I left the cold tap running into the basin with the plug out, so that a constant flow of water could carry at least the worst of the slime away, and hopefully the worst of the smell with it. Then I picked up my shoes, which had escaped pollution by virtue of the fact that they’d been beneath me as I knelt, and went through to find my reluctant hosts.
They were sitting close together on the fake-leather sofa, very upright, very uptight. I tried a smile, which did no good at all; then I thanked them politely for the use of their facilities and the lend of their clothes, and asked where the phone was.
The man showed me, with a stiff jerk of his head. I went over to the window-sill, found it hiding behind a curtain — saved on the bills, I suppose: what you don’t see, you’re not so tempted to use — and phoned Allan.
Found the number coming automatically to my fingers, though I hadn’t used it or thought about using it for years.
His wife answered, her voice neutral before I gave my name and neutral again afterwards, though I thought I could hear the effort she made to keep it so.
“Aunt Jess, can I speak to Uncle Allan, please? It’s really important...”
“I’m sorry, Benedict, he’s not here just now.”
“Oh, Christ...” Too late, I remembered that it wasn’t a good idea to swear in front of Jess; it used to cost us a lecture every time when we were kids, and once it even cost me my birthday present. This time, though, there was an advantage to it.
“What is it, Benedict? What’s happened?” Her voice had crisped up with distaste, but behind that she was responding to what she was hearing from me, a genuine need backed up with resurgent shivers as the heat of the shower started to wear off. Being rid of the foul residues of Tommy’s death had freed me to remember the fact of it, the awfulness, how much he’d suffered. This wasn’t just a duty call I was making, I realised suddenly, a fraction later than my aunt; it was a cry for help.
“There’s been a, another accident,” I said, a long way from telling the truth but close enough, I hoped, to prod her towards it. “Like Marty,” I added reluctantly, in case not. “And I, I’m on my own here, Aunt Jess, and I don’t know what to do...”
“Who was it?” she asked sharply, her voice high with anxiety. No children of her own, but that wouldn’t make a difference. Anyone’s death would diminish Aunt Jess; she was the hub the family turned around.
“Tommy,” I said, and heard her sorrow in the quietest of sighs down the line. But there was more to say, and I couldn’t spare her. “It’s, it’s horrible, Auntie. Not an accident,” telling truth now that she knew it already, no more harm to be done. “What do I do, do I call the police or what? I wanted Uncle Allan,” I wanted to dump it all on his strong shoulders, “but if he’s not there, then...”
“Where are you?” Jess demanded, interrupting as I started to babble.
I told her, gave her the best directions I could; and, “Wait there,” she said. “And no, don’t call the police. We’ll do what needs to be done.” Of course, don’t call the police; of course, the family would deal with it. I should have known that, her voice said. I did know that, I wanted to reply, I was only babbling.
Too late, she’d gone. Hung up on me without a goodbye, but no blame for that, in the circumstances. Nothing for me to do now but wait; but I couldn’t do it here, under the gazes of this family I’d barged in on, hostile and afraid.
I offered them one last smile, which they duly ignored. So I said thanks instead, “Thanks,” I said. “I, um, I’ll see that you get these back,” plucking at the ill-fitting clothes I wore.
“Don’t you bother,” the man said, each word a problem, seemingly clinging to his mouth, needing to be spat out hard. I gathered that if the clothes did come back, they’d go straight in the rubbish, if not straight onto a fire. They’d touched a Macallan’s body, after all, and were by definition contaminated now. How could they tell what evil might not cling to the fibres, though they were washed and washed again?
I would have liked to disillusion them, I would have liked just once for people not to assume that I and my family were one; but I couldn’t have it both ways. I’d already traded on the illusion, on the family name, to get what I wanted from them. Too late now to deny a power I’d already exercised.
So I nodded, took my wallet out, took out what money I had and set it on a sideboard where they could pick it up or leave it lying, as they chose. “There’s cash in the trousers, too,” I said, again leaving it up to them what to do about it.
One last nod and I was out of there and closing the door behind me, just to forestall their slamming it after my departing back.
o0o
The cold car’s wreck still sat in the court, dark now and utterly unattended; Tommy’s body lay beside it still, equally alone. I didn’t like that, it didn’t feel right. I thought of going back to stay with him, till someone came. No need to kneel in the muck again, I could just stand around there, safe clean concrete under my shoes...
But those shoes didn’t take a step towards him, my feet couldn’t lift their weight in that direction. It was understandable, I thought, and not such a great mutiny.
Hearing voices I looked around, looked up, saw some heads peering over one of the higher balconies. Teenagers, indulging a stupid, a dangerous bravado; but they ducked out of sight again, as soon as they saw me looking. A minute later, a door snicked quietly shut up there. I grinned, frankly enjoying myself for a moment; then I turned and ventured that tunnel again, to see if the Medicall car was still there, with the doctor in situ.
It wasn’t, and neither was he. Buggered off back to base, most likely, to put heavy black marks against my name and my future prospects. Well, let him. I was still confident that I could talk my way out of any bullshit he stirred up, and with any luck talk him straight back into it. There was always the threat of public exposure to fall back on, if I needed it. It’d look great in the local paper: Doctor Deserts Dying Man, Leaves Driver to Cope Alone. And I could always threaten to add a Medicall to the front of that headline, if the desk controller sided with Devereux.
I could get it on the front page, no question. Regardless of the inherent news interest. Just mention my name, and hey presto.
I didn’t want to do that, it made me no better than what I’d made such a loud point of rejecting; but if it was necessary, yes, I’d do it. I’d done it already once tonight. Do it for Tommy, I could surely do it for myself.
o0o
I waited in the dark there, quite unafraid in this most dangerous of estates, and even there I was trading on my family’s reputation, exploiting it shamelessly. I waited for perhaps half an hour; and then there were lights out on the road and the sound of a heavy engine slowing. The lights poked like fingers into the court, the car behind them followed, and I walked slowly over.
Black Mercedes limousine with darkened windows: I’d not seen this before, but it had to be Uncle James in there. Cars say more about a man than clothes ever can.
Not my uncle driving, though. That was something else he’d always enjoyed, being driven. A power statement, I supposed it was; and the sort of statement he’d need to be making tonight, with another Macallan dead and the family’s grip on power looking just a little vulnerable.
One of the rear doors opened, and yep, there was Uncle James in all his solidity and his sombre suit. He straightened up, glanced at me with the briefest of nods, glanced over to the wrecked car and Tommy’s remains; then he pulled open the passenger door and said, “Come on, then. What are you waiting for?”
Jamie stepped out: but not Jamie as he ought to have been, dressed dark and dangerous, a young man shocked and vengeful. Dangerous he was, no question of that, but he didn’t look it. All he looked was drunk. Young man out for a good time, hitting the clubs in his dancing clothes.
He wasn’t bubbling, maybe, the news had suppressed him that much; but he wasn’t ready, either. No way was he ready for this.
Curious, I looked into the limo thr
ough the open door, to see who was driving.
Laura gazed back at me, pale and silent.
Eight: Friends and Relations
She looked frightened, as she surely should have done; but not of her own folly or the company she was keeping, not of what she was getting into or what she’d come driving to find.
Briefly, she looked frightened of me.
Then, coming on hard, coming on aggressive when aggression was the last thing I needed from anyone and let alone her, she said, “Don’t be difficult about this, Ben. Just don’t do it, right?”
I shook my head, but only in response to the dizzying world, not in response to her. And dropped into the passenger seat, soft smooth hide still warm from Jamie; and looked at her, saw the bright clothes and the sweat-spiked hair, his-and-hers dark glasses on the dash. Watched the beat of her pulse under the line of her jaw and the flush of heat rising on her face while she stared straight ahead, and caught the echo of another beat, other heat still in her. Thought again about soft, smooth hide still warm from Jamie.
And said, “You do my head in. You really do.” My head and my heart and my hopes, but one was enough for now.
“Look,” she said fiercely, but still not looking herself, or not in my direction. Uncle James was out there, and Jamie was with him, and her head was turned that way; whether she saw them, I couldn’t say. “This isn’t a good time, but let’s get one thing straight, can we? You don’t own me, however much you’d like to. You certainly don’t make my choices for me.”
“I don’t want to...”
“Which? Think about it.”
I shook my head again, avoiding the challenge. “My family owns everything in this town, everything that matters. Nearly everything. I just, I just don’t want them owning you too...”
“They don’t,” she said, in defiance of the evidence. “They won’t.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Already chauffeuse to Uncle James at need, and God knew what to Jamie.
I still couldn’t understand how it had happened, and I wasn’t going to ask; but she told me anyway. Seizing the moment, perhaps, finding this just a fraction easier than asking me what exactly lay on the ground out there, what my uncle and my cousin were bending over, looking closely at.
“Look, listen,” she said. “Going for a drink with Jamie, the three of us — well, it wasn’t such a good idea, right? Not for me, at any rate. Not if I want to get to know the guy. You know what you’d be like: squeezing between us, squaring up to him all the time, getting all possessive where you’ve no right to be, biting my head off if you didn’t like the way I was behaving...”
She was right, of course, I’d be exactly like that. Exactly what she needed, though she wouldn’t thank me for it. Though she’d taken steps, clearly, to avoid it...
“He knew, too,” she went on, “or he guessed, from the way you were at the funeral. So he phoned me, invited me out on the quiet tonight. Sort of a pre-emptive strike, I suppose you’d call it.”
“Where did he get your number?”
“I don’t know. Not from me. I didn’t ask.”
From the college, then, most likely. Against the rules, but easy. Walk in, smile at the secretary, tell her what you want; and yes sir, Mr Macallan, straight away, sir, here it is...
“Where did you go, then, where did he take you?”
“The boat,” she said, where she might have said mind your own business, and I almost wished she had. The boat made one of our rages look like a sophisticated night out.
More properly known as the Queen Casilia, the boat was an ex-cruise ship permanently moored on the river, converted into a night-club and casino. It was brash, it was gaudy, and the other thing we called it was the knocking ship. It was where you took a girl you wanted to get off with, an outright statement of intent.
“Laura...”
“We had a good time,” she said defensively. “All right? I like Jamie. And it’s interesting, getting another angle on you.”
“What was he saying about me?” I demanded.
“Quite a lot, actually. But in confidence, I’m not passing it on.”
I would have pressed her, pointlessly; she’d never buckled under the weight of my demands, and never would. But her eyes strayed outside again, to where Jamie was again bent over. Not looking at Tommy now. He was doing the other thing, doing what I’d done, reacting to Tommy: doubled up and retching while Uncle James watched him with fastidious distaste, utterly untouched except in his amour-propre, his sense of family pride.
Laura made a soft noise in her throat and reached to open the door, to go to Jamie. Unfamiliarity held her up, as her fingers couldn’t find the catch in the dark; and that was just long enough for me to grip her arm and hold her, to say, “Wait. Just one thing, how come you’re driving for them?” How did she get from the boat to the Merc, that’s what I wanted to know— and what were the stages in between?
“We took a taxi,” she said, “out to his place.” Which meant Uncle James’ place, because as far as I knew Jamie still hadn’t set up home on his own; and that meant yes, Laura meant to sleep with him tonight. No one would go that far in a taxi and still pretend they just wanted to have a coffee and look at some etchings and then go home like a good girl. “But when we got there,” she said, “Mr Macallan was on the phone, sounding really upset. So of course Jamie asked what was up, and he told us about, about that,” with a gesture through the windscreen, “and Jamie wanted to come too. But he couldn’t drive, he’d had way too much to drink; so he asked me.”
“Did he know I was here?” I asked dully.
“I don’t know. I think so. Yes, Mr Macallan said. What does it matter? Look, I’ve got to, I can’t just sit here and...”
And with that she was gone and I let her go, no protest. I sat numbly in Jamie’s seat, absorbing all the messages that Jamie had meant me to receive, that Laura had no idea she was passing on.
Being drunk had never stopped him driving, any more than any policeman in this borough was going to stop him for being drunk and driving. This was a statement, it was a power play again, I’ve got her, Benedict boy, see me?
And that she wasn’t drunk, that she reckoned herself sober enough to drive, that was another message he wanted me to pick up. I had her in between the sheets, all but. Her choice, boy, and nothing slurring her decision. How far did you ever get her?
Which if they’d talked about me at all, he knew the answer to already, and this was gloating, nothing more.
We’d been brothers, near enough; but brothers are competitive by definition. That had been a part of our definition, at least, until I’d dropped out of the game, as puberty got left further and further behind and still hadn’t brought me anything but humiliation.
Competition is a habit, and he hadn’t lost it, seemingly. Was exulting in it, even if the victory was a walk-over that brought glory to no one, even on a night when something other than alcohol was bringing him to his knees and bringing up his dinner.
And Laura, Laura was on her knees beside him, arm around his shoulders and hand stroking back his hair, all comfort and concern. A prize loudly and publicly claimed, whatever she might assert. She didn’t have a voice in this. It was a game, and no one had explained the rules to her. She wasn’t a participitant, not a competitor, no...
o0o
Sitting in Jamie’s seat the same night he stepped into my dreamed-of shoes: it all carried too many overtones, too much difficult baggage to be comfortable, despite the softness of the leather and my own bitter exhaustion. Not long after Laura was I up and out of there, walking over to where he was getting palely to his feet, Laura’s strong hands on his arm to help him up.
Been there, done that at least: thrown up in public places, chucked my cookies and been mopped up by Laura. Except that she’d only ever played doctor-and-friend for me, cool and sympathetic and passing me a tissue. For Jamie she was playing some other role entirely, tucking herself under his arm in something more than support,
wiping his face and his mouth for him, murmuring privately in soft concern.
When he saw me he tightened his hold on her, just enough to be sure that I’d seen; then he smiled thinly, abruptly much closer to sober than he’d been before. “Hi, bro. How’re you doing?”
Not so well as you, bro. But oh, I was short on brothers and he was what I’d missed most, these three dead years. And someone out there was attacking the family, we’d both seen the results tonight and both reacted the same, the same sourness on our breath and in our heads. I nodded and touched his arm — his other arm, not to be thought to be touching Laura, or disputing his claim — and said, “Okay, I guess. Not brilliant, but okay. You?”
A shrug one-shouldered, and, “Yeah. Pretty much the same. Christ, I used, I used to go fishing with that guy, Ben, he gave us my first rod. Still got it, somewhere...”
“Yeah.” I remembered Jamie fishing, though not with Tommy. With me, occasionally. I’d never seen the attraction of sitting around for hours getting bored, but Jamie’s attraction had been fierce.
“So what happened? You were here...”
Someone left him on too long, and his blood all boiled over. I shook my head, with an involuntary glance at Laura. Family unity or misplaced chivalry, I wasn’t certain; either way, I didn’t want to tell him in front of her.
Either way, he understood. A fractional nod for me, thanks as much as I get you, right, and he touched her cheek lightly, the one that wasn’t already pressed against his collar-bone. “Don’t you look, love. It’s nasty...”
She showed no signs of looking, she was only looking at him, her eyes dark and enormous; but she twitched impatiently at that, said, “For Christ’s sake, Jamie. I’m a medic, remember? I cut people up in class. Whatever it’s like back there, I’ve seen worse.”
“No, you haven’t,” positively, from both of us at once.
She glanced between us and her lips twitched, giggles not too far away.
“Hark at the double-act,” she whispered. And then, startling me at least and perhaps both of us together, “Are we still on for Friday, then?”
Dead of Light Page 9
