Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

'What about you?' says Frank.

  Harris hesitates.

  Linda moved out a week ago. More accurately, Em had asked her to leave. Just for now. As if in silent reminder, her iPhone buzzes against her thigh. It'll be one of Linda's texts but Harris doesn't respond.

  'Yeah, all fine.' A direct question doesn't mean she has to give Frank the unvarnished truth.

  Cooper reappears carrying three glasses, expertly shouldering her way through the throng. She hands a tall glass to Harris and a small one to Frank.

  'Ta,' says Frank. He sips the malt and sighs theatrically.

  'Thanks, Theresa,' says Harris and takes a long pull, grateful for the interruption. 'Christ Almighty. How many are in there?'

  'Just one,' says Cooper. Catching Frank's eye, and, momentarily unseen by Harris, Cooper holds up three fingers. She winks and disappears back into a wave of laughter from the MIT crew.

  'Bottoms up,' says Harris. For some reason, perhaps its proximity to the 'tits' discussion, the phrase strikes Frank as funny and he fights the urge to smile. He loses and creases up on the red velvet chair, giggling like a schoolboy. Harris watches him and drains her glass in one. Frank's got the compact build of a welterweight and a blue-eyed stare that can freeze the blood of a new-spawned plod from fifty paces but right now he looks like a teenager. Although Frank doesn't know it, it's at that point that Em Harris decides where the evening's going to end.

  Eight

  'C'mon, Niall. Let's do one. This is fucken boring, man.' Ghost Ninja's voice is whiny. They've only been there for about an hour and Ghost Ninja's already sorry he agreed to come, fifty notes or no fucking fifty notes. It's not like CSI, man, not like it one fucking little bit. And Jason – Ghost Ninja's real name – has got some decent weed he wants to get into back home. Get fucked up, like nice and proper fucked up, and watch some shit on the box. 'Come 'ed, Nially. We'll be here fucken hours, bro.'

  'Wait.' Niall's spotted the guy coming out. Thank fuck. He doesn't think he could stand hearing any more from Ninja the Whinger.

  Noone and a couple of people come through the double doors of Maxie's and stand for a moment on the corner.

  Niall and Jason slide back into the shadows of a small cut-through between two buildings. Niall stubs his cigarette out on a wall.

  'It's deffo him, lad!' Jason's all excited now, the desire for weed momentarily forgotten. 'Fucken sweet!'

  The couple Noone is talking to turn away from him and move down the street. Noone immediately heads directly across the road towards the alleyway.

  'Fuck. He's comin'.'

  Niall grabs Jason and the two of them shuffle along the alley and squat behind a stinking pile of semi-rotted cardboard boxes and fuck knows what else.

  'Jesus Christ, la', this fucken stinks!'

  'Quiet, Jase.'

  Big Niall can't even risk looking. He pulls his head into his collar.

  And then looks anyway.

  He's just in time to see Noone veer left and head down the street towards the river. Niall stands and, followed closely by Jason, lumbers towards the neck of the alley. Forty metres away Noone hunches into the breeze from the river. He's moving quickly.

  'This is ace!' Jason's at Niall's shoulder, his rat eyes shining. 'Fucken CSI, la'!'

  'Come on.' Niall waits as long as he thinks he can and then, staying close to the building line, follows the American. Negotiating the geography of the city is as natural as breathing to Niall and Jason. Which makes the job simple, even through the late-evening club crowds.

  Noone moves with purpose, weaving between the swarm of drunken neanderthals hurrying towards the next booze station.

  From behind, Niall notices there is never any contact between Noone and those he passes, not even the brush of a nylon sleeve against his leather jacket. "When one plodding cow waddles into his path in her too-short white Lycra skirt the American arcs his back and twists sideways to avoid her.

  'Where's he goin'?'

  'How the fuck do I know, man?' Niall's no Einstein but he's got the edge on Jason. 'That's what we're fucken followin' the cunt for.'

  'He's walkin' miles, man. And I thought Dean said to have a word with him.'

  Niall shakes his head. 'C'mon, dickhead. We got to wait for somewhere nice and quiet.'

  'We goin' to fuck him up, man?' Jason perks up. 'Nice one!'

  'Jesus, Jase. Deano said just to follow. We're not goin' to do anything.'

  Niall shakes his head. Fucking Jason. Niall's never seen him fuck anyone up, other than mentally.

  Three minutes later, they've lost Noone.

  One minute he was crossing the street up ahead, the next, gone.

  'What happened?' says Jason. 'Where'd he go?'

  'Don't you know?' spits Niall. 'You're fucken Ghost Ninja, aren't you?'

  'Don't blame me, man. He probably went home. Didn't Dean say he lived round here?'

  Niall doesn't know. He thinks so. He hadn't been listening properly. All he'd heard from his cuz was fifty more notes. Fifty he'd already spent in his head.

  'Shit.' Niall spins around, up on his toes, scanning the traffic on King Edward Street. As a line of cars move off from the lights he spots something heading down Great Howard Street.

  'There!' Niall points.

  Jason cranes his head, exposing a raw red spot on his neck. 'You sure? Why's he goin' that way?'

  'It's him,' says Niall, already moving. 'How the fuck do I know where he's goin'?'

  With one eye on the traffic he crosses to the central reservation and then darts across. Behind him he hears horns blaring as Jason, less decisive than Niall, comes within an inch of the bumper of a black cab.

  'Dickhead!' yells Jason as he arrives on the pavement.

  'For fuck's sake, bro! Why don't you set off some fireworks while yer at it? Give the feller some proper warnin', like?'

  'Sorry, mate,' says Jason, still flicking Vs at the cabbie. 'Forgot.'

  Jason peers ahead. On the left side of Great Howard Street he can see a figure silhouetted in the oncoming lights from the passing traffic.

  'You sure that's him?'

  Niall's already moving. 'It's him,' he says over his shoulder.

  For the next couple of minutes Jason and Niall don't say much. Then, opposite a darkened car wash, the man they're following turns down a side street.

  Eighty metres behind, Niall and Jason pick up the pace.

  At Oil Street, they stop.

  'That road's a bit dodgy, Niall,' says Jason. He's hopping from one leg to the other, his head hunched into his hoodie. 'I went to a twenty-first in an Irish pub down here once – rough as fuck – and I cut through this road on me way back into town. It's fucken nasty at night, man. We don't want to go down there.'

  'Let's just see.' Fifty quid is fifty quid. He turns to Jason and jabs him in the chest with his forefinger. 'And don't forget, dickhead, we're supposed to be the nasty ones.'

  Niall looks down Oil Street and sees Noone disappear through a gap in a wall.

  If it was Noone.

  Niall, despite his confident assertions to the contrary, isn't so sure any more. What would some ponce of an actor be doing dicking about in a place like this?

  'Shit.' To Niall's left are the lights from the city. It looks inviting. Down Oil Street, everything just looks black and shitty. Halfway down the street is a single yellow lamp hanging outside some sort of brick building. High walls and barbed wire run along one side, the arse end of industrial units along the other. Every window is covered with iron bars. The pavement gleams with broken glass. Although Niall and Jason don't know it, the area's thick with the ghosts of the High Rip gang. A hundred and twenty years ago sailors were rolled down here in the slums off the Dock Road, shivved or kicked to death, for the coin in their pocket. It hasn't improved much since then. The place is a shithole.

  'Fuck this,' says Jason. 'I'm off. Fifty notes isn't enough for this.'

  'Go then,' says Niall, hoping Jason stays.

  'I will.'


  Niall watches him fidget, unsure of what to do. Niall shakes his head and then heads down Oil Street.

  'Wait here for us,' he hisses to Jason and then he's gone.

  At the intersection, Jason stands for a second. A car blares past, and someone shouts something. A dog barks.

  Jason runs.

  Fuck CSI. Big Niall's on his own.

  Nine

  Em is lying on the bed wearing nothing. Frank runs a hand through his hair and whistles. It's an image that he's sure, drunk or not, will stick in his mind for a long time.

  'Frankie,' she says, her eyes half-closed. She runs a finger lazily across her lower stomach and makes small, slow movements with her hips.

  It would take a much better man than he is to resist. And he's technically single. Like it matters. He doesn't ask about Linda.

  There are so many reasons that they shouldn't be doing this that his head would be spinning even without being bombed.

  But he is bombed and besides . . . Jesus. Come on. Look at her.

  Frank pulls off his shirt and staggers onto the bed. Both of them pissed as squaddies on a weekend pass.

  Em laughs. A deep, warm sound. She rolls Frank onto his back and straddles his chest.

  Frank's breathing comes heavier and Em reaches behind her to find his cock. Without taking her eyes off his she runs her fingers along him and he arches his back towards her. His hands cup her buttocks. A natural place. They're softer than he'd imagined – and he'd imagined them often – but still firmly muscled. Harris is fitter than him, scores higher in the annual tests, works out with . . .

  'Frank.' Em puts a hand to his face. 'You still with me?'

  Frank focuses and makes a noise but he's not sure what he's saying. Christ, he's hammered. Em slides down his body until she's got his cock in her mouth. Now he's awake.

  The moments pass like shadows. Frank's licking her, he's in her, there's moaning, sweat. She's angry and hungry. He feels her slapping him at one point and he's aroused and pained at the same time. Her open palm has weight and he feels he's being punished, not just for this and not just for her pleasure, but for unknown past workplace indiscretions and snubs.

  Fucker. She looks like she hates him.

  He doesn't care. They fuck hard. Harris wants things from Frank he won't give. Pain. Humiliation. Hers and his.

  Fuck me harder, fucker.

  Her black skin's a novelty for Frank, his cock for her. He holds her down, her wrists pinned above her head as her legs wrap around him, pulling him in deeper.

  Where's Linda? The thought slides in and then out again and is lost only to return, with interest, later.

  Drink, the great denier and giver, this time smiles on him, granting him stamina, and she comes first, bucking under him and holding him stiff-armed, eyes fixed on his in that glazed, unfocused death stare. Un petit mort.

  Cunt. Fuck. Bastard. Do me. Fuck me. She's swearing a blue streak and when she can feel Frank coming she moves him out. Come on me, she hisses, positioning him across her, his slick cock sliding over her breasts. She takes him and strokes and pulls and then he comes. Oh yes, she says and slides his cock into her mouth again and Frank feels the pleasure and the pain and the familiar Catholic guilt.

  She holds him in her mouth too long, until he has to pull out, and they lie spent in a puddled tangle of sheets and come and sweat.

  Later, he's not sure when, they fuck once more and then it's dark.

  When his eyes open there's grey morning leaking in from somewhere.

  Frank's more worried about the hangover he knows is coming. By all rights he should be a broken man. He rolls over in bed and sees the s-shape of Em under a sheet, her back to him, one smooth arm draped over her hip.

  He watches enough to check she's breathing and rolls onto his back.

  'You'd better go.' Her voice is heavy with sleep but clear. Frank waits but there's nothing else.

  'Sure.' He collects his clothes and leaves the bedroom. He dresses in the small living room, the air thick with stale wine. On the coffee table two bottles and a couple of glasses look like props from a play. The blinds are closed and Frank leaves them that way. He registers that the room is pleasant, unremarkable – no easy psychological readings to be gained.

  He takes a glass of water from the tap in the open-plan kitchen and drains it in one. In the bathroom he squeezes some of Harris's toothpaste onto his finger and runs it over his teeth. His tongue looks like roadkill and there's a redness to one side of his face, the trace memory of last night's slap.

  In the bathroom cabinet – thank you, God – paracetamol, and Frank takes three. He can't help but notice the bottle of blonde hair dye, the two toothbrushes in the glass. Harris's partner, Linda, location unknown (by Frank), relationship status uncertain.

  This was a mistake.

  He closes the cabinet and steps out into the hall of the flat. He waits a few seconds for something from Em but there's nothing. He shrugs his jacket on and silently leaves, his spirits sinking as the door closes behind him.

  Falkner Street is cold and empty, Harris's flat a short stumble from The Phil. The distance, Frank considers, may have been a contributing factor. If Harris had lived a taxi away they may have had a chance to consider.

  Fuck it.

  It happened and it was good. He'll deal with the consequences later. Frank looks at his watch. Four-thirty am.

  He walks down Falkner to Hope and turns towards a cathedral; the Catholic one, fittingly. Anxious to postpone any soul-searching until completely necessary, he hurries towards Hardman Street and drops down the hill towards the city centre. On the opposite side of the sloping street the looming Dutch gothic roof of The Phil blocks out the disapproving cathedral. Frank is watched by a passing patrol car, which slows to a crawl as it approaches. Close up, the uniform at the wheel raises a hand in recognition, but Frank, intent on invisibility, ignores him.

  A street-cleaning crew is at work mopping up last night's debris outside The Fly In The Loaf. Four men in fluoro jackets hose down the pavements, all of them smoking. A straggle of clubbers limp up Hardman in flimsy clothing, their conversation loud and rich with fucks and twats and 'ey dickheads. A girl with the figure of a supermodel and make-up as thick as that of a kabuki actor squeals something to a friend behind her as Keane passes and he flinches. Jesus. Her voice scrapes his skull. The group disappear towards the university district, singing a song Keane doesn't recognise. The squealing supermodel puts a finger under the clinging Lycra of her micro-mini and shows her arse to the patrol car. She's not wearing underwear.

  Frank feels approximately eight hundred years old.

  Thoughts of a clean-living alternative self pop into his head, as always at times like this. A fresh, ascetic Frank, walking across some unspecified breezy, bracing moor. A sober Frank. A Frank who is happily married again. A Frank who doesn't drunk fuck his colleagues.

  A different Frank.

  Halfway down Hardman he turns into a side road and into the warm embrace of The Majorca.

  The twenty-four-hour taxidrivers' caff is packed with the post-club-run drivers but Frank manages to bag a seat in a corner. Enzo lifts one of his chins in acknowledgement and tea the colour of mahogany appears like magic. It's followed by a full English and more tea. At five-thirty or so, and feeling slightly more human, Frank goes through the usual routine of offering to pay Enzo before leaving without money changing hands.

  'Be good, Frank,' shouts Enzo as the door to The Majorca rattles shut.

  It's time to go home.

  Ten

  When Noone notices the two clowns clumsily following him from Maxie's he places the big one right away. He's the guy Quinner was speaking with at the top of Huskisson Street on Tuesday.

  Noone briefly considers ignoring the two guys following him, just slipping inside his flat and letting them fade away, but then the familiar, half-welcome anger hits him hard.

  Checking that the two guys in hoodies and trackpants are still behind
him, he turns past the street leading to his apartment block and drops down onto the Pier Head.

  The Liver Building is lit from below, a white-iced cake against the night sky. He walks north and crosses the dual carriageway onto Great Howard Street. Here the buildings begin to lose their scrubbed-up appearance. He walks past a shuttered car dealership and a ragtag collection of half-boarded shops and businesses. Looking back over his shoulder to confirm that his tails are still in attendance, he turns left down Oil Street, a dank, dark road connecting the parallel traffic arteries at either end. The street's deserted, and hemmed in on both sides by ancient brick walls oozing oil and mysterious industrial-yellow chemical pus. The glass-flecked road is patched and re-patched and what pavement there is is treacherous underfoot, even in the dry. About fifty metres from the junction with Waterloo Road there's a hole kicked through a breezeblock wall into a derelict triangle of no-man's-land between two corrugated engineering sheds. It's pitch black and he slips through taking care to be observed. One last glance back up Oil Street tells Noone there's a conference taking place. He waits at the gap in the wall and watches as the smaller of the two would-be trackers walks away, back towards the city and out of view. After a moment the big guy starts walking down Oil Street and Noone smiles to himself.

  One will be easier.

  Big Niall is conscious of his own fear but there's no turning around now, not after telling Jason he was carrying on. The feller he's following has gone from view but Niall's pretty sure he saw him dive through a gap in the fence. Trying to be clever.

  Niall slows as he closes on the gap in the wall. He glances back up Oil Street in the direction he's come from and sees no one. For a moment he considers abandoning the plan, giving Deano a call and saying they lost him. Then he squares himself up, a working man doing his job, and steps through the gap in the wall.

  As he does, something metallic connects with the side of his neck and he slumps to the floor, everything reduced to a simple horizon of pain and panic. Then there's a second hit and Niall's not thinking any more.