Fire of Lies

by David Mark

  She turns her nose up at the space. The plants on the windowsill are stiff and brown and there is a mound of unwashed pots rising from the grimy steel sink. The lino is covered in dog hairs and bootprints and the small work surface is festooned with unopened letters, empty wrappers and spilled coffee grounds. It’s cold, but if she closed the window she would have to deal with the reek of her decaying life. On balance, she’d rather shiver.

  ‘Are there any crisps?’ asks Jay, entering the kitchen and pulling open a cupboard door. There’s nothing inside but a giant, half-empty bag of dry dog food. He’s wearing a blue robe and crumpled pyjamas. His short brown hair sticks up from his sweaty scalp in a dozen directions and his fingernails need cutting. He’s a fleshy child. He’s only nine but looks older. There are bits of microwave chicken madras stuck in his teeth. ‘Mam, are there any crisps? I’m starving.’

  ‘Go and get some from the bar,’ snaps Shania as she turns to him, her eyes harsh, her body language screaming that she’s busy and should not be disturbed. ‘I’m doing something.’

  ‘I was just asking . . .’

  ‘Well, don’t. I’ve got enough to think about. And don’t go on about packed lunches. I’ll give you a quid in the morning for some Space Raiders and a sausage roll.’

  ‘I don’t like Space Raiders, Mam.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ hisses Shania. ‘They’re your favourite. From now on, they’re your favourite.’

  Doesn’t he realise? Doesn’t he see that she’s working hard on getting them out of all this? Getting them away from him, from them – from the things she has to do every day to keep them safe. Their life of a few months ago seems like a half-remembered hallucination. They used to laugh. Used to snuggle up on the sofa with the dog and watch TV and read stories and revel in the fact there was nobody else around to spoil it all. Now they can barely talk without it becoming an argument. He’s been acting up at school, hitting other students, stabbing them with pencils, stealing their equipment and threatening anybody who tells. He’s on his last warning and the teachers are concerned. She’s been called in half a dozen times. He’s been turning up late, unwashed, dark lines under his eyes. His attainment has dropped. He’s no longer the chatty boy he was. Is there anything wrong at home? they asked. Any change in his circumstances?

  Shania feels suddenly overcome by it all. He deserves a hug, she decides. Needs it. She begins to stand and is stopped by the softest of growls to her right.

  Shania flicks a glance at the large, brown shape standing in the doorway and watching its master. Deano is a Newfoundland, though at first glance he could pass for a bear in a coat. An ex-boyfriend found the animal as a pup and brought it home for Jay when he was barely old enough to stand. Deano has been unquestioningly loyal ever since – growing into an even more imposing physical specimen than Jay himself. He’s a huge, muscular beast, named in honour of a Hull City legend, and better crowd control on a Saturday night than a dozen bouncers.

  Shania watches the boy and his dog walk away. She turns her attention back to the computer screen. She has squashed herself into a cheap plastic swivel chair: her hips, buttocks and thighs spill over and around the armrests. Her elbows rest on the white plastic table that serves as the centrepiece for her small, cluttered kitchen. Behind her fleshy hand, her lips move wordlessly as she watches the images on her laptop – replaying the footage over and over; rewinding and playing, scrolling and staring, sniffing back some kind of foulness as her mug of tea grows cold beside her and her cigarette burns down to the filter in the overflowing ashtray.

  The news reporter is standing on the street beyond her kitchen window. The pub she runs forms almost the entire backdrop to the shot. She realises how shabby it must look to first-time eyes. The paint is peeling, there are loose tiles on the roof and the wires from three huge satellite dishes hang in a tangle down the grubby pebbledashed walls. The pretty female reporter is gesturing at the building and talking about a man that Shania knows better than she wishes to. Paul Rouse. Wankerpaul, to those who had the misfortune of spending a little time in his company. A skinny little wretch with a big mouth who just loved to tell the world where it was going wrong. Who liked to show people shocking little video clips on his mobile phone and tell perfect strangers about the time he spent in the Foreign Legion and the different medals he was awarded for conspicuous bravery. A prick of the first order, whose disappearance is being lamented as some sort of catastrophe by a BBC girl who would have poured her drink over his head within five minutes of listening to his bullshit.

  ‘Christ, stop watching that.’

  Shania jumps as Mattie appears behind her. He bends down and kisses her cheek. She feels wet lips and stubble. It turned her on, once. Now it’s all she can do not to shrink into herself like a baby having its hair washed.

  ‘It’s ruining the business,’ she says, angrily. She glares at her boyfriend, who’s leaning back against the cooker with a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale in his hand. His black T-shirt is so tight around his muscles that it looks as though he must have worn it from birth.

  ‘Have a drink, babe. Chill out.’

  Shania shakes her head, irritable. He’s younger than she is and sometimes she thinks that, intellectually, he’s probably on a par with his own shoes. ‘If you look close enough you can see Pigeon Keith baring his arse at the camera. If that glass wasn’t frosted it’d look like we were having a party with flesh-coloured balloons!’

  Mattie frowns for a moment, working it out. Then he smiles. ‘You make me laugh, baby.’ He takes her in. ‘You look fucking delicious. You horny, babe? It’s been ages. Is the lad asleep? I’ll rub your shoulders after . . .’

  ‘Never mind that,’ she snaps. ‘Many in downstairs? Kimberley handling it?’

  Mattie shrugs. ‘Usual crowd. Couple of new faces. Davey stopped in for a short.’

  ‘They weren’t coppers?’

  ‘Fuck, no! You think I can’t spot a copper? Can you picture that massive Jock who sat and held your hand? Bet he’s great at undercover!’

  Shania processes the information. ‘Is he in?’ she asks, dropping her voice.

  ‘Always is,’ says Mattie, looking away. ‘Said he would be, didn’t he? Said we had to keep to a routine – no changing patterns or doing anything daft. We’re doing the right thing. They’ve got nowt. They haven’t even had me in proper yet.’

  Her shoulders slump. She feels like an intruder in this odd, lumpen body. She can’t bear the sensation of her flesh rubbing against itself or the smell of herself or the sight of her own face, pale and patterned with burst capillaries.

  ‘Let me make you feel pretty, eh, babe?’ says Mattie. ‘Just stay strong. You’ve got me. I know we’ve had our ups and downs but we’re good together. You can’t still be cross at me. You said you forgave me. Heat of the moment, that’s what you said.’

  ‘It was wrong,’ she says, coldly. ‘Wrong to even let it in your head.’

  ‘Don’t keep going on,’ says Mattie, looking at himself in the side of the kettle and flexing. ‘Give us a kiss, eh?’

  Shania scowls and waves a hand. She picks up her dead cigarette from the ashtray and curses. She finds her cigarettes in the pocket of her gown and lights a fresh one. She coughs as she breathes out: rattly and grim, like the last dregs in a gravy boat being sucked through a straw. ‘Don’t start, Mattie. I’ve got bigger things to think about.’

  Mattie crouches down beside her and puts a hand on hers. ‘You can chill, babe. It’s all cool.’

  ‘It’s not fucking cool! Three times I’ve told them the same thing. They said it would be the station next time . . .’

  ‘Just chillax, yeah? Let me see if I can make it all better . . .’

  ‘No!’ hisses Shania, making fists and slapping his hand away from her thigh. ‘We should go away. Just go somewhere else. Start again.’

  Mattie stands up, sighing deeply. She glances at his eyes and is pleased to see he’s too drunk to lose his temper. He’s starting to lo
ok bored with her. Bored with this. She was a fool to think it would be any different. Never get involved with the punters – that was the first rule her first boss taught her. Don’t let them get their feet under the table. She’s never managed to follow that advice. Every boyfriend she’s had started out as a customer. She liked Mattie better before she took him to bed. Liked it when she just knew the public version of his personality. She has seen his temper now. Seen what he is capable of. She has no fear of throwing violent drunks out of her pub but her stomach twists at the thought of him looking at her with rage in his eyes. Fears, even more, what would happen if he were to turn his temper on Jay.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, quickly. ‘Just loads in my head.’

  Mattie drinks from his bottle. Looks at her long enough to make her feel uncomfortable. She urges herself not to shiver or to turn her head away. He could do better, she knows that. He’s good looking and his body’s like something from a fireman calendar. She can’t let him lose interest. Can’t let him grow tired of her. She needs him where she can control him. She knows how vengeful men can be when slighted and Mattie is the sort who would drop them all in the shit just to score a point. She should have booted him out that night, told him that she’d seen what was inside him and that it sickened her. But the quiet man made it plain what could happen if she followed her instincts. She had to keep him sweet, stay on his good side until everything blew over and matters could be sorted out more permanently.

  ‘You want to go to the sofa?’ asks Mattie, slipping his hand inside his jogging pants to readjust his balls. ‘Take your mind off things?’

  Shania manages a tight smile and a nod. She closes the laptop and lets him help her from the chair. When he kisses her, she tastes ale and emptiness. He doesn’t eat much. Just drinks his nutrition shakes and injects himself with chemicals that make him erratic and shrivel his dick.

  ‘You’re still the only one I fancy,’ he says, stuffing a hand inside her top. ‘Let’s fuck it all away, yeah? Stop worrying. It’s all in the past. It’s done with. They’ll get bored soon, you’ll see.’

  Shania closes her eyes. She feels him slobber and slurp at the scar on her left breast. Remembers the blade and the jet of blood and the sudden moment of savagery that changed their lives. She wants to talk, to tell people about that night. The detective who interviewed her last, the big Scotsman with the kind eyes and the scars. She liked his voice. Liked the way he said her name and told her that he was here to help in a way that didn’t sound phoney. She wants to spill it all. But they have made their pact, and to break it would sink them all. She has to endure. Has to keep intact the ties that bind them all together. If she doesn’t, the fire of lies that was lit eight months ago will burn them all to cinders.

  Chapter Three

  McAvoy’s backside is growing numb. Pharaoh’s sitting in the chair he normally uses himself and he is becoming increasingly aware of the gap in his stomach where roast chicken should be. Pharaoh looks like the queen in some fantasy TV show. McAvoy cannot help but imagine oiled bodyguards fanning her with palm fronds while nubile handmaidens paint her nails and feed her grapes. She is still telling Fin about the investigation, using words like ‘bastard’, ‘entry wound’ and ‘contusion’ without apology. He glances at Roisin, who is miming stabbing herself with the TV remote control.

  ‘Was he nice?’ asks Fin, from the floor. He is wearing his Ross County football shirt and drawing pictures in his sketchpad. He has done a good job recreating Barry’s Volvo but his red felt tip ran out before he could accurately capture the explosion drenching a portly, naked man in unspeakable grimness.

  ‘A nice man?’ asks McAvoy. ‘Barry? Very nice. He’s a humanities teacher at a school in Skegness. He and Jan have four grandchildren and . . .’

  ‘No, Paul,’ says Fin. ‘The one in the barrel. Was he nice? You haven’t said.’

  Pharaoh sits forward in her chair. She’s wearing a green tunic-style top with black leggings and her biker boots. There are goosepimples on her arms and sweat on her neck. She hasn’t confided in McAvoy but Roisin’s told him that if she isn’t going through the menopause then she must be trying to come off heroin.

  She gives the boy her attention, gazing into his large brown eyes.

  ‘If you must know, Fin, we don’t think he was a very nice man. He was a bit of a bore and he told a lot of fibs to make himself look good. But that doesn’t mean he deserved to be shot in the head and sealed in a beer barrel and then explode all over a nudist. I don’t think anybody deserves that. Don’t you worry, though, we’ll find who did it.’

  Fin seems relieved that everything is going to be OK. He goes back to his sketch. Pharaoh’s two youngest daughters are lying on the floor playing on their phones. If they’re listening, they’re not giving much away.

  ‘He was a gobshite, was he?’ asks Roisin.

  ‘And then some,’ says Pharaoh, sucking her lower lip. ‘It wasn’t our case when he first went missing. Regular CID had it on their books and Serious and Organised didn’t get involved until he’d been gone three months. Even then we didn’t do much more than review the witness statements and dig a little deeper into the relevant backgrounds. Chief Superintendent Wandsworth’s team got a whiff that Rouse owed some money to one of the skunk dealers in Wincolmlee, but if you ask me he was getting nowhere and just wanted to be able to palm it off so it was on my books and not his. We got nowhere. Then he bobs back up. You should see the office! Pictures of tide patterns and wind directions and every stream and tributary from here to King’s Lynn. For all we know he could have been dumped off a cruise ship in Barbados. It’s a big old ocean.’

  ‘It’s not as bleak as that,’ says McAvoy, stretching out his legs and pushing Lilah with his toes. She rewards him with a laugh and an instruction not to be naughty. ‘It would be, don’t get me wrong. But given what we know about his last movements and the type of barrel, I think I could pinpoint the exact bit of river where he first made a splash, the poor wee bugger.’

  ‘They say the barrel was nicked, you know that,’ says Pharaoh, tetchily.

  ‘Nicked?’ asks Roisin.

  ‘The barrel he was in. We’ve traced the batch of ale. It was delivered to the Trawl, down by the cocoa factory at the bottom of Clough Road, in October. The Trawl just happens to be by the river. And Paul Rouse was a regular there.’

  Roisin looks longingly at her lighter, resting on her thigh. She wants to have a cigarette but will resist doing so indoors. She doesn’t want to go outside and miss hearing the interesting parts.

  ‘Sounds pretty obvious,’ she says, untangling two of her necklaces and dropping them into her cleavage. ‘Can’t you just check the pub for blood matches or something? Bring in all the regulars and sweat them until somebody says what happened?’

  Pharaoh sits back in her chair, rubbing at her teeth with her thumbnail. She notices that her glass is empty and seems about to ask for a refill. Then she screws up her face, apparently deciding to have no more.

  ‘Wouldn’t life be lovely if you were in charge,’ she mutters. Then she gives a low groan. ‘Fin, would you do me a favour? Go and grab eight of your action figures. Same sort of size, please. And a box of some kind. We’ll do this in a way everybody can understand.’

  McAvoy glances at his wife. ‘You might want to have that now,’ he says, pointing at the cigarette. ‘He’ll be an age.’

  Roisin pulls herself off the floor. She manages to angle her pert backside enticingly close to McAvoy’s face as she passes him, stepping into the hallway and opening the front door. She lights up and blows smoke into the cold, salty air. Moments later, Fin returns and hands a wrestling ring and a selection of toys to Pharaoh, who looks pleased. She holds up a figure of The Thing from the Fantastic Four. ‘This one would be Daddy.’

  Pharaoh starts laying the various wrestlers, superheroes and Disney dolls down in the wrestling ring. She looks at her phone from time to time, grumbling to herself, clearly checking her facts. She wa
its until Roisin has finished her cigarette and retaken her seat by the fire.

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Hector, stop me if I get any of this wrong. Your father, he’s the expert in all this. He makes things easy for your Auntie Trish to understand. I’m the one that then sounds like the expert in front of the bigwigs.’

  ‘That’s not true . . .’ says McAvoy loyally, and both women shush him with a look.

  ‘This man here is Paul Rouse,’ says Pharaoh, holding up an action doll. ‘You have to imagine him in dirty combat trousers held up with a Superman belt, and ex-army workboots. Paul was forty-one. Five foot eight. Skinny and not very handsome. He had a black goatee that looked like it had been drawn on and he wore his mobile in a pouch on his hip like a gunslinger, or a prick from 2005. He worked for the railways, repairing damaged tracks and broken signals and the like. He lived alone in a flat near Myton Bridge. Never married and no kids. No girlfriend, no boyfriend, no dog. Lonely life in some people’s eyes – bloody bliss to others. Anyway, Paul liked a drink. Carling drinker, though we can’t hold that against him. Man of habit, like so many around here. He used to divide his time and money between three pubs. The Lambwath, the Ship in Sutton, and the Trawl. You keeping up?’

  Roisin, Fin and Lilah all nod. Pharaoh glances at McAvoy and gives him a tiny smile. He was nodding too.

  ‘December nineteenth, last year,’ he butts in, colouring slightly and eager to demonstrate that he is a decorated and experienced detective and not the biggest child in reception class. ‘Rouse finished his shift just after six p.m. He didn’t drive and preferred to cycle everywhere. His routine was always the same. He’d cycle home, get changed out of his work clothes, make himself a bite to eat and then head out around seven thirty. He’d go to Sutton first. Two pints there. Two more in the Lambwath. Then he’d finish in the Trawl. A tenner on the fruit machines and about twenty quid on drink. His wages just about covered the habit. I asked some of the locals whether they knew he was an alcoholic and they looked at me like I was mad. “Alcoholic? How? He drinks Carling . . .” ’