably why he was in such a lousy mood.

  I expected a lecture. But all he said was, ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He bent over and looked into my eyes with one of those small torches. He moved his hands over to the back of my skull, gently probing. His hands felt like they were padded with cotton wool.

  Then he moved my head. It wasn’t much of a movement, but it felt to me like someone had turned the world upsi
de down.

  ‘You’ve given me something.’

  ‘Yes. For the pain. Now don’t move.’

  Pain? Had I been in pain? I couldn’t remember.

  ‘What pain?’

  He stood up and looked at me as if I was dying and I realized the pain I thought I’d seen in his expression was just a reflection of what he was looking at.

  ‘You were in a state.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He reached to the small cabinet by the side of the bed, took out a small tube of pills and poured a couple into his hand. Then, as if he’d forgotten what he was about to do, he closed his hand and sat on the bed.

  ‘You were screaming,’ he said to the carpet. ‘Calling her name. Brenda’s.’

  ‘I was dreaming,’ I said, knowing it was a lie, and knowing too that he would know it was a lie.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  He handed me the pills and the glass of water. He helped me lift my head enough to take the tablets. I didn’t ask him what they were. I didn’t much care.

  ‘You hit your head again,’ he said.

  ‘Someone else hit it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘With a car.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I tried to sit up by myself and bile filled my mouth and I threw up over the carpet.

  ‘Idiot,’ Browne said. I collapsed back. ‘You know, one day you’ll go to sleep and that’ll be that. You’ll wake up dead.’

  FIFTEEN

  I woke up, still alive, and rolled over and felt like someone had dumped a hundredweight of bricks on me. I usually felt like that when I woke. Just old age, I suppose. Well, that and getting run over by a car now and then.

  I lay in bed for a while, trying to remember what I had to do, trying to forget what I’d done, what I hadn’t done. After all that, I stared at the ceiling and let myself get things together bit by bit.

  When I’d stared at the ceiling enough I tried to remember what the fuck had being going on. All the stuff with the cab and Brenda came into my mind in bits, and I tried to recall it in the way you try and hold onto a dream you’ve had – the more you want to remember it, the more it slips away from you. It was like trying to put a hand up and stop time moving.

  And then I remembered Browne standing over me and his face telling me I was fucked, even if he wouldn’t put it into words.

  I hadn’t dreamt about her again. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to stop me.

  There was a grey light coming in through the window. Or, at least, something grey was coming through the window. I could feel the coldness outside. Or maybe it was inside. Maybe it was in me.

  I took a shower to try and get some blood running. Then I did some exercises, as much as I could with a half-ruined body. Everything hurt, except my head. That was just numb. Maybe if my head started hurting my body would be numb. Maybe, one day, everything would be numb. I tried not to think about it.

  When I felt half-human, I got dressed and went slowly downstairs. There was no sign of Browne, and I wondered if he’d finally given up on me and left town.

  I made an omelette and a cup of tea, strong and sweet. I finished those off and sat and thought about things some more. Then I cleaned my guns.

  It all went back to that film; Brenda and a rich bloke and a young girl. I know the way of the world, the horrors, the hate. Christ, I’ve seen enough, done enough myself. But when I first saw that film, it hit me like a fast cross to the jaw. It left me reeling, shaking, sick.

  Marriot had set it up, and probably arranged the secret filming. Brenda had taken part in the film only to make sure she could get a copy to send to the law. She never would’ve allowed a child to go through that shit otherwise. Then she went and sent it off to Glazer, the vice copper given the job of nailing those responsible for the immigrant sex trade. But, of course, Glazer was bent and grassed her up to Marriot.

  What Brenda did was about the bravest thing I ever heard of. But she hated herself for it. That’s what she was talking to Browne about, that time – the need to forget, the need to hide from something with booze. The need to hide from herself.

  Two things about all that were having this knock-on effect. Firstly, the man in the film. Whoever he was, Dunham wanted him in his control, which meant he wanted the DVD as blackmail. That meant the bloke in the film was someone important, powerful, useful to Dunham.

  Secondly, there were copies about. I had one, which Brenda had left me, and which I’d only recently found. Dunham knew I had that copy. That made me a target. But Paget must’ve had a copy too, to get protection from Dunham. I couldn’t believe that Paget would be able to bluff Dunham if he hadn’t had a copy. My guess was that he’d hidden it somewhere and had made a sample copy to show Dunham, enough that he got what he wanted, which was Dunham’s protection from me. Paget’s copy was lost, then.

  That hadn’t worked out too well for him. So, if I had the only copy, Dunham wanted it from me. So too did Compton and his mob, who were after Glazer as part of their anti-corruption fight. Compton had told me that if I wanted justice for Brenda’s death, I’d hand over something to put Glazer away. I didn’t give a fuck about their justice.

  But, of course, I probably wasn’t the only one to have a copy. Glazer might’ve had one.

  When I felt up to it, I left the house and took a tour of the block, my hand on my Makarov the whole time, my eyes darting this way and that. When I saw a man walking a dog, I stopped and watched him until he was out of sight. Then I watched some more to make sure he didn’t come back. When a car went by, I made a note of the make and number plate.

  It was a clear morning, bright and cold with that biting air that cuts through your skin. It felt good. It felt clean. The sky was blue for once. Sounds carried on the crisp air and, as if the air was seeping into me, my thoughts started to untangle themselves.

  A thought occurred to me: how did Paget find out the DVD was important to someone like Dunham? Certainly, Dunham hadn’t known, so it must’ve been Paget who told him. But how had he found out? If he and Marriot had known how important their blackmail target was, they’d have used the film a long time ago.

  I tried to work that out but gave up. It didn’t seem important.

  I’d just come back as Browne was crawling down the stairs. He was wearing blue pyjamas and a red dressing gown. The pyjamas were ten sizes too big. The dressing gown had holes and stains.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Still alive, I see. Good, good. I mean, you are alive, aren’t you? Sometimes it’s hard to tell.’

  He shuffled past me, his slippers half on, his dressing gown half off, his hair all over the place. He went to the mat by the front door and picked up The Times, folded it and put it under his arm. I started up the stairs and stopped and turned and looked at the newspaper.

  ‘Since when do you have that delivered?’ I said.

  Browne looked at the paper beneath his arm, and then at me.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Not since you came here.’

  He unfolded the newspaper. A piece of white card fell out. He stooped to pick it up, read it to himself.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said, holding the card out to me.

  He folded his paper up again and shuffled off to the kitchen.

  The note read: ‘Meet me at the usual place. E.’

  SIXTEEN

  It was quiet in the cafe. The breakfast trade had gone and now there were only a few punters plus the waitress, who was behind the counter putting cakes into that glass display thing they have. I guessed there was someone back in the kitchen, too.

  Anyway, I hadn’t seen anyone hanging about outside, and the bunch in here seemed harmless enough.

  There was an old couple, silent and slow. The woman, her lunch finished, sipped her tea and stared at the floor while the man wiped bread through what was left of his egg and ketchup.

  There was a young bloke, dressed in an army jacket that must’ve been twenty years o
lder than he was. A tattoo snaked up his neck. He was reading a book, the plate of spaghetti in front of him getting cold.

  Then there was the middle-aged bloke in a pinstriped suit and bright shiny brogues who sat and picked at a Danish pastry while he tapped away at a laptop. He was the odd one out in a place like this. He was overweight, and his suit was tight and I couldn’t see any bulges anywhere. His hands were clean, his face was soft. He clocked me looking at him and his eyes widened a bit and he looked quickly back at his computer. I figured he was just what he seemed; a businessman with time on his hands and a hunger for pastries.

  Eddie Lane sat at a table over the far side, in the corner, his back to the wall. There was nobody on the nearby tables. I strolled over and sat.

  He was busy stirring his coffee, keeping me waiting. I let him play his game.

  Eddie was Vic Dunham’s right hand, and more. He was smooth and black and handsome and smart and very, very deadly.

  The last time I saw Eddie and Dunham was just before I went over to Dunham’s house and killed Paget and started their war with Cole.

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ he said to the coffee.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He stopped moving the spoon and looked at me, that amused gleam in his eyes.

  ‘I want us all to be happy.’

  ‘Right.’

  Above us, the strip light flickered and made a sputtering noise.

  I glanced around again, unsure of myself, of Eddie, of everything. It was like I was in some play; everyone knew their parts – everyone except me.

  The old man had finished mopping up his egg yolk and now was slurping his tea. The old bird opposite watched him over the rim of her mug. How many times had she watched him eat, drink? What was it like, to be with someone for decades? To watch them grow old? I hadn’t heard them speak yet.

  ‘Are you tooled up?’ Eddie said.