In a True Light

by John Harvey

  Delaney was parked a few car lengths from the rear of the building, in against the shadow of a six-storey warehouse. Window lowered a crack to let out the smoke from his cigarette, he could hear music seeping through the club’s heating ducts, the air vents, the heavy-duty door to the kitchen wedged open by metal trash containers overflowing with vegetable peelings, chicken bones, fish heads and crab shells, the soft, sweet mush of mango left too long. His watch read 1:49. On stage, Diane would be running through her ritual thank yous to the musicians in the band, reminding the audience of her own name with just the right degree of self-deprecation – Diane Stewart, ladies and gentlemen, of the Winchendon, Mass. Stewarts – before launching into ‘Lady Is a Tramp’, her final number. Anniversaries and birthdays aside, Diane wasn’t bothered by encores overmuch.

  Delaney leaned back and for a moment, several moments, closed his eyes. Diane in the toilet that passed for a dressing room, peering into the mirror as she peeled off her eyelashes, wiping a Kleenex back and forth across her mouth. Reaching round now to release the hook at the top of her dress, slide down the zip. The second car eased into the alley, a Lincoln, grey, pulling wide just enough before slowing to a halt close by the club’s rear exit, the fire door to the kitchen’s right. The driver, a black man with a chauffeur’s hat tipped back on his head, glancing at Delaney as he passed. Now he cut his lights and left the engine running, knowing Delaney was there but not caring. A skein of pale smoke curling from the Lincoln’s exhaust.

  Less than five minutes later Diane pushed the fire door open, coat that Delaney had bought her round her shoulders, soft leather two-tone case in one hand. Looking neither left nor right, she opened the rear door of the Lincoln and climbed in.

  Delaney waited until they were almost at the far end of the alley before turning the key in the ignition.

  It was somehow typical of Kenneth that he would send a car to collect her and take her to the hotel, rather than meeting her himself. She wasn’t sure what she thought of that. Maybe not much. He had wanted to keep the Lincoln sitting around picking up waiting time, then take her back home, the home she shared with Delaney, but Diane had said no. ‘Hell, let him go. I’ll find ways of spending your money soon enough, wait and see.’

  Kenneth had reached for her then, Diane turning her head sideways so that the kiss only smudged the corner of her mouth. His hand moving for her breast. It wasn’t that she’d have minded giving it another twirl, he was good enough in that department, heaven knows, not as selfish as most, but she had an appointment that meant she couldn’t sleep past midday and besides, Kenneth was booked on to a 6 a.m. flight from JFK.

  ‘Save it up.’ She’d grinned, brushing the back of her hand against his crotch. ‘Next time.’

  ‘Phoenix.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Next time. Phoenix.’

  Diane’s expression tightened, alarmed by the eagerness eating into his tone. Kenneth Baldry: pale blue contacts, close-cropped hair, shirt still undone. In the list of Arizona’s fifty richest men under fifty he was number thirty-one. Smart enough to get his software company swallowed up by Microsoft and living now off Bill Gates’s largesse. That was the way he had put it himself, the time he’d come back to the Glass Box alone, leaving the rest of the computer geeks to their own devices. Kenneth in the city for a conference and staying at one of those corporate midtown hotels – not like tonight, Fifth Avenue across from Central Park. He hoped he wasn’t being out of line or anything, but he wondered if she’d care to join him at his table, allow him to buy her a drink? Diane had remembered him from the previous evening, practically the only one who’d been listening, really listening, in the midst of all the buddy-buddy drinking and laughter, a bunch of mostly married men out on the sly. Sure, she’d told him, come and sit with me at the bar and you can buy me two.

  ‘Diane, you promised,’ Baldry said now.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Phoenix, you said you’d come out.’

  ‘I said I’d think about it. I said I’d see.’

  Baldry sighed and turned away, hangdog, forty-four going on fifteen; a grown man in love for the very first time. ‘Oh, Kenneth …’ She nuzzled her face against the middle of his back; kissed, quickly, the nape of his neck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, catching her hand. ‘It’s just I get so impatient and…’

  ‘I know, I know. But patient’s what you’ve got to be.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  Smiling despite herself, she’d pressed a fingertip to his lips. ‘There’s no need to rush, okay? It’s not as if we don’t both know what we want.’ There’d been times this past month or so she’d come close to believing that might actually be true. Diane, pushing thirty-five and silicone-free, and not above wondering how many more chances she was going to get.

  ‘You will talk to him? Tell him.’

  ‘When I can. When it’s right.’

  ‘But soon?’

  ‘Yes, soon.’ Knowing, even as she said it, that the only conversation she could ever have with Vincent about her leaving would be once she had already gone, a good few hundred miles safely between them.

  Through buttoning his shirt, Kenneth was looking round for his coat. ‘I’ll come with you now, in the cab. Walk back. It’ll do me good.’

  Diane had shaken her head, picked up her bag. ‘What’ll do you good is an hour’s sleep.’ She gave him a deft kiss on the cheek. ‘Safe flight. Call me tomorrow. At the club.’ Without looking round she let herself out of the suite and walked along the corridor towards the elevator, surprised when she swayed a little and needed to steady herself with one hand against the wall; Diane, suddenly aware she might have drunk a tad more than she’d thought.

  Alighting at the corner of Second and 71st, she gave the cab driver a three-dollar tip on a four fifty fare and waited for him to smile; what he did was stuff the bills into a beat-up metal box he kept under his seat and flick on the light that said he was for hire. And a good night to you, Diane thought.

  As she approached the gilt and glass door of the apartment building, the doorman stepped round from behind his desk and held it open wide. ‘Good evening, Miss Stewart.’

  ‘Good morning, George.’

  The first weeks after she’d moved in he hadn’t bothered with her name at all; just another of Mr Delaney’s quick fixes, his instant flings. But now – what was it? – eight months? Almost nine? As far as George was concerned, Vincent and herself, they were good as married. And sometimes, from what she could remember, that was exactly how it felt.

  The heel of Diane’s right shoe was rubbing uncomfortably and she eased them both off, soft-footing across the marble floor. On her way up to fourteen she leaned her head forward till it was resting on the cool metal of the elevator door. Two Tom Collins followed by champagne, followed by whatever French wine Kenneth had ordered from room service, what did she expect?

  For longer than usual the keys played cat and mouse with her hand. Faint sounds of music from under the door; thank God Vincent wasn’t around to nag at her for going out without switching off the TV. When she stepped inside there he was, lounging back in his favourite chair, whisky glass in hand, watching a rerun of Shannon’s Deal.

  ‘Hey, Diane. Sweetheart.’

  She stood there too long, mouth open, shoes in one hand, Delaney smiling his slow smile, sliding his gaze up her body, up and down, before turning back to the screen.

  ‘They killed this show after – I don’t know – one season, maybe two. You believe that? The shit that goes on getting made. Time after time.’ Delaney shook his head. ‘Guy behind it, he did that movie, the White Sox, the time practically the whole damned team threw the game. The series, the world fucking series. Shoeless Joe along of the rest of them. You ever catch that? Say it ain’t so, Joe. Say it ain’t so. One terrific movie. You missed that, you missed something. I bet it’s around, though, video. We could check it out one time, watch it here together, the two of us, one
night you’re not working. Eight Men Out.’

  Diane still on the same spot, case by her side, willing her head to clear. Sports, movies, what the hell was going on? ‘I thought you were in Cincinnati,’ she said.

  ‘Right. Guy I went to see, sax player, Ohio’s answer to Kenny G. Turns out he got into a fight, split his lip, can’t play for a month. I’m supposed to stick around Cincinnati? Caught the first flight I could.’ Delaney gestured towards her with one hand. ‘You going to stand there all night? Look like you’ve taken root.’

  ‘No, of course not. I was just – you know – surprised.’

  ‘To see me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But pleased.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He smiled and turned his attention back to the set. Diane went through into the bedroom and hung her coat in the closet, lifted her case up on to the bed; in the bathroom she brushed her teeth, washed a couple of aspirin down with water, stared into the mirror for telltale signs.

  Delaney was still watching the show. She walked past him into the galley kitchen and opened the refrigerator. ‘You fancy anything?’ she called. ‘A snack?’

  ‘Thanks, I’m fine.’

  She lifted out a tub of blueberry yogurt and put it back. What she really wanted was a cigarette. Vincent’s Chesterfields were where he always left them, on the table near the stereo, alongside his keys.

  ‘You mind?’ she said, holding up the pack.

  ‘I thought you gave up.’

  ‘I did.’

  He shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’

  Not seeing his lighter, she went back into the kitchen for a match.

  ‘You did a couple of extra sets,’ he called after her. ‘Someone was throwing a party, what?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no. Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly. Well, exactly what? Four in the fucking morning.’

  Looking at him, Diane drew smoke down deep into her lungs. On the television one of the actors was laughing loudly; a phone rang, a door slammed. Delaney aimed the remote and the image fizzled to nothing.

  ‘Terri, you know, she works the bar sometimes, dark hair, in a bob, pretty, it was her birthday.’ Diane was conscious of the way her words were stumbling against each other, willing everything to slow down. ‘A bunch of us, we hung around, had a few drinks, sort of, you know, celebration.’

  ‘At the club? This was at the club?’ Vincent sitting forward now, paying attention.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I went by there,’ Vincent said.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Couldn’t have been more than an hour ago. You weren’t back, I got to wondering, drove by. Whole place was locked up, dark as a fucking tomb.’

  The drinks trolley was over by the window, near the balcony door. If she could get across to it without losing her footing, pour herself another shot, maybe that would give her time enough to think. Delaney watched her go.

  ‘You want a refill?’ she asked, holding up the J&B.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He shook his head.

  Diane poured herself a shot and drank half of it down straight. Below, on Second Avenue, a yellow cab cruised hopefully downtown. Outside the twenty-four-hour Korean grocer’s a young man in a bright yellow coat, hood up, sat trimming the outer leaves from crates of cabbage.

  ‘So? You weren’t at the club, where were you?’ Delaney sounding more relaxed now, almost laid-back.

  ‘Terri, she didn’t want to call it a night. We went out for Chinese. I don’t know where, Chinatown somewhere. Just a few of us. Terri, me, Charlene, Paul.’

  ‘Paul? He was there?’

  ‘Sure.’ Paul, who supervised the waiting staff and acted as maître d’, was camp as Christmas in July. ‘Paul’s okay, he’s a laugh.’

  ‘All girls together.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll have another Scotch after all,’ Delaney said. ‘Nightcap.’

  Diane smiled. ‘Why not?’ It was going to be okay. She could tell. Leaning, she tilted the bottle towards Vincent’s empty glass.

  ‘Chinese, though. That’s what you said. Chinatown.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Last time I saw the Pierre, it was at Central Park East.’

  Whisky splashed on to the inside of Delaney’s leg. ‘The Pierre, Diane. Remember? Or are you so smashed you forgot which fancy hotel you were whoring in tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re …’

  She saw the fist coming, but didn’t have time to duck. By the time the fifth or sixth blow had been struck, mercifully, she had lost all sense of feeling.

  Delaney repeating over and over to himself, ‘Say it ain’t so, Diane. Say it ain’t so.’

  6

  Pisa Aeroporto Internazionale. Sloane was sitting on the wrong side of the plane to catch more than a glimpse of the famous leaning tower. During the journey he had riffled idly through the in-flight magazine, snacked on peanuts, tried to concentrate on the significant section of the travel guide he’d picked up at the airport. As far as he could tell the village where Jane had sequestered herself was high into the north of Tuscany, well off the normal tourist track amidst the hills and valleys of the Garfagnana. On the map Sloane saw a road that snaked between two mountain ranges, following the curve of the sea. The Riviera della Versilia. His mother had once gone on holiday to Viareggio, herself and two girlfriends. He could remember the photographs she had sent him, the three of them on the promenade, laughing, an avenue of stately palm trees behind them; his mother, alone at a café table, smiling out from behind white-framed sunglasses. He could remember the way his father had pushed them to one side dismissively, unworthy of even a second look. Moments that snag and hold for no clear reason, like burrs buried close along the skin. Jane’s face turning from his before boarding ship… Paris soon yourself. You’ll come and look me up. By the time – twenty-five and studying at the Slade in London – he had crossed the Channel to Paris she had already moved on.

  When the flight attendant first asked him what he would like to drink he had waved his hand and gestured nothing; after that he had changed his mind perhaps too often. Two half-bottles of purplish Cabernet and two miniatures of gin. When he had telephoned Valentina from London to confirm the arrangements he had asked her for the exact details of Jane’s illness. Chronic myeloid leukaemia. Her strongly accented voice sounding the words like stone on stone. Leukaemia. Bone marrow cancer. Sloane imagined intra-venous drips, hair loss, nausea, helplessness: a woman he was frightened he would no longer recognise, pinned to her bed to die. He wanted another drink, but it was too late, they were moments from landing. A bump and then the roar of deceleration, passengers around him starting to fidget, willing the seat belt sign to flick off.

  The terminal building was surprisingly small, unfussy: Valentina Ceroni was standing to one side of the arrivals area, a book of Jane Graham’s paintings held clumsily across her chest by way of identification. She was shorter than Sloane had pictured, no more than medium height, strongly built; her stockiness accentuated by the padded car coat she wore unfastened, sleeves turned back. A rust-coloured sweater, dark green cords. Sloane was wearing jeans, a faded blue shirt, a scuffed leather jacket with paint marks faint along one sleeve.

  He held out a hand and her grip was strong, fingers blunt and broad. Beneath a fall of dark hair flecked with grey, the eyes that studied him were greenish-brown. The lines of a perpetual smoker etched deep around her mouth and eyes. He had looked her up in a reference book before leaving: Valentina Ceroni, sculptor. Born, Bagni di Lucca, Italy, 1953.

  ‘This is all you have?’ she asked, nodding towards the duffel bag slung over Sloane’s left shoulder. ‘No more baggage?’

  ‘No, this is it.’

  ‘Okay, so let’s go.’ She led him through a set of double doors and out into a parking area, stopping by a grey Fiat van. Inside, a brown and white dog of indeterminate pedigree lay sprawled across the front seats. Sloane looked up into the darkening sky: once
they were clear of the city, night would settle in fast.

  ‘The journey,’ he said, ‘how long’s it going to take?’

  Valentina shrugged. ‘Not so long. An hour, maybe two.’ When she unlocked the door the dog clambered, unwillingly, into the back of the van.

  The interior smelled of cigarettes and damp fur. Valentina turned the key in the ignition and the engine coughed asthmatically to life. Two then, Sloane thought, rather than one.

  ‘How’s Jane?’ he asked.

  ‘You know she is dying.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘When I left she was sleeping. The doctor had given her more morphine for the pain. If she is still sleeping when I get home I shall say a prayer she will not wake again.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No. No, you don’t.’

  Before he could say anything else Valentina switched on the radio and several voices began to argue in Italian simultaneously. The van eased out on to the exit road and Sloane leaned back and slotted the metal clip of his seat belt into place.

  The first part of the journey was on a fast motorway, Valentina hugging the inside lane, snorting occasional disapproval at other drivers or some remark from the radio Sloane had failed to understand. All too soon they turned off on to the narrow road, one carriageway in either direction, which would take them, almost, to their destination. Valentina lit the first of many cigarettes and Sloane lowered his window several centimetres; impatiently, Valentina switched the radio from channel to channel before snapping it off in exasperation, leaving only the silence, heavy between them.

  Diécimo.

  Borgo a Mozzano.