BURN, BABY, BURN

by Jake Barton

  "Beverley Sisters?" she’d exploded. "How fucking old do you think I am?" Dexter had looked at her reflectively. "Well," he’d said. "At least try for perhaps just a tad more refinement than that last sentence."

  His final instructions, outside the door to Roper’s office had been short and to the point.

  "Keep your head down, only speak when you’re spoken to, don’t eff or blind, don’t tell him he’s a pompous turd, even though he is, and for God’s sake don’t break wind."

  With this final statement, he’d opened the door and pushed a giggling spluttering wreck into the presence of the Supreme Being.

  "Martha has her faults," Dexter conceded, "But she’s had her troubles. It’s less than a year since she buried her husband."

  "Was he dead?"

  Dexter glared, his stern expression almost managing to hide the suspicion of a smile.

  "Just put up with her. God knows, I can’t stand the woman either, but she keeps on top of the paperwork like no one else. Look, Donna, just sort Martha out, then shove off and see what they can do about your motor. You’re coming out with me tonight. Until then you can borrow my car. Scratch it and you needn’t bother coming back."

  *****

  Dexter grunted as his tyres sent gravel flying bringing the car to a halt with a solid crunch as the front wheels bit into the loose surface. Donna checked the address on a scrap of paper. There were no road signs in this estate; the few that remained had been so defaced with graffiti as to be illegible, but this was unmistakably the right place. Three tower blocks dominated the bleak landscape, the space between them strewn with litter and the remains of two burnt-out cars.

  The flats looked like stalactites in the gathering gloom of the evening. Was it stalactites or stalagmites? Donna could never remember. Dexter would know. He knew bloody everything.

  "Is it stalactites or stalagmites?"

  "What?"

  "The ones that grow upwards, stalactites or stalagmites?"

  He grunted. "Stalagmites grow upwards; stalactites grow down. Please don’t tell me why you asked that question. I don’t want to know."

  Donna lapsed into silence. Miserable old bastard.

  The pitted and cracked road surface hid deep potholes full of dirty water. A steep ridge snaked its way across the road from left to right, like a scaled down aerial view of the San Andreas Fault. Except that California was nothing like this.

  A concrete bus shelter, the only spark of colour, sported garish fly-posters advertising gigs by some obscure band and the latest hot spots on the local club scene. Pure hedonism, Donna mused ironically, glancing at the poverty of their present surroundings. The council made numerous attempts to raise the profile of the area, changing the names of the tower blocks at regular intervals, but their efforts were in vain, no matter how fancy or genteel the new names became.

  Dexter hesitated, possibly debating the wisdom of leaving his car unattended, but obviously saw no alternative. Donna sat with her hand on the door handle, reluctant to brave the elements if Dexter intended sitting in the car all night.

  "Come on," she said brightly. "Seize the day."

  Dexter looked at her in genuine surprise.

  "What?" Donna said, defensively.

  "Oh nothing. Just that the extent of your knowledge surprises me sometimes. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero."

  "Eh?"

  "Seize the day. Put no trust in the morrow. Sorry to doubt you, but I’d somehow never imagined you knew that quotation."

  "Course I do. Robin Williams."

  "Who?"

  "Robin Williams. In the film, Dead Poets’ Society."

  "Robin bloody Williams? It’s a quote from an ode by Horace. Goes back two thousand years, not some piece of Hollywood drivel."

  "Oh." Donna lapsed into silence. Perhaps Dexter had less cause to be impressed than he’d imagined.

  Flecks of rain splattered the windscreen, hardly rain at all, more of a thin drizzle, but looking as if it would hang around for a while. Obviously trusting in the weather to help deter the local jackals from gutting his car, Dexter got out, turning his face away from the wind and waited while Donna joined him. They walked briskly towards a row of lock-up flats, barricaded and shuttered as if in a war zone, clustered together with flickering fluorescent tubes providing a dim illumination to their recessed doorways.

  "Why do they bother with the lights?" Donna enquired.

  Dexter grunted. "Ultra-violet light stops the junkies shooting up in the doorways. Can’t see a vein under ultra-violet light. Doesn’t stop them, but it persuades them to go somewhere else to shoot up. Saves the shopkeeper having to sweep away all the shit they leave behind." Dexter’s opinion of junkies was well known and Donna did not pursue the subject. She’d heard it all before.

  The concrete drive leading to a row of lock-up garages was cracked and uneven with sagging patches of inadequate recent repairs. Much of the paint had peeled from the wooden garage doors exposing the red-lead base coat to the ravages of the elements. A breeding colony of black bin liners overflowed halfway across the pavement. Some had been split open by dogs or birds and their fetid contents mingled with the builders’ rubble at the side of the pathway.

  Donna couldn’t see the discarded syringes and empty glue containers amidst the rubble, but knew they’d be there. A couple huddling against the meagre shelter of a rubble-filled skip were the only signs of life. The woman, probably only in her late twenties, had the drawn features and restless darting eyes of a much older person, suggesting the couple were awaiting the arrival of their drugs’ supplier. Dexter nodded as he passed, prompting a momentary glimmer of expectation on the woman’s haggard features. She tugged at her lower lip, exposing stained irregular teeth. A rumpled white blouse bulged carelessly from the waistband of black stretch pants. Her companion ignored her, hair combed straight back from his forehead like a 1930s matinee idol, pinched features contorted into a bleak expression, collar raised to combat the biting wind.

  Donna followed a pace behind Dexter as they entered the lobby of the flats, wrinkling her nostrils at the overpowering smell of urine on the stairwell. Something else as well, boiled cabbage perhaps, made a token assault on the senses, but was quickly beaten into submission. A shallow pool had collected in the small depression formed by the removal of half a dozen floor tiles. Dexter walked squarely into the centre of it, splashing his trousers, before his eyes adjusted to the gloom. "Fuck," he cursed, kicking the unsavoury liquid from his shoes.

  Donna padded inside, feeling like a postman crossing a minefield. Dexter struck a match on the lift doors, recoiling instantly as the light revealed that the door pushes had been liberally smeared with excrement. Donna steeled herself to brave the reeking stairs – yellow paint peeling from the walls, a single bare light bulb hanging from a frayed length of maroon flex. The layer of dust on the bulb, and the presence of a spider’s web, suggested the bulb had either blown or not been in use for some time. A filigreed wrought iron railing ran along the outer wall of the stairwell. Donna was glad of its support on the climb, but soon relinquished her hold when her hand met the first tacky blob of chewing gum.

  On the third landing the stench overwhelmed her. A revolting amalgam of stale cigarettes, blocked toilets and boiled vegetables. Urine collected in small pools beneath unmistakably stained walls. Donna gagged for air, stomach heaving with recollections of her recent meal, a gargantuan helping of fatty bacon hock with mashed potato, turnip and cauliflower.

  They walked up another three flights, keeping resolutely to the centre, and avoiding any chance of contact with the walls. Pigeons, grouped together on the metal handrail fluttered away at their approach, like crows at the sound of a farmer’s shotgun. Their droppings added to the hazards underfoot. How can people live like this? Either they don’t notice their surroundings or their senses are blunted by desperation.

  Further along the landing, behind one of the battered and peeling doors, a small child wailed. The unmistakable
sound of a slap brought a momentary silence, and then the crying resumed at a greatly increased volume.

  A man appeared at the far end of the landing, hesitated upon seeing Dexter, and then reluctantly came on. He’s still got that old magic, Donna thought, marked out as a copper from fifty yards away.

  Dexter held out a hand to stop the man. "Can you help me here? There’s no numbers on the doors?"

  The man stopped, looking at Dexter with resignation. Thin strands of hair were combed carefully over his head, emphasising rather than concealing the pink scalp beneath. A fat podgy hand patted the scanty covering, checking for gaps. The hand moved down to his shoulders, flicking away some of the flakes of dandruff littering his dark jacket.

  "Who you after?"

  "Kelly, number 67," Dexter said, recoiling from the man’s breath. The peppermint chewing gum was extra strong and a fresh stick may have held his breath at bay for a couple of rounds. This must be round three as halitosis was a clear winner. The expression on Dexter’s face suggested he knew the face from somewhere but couldn’t place it. The other man clearly had the advantage on him, having recognised Dexter instantly.

  "Third from the end," the man said, speaking out of the corner of his mouth in the approved ex- prisoner fashion. Dexter nodded but did not thank him. Part of the cop-villain ritual. The man looked at Donna for a moment, as if weighing up her presence in this company, then hurried off down the stairs, splashing carelessly through the puddles.

  Dexter walked along until he stood outside the third door from the end while Donna scuttled along behind him, dodging a flying pigeon turd. The door looked like all the others. Kick marks on the panels and clear signs of a chisel having been inserted in the lock at some time in the past. He knocked firmly and waited. A radio was turned off behind the door, but that was the only response to his knock. Two doors farther along a window opened and a middle-aged woman put her head out. "What the fuck do you pair want?" Her appearance matched her words; she didn’t look friendly. Dexter smiled at her.

  "Good evening, Sister. Could you spare a few minutes to talk about the healing power of the Lord?" The woman glared at him, slamming the window. Dexter grinned at Donna. "Works every time," he said. "Who’d be a Jehovah’s Witness?"

  Dexter knocked imperiously on the stout wooden door with his clenched fist. Donna envied his capacity for expressing his personality so succinctly just by knocking. This was the knock of a man used to getting his own way, who would not be denied. Whoever was behind this door would be obliged to open it immediately or face the consequences. When Donna knocked on a door it was with a timidity that told the occupant she didn’t really care whether they answered the door or not as she’d probably go away again in a minute and not bother them again. Dexter’s knock said open the bloody door now or I’ll hammer my fist straight through it.

  "What the fuck you want?" Obviously the standard greeting round here. The voice was youngish, more curious than alarmed.

  "Open up love," Dexter said, turning to wink at Donna. "Nothing to worry about."

  "Police?"

  "No, not this time. Just a few questions."

  Donna speculated whether Dexter would have had a copper kick the door down by now had he still been with the force, warrant or not. The door opened a crack and a thin face peered out. Dexter almost smiled. "Let us in love, it’s parky out here."

  The woman said nothing, but opened the door to admit them into the flat. Dexter walked straight through to the kitchen as if he owned the place. "How about a spot of tea?"

  Donna recognised the device as one of Dexter’s favourites. The casual familiarity both relaxed the woman and gave her something to do. She moved away to the sink, filling a kettle and plugging it in before sitting at the small table. Dexter and Donna sat down in the only other chairs on the opposite side.

  Junkie, Donna thought.

  Painfully thin, with her clothes hanging from the prominent bones of her hips and shoulders, wide staring eyes and cheekbones Tom Cruise would die for, her restless hands toyed with the hem of her sweater. Ominous purple shadows, almost bruise-like in their intensity, darkened the area under her eyes, emphasised by the deep pallor of her complexion.

  She shifted restlessly in the hard wooden chair. "Sorry I can’t offer you anything else," she muttered, addressing herself exclusively to Dexter. "I’m out of biscuits at the moment."

  Yeah, Donna thought, with a glance at the threadbare carpet, I just bet you are. Addicts have no interest in food or their surroundings.

  "That’s fine," Dexter assured her.

  The woman lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, clearly trying hard to make her behaviour appear normal. Not just any old addict then, but an addict in denial. She sat at the table, singing along to some tune or other deep inside her head, fingers tapping the rhythm, one knee trembling as if she were cold. She suddenly realised others were watching and stopped abruptly, staring down at her hands. Dexter rummaged in a pocket and produced his identification. She hardly glanced at it. She’d have let him in even if he produced a card saying axe murderer, so conditioned was she in her response to authority.

  "You look like a copper." Her voice was far away, as if on the verge of sleep. A thin stream of smoke escaped from the side of her mouth as she spoke.

  Donna watched it with fascination and awed respect. She must have lungs the size of footballs to take in such vast amounts of smoke. She revealed her trade secret with the next drag on her dangling ciggie. Hunching forward, she sucked as if taking her last breath before attempting to swim The Channel underwater. Her cheeks contracted to the point where they must have been touching inside her mouth and the cigarette shrank by a good third of its length. This woman didn’t smoke; she sumo-wrestled her cigarette. King-sized Pall-Mall reduced to three drags. Impressive or what?

  She waved the cigarette about as she spoke, emphasising each word by pointing the glowing tip in all directions. Donna could feel her eyelids getting heavy due to the hypnotic effect of following the movements of the cigarette. There was no sign of an ashtray, nor any evidence of spilt ash. Perhaps she inhaled the ash together with the smoke.

  "Used to be," Dexter said. "Police, I mean."

  "Yeah? Thought so."

  "You got a feller here?" Dexter asked, reaching over to switch off the kettle, which was boiling furiously. She didn’t look up.

  "On the social, aren’t I? Just me and Bianca. She’s round my mother’s just now."

  "How old is she, Bianca?" Donna asked.

  The woman shook her head. "Five?" the reply was more question than answer.

  The kid was probably better off with her grandmother than in this flat.

  "I’m looking for Sammy Kelly," Dexter said.

  She laughed cheerily.

  "Who the fuck isn’t looking for him? The twat."

  "He owes money to somebody. Someone it’s not a good idea to cross. You don’t know where he–"

  "No, I fucking well don’t know where he is. And I tell you, Mister, I don’t want to know. He put me in the hospital six weeks ago and I’ve not seen him since." She turned to Donna for the first time, pulled up the back of her sweater and turned in her chair, revealing a bony spine laced with angry wheals and scars. "Look at that lot, girl. Six weeks since he gave me that and I still can’t get a decent night's sleep because of it. That’s the fucking Irish for you. Only ever interested in the drink and when it runs out, God help anyone daft enough to still be around. He’s off over the water somewhere and good riddance to him."

  "Eh?"

  She looked at Donna as if she were simple, and then smiled. "Oh, you thought maybe Belfast? Not likely. The boys there want him a damn sight more than you do. Values his kneecaps too much to go back. No, he’s in Liverpool, up the Dingle probably. He’s got mates there. If he’s not there he’ll be in Tockie. Sleeping it off in one of the Mick clubs."

  Dexter sighed. Another dead end. He rose from the chair and stretched.

  "Thanks for the tea,"
he said sarcastically. She nodded, not really listening. He walked to the door, but she hadn’t moved. Donna stood and thanked her. She looked up and smiled. Not a pretty sight – overdue a dental check-up by about twenty years. They let themselves out and returned to the car in silence. Dexter was almost relieved to find a broken wing-mirror was the only obvious damage.

  "That’s me off to sunny Toxteth tomorrow morning. Thirty bloody years of Liverpool 8 and still can’t get away from the place. Do you want me to ring Andy and ask him to run you out to Parkgate tomorrow?"

  Donna said nothing and a brooding silence developed. Dexter gave her a searching glance.

  Donna bit her lower lip. "I don't really care one way or the other." The dispassionate words hung in the air like stray dust flecks lingering in the fetid heat of summer.

  Dexter hesitated. "It’s your case," he said. "So ring him yourself if you want. Just remember, it’s not your fault your motor’s in dock, so don’t let Andy take charge. Know what I mean?"

  Donna nodded, but inside she fumed. She could sort Andy out without any bloody advice from Dexter. She couldn’t say anything though. He meant well. That was the trouble with Dexter, always looking out for her. Just once she’d have liked him to say nothing. Let her deal with things on her own.

  *****

  The handles of the pliers were coated with orange plastic.

  "For Christ's sake," Snake rasped. "Mister cool, Mister fucking G.Q. designer label suits brings pliers with fucking orange plastic handles."

  The irrelevant thought was swept away on a tidal wave of relief as the pliers, cool against his bruised skin snipped the tight wire. Snip, snip, that's all it took. The fresh agony of returning circulation doubled him up, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

  Marcus threw him a cloth-covered bundle. "So, Clive’s not talking to anyone? Never goes out? That’s good. I can find you. I can always find you, junkie. You’d better have told me the truth."

  Snake scrabbled to open the bag as his tormentor left. His precious works, his most important possession, no, the only things that really mattered to him. The twisted and blackened spoon, still bearing the crest of a fast food chain, the stem bent at right angles allowing the scoop to remain level. Syringe and needle in a metal cigar case, the same needle used repeatedly, cheap disposable lighter, a grubby cotton wool ball, a small twist of foil and the precious white powder. His torn and bleeding fingers, like filthy blackened claws, remained rock steady, as sure and tender as the hands of a mother with her infant. The act transcended pain, suffering, deprivation, all that mattered was the release and the needle was the key.