Waking Broken

by Huw Thomas

‘No.’ Rebecca shook her head. ‘I don’t get so drunk I forget what I’m saying.’

  Sarah’s eyebrows rose. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes! Of course. Well…’ She looked a little less certain when she saw Sarah’s face and shrugged awkwardly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about that time we went to the Blink launch party and cleared up all that champagne? You remember confessing you’d once had a crush on Tony?’

  ‘Did I?’ Rebecca went red. ‘No. I didn’t. Did I?’

  Sarah gave her a look. ‘No, actually you didn’t. That was at last year’s Christmas party.’

  ‘Oh god. That’s terrible.’ Rebecca looked confused. ‘But that doesn’t prove anything. Even supposing you’re right and maybe I did tell Fergus about Martin, how would someone like Harper find out? You didn’t know and if anyone was going to know it would have been you. Fergus would have been about the only other possibility and he’s not from here. I knew him in Edinburgh six years ago. Last I heard he was living in Australia with that woman.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘I don’t know. That’s what’s bugging me. But there must be all kind of possibilities. Maybe you did tell Fergus about it, or you let something slip and he put two and two together. Maybe he met Harper somewhere and they got talking. Or maybe Harper met this man, Martin. Maybe they were drinking in a pub or something and Martin started boasting to Harper about this young girl he got into bed once.’

  Rebecca looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t.’

  But her tone was unconvincing and both women knew that she did not really know. It was an improbable scenario but not impossible.

  Sarah took her arm. ‘Okay, girlie. Well, let’s look at it another way. Just forgetting all the weirdness for a minute, supposing you had just met him somewhere ordinary: what do you think? Would he be a contender? Do you think you could see yourself with him?’

  Rebecca gave a wry smile. ‘Well, that’s one of the other strange things. You see, he said we’d met at this party three years ago. It was the paper’s big Christmas party and Tony took me along. And the thing is, that part is true. I did go to the party with Tony and I remember meeting him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. We even spoke for a few minutes. I think that’s how come I remembered him when he came up to me in the street.’

  ‘And?’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘He was already drunk. It was only early but he was already well on the way. We chatted for a bit and I think he might even have been trying to chat me up; he was certainly flirting. But… I don’t know…’

  She sighed. ‘He was alright but he was just another drunk at a party. I wasn’t in the mood for that. I wanted to have a good time, not get cornered by the first guy to overdo it on the free bar. I don’t really remember but I think I just made my excuses and left him to it. He might have fancied me but he can’t have been that serious; he didn’t leave the bar to come after me.’

  She stopped and turned to face Sarah. ‘But the thing is, when I saw him last night he was different.’

  ‘What, loopier?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sober?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, but that’s not it.’ Rebecca waved her hands in the air with frustration, unsure how to express something she did not really understand herself. ‘He seemed more… I don’t know… sincere somehow. He was sober and he was messed up but he was also serious. I didn’t get the feeling he was messing around. I think he really believed what he was telling me and it was weird but somehow it was kind of believable too. It wasn’t like I took one look at him and thought ‘no way’. That’s one of the things that’s been really bothering me. I think that if I had met him under different circumstances, or even if it had been later that same night, something might have happened. What he was telling me might have been possible.’

  Sarah looked uncertain. ‘Maybe.’ She sighed and took Rebecca’s hands, squeezing them in hers. She looked sad. ‘There is one other possibility.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, maybe when you met him at the party, that’s when it happened. Maybe he was drunk but he fell in love with you and then you went off. He might have been obsessing about you ever since. Maybe he’s built all his fantasies on that meeting, thinking what might have happened if it had gone differently.’

  Rebecca shook her head, reluctant to accept the explanation but unable to refute the logic.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Then he has this accident and gets a knock on the head and it all gets twisted up. Now he can’t tell which part is fantasy and what’s not. It’s all a dream but he doesn’t know it and now he’s trying to convince you it’s true as well.’

  15. The Horse’s Mouth

  Wednesday, 1.42pm:

  The wine bar was busy. Themed to the latest trend in metropolitan décor: it was right in the centre of the city’s main business area. Only a few months old, it already attracted a steady clientele of young professionals and other members of the fashionable herd prepared to pay good money to be seen wherever was in vogue.

  The man who made his way to table sixteen appeared a little older than most in the room. Otherwise, he did not seem out of place. His suit was only a few months old and his hair cropped and teased in all the right places. His tan was genuine and he seemed comfortable with his personality. Weaving slightly to avoid an incoming waiter, he slipped into the empty chair.

  ‘Nelson.’ He greeted the short, redheaded man already at the table. ‘Sorry I’m late. Judge took his time on the summing up.’

  Cole smiled and waved dismissively. ‘Don’ worry about it, my friend. Wheels of justice gotta turn, eh?’

  The newcomer snorted. ‘They’d already done that. His honour seemed to think he had something to get off his chest. Don’t know why the old bugger bothers, no one’s interested in his pontificating. Anyway, we got our result, that’s what matters.’

  ‘Ah well, you’ll be wantin’ somethin’ to celebrate with.’ The ex-dancer reached languidly for a bottle of white wine sitting in a cooler. ‘I got a bottle in to start us off. Nice Chardonnay: fresh little number, full of flowers. Glass?’

  Inspector Robert Glasgow leant back in his chair and stretched his arms, pulling the muscles in his shoulders taut. He held the pose for a moment, smiling. He was anticipating a pleasant afternoon. ‘Sure.’

  The two men sat in silence for a while, sipping wine and watching the room: one surveying the women, one the men. After a while, they caught each other’s eye and grinned.

  Cole gave a brief giggle. ‘Anything you like, sir?’

  Glasgow smiled. ‘Oh I think I’ve spotted something.’

  The other man raised an eyebrow. ‘And what takes sir’s fancy then?’

  ‘Over to your left,’ said Glasgow, ‘near the window, table of four. Dirty little blonde facing us: she’d do nicely. A few hours with her would be fun.’

  ‘Nah.’ Cole shook his head. He lifted one hand and gave a little wave. The girl sitting on the other side of the wine bar caught his eye. She looked away but only after meeting his gaze. ‘You could do better than her. You’re gettin’ too predictable my friend. There’s a dozen of her sort here every day.’

  Glasgow shrugged. ‘That’s not a problem. One or two at a time would do.’

  Cole grinned and gave a dirty laugh. ‘But why her? She’s not special. Nothin’ wrong with her but everythin’s on show, there’s no class. You wanna try somethin’ a little more sophisticated. There was a lovely one in earlier: dark hair, cheekbones to die for, very tasteful. Shame you missed her.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Glasgow. ‘She was slim, bit of a waif, an elegant dresser?’

  Cole looked surprised. ‘You know who I mean?’

  The detective shook his head. ‘No. But I know what you’re like. You’re the one getting predictable; you’re trying to choose women you would fancy.’

  The redhead looked baffled. ‘Eh? Women I’d fancy. Come on Rob, you know me better than that.’
/>   Glasgow took a long sip of wine and gave Cole a level stare.

  ‘What?’ said the smaller man indignantly.

  ‘So, you don’t fancy girls,’ said the policeman. ‘Let me guess, though. This dark-haired one, she was slim, yeah?’

  Cole nodded.

  ‘No tits?’

  The redhead pulled a face. ‘You’re so… crude.’

  Glasgow grinned. ‘Yeah but my point is, she wasn’t exactly curvy.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Bit like a pretty boy then?’

  Cole looked at the policeman blankly before bursting into a fit of high-pitched laughter. He thumped himself on the chest and wiped his eyes. ‘Oh… fuck. You got me bang to rights, guv'nor.’

  There was a discrete cough from behind. The two men turned together. A young waiter with spiked hair and a bored expression gave his menu pad a lazy flap. ‘You gents want anything to eat?’

  ‘Oh yes, please.’ Cole looked the boy up and down. He winked at Glasgow and turned back to the waiter. ‘I’ll have you.’

  The two men made their way into Cole’s office. It was a large room with glass walls overlooking one of his dance and fitness centres. Perched up high, the occupants could look through one-way mirrors at a gym on one side and a dance studio on the other. A small man with Chinese features opened the door for them before slipping away as Cole led them inside. The ex-dancer lowered his compact frame into the padded chair at the desk and waved Glasgow to the steel and leather sofa at one side.

  ‘Have a pew, my friend. Let’s get the business out of the way. Then you can get on with enjoyin’ yourself.’

  Glasgow raised an eyebrow as he sat down. ‘Sounds like you’re not planning on joining me?’

  Cole looked rueful. ‘Not this time. Goes against the grain, eh? Doesn’t seem right lettin’ you enjoy yourself without me to keep you company.’

  ‘Too right,’ said the policeman. ‘It won’t be half the fun.’

  Cole smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure you can manage without me for once. I’ll make sure you’re in good hands.’

  Glasgow gave a mock sigh. ‘Oh well, I guess I’ll have to be bad for both of us.’ He leant back and gave Cole a quizzical look. ‘So what’s so crucial you can’t make playtime? Must be quite important. Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  The redhead gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘It’s just bad timin’. Somethin’s come up I need to sort.’

  Glasgow’s eyes narrowed. ‘To do with this business you asked me about?’

  Cole looked out at the dance studio. Down below, a dozen middle-aged women strutted and stepped to music the two men could only hear as a low murmur. He was silent for a moment then waved his hands. ‘Yeah… it is.’

  Glasgow looked thoughtful. ‘Sounds like this is more important than you’ve been letting on.’

  Cole glanced back at his friend. There was a glimmer of damp in his eyes. Then his expression hardened. ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘That’s what I need to find out.’

  ‘Okay,’ the policeman nodded. He pulled a couple of sheets of paper from inside his jacket and reached over to slide them onto the desk. ‘I’ve summarised the main points.’ Glasgow shrugged. ‘But to be honest there’s not much to go on. I’ve asked around and there’s nothing really concrete but…’

  ‘Somethin’s goin’ on.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Cole’s lips narrowed and he shot Glasgow an angry stare. ‘So why haven’t you lot been doin’ anythin’?’ he snapped. ‘They just whores to you? Not regular citizens?’

  ‘Hey! Steady.’ Glasgow held up his hands. ‘It’s not like that.’

  The policeman sat silently for a moment and Cole looked away, embarrassed by his brief loss of control.

  Glasgow ran a hand lightly over his hair. He frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. ‘Believe me, Nelson, it’s not like that, not at all. I mean, sure, some people might think that but not all of us. And there’s limits. Some things are too serious to draw distinctions.’

  Cole nodded but did not turn round, continuing to stare down into the dance studio where the tempo was starting to move up a couple of notches.

  His friend shook his head. ‘No, the problem is lack of information. All we’ve got is vague allegations, a couple of unsubstantiated reports but nothing else. Not enough to ring any alarm bells.’ He sighed. ‘Thing is, because of who we’re dealing with there tends to be a bit of a trust issue. It’s hard for us to get facts that stand up and, let’s face it, we’ve heard rumours but so far there haven’t been any bodies. Well… not that anyone’s told us about.’

  16. Missing Links

  Wednesday, 2.55pm:

  Harper turned the corner and continued along Carson Street. It was mid-afternoon and after an aimless morning prowling the city centre he was returning to Brendan’s flat. The photographer was on the early shift. By now, he should be finished and on his way home. Harper needed someone to talk to and — with Rebecca unavailable — his other choice was Brendan.

  Harper had lost the habit of being a social animal. Growing up in Penzance, a lively network of contacts had made sure he was rarely lonely or bored. Some were close friends, others little more than drinking acquaintances. Most of the former — like Harper — had left home pretty much as soon as they could. They wanted pastures more exciting and lucrative than a run-down fishing port at the furthest end of the country. Now, Harper’s contact with his oldest friends was little more than a Christmas card and the occasional phone call bemoaning the fact they never met up any more.

  Arriving in strange towns during his first few jobs as a journalist, Harper tried with limited success to replicate the camaraderie of his teens and early twenties. When he moved to The Post, he made a real effort to get out, make friends and build up a life. Brendan was one of the first people he met. Born and bred in the wilds of Donegal, the photographer was already one of the paper’s longest-serving members of staff. Happily describing himself as ‘bog Irish’, Brendan’s original ambition was to become a wildlife photographer in Africa. Thirty years on, the great dream was still just that: largely because Brendan never quite plucked up the courage to cross the English Channel. Once behind a camera lens, little flustered him: hostile football crowds, burning buildings, gory accidents, a British town centre on a Friday night or aggressive court defendants who did not want their faces splashed across the paper. But faced with the prospect of ferries, planes or people speaking foreign languages, Brendan’s confidence slipped away and his plans for his real career went back on hold for one more year.

  Most people never saw through Brendan’s Irish bluster. He was good company in times of crisis or celebration, as well as being a competent photographer. It was only over time that Harper realised Brendan’s easy-going manner concealed a life tinged with disappointment and unrealised ambition.

  Harper first teamed up with Brendan when he went to the Christmas party thrown by his new employers. The event was similar to what passed for festive generosity at any number of large companies. In return for a couple of free bottles of cheap wine, the staff were obliged to sit through a corporate ‘pep talk’, delivered by some top floor apparatchik with no clue about how the ground floor actually worked. That year, the paper excelled itself, hiring a guest speaker so dull even the MD made his excuses and left the room.

  Not wanting to stretch to paying for a different venue for the staff to let their hair down, the festivities had taken place in the same offices where the Post’s wage slaves spent their days. With the speaker gradually clearing the company’s tinsel-draped canteen, Harper and Brendan were among several escapees standing in the paper’s smart atrium when the headman and his entourage departed. Five minutes later, Harper was trying the door to the top floor’s corporate hospitality suite. Finding it open, he let himself in and made his way towards the bar. As he reached for a bottle of whisky from the shelf, Brendan stepped from the shadows and offered him a glass.

  That was the start of a long evening and the two
men went on to become close confidantes. Despite the age gap and a number of other differences, they made a good team and their friendship soon developed into more than a mere drinking partnership. Brendan did not quite become a father figure to Harper but he made a pretty good sounding board when needed. Conversely, the photographer was happy to have the ear of a younger man who took him seriously when he talked about one day stalking wildlife in the Masai Mara.

  While Harper’s friendship with Brendan had remained strong — in both of his lives — other bonds had faded away. Part of that was due to the fact that, like many dailies, The Post had a regular turnover of staff. Several of the reporters Harper got to know when he first arrived had already left and moved on to other jobs.

  But over the last few years, Harper had also become much more selective over how he spent his time. He no longer accepted any invitation that came his way. Pointless pastimes began to seem just that. Hours and days had value. Time was no longer solely for passing; it was space to be used and filled. Concepts like purpose and worth started to creep into his evaluation of opportunities.

  The catalyst for that change had been a sudden one. Harper was sitting outside a pub on a sunny afternoon when his mobile rang. It was his mother calling to tell him his father had suffered a massive coronary and was at that moment undergoing emergency surgery.

  For a few minutes, Harper could not take the idea seriously. He had never been close to his father; the man was too unapproachable. His father always seemed such a powerful figure: stern, commanding and above all vital. It seemed incomprehensible he could be in danger of losing his life. But his father never recovered from the heart attack. The emotional shock that followed, of seeing his father first as a frail and vulnerable human wreck and then as an empty body, hit Harper more violently than any physical blow.

  Up until that unforgettable summer’s day, Harper was drifting. No plan governed his existence: no ambition and no real concerns. All he possessed was the immortality of the careless. But the loss of his father changed everything. It was as if the shock flipped a hidden switch. For the first time, he was aware of his own mortality. A new awareness of the fragility of existence made him begin to question the value and achievements — or lack of — in his own life.