Borrowed Time

by David Mark

  ‘Freeman Leo Riley. Can I help?’

  There is a pause, and then a voice, full of venom, says, ‘I know what you did.’

  Riley sits silently in the big comfortable car. Considers his responses. The voice at the other end of the phone is going to have to be far more specific.

  ‘That’s good,’ says Riley, thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you could let me in on the secret.’

  ‘1971,’ comes the voice, thick with drink and emotion. ‘Jardine’s party. I know.’

  Riley nods, slowly. He’s not worried. Mightily intrigued, but a long way from worried. He’s always been the cleverest person in the room and his mind is the one part of him that has improved with age.

  ‘What a strange thing to say,’ muses Riley. He moves his tongue around his mouth, considering. A smile crosses his face as he works through the list of people who might have reason to make this call. ‘Can I look forward to our continuing this conversation in person? I just need an address.’

  There is silence at the other end of the line. Riley listens to the windscreen wipers. The tyres. The chatter outside. The tic-toc of the indicator as they turn onto the road leading to the reception. His mind, still sharp, goes into autopilot. Decades of thinking on his feet have taught him never to be rattled. Never be surprised. He races through the possibilities. Who knew? Jardine. His monster, probably. Whoever picked up the pieces. Who else? That phone call. Maybe Jardine had said something to his daughter. Old, by now. Maybe his mind’s going. His lass might have a boyfriend. A son. Have the family still got money? Relax. Always relax.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he says, calmly. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’

  There is another pause, then the voice says, ‘Fuck you. You know what I’m talking about. You know what you did.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been some confusion,’ says Riley. ‘Where are you getting your facts?’

  ‘You were seen. Carrying her. Naked and bleeding.’

  ‘Really? By whom?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘No, if an accusation has been made then I deserve to know by whom.’

  ‘Don’t give me that politics shit. I’m not really a fucking journalist.’

  ‘No? Then who are you.’

  ‘I’m what you left behind, you dirty bastard.’

  Riley ponders for a moment. Somebody saw you, he tells himself. Kept their mouth shut about it long enough, haven’t they? What they blabbing for now? Money? Clearing a conscience? Or are they thinking you and Jardine can’t harm them any more. That you’re old and knackered? Silly bastard.

  ‘Can I assume that this call has something to do with the Jardine family? I understand that somebody has been trying to get in touch with me.’

  ‘You were running scared. Wouldn’t ring her back. This was the only way to get you.’

  ‘And now you have me, what do you want?’

  There is a pause. The sound of mental gears changing. Then the voice says, ‘To put things right.’

  The line goes dead.

  Riley takes the phone from his ear and looks at it. Says hello once or twice, just for show, then hands it back to the young lad. ‘Bad line,’ he says. ‘I’ll never get the hang of those things.’

  He sits back in the chair and closes his eyes. Thinks back. That night. Middle of nowhere, then right at the lights. The big house and the brandy and the shiny cars. The dark woods and the fine rain. Sees himself, with a young girl. Him, pissed, in the dark. Her, wanting it but not knowing it yet. That shadow in the trees. The streak of white with the bundle in his arms. The flash of light, that suddenly illuminated a bare torso, dark trousers. Mosquito, ink-black eyes. And the patterns on his skin. Playing cards. The aces and eights: the Dead Man’s Hand.

  Jardine had sorted it, though. That was what he did. It was what friends were for.

  He feels somehow exhilarated by the call.

  Could Jardine be doing this? A man like that doesn’t get attacked by conscience, does he? Not with all the things he’s done. The bodies he’s put in the ground would fill a fucking forest. One slag. One laughing bitch thirty-odd years ago? Wouldn’t matter a fuck to Jardine. No. He’s not behind it. He’s as involved as you are. And he said he would sort it out. That’s a promise you keep. He’s still younger than you, too, Leo. Probably still in good shape. He was at that court case flexing his muscles not so long ago. And the monster’s out now, too, isn’t he? They still owe you. Half their empire would have fallen down if you hadn’t greased their wheels. Let them sort it out. Find out who did it, then explain how things work. You’re Leo Riley and you built this city.

  He turns to the young lad. ‘Sorry son, I’m feeling rotten. You’re going to have to take me home.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Riley turns back and stares out of the window. Watches the snowflakes; a billion white bees.

  Going to be a funny old day, he tells himself.

  Going to have to relive some old memories.

  And say hello to an old friend.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Derby Road, Stamshaw, Portsmouth

  November 11th, 7.11 p.m.

  Adam can taste garlic. It feels like there’s a bulb of the stuff decomposing in his chest. He pulls faces as he lays on the sofa, in jeans and a vest, bare feet in Zara’s lap, holding the sheaf of papers in an outstretched arm, reaching into the large triangle of half-light which shines through from the kitchen.

  Adam reaches down and picks up his whisky, bending the crumpled papers against the glass as he does so. Takes a swig. Fumbles around till he feels the bottle. Unscrews the cap, takes a gulp. Pulls a face. Closes his eyes. Nods at something Zara’s telling him. Smiles, wriggles his toes, like a good boyfriend should, as she strokes them.

  He’s trying hard. Tilly has come down with chicken pox and neither the nursery, nor Grace’s put-upon neighbour, will continue to look after her while she’s contagious. There wasn’t much discussion about returning. He and Grace, both eager to be good parents, got on the first train back home, but it was a sense of duty, rather than desire, that saw them leave London. They would never admit it, but their first thoughts upon hearing their little girl was poorly, were for themselves. The hiatus in their adventure. The stepping off the path, even for a moment. Their hearts melted when they saw Tilly’s face, of course, with its pubescent constellation of pus-filled spots and mucky scabs, her sulky pout, her scalp too sore to comb, but their attention to her every whim has been motivated as much by a desire to remove the inconvenience of her illness as by a need to ease their daughter’s suffering.

  ‘… so maybe like, a kind of evening brunch, if you get me – like waffles and donuts and bananas and Nutella and stuff, but with cocktails – kind of that late-evening sweetness vibe, y’know, I mean it could be mad but what if it takes off, though of course then you’ve got to pay to publicise it and who has the money to do that …?’

  Adam holds the papers to his face again. They’re crumpled now, folded in the shape of his back pocket. Reams of printed pages, pictures, cuttings. Every word he could find on Riley. Every spit and cough.

  He re-reads the feature from the council’s website, a profile on council legends padded out with background on what an alderman does.

  Alderman Leo Riley isn’t as quick on his feet as he used to be. He walks slowly, with a frame, and his hearing aid has a tendency to play up, so he asks you to speak slowly and clearly.

  The picture on the wall behind him when we meet in a small, comfortable room at the Freeman’s Guild, is a photograph of himself as a younger man. It shows a stocky man with a ruddy complexion and thick, wiry, grey hair. It bears little resemblance to the slim but dapper gent who now sits in the high-backed leather chair, dressed in a brown suit over a blue jumper and Party tie.

  ‘It cleared off over the space of a few weeks in the 1970s,’ says Alderman Riley, with a laugh, as he points to his bald scalp. ‘Must have been the heat of my brain that burned it away.’

  As an
ex-Lord Mayor, Leader of the Council, Chairman of the Regional Development Board, former magistrate, and a dedicated councillor of some fifty years standing, Alderman Riley clearly misses being close to the centre of the action, and looks forward to the occasions he can represent his old neighbourhood as an Honorary Alderman – an office bestowed on those who have served the city with distinction.

  As a councillor, one of Alderman Riley’s main interests was improving the health of his constituents. When he first stood for election Public Assistance Institutions (workhouses) still existed as the only form of social care for unmarried mothers, the elderly and people with learning disabilities, and many of the constituents on his inner city ward lived in unsanitary, overcrowded conditions. He takes pride in knowing that many of the initiatives he launched and oversaw had a direct effect on his community.

  Perhaps Alderman Riley’s biggest contribution to the Borough has been in the arena of sport. The lifelong football fan has ensured major resources have been pumped into sporting provision in communities across the city. He is rumoured to be in line for the ultimate honour when a new football stand in the community centre at Upton Park is named in his honour, and was heavily involved in the failed bid to host the 1988 Olympics in London.

  Alderman Riley has always kept his personal life private. He was briefly married as a young man but since then says he has been happier on his own.

  ‘Sometimes I think it would be nice to have lots of grandchildren running around but I was always too busy to start a family,’ he says. ‘Maybe I missed out, maybe I didn’t. I feel like this council is my baby and I’ve loved watching it grow.’

  The paper becomes a ball in Adam’s fist.

  ‘… but then he said the phone wouldn’t scan through on the machine because it wasn’t a recommissioned one, so the deal wouldn’t work, and he had to scrap the whole thing and get me to phone somewhere in bloody India to tell them I didn’t mind him scrapping it, then phone the other company for this code, and …’

  Adam watches her lips move, the glint of the stud in her mouth, the soft pink of her skin, the fine lines of her face, the slope of her breasts beneath her borrowed shirt.

  ‘… so now we’re on the same network it’s free between our phones, so you can call me whenever and not have to worry about it …’

  Adam smiles at her, feeling something briefly bloom inside him. She sees it, and the light that fills her eyes make him feel, briefly, like a man capable of creating happiness in somebody else. He wants to sit up and kiss her neck. To gently knead her soft earlobes between his forefinger and thumb, the way she likes.

  ‘… he’s got bad burns,’ she says. ‘Really bad. Over his whole face. Like that man in the Falklands War. His whole face is just one big pink scar.’

  Adam’s arms stiffen around her. His breathing halts. His chest stops rising. The hands that were stroking her bare skin freeze, motionless.

  ‘Adam?’

  He doesn’t speak.

  Then, faintly, his breath comes again.

  ‘Yeah?’ he asks, and it’s almost nothing. Barely a sound. He coughs, then, louder: ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Zara, somewhere between confusion and relief. She feels Adam’s fingers begin to caress her skin once more but there’s a tremble there, as though he’s cold. ‘He came in the restaurant a wee while back. We got chatting, like I said. Hit it off. He’s been a good pal, actually. It can’t be easy for him, people staring all the time. I told him, I’m used to it. We’ve had a bit of dinner. People must have thought we were a right odd couple, but I got the impression he was lonely.’ She falls quiet, expecting a response. She’s puzzled. Surely he’s not jealous? He’s never shown any signs of it before, she thinks. Never seemed to worry about her straying. She finds herself strangely pleased. Feels tempted to milk it. ‘You don’t mind, do you? He’s not exactly my type.’ Then, for bad: ‘He’s big, though. Striking looking. His face is quite beautiful, close to.’

  Adam’s hands continue to stroke Zara’s skin, but there’s no warmth in the touch. He rubs her flesh rhythmically, without feeling.

  ‘What’s he called?’ asks Adam. His voice is almost the light, bouncy sound he aims for, but not quite. There’s damp in there. A November breeze.

  ‘Ray,’ she says, turning her head to smile up at him. ‘Don’t think he said his last name.’

  ‘What do you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, this and that. The restaurant. The kids. What he’s up to.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Bits and bobs. I know how you get, so don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about anything that matters.’

  ‘Tilly? Did you tell him about Tilly?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Adam, I don’t understand …’

  He stands up, and steps into the patch of light emanating from the kitchen.

  He’s shaking. Selena, in her chair, opens an eye and shrinks back in the chair. Jordan begins to wake up on the floor.

  ‘You don’t understand! You’ve no fucking idea!’

  He starts rubbing his forehead, muttering to himself. He turns away from her, stiff-backed. ‘Irons,’ he’s saying, tossing his head from side to side, as though shaking water from his hair. ‘Here. Now.’

  ‘Darling,’ she says, timidly reaching an arm up to him. ‘Darling, talk to me …’

  Adam shakes his head, pulls open the door to the lobby, and yanks on his boots. Cold against his bare feet. Pulls a jacket down from the hook, opens the door and steps outside.

  He barely feels the cold, or registers the ink-black, cloudless sky, scattered with stars, scented with the metallic tang of snow.

  Thinking: Irons.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Candy’s Pit Cave, Portsdown Hill, Portsmouth

  10.14 p.m.

  The hollow in the rock face is an ink-black mouth; a toothless rectangle in a great white wall of scars. Adam likes it here. Has memories, good and bad. Likes the smell of the tree roots as they break, slowly, through the rock-strewn earth. It’s a place where teenagers find refuge; to skulk in the damp and the darkness and to suck on aerosols and one another. The sun went down hours ago, and if it weren’t for the perfect chalky whiteness of the cliff-face, the cavern would be all but invisible. Even if it were so, Adam would be able to find his way here. This is a place for sanctuary. It’s where he used to come when he was a teenager; to sit and think and to wonder what he was for; what he was meant to be – why he was clever enough to see how little he mattered, but insufficiently wise to do anything about it. Where an older, bolder woman had taken his virginity before he really knew that it was something to treasure. Elaine, her name was. Vinegar and cider on her tongue; the taste of talcum powder and roll-on deodorant on the skin of her doughy, motherly breasts. He supposes it would be called abuse, these days. She’d have gone to prison if she was a bloke and he was a thirteen-year-old girl. Truth is, he’s grateful to her. He’s been after that feeling ever since. Has wanted nothing more than to feel like a legend for making a strong, confident, sexually-experienced woman scream like a happy hyena as she rode him.

  He sits squeezing the phone in his hand, legs drawn up, backside cold on the cold floor. The only light in the cave is from the screen of his phone and the glare of the cigarette that he smokes, angrily and joylessly; the tip gleaming brighter with each swirling gust of wind.

  He knows all about this place thanks to Dad. To good old Billy Nunn. Always good for a bit of trivia, Billy. Read a lot when he was off sick with his injuries. Gave himself a brain the size of Hulk Hogan’s bicep, according to Santinello and the lads who worked for and worshipped him. First pick on the pub quiz teams – beating the buggers with the buzzers whenever father and son sat and watched Blockbusters and Krypton Factor, eating tea from trays on their knees, thanking Mum each time she bustled in with a fresh pot of tea or a tray of biscuits. God how he wishes he could reach back into his memories and make himself say something kind. Something thoughtful. H
ow he wishes he’d given his mum a cuddle around the middle and told her she was brilliant. Wishes he’d not tried so hard to piss off his dad, too. He can hear his voice, now, drumming at his head like rain on a tin roof. Talking to him like one of the lads – trying to get a bit of respect from a lad who didn’t know how lucky he was.

  Candy’s Pit Cave? You don’t know the story? Bloody hell, what are they teaching you? Thought you were tipped for an A in History? There were tea gardens at the top of the cliff above the quarry. Lovely spot, run by a local woman. Did I tell you that it was Napoleonic prisoners who dug the cave? Christ, I’m no kind of father. Anyways, there was a tramp turned up one day, best part of a hundred years ago. Had a brown bear cub with him – taught it to dance for money and it made the lady who ran the tea room a few quid so she let them both stay. Candy, its name was. Buried nearby, so I’m told. Be a treat for the archaeologists, won’t it …

  Adam tugs at his hair. He’d been trying so hard. It wasn’t settling, he’d explained as much to himself. He wasn’t picking a simple life over an interesting one. He loved Zara. Loves her. She makes his skin warm and quiets the noises in his head. And now Irons has been slithering around her, asking questions, sucking the honey from her tongue – checking him out even as Alison pretended to be his friend. The cheek of it. The nerve!

  He texts her again, more insistent this time.

  I KNOW WHAT HE’S BEEN DOING. I WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM, ALISON. NOW!

  For once, he doesn’t feel guilty for his tone. He feels betrayed. Tricked. Christ, how much of what she’s told him has been a lie. Has she been manoeuvring him around, keeping him out of harm’s way, feeding him stories about old footballers and London freemen, just so her hired killer could get close to his family?