by John Harvey
Other faces Resnick recognized, greetings offered and shared.
“Message got through to you, then?”
Resnick bought him a pint of Kimberley and a large Bell’s, shaking his head at the offer of ice. For himself, a ginger ale.
“Not drinking, Charlie?”
“Not tonight.”
“Bad news, then, is it?”
“Likely. You tell me.”
One word had been written on the slip of paper, other than the details of where and when Cossall wanted to meet.
Prior.
“Up for parole, Charlie. Two-thirds of his sentence down the pan.”
Resnick glanced up at the screen. A woman with fair hair pinned close to her head was writhing on the ground, tackled from behind. Some things changed, some remained the same.
“He’ll not get it,” Resnick said. “He’ll be turned down.”
“Not what I’ve heard. Not this time.”
“Offenses like his. Violence …”
“Not automatic, but like I say …”
Resnick swallowed down the ginger ale and before the glass had been set back on the bar, Cossall had beckoned the barman, ordered him a vodka, double. The bank of video games beside the entrance jingled and hummed. From the adjoining bar, the click of pool balls and a juke box recycling the Jam.
“How long, Charlie? Ten years?”
“Nearer eleven.”
I have no doubt that the reaction of the public to these offenses of which you have been convicted is one of the gravest horror and disgust. Motivated solely by greed and with an absolute lack of compunction towards anybody who stood in your way, prepared to threaten and use violence with a callous disregard for the safety of others, you and the men convicted with you terrorized sections of the community in the pursuit of personal gain. As the undisputed ringleader of these men, I have no alternative other than to punish you with the full force of law at my disposal.
The public had been so disgusted that sales of the Sunday paper to whom one of his accomplices sold his story showed an increase of twenty-three percent. Prior’s mother, convalescing in a nursing home after a stroke, was interviewed by both major television news programs; a photograph that showed him as a child, receiving his school’s annual prize for good citizenship and endeavor, was widely syndicated. A prostitute, who claimed to have been his lover, auctioned her kiss-and-tell exposé to five bidders.
“You think he’ll come back here?”
“Would you?”
“No,” Cossall said, chasing his whisky with a long swallow of beer, “but then I’m not a nutter.”
“That what you think he is?”
“Don’t you?”
Face to face in the garage, the two of them, himself and Prior, both near to breathless, the garage doors partly open, the car ready to go. Resnick had followed him through the house, the side door from the kitchen, Prior’s hands disappearing behind the open boot of the car and when next Resnick saw them, they were holding the shotgun steady, angled towards his chest and face.
Outside were voices, torches, shouts of inquiry, warning. All Resnick saw was the narrowing of Prior’s eyes, the tensing of the index finger of his right hand. There were things he had been trained to say in this situation but he said none of them.
The tension in Prior’s eyes had relaxed a little as he brought the shotgun up towards his own body and for a moment Resnick thought he was going to rest the barrels beneath his own chin, take his life. Instead he had reversed the weapon fully and handed it across the roof of the car for Resnick to take hold of, stock first.
“No,” Resnick said. “He’s not that.”
“Happen you’re right,” Cossall shrugged. “’Sides, maybe all that time inside taught him a lesson. Back out a changed man, anxious to become a useful member of society. That what you reckon, Charlie, eh?”
“Get you another, Reg? I’m going to be on my way.”
Cossall shook his head, opened his hand over the top of his pint glass. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to find out where he’s likely to head for, what his intentions are. That’s if it happens. Still, best forewarned, eh? Make plans.”
“Thanks, Reg.” Resnick offered his hand. “Owe you one.”
“Yes,” Cossall growled. “You and the rest of the sodding world.”
Over his head one of the teams had just scored what looked a lovely goal, only to have it disallowed.
Pip Hewitt came into the kitchen after speaking to her mother on the phone, to find her husband, Peter, sitting at the broad oak table, account books open near him, drinking black tea laced with rum.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” she said, resting an arm along his shoulder. “Losing that last milk order.”
Hewitt squeezed her hand. “It’s not that.”
She pulled round one of the chairs and sat close beside him.
“The parole review committee’s meeting tomorrow and …”
“If you can’t go, phone them. After all the work you’ve put in, they should understand.”
Hewitt drank from the thick stoneware mug, holding it out first to his wife, who smiled and refused. “One of the men I interviewed—Prior—he’s serving fifteen years, armed robbery …”
“Was anybody hurt?”
Hewitt nodded. “The last raid before they were caught, a security guard …”
“Shot?”
“Paralyzed down one side.”
Pip Hewitt’s eyes reflected shock and pain. “And this man …”
“Prior.”
“He was responsible? He shot him?”
“He says no, claims it was one of the others. Two weapons were discharged, but the police were never able to establish who fired which gun. Not without a shadow of a doubt. The shotgun Prior had with him when he was arrested, ballistic reports don’t match it up with the injuries to the guard.”
Pip took the mug from between her husband’s hands and slowly sipped the laced tea.
“I wish I knew what to do,” Hewitt said.
She gave his hand a squeeze. “You take everything so seriously.”
“It is serious.”
“I know.”
“What’s left of a man’s life …”
“Darling …” Still holding Hewitt’s hand, she got to her feet. “ … finish your tea, come to bed, let’s have an early night. You’ll do the right thing. You always do.”
Nine
Music—Darren had never understood what all the fuss was about. Loud or soft, fast or slow—how much else did you need to know? Keith, now, if he wasn’t out hot wiring some car, he was walking around with his Walkman on, tinny little sound leaking out, mouthing the words as it went along. Rap? Who gave a rat’s arse about rap. Keith, for one. Outlaw. Gang Starr. X-Clan. Caveman. Least the names were okay, cool. What had he been playing the other day? Arrested Development. Darren laughed: Keith to a T.
Outside Michael Isaacs’s nightclub, he gave himself a quick onceover in the glass: chinos, white shirt pulled out loose above the waist, sleeves rolled back, silhouette of hair tinged purple in the light.
The dance floor was three-quarters full, blokes leaning back against the downstairs bar, suits some of them, carelessly watching him as he climbed the stairs.
As the DJ upped the tempo, Darren leaned over the balcony, nursing a lager top, checking out the talent. Two black blokes getting all the attention down below, buckling their legs and doing all that fancy stuff with their hands, kung fu sign language in overdrive.
There, over by the steps, big girl with reddish hair, a blue top which jiggled when she moved. Black trousers, loose at the hip. She might do the trick.
Darren shifted his position to get a better look.
According to the news, that old idiot he’d whacked was still hanging on. Arsehole! Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Keep his hands to himself? Still fighting the tossing war. Saved this country for the likes of you. Yes, well, right, Grandad. Thanks very fucking much!
Sodding Keith today, as much good as a johnny with a hole at both ends. If he was going to get anywhere, he’d have to find a better partner than that. Late with the car, forgetting to guard the door.
A youth in a suit jostled Darren’s elbow and Darren straightened, giving him a look. The youth mumbled something to the slag he was with and the two of them wandered away.
One thing Darren had to give Keith—once his nerves had steadied he’d got them out of there like there was no tomorrow. Three police cars after them at one point and still Keith had lost them. Everything going great until he’d misjudged that turn going down towards Sandiacre. Legging it then, they’d been: till they’d found that van on Longmoor Lane. Some lame brain, who’d nipped into the paper shop for a Post and a packet of fags, left the sidelights on, indicator flashing, keys in the fucking steering column!
Back from there, through Long Eaton and into the city.
The tempo slowed and Darren figured it was time to head downstairs, see what was what at close hand.
That range, she was a lot bigger than he’d first thought, not that there was anything wrong with that. Some of them so skinny, he might as well have been back inside, putting it to some youth in the shower while a mate kept watch for the screws.
Face that wasn’t about to win any prizes.
Her mate, the one she was dancing with, she was a lot prettier and knew it. Aware that Darren was standing here now and watching them, thinking he had to be watching her. Toss of the head and yes, here comes the tongue, wetting both her lips.
Saying something about him, heads close together, laughing under the music. When the record changed again, they hesitated, then started to leave the floor.
As he intercepted them, the good-looking one smiled at Darren with her eyes and he gave her a quick grin back, moving past her, hand reaching out to touch her mate on the arm.
“Come on. Can’t be packing up already.”
Leading her back on to the floor, out into the middle where it was more crowded, a few minutes half-heartedly dancing round her, before hauling her close, didn’t matter about the music now, whatever was happening was slow inside Darren’s head. Press of her breasts against his chest, fingers of her hand against his back, his own cupping the curve of her arse, sliding up and down. Flesh there in plenty, knickers no more than a strip of material at either side.
“Where we going?” she said, almost to the door.
There had been the usual quick consultation with her friend, trip to the loo, queuing for her coat, Darren looking at himself reflected in the poster on the wall, not letting his impatience show.
“Back to my place.”
“I can’t stop long.”
He looked at her, questioning. “My mum, she’d worry.”
Darren looked back towards the interior. “Say you’re staying with a mate.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s okay,” Darren said, moving towards the exit “S’not far.”
Out on the street he suddenly stopped. “Wait here,” he said. “Be right back.”
Surprised, she watched him as he walked back inside, mass of curly hair outlined against violet light.
There were two men at the urinals when he went in and he stood in line, taking his time until, laughing, they went back outside. Neither of the toilets seemed to be occupied.
Less than a minute later the music went loud and then quiet. The youth who came and stood one place down from Darren was Asian, blue suit, no more than eighteen.
Darren pulled up his zip and walked behind the youth as if to wash his hands. Turning fast, he grabbed him by both arms and threw him forward, cracking his head against the wall; brought his knee up fast into the base of his spine and struck his head against the wall a second time. A kick between his legs as he pulled him round; an elbow in the face.
There was a wallet in the inside pocket of his suit: two notes, a twenty and a ten, folded in his top pocket.
“Better call the manager or something,” Darren said to the man entering as he left. “Some bloke in there’s fainted. Done himself a bit of damage.”
“Sorry,” he said to the girl with a smile. “Caught short. You know how it is.”
“Come on,” he said, once they were on the pavement. “Get down to the corner, we can pick up a cab.”
Darren’s room was an upstairs front: curtains at the window that neither met nor matched, bed, table, wardrobe, chair. He kissed her and asked her name, offered her coffee, and she offered him a cigarette.
“Milk’s off,” he said, coming back with two mugs. “Have to have it black.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Darren sat beside her on the bed. “I want you to do something for me.”
Oh, yes, she thought, though there was something about the way he said it that made her think that might not be exactly what he meant.
“Hang on,” he said and disappeared a second time. When he came back from the kitchen there was a pair of scissors in his hand.
Ten
The black cat sprang on to the stone wall at the sound of Resnick’s footsteps, purred, and paced and turned as soon as he was in sight, stretched his head towards the passing touch of Resnick’s hand. Inside the front door, a second cat trilled and ran towards the kitchen, while Resnick stooped and scooped up the usual unappetizing batch of mail. Gas bill, electricity bill, a personal computerized letter from his bank manager offering to make him a loan on the most friendly of terms. The third cat was sitting on the hall chest, opposite the stairs; the fourth … there was a metallic clunk as Resnick entered the kitchen, a saucepan lid wobbling across the floor, a bewhiskered face peering from inside the pan.
“One of these days,” Resnick said, “you’ll wake up in there too late. End up as stew.”
The cat jumped out, unimpressed, and rubbed himself against Resnick’s legs.
Dizzy, Miles, Bud, Pepper.
A letter with handwriting he recognized but couldn’t place. Inside its clear wrapper, this quarter’s copy of Jazz FM. More reviews of reissues he would love to buy but the technology was failing him. You could count the vinyl albums in Virgin or HMV on the fingers of both hands. Cassette or CD. Oh, well … perhaps next month he’d take the plunge. Have a word with Graham Millington—he’d have a CD player, bound to; chosen by his wife after a careful perusal of Which?; something that would bring Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Greatest Hits into their home with all the sterility they deserved.
Impatient, Dizzy jumped up on to the work top and Resnick, not unkindly, pushed him down. He opened a tin of kidney and beef heart and forked the contents into the four colored bowls, sprinkling a little KitEKat Supercrunch with liver and game over the top.
OPEN this envelope NOW and read all about your FREE holiday in the Algarve. Resnick tore it in two and tossed it in the bin. The way Dizzy kept pushing Bud out of the way and chomping his food as well as his own, it was no wonder Bud stayed so thin.
The coffee beans were dark and shiny in the palm of his hand and he brought them, momentarily, to his face to savor the smell. Stocks were running low; tomorrow or the next day he must remember to call in at The White House and buy more.
While the water was dripping through the filter, he arranged thin slices of Gruyère cheese, slivers of smoked ham, halved black olives, onion, several pieces of sun-dried tomato, and, finally, some crumblings of blue Stilton on top of two thick slices of light rye bread. Careful to keep them level, he set both pieces on the grill pan and slid them beneath the flame which was already burning. Taking hold of Dizzy firmly and holding him in one hand, he unlocked the back door and released the black cat into the garden. If he was still hungry, he could forage out there.
When it had become clear that Resnick’s marriage was over, his wife of six years setting off for pastures new, his first reaction had been to sell the house, find a flat, make a statement that now he was on his own. But the kind of energy required to go through that process had been lacking. Whatever
else it was, the house—big and rambling for two, absurd for one—was comfortable. He called Family First and made them a present of the three-piece suite from Hopewell’s that had almost cost a second mortgage, took himself down to the auctions at the cattle market and replaced it with something older, broken in, the shape of other lives already impressed into the upholstery.
So he had stayed there and got on with his life and, opening the door one day to say no thank you to a pair of neatly suited young men who wanted to interest him in attending a class in non denominational readings from the Bible, a skinny young black cat had wandered in, ribs visible through falling fur. Resnick had fed him with chicken scraps and cheese and warmed milk. The cat had bolted the food, all the while glancing round nervously, and as soon as both saucers were licked clean, dashed to the door, and demanded to be let out.
Three days later, he was back.
Then the second day.
Then every day.
The first time the cat jumped on to Resnick’s lap and allowed himself to be stroked, Resnick was listening to the Prestige album, In the Beginning. You know, the blue fold-out cover with the beautiful picture of a handsome Dizzy Gillespie boxed in red. “Oop Bop Sh’Bam” with Sonny Stitt on alto, Milt Jackson on vibes. Dizzy’s solo taking them into the final theme, vocal coda, slurred notes at the end.
“Dizzy,” Resnick had smiled, feeling the new weight beneath the cat’s improving coat, and the animal had looked back at him with wide green eyes.
A few months later, a younger cat had appeared.
Miles: who else?
The following year, Pepper and Bud had strayed and stayed. Resnick fed them with little fuss and they grew used to his odd hours, demanding as little of him as he did of them.
He drank some more of the black coffee and started on the second open sandwich, olive oil from the sun-dried tomatoes sliding into the cracks of his fingers and making small stains to join those he was already wearing on his tie. Last time he had tried, the assistant in Sketchley’s had given him a you-must-be-joking look and handed him his ties back.
