by R.J. Ellory
They sat at the kitchen table, she with a glass of wine, Madigan with a coffee mug half-filled with Jack Daniel’s.
“I don’t usually eat,” he said.
“I know.”
He leaned back. “So tell me about Melissa’s father.” It seemed right to ask her about her daughter. Madigan had called the hospital. The child was doing well, would be there for another few days yet, had asked for her mother, and the attending nurse—the one that Madigan spoke to—had dealt with it well. She’d told Melissa that she was under a No Visit Order due to potential infection from outside the ward. The child was fine. The nurse had asked Madigan if the mother’s whereabouts had been established. Madigan denied all knowledge.
“She’ll have to go with Social Services if the mother doesn’t show by the time we release her.”
“I understand,” Madigan said. “It’ll be fine. I’m gonna find the mother. You let me know if anyone from Child Services comes around, okay?”
Madigan relayed the conversation to Isabella, omitting Melissa’s request for her. The last thing he needed was for Isabella to be taking off to the hospital to see her daughter while Madigan was at work. Containment was now the key. Containment of Bernie Tomczak, containment of Isabella Arias, and most of all, containment of himself. He had to keep it together. He knew he should not have been drinking, but he couldn’t help it. But he was doing better. He really believed he was doing better. What would transpire with the Ariases, he did not know. He had no plan beyond the immediate end of this thing. It was like Alcoholics Anonymous—take everything just one day at a time. Anything beyond that was more than he could deal with right now.
“Melissa’s father?” Isabella said. “We were together for some years, but . . .” She shook her head, reached for the wineglass. “But he was not a father. Some men just aren’t ready to be fathers.”
“Some men are never ready to be fathers.”
“You speak of yourself?”
“Myself, and a lot of others.”
She shook her head. “Every man is ready to be a father. It’s nature. Some men don’t want to be fathers because they believe a child will slow them down, stop them living, stop them enjoying things so much, when really it’s exactly the opposite.”
“In what way?”
“What could be a greater guarantee of your continued happiness and well-being than a child?”
“That’s a very basic viewpoint.”
“Basic?” she said. “Maybe. But basic can be fundamental, and fundamentals are everything. Without fundamentals there is no structure—”
“What is this? Philosophy and Sociology 101?”
She laughed, but Madigan did not get the impression she was laughing at him.
“You pretend to be shallow, but you are not,” she said.
“Oh, I’m shallow,” Madigan replied. “I have a veneer of awkward misery, and beneath that there is very little else.”
“You are too hard on yourself. You are a good man.”
“So people keep telling me.”
“Maybe it would be good to believe such a thing, then.”
“Maybe it would be good if people stopped trying to tell me who I am, especially those who don’t know me.”
“Like me.”
“Like you, yes.”
A frown crossed her brow, like the shadow of a cloud across a field. “I have upset you, Vincent?”
“I’ve got thicker skin than that.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Madigan asked. “I just said that you didn’t upset me.” He reached for the coffee mug.
She drank her wine.
There was silence for a moment.
“And your children?” she asked.
“What about them?”
“How many do you have?”
“Four.”
“Four? Well, hell, for someone who doesn’t want to be a father—”
“I never said I didn’t want to be a father. I said some people were not ready to be fathers.”
“But four kids?”
“Yes, four.”
“What are their names?”
“Cassie, Adam, Lucy, and Tom. Seventeen, thirteen, six, and three, respectively.”
“You see them?”
“Rarely.”
“Do you not think it would be good for them to see more of you?”
“Probably not.”
“Why, Vincent? Why do you think that a child wouldn’t want to know their father?”
“Because that father might not be the best influence on that child.”
“You really don’t have a high opinion of yourself, do you?”
“Maybe I don’t deserve a high opinion.”
“You can’t have done anything so terrible that you feel this badly about yourself.”
“And how badly would that be?” he said. “What the hell is this? What am I getting this third degree for? I’m trying to help you out here, lady—”
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Isabella interjected. “I’m not trying to upset you, like I said. We’re just talking, okay? Just talking.”
“Talking is a discussion, not a barrage of questions.”
“Okay, Vincent, no more questions.”
“Good. No more questions.”
There was silence again, longer this time.
“So what do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Something other than my children, my ex-wives, my ex-mistresses, or my job.”
“Right,” she said. “Politics, then? Religion?”
Madigan looked up at her. She looked good. She was angry with him and she looked good.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“Well, I don’t know . . . for being an asshole, okay? Just accept the apology and let’s move on.”
“Accepted,” she said.
“So you do think I’m an asshole.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But I said sorry for being an asshole and you accepted the apology, therefore indicating that I was right to apologize, ergo you must think I was being an asshole.”
“Fuck off, Vincent.”
He laughed.
She laughed too, briefly.
They sat in silence once more.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this awkward,” she said.
“Then you ain’t lived much,” Madigan replied. “This isn’t awkward. This isn’t even close to awkward.”
“I feel like I should like you,” she said, “but you seem to make it your business to persuade people that they shouldn’t.”
“Oh, it’s just for you that I behave like this,” he said. “With everyone else I’m just the nicest guy in town.”
For a moment she wondered if he was being serious. His expression was deadpan, and then he cracked the faintest smile.
“You really are an asshole,” she said.
“Why you . . .” he threatened, and he raised his fist.
She was sipping her wine. She coughed, spluttered, couldn’t stop laughing. The wine was down her T-shirt.
“Look at this,” she said.
“I’ll get you some more,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m going to get a clean one,” she said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s only a bit of wine . . . Leave it.”
“No,” she said. “I want to get a clean one.”
She got up, walked past him toward the stairwell, and as she passed him she traced a line across his shoulder with the tip of her finger. He did not acknowledge it. It was a split-second thing. He felt her finger, and then she was gone.
Was she hitting on him?
Jesus Christ, was she really hitting on him?
Madigan’s mouth was dry. He reached for the mug of Jack, decided against it. He went to the kitchen for a drink of water, juice, something else, and then
he changed his mind and went back to the Jack Daniel’s.
This was not good. Not good at all. This was a complication he could do without. This was not containment. This was something so far from containment . . .
“See?” she said.
Madigan turned. She was at the foot of the stairwell, and then she was walking toward him. She had on a new T-shirt. It was white. In that moment, she looked better than she’d ever looked.
I shot your daughter. Me and my friends shot your daughter. If it wasn’t for me . . .
What? he thought. If it hadn’t been for Madigan, what would have happened? Maybe the robbery at the house threw Sandià’s plans into disarray. Maybe it threw a spanner in the works. Maybe—just maybe—had the robbery not taken place, had the nephew not been killed, then Sandià would just have systematically moved ahead with finding Isabella and Melissa, and they would both now be little more than names and files in the unclosed case section of the 167th.
But no, that was not what had happened. Isabella was alive. Melissa was alive too. They were both alive.
Maybe by shooting Melissa he had actually kept them both alive a little longer.
Madigan tried to smile.
“You okay, Vincent?”
“Yes,” he said. “Tired maybe.”
“You do look tired.”
“Yeah, just tired,” he said. He went back to the kitchen table and sat down. She followed him, sat where she had before—facing him, smiling now, her clean white T-shirt, her white teeth, her dark hair around her shoulders, her eyes, the smell of her . . . Had she put on perfume?
Oh Jesus, this is not the way to go . . .
“Can I ask you a question, Vincent?”
“Sure.”
“You ever get lonely?”
“Sure I do,” he replied.
“I mean, so lonely that you just want to be with someone . . . just next to someone, to feel the warmth of another human being right there beside you?”
He looked at her.
Her cheeks were flushed.
If this wasn’t an invitation . . .
“No,” he said. “We’re not going there, Isabella.” He tried to sound as definite and emphatic as he could.
“But . . .”
“You’re vulnerable. You’re lonely. So am I. Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?”
She got up. He knew she was going to come around the table.
“Isabella, no,” he said, and he raised his hand.
“Vincent . . .” she said, and she sat down once more.
“No,” he said. “You can’t do this. You do this and you’ll regret it.”
She got up again. Vincent rose too. He stepped back and the chair fell over, and then he felt himself getting angry.
She was right in front of him, and she had her hand on his arm. He steeled himself and felt tension in every muscle on his body, and then he closed his eyes for a second, preparing himself to do battle with this overwhelming desire to just grab her, but it was too late . . .
He felt her hand on his cheek, and when he opened his eyes her eyes were right there—inches from his.
She leaned forward. She kissed him.
Madigan did not respond.
She kissed him again.
He couldn’t help himself.
His arms on her shoulders, pulling her close against him, and the feeling of another body, the heat from her, the smell of her, the sensation of her hair against his skin, and his hands were around her waist, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last felt anything as powerful as this . . .
And then he froze.
You nearly killed her daughter.
You are not a good man.
You are an evil son of a bitch, and if she knew what you knew . . .
“I’m sorry,” he said. He pushed her away, held her at arm’s length, and in her eyes was a flash of hurt and rejection.
“No,” he said. “It’s not you . . . Seriously, it’s not you, Isabella. I promise you . . . Jesus Christ, this is me, this is all me. I can’t do this. I have to stay separate from this. I can’t get involved . . .”
“Involved?” she asked. “You can’t get involved? You are already involved, Vincent . . . I am here, right? I am right here in your kitchen. I am living in your house. You are hiding me from the people who killed my sister and shot my daughter—”
That’s what you think. You think Sandià was responsible for Melissa’s shooting.
“—and if that doesn’t make you involved, then I don’t know what the hell is going on in your head.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You know what I meant. It’s not that I don’t find you—”
“What? You seriously think I give a damn about whether or not you find me attractive? Jesus Christ, you are naive, Vincent Madigan. You really think that this was what it was all about? Hell no, I just thought that maybe we could fuck, okay? You think women just don’t want to get fucked sometimes. That’s all there is to it, Vincent. Women like to get laid too every once in a while. No strings, no complications, nothing at all but some straight-forward sex to ease the tension and take your mind off the pitiful bullshit that your life has become. That’s it, Vincent. What . . . you seriously thought I was in love with you or something? That I was all head over heels and you and me were going to get it together, and I was going to be your little Suzy Homemaker . . .”
“Enough,” Madigan said. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Oh, grow up, for Christ’s sake!”
“Shut your damned mouth!” Madigan snapped.
“You shut your damned mouth, you asshole!”
She took a minute step backward, and he saw it coming—the roundhouse. She let fly with an almighty swing, but he caught her forearm inches away from the moment of impact. He held her arm in a viselike grip. He was almost amazed at his own reaction time and strength. Her arm came at a hundred miles an hour and he just stopped it dead.
“You were going to slap me,” he said.
“You deserved it.”
“You’re a complete nightmare,” he said. “You are worse than both of my ex-wives put together.”
“And you were a real hotshot husband, I see . . . That’s how come you’re still so happily married.”
“Jesus Christ, you really have a negative side.”
“Yeah, and you’re Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky yourself, Vincent.”
She backed up, sat down, grabbed her glass, and emptied it.
“Get me some more wine,” she said.
Vincent hesitated, and then grabbed the bottle. He poured wine into her glass, overfilled it, saw it spill over the edge and across the table.
He caught her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling. He started to smile too.
“You are a hopeless bastard,” she said. “Never in my life have I ever seen a man turn down free, no-strings-attached sex.”
“Well, sister, if it had been anyone else but you—” He left the statement hanging.
“Oh, you son of a bitch,” she said.
Madigan reached for his cup. His heart was going at some phenomenal rate. The adrenaline rushed like . . . like what? He couldn’t even describe the feeling.
The taste of the whiskey in his mouth, the feeling in his chest—all of a sudden he didn’t want any more, but he knew that if he drank it the urge he had to just pounce on her would pass.
He had to withhold himself. This would not work. This was not the direction to go in.
“Maybe it is best,” Isabella said eventually. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to explain or justify anything to me,” he said.
“Other circumstances, and there would be no question. But we have to keep our minds focused on what we’re doing here. For you, for Melissa, for your sister, okay?”
“Now you make me feel cheap.”
“I’m sorry,” Madigan said. “I don’t mean to. I’m not so good at working out this kind of thing. I think what
I think and I say it.”
“That’s a good quality.”
“In some instances, yes, but in others that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do.”
“Well, in this instance . . .” She hesitated. “I think maybe you were right, Vincent. I know that in the morning you wouldn’t have respected me and I would have hated myself for stooping so low.”
Madigan smiled. “Touché.”
Isabella leaned forward and put her hand over Madigan’s. “You pretend so much to be the tough guy, the unreachable one, but you are just like everyone else,” she said. “Underneath all that bullshit and bravado there is a heart.”
“I am not who you think I am, Isabella.”
“I don’t know who you are, Vincent, so it doesn’t matter what I think. I’ve known you for two days, that’s all. Seems longer, but it’s only two days. You don’t get to know anyone in two days.”
“If I gave you twenty years you wouldn’t know everything about me.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re so hard to read, Detective Madigan.”
Madigan nodded. He smiled. He reached for the bottle. He didn’t challenge or deny; he didn’t refute or respond. This conversation was going nowhere.
Right now, all he wanted to do was drink himself into unconsciousness, and that—irrespective of what Isabella Arias might say or think—was what he was going to do.
“You gonna drink all of that?” she asked.
“Sure am,” he said, “and when I’m done, I may just go get another.”
“Well, if you’re going to be drunk for the rest of the night, then you can get me a coffee cup and I’ll join you.”
Later, somewhere in the small hours before daybreak, he woke. He was still dressed, Isabella was too, and they lay beside one another on the sofa.
He stayed silent, motionless, so as not to wake her, to not obscure the sound of her breathing. For that was the only sound he could hear, save for later when a moth wove some invisible web around the kitchen lightbulb in the hope of keeping that light forever.
He wondered about himself, his life, about Isabella and Melissa, about who in the department was working for Sandià . . .
He wondered about a great many things, and yet understood so very few.
It served no purpose to look at himself, and yet he couldn’t help it. He looked, he saw; he understood where he had begun and where he had ended up. Had he known that such a life awaited him . . .
