Touching the Dark

by Jane A. Adams

  Nat laughed shortly. “Not on that trip, man. It’s etched in blood.”

  “Then maybe there was someone else with you. Maybe Jack’s a nickname. Could be John or James or even Jonathan?”

  “What was his last name?”

  “Chalmers. Jack Chalmers.”

  “Nope, no one with that name on our crew. What did he look like?”

  Simon hesitated. Truthfully, he didn’t know. He started to speak but Nat held up a hand to silence him.

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t know why this is so important to you but think on a minute. If Tally doesn’t tell the truth about this then maybe there’s a reason. Have you talked to her about it? No I thought not. You’re being too much Mr junior investigative reporter and not enough Mr Tally Palmer. I worked with her. I liked her and when we were pushed into the corner she didn’t let us down. If she doesn’t want you to know something about her past ask yourself this. Are there things you don’t like to talk about maybe, that you’d bend the truth over? What’s it matter to you who was there that day?”

  Simon didn’t know what to say. He was aware that Nat waited for an answer but he had none to give.

  And he had none to give, now, he reminded himself. Not if he were honest with himself. No reason beyond the feeling that remained, that Tally was somehow subject to Jack’s will; that, and a simple, jealous need to know.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Traffic was heavy on the main road into town. He teetered on the curb edge, swaying dangerously, swamped by the wash of rain from the passing cars. He tried to think his way back to Tally’s flat and, dimly, the awareness came to him that he was headed completely in the wrong direction.

  He hadn’t been this drunk since...since the night he met Nat Sullivan.

  *

  That night in London Simon had gone out on the town with Nat Sullivan, club hopping like he hadn’t done since his student days. Somewhere along the line they had met up with a couple of Sullivan’s friends, Claire and Antonia and the four of them had spent the last hour or so getting increasingly pissed. Simon had felt guilty when Claire had first attached herself, but as the night got later and then earlier and the club they finished up in became more fragmented by the blur of alcohol Simon stopped worrying and got down to having some serious fun, regretting only the increased lack in the co-ordination department.

  The girls were relaxing company. Pretty, lively and, Claire especially, funny with it. The low intensity relationship was a relief, though he didn’t go so far as to put that into words, even inside his own head. For all that he was crazy about Tally, life with her was so concentrated it could be hard to maintain.

  Somewhere around three thirty in the morning the four of them wandered drunkenly back to Sullivan’s flat and Nat and Antonia took themselves off to the bedroom leaving Simon and Claire alone.

  “I could do with a coffee,” Claire confided, glancing into the kitchen. “Do you want to make me one? Nat won’t mind?” She wandered off muttering something about the bathroom and Simon went into the kitchen wondering if he could still remember how to handle an electric kettle.

  Even through the heavy load of alcohol he could see how the night might develop. It didn’t take any brains to know what Nat and Antonia had in mind and it seemed kind of rude to say no to Claire. After all, she was an attractive lady with her long brown hair and big tits barely concealed beneath a bright red top.

  But then there was Tally.

  “Can’t do it to her,” Simon told himself. “Got a girlfriend and I can’t do it to her.”

  He tried to get his head around telling Claire ready for when she got back, but she seemed in no hurry to return. This was a disadvantage considering Simon’s brain had become incapable of holding onto information for long, even if it could get it together in the first place.

  Tally, he thought. Want to talk to Tally. Then it would be easy to say no to Claire, be nice about it but still say no.

  He fumbled in his pocket for the mobile and squinted at the tiny numbers on the little black pads. It took him a couple of attempts to get it right but finally he remembered that her number was already programmed and he didn’t have to press more than two.

  Tally’s phone rang several times and Simon glanced up at the kitchen clock, realising vaguely that it was after three. “Must be asleep,” he told Claire who had wandered back into the room. “Three in the morning...and a bit...must be sleeping.”

  Then a man’s voice said hello.

  For a moment, Simon was stunned. Thoughts of a wrong number entered his head and then stalled.

  “Who is this?” he managed to say, his words slurred and untidy.

  “Oh,” the voice said. “You must be Simon. Good night out, Simon?”

  “Jack? Is that Jack? I want to talk to Tally.”

  The man laughed and hung up. Stupidly, Simon stared at the mobile phone then he threw it angrily onto the kitchen counter. Drunk or sober, there was only one reason Simon could think of for Jack being there at 3am.

  *

  Simon woke the following morning with a violent hangover and only a vague memory of the night before. He was lying on Nat’s sofa with one leg dangling and a crick in his neck which only added to his pain. Nat was crashing around in the kitchen and the smell of frying bacon added nausea to Simon’s list of misery.

  Somehow he struggled to his feet and headed for the bathroom, not certain whether the need to pee was greater than the need to puke. His bladder won. Just. Nat was standing in the kitchen doorway when he staggered back.

  “Good night?” Nat said, winking at him. “Claire says to look her up next time you’re down this way.”

  “Claire?”

  Nat tutted at him. “My, but we did have a skinful last night.” He came over and handed Simon something disgusting looking in a tall glass. “Drink this then come and have breakfast. After that I’ll have to chuck you out, my friend. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  A little later, over a breakfast that Simon was surprised he was able to eat, he told Nat about his phone call to Tally.

  “Sounds like you have a rival there, my man.”

  “What did you think to her, when you worked together?”

  Nat cocked an eyebrow at him. “The hangover obviously makes you more direct,” he said. “You spent all of last night not asking me that.”

  Simon smiled wryly.

  “Obsessive,” Nat told him. “But then, you have to be. Talented, beautiful and totally impossible to get inside of...if you see what I mean.”

  “She and O’Dowd. They were really close though.”

  Nat whistled. “And how. They had a real thing going for a while then Tally started getting all distant on him. Said she needed space or something. I figured they’d just burned too hot, you know what it’s like sometimes. You want something to last you have to go for the slow smoulder.

  “Then Jon was killed.” He sobered suddenly as though touching too much reality.

  “And Tally was there.”

  “Yeah. He was shot down right in front of her. In front of all of us.”

  He got up and crossed to the shelves stacked high with videos. Selected one and handed it to Simon.

  “I’ll want it back,” he said. “And, Simon, don’t let Tally see it. Ok?”

  Shocked, Simon realized what Nat Sullivan had given to him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There were lights on in Tally’s flat. Lights on in most of the building for that matter. Simon peered at his watch and realized to his surprise that it was a little short of nine o clock. He could have sworn that it was later, much later, the memories of that night in London with Pat Sullivan had become so intertwined with his present that he felt utterly disorientated.

  He stared up at Tally’s windows. Bedroom light on, one in the living room another in the kitchen. In the kitchen, the blind was open and he could see a figure moving against the light.

  “Tally,” he shouted. “Tally, come down and talk to me, or do
I have to come up there?”

  A couple hurried by, huddled together under their umbrella. Simon saw them looking.

  “My girlfriend,” he told them. “Up there. Doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  They looked away and crossed the road.

  Simon sighed heavily. A small part of his brain was doing its best to sober up and was telling him that he should go away, go home, sleep this off and try again, maybe when he was actually capable of stringing a full sentence together. It was good advice, Simon thought briefly, then he caught sight of a second figure, coming from the bedroom, passing behind the living room blinds, casting a shadow that was certainly not Tally Palmer’s.

  “Jack,” Simon whispered. “She’s fucking well got Jack there.”

  Incensed now, the tiny part of his brain capable of making sense was soon swamped by the macho sense of outrage that welled up in the rest, Simon shouted again.

  “Tally. I know he’s with you. Tally. I need to talk. Tally...”

  *

  That seeming so long ago morning when he had left Pat Sullivan’s flat he hadn’t known how or what to think. He’d crossed London and collected his car. His friends were at work and he was grateful for that, he didn’t think he could handle more conversation. Neither could he face the motorway. He headed instead for the A1, a longer route but one that would give him more time to sort out his thoughts. He felt deeply confused and more than a little guilty as memories of the night before – or rather, earlier that morning, began to surface and the vision of Claire’s naked breasts bouncing close to his face gave him reason for pause. A part of him argued that “things” with Claire had happened after he had tried to call Tally and that he was entitled to have a fling if that’s what Tally was doing. After all, she obviously thought so little of their relationship that she would entertain Jack at all hours of the night.

  The more equitable side of him argued that he’d still behaved like a scum bag. Going behind her back, trying to catch her in some meaningless lie, breaking his own rules by indulging in a one night stand...trying to remember if they’d used anything.

  But it didn’t stop him feeling angry and hurt. Love, he decided has no logic and little sense of fair play.

  He found a lay by and pulled in. Tally wasn’t at home, the phone merely ringing out into an empty flat. On her mobile she sounded rushed. Simon came straight to the point.

  “I called you,” he said. “Jack answered. It was nearly 4am.”

  At first Tally was silent, then she said, “He came round.”

  “At that time of the morning?”

  “Jack is an old friend. It doesn’t matter when he comes round. I mean,” she went on. “You called me at four in the morning, so what’s the difference?”

  “You’re supposed to be going out with me. I thought we had something, Tally.”

  “I don’t do possessiveness, Simon. You want me, you accept all of me and that includes my friends. You don’t like it...”

  She left it in the air and Simon hung up on her.

  He felt bad, particularly remembering Carol or Claire or whatever her name was. He actually remembered perfectly, but somehow, pretending not to eased his conscience a little.

  He took his time getting home, thinking of what Pat O’Sullivan had told him about Jack not being at Mamolo and what he had said about Tally. Who the hell was Jack and why was Tally lying about such a stupid thing?

  He reached for the phone again, breaking another of his rules about using the mobile while driving. He wanted to call her back and then he changed his mind. The things he had to say could not be said over the telephone.

  *

  Simon’s shouts had become annoying and someone had called the police. They pulled across the entrance to the car park and Simon found himself bathed in summer blue light as the neon caught him, blinding him as he turned.

  “A bit loud, aren’t we sir?”

  “What?” For a moment Simon couldn’t work it out.

  “Your shouting, Sir. A bit loud wasn’t it? You’re upsetting people.”

  “I just came to see my girlfriend. She lives up there.”

  “It might be easier then just to ring the bell, don’t you think?”

  “She doesn’t want to see me. She’s got Jack there.”

  “Then wouldn’t it be better just to take yourself off home?”

  “Not ’til I’ve talked to her. Tally!” Simon turned his back on them and shouted again. He’d really left them with little option. The quick cuffs were on and they were leading him to the car almost before he knew it.

  “What. Hey, let go of me.” Simon struggled, swinging around to free himself from the officer’s grasp. “I’m not doing anything. This is intimidation. Let the fuck go of me.” He swung his head wildly, cracking one of the officers hard across the jaw. The blow sent both the policeman and Simon staggering. Then the pain was in Simon’s wrists as the second policeman twisted lightly on the cuffs. Simon gasped and dropped, his right knee hitting the ground. Water seeping rapidly into his trouser leg. Then he was on his feet again and being posted through the police car’s open door.

  “Mind your head there, sir. That’s right.” The door slammed shut and through the rain hazed window Simon could see the officer checking on his colleague. They turned to look at Simon, one dropping his head to peer in through the window of the car and it dawned on Simon, that sensible fragment of his brain chipping in again, that he was in deep shit. Though some of his contemporaries had experienced brushes with the law. A good friend of Simon’s had been caught stealing cars, but Simon had avoided this. He’d done nothing to attract unwonted attention, and not frequented the places where trouble brewed or lived in an area where just being black had made him a target. This was a whole new experience and he was at a loss.

  Two things, two thoughts sprang unbidden to him mind. The first was to wonder what his mam would say. The second he blurted out loud. “I’m a friend of Alec Friedman’s,” Simon said. “D.I Alec Friedman. I want to talk to him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Sorry to drag you down here this time of night,” the custody sergeant told Alec, “but he’s in a right state. We’ve got the doc coming, but god knows how long that will take and the only sense we can get out of him is that he wants to see you.”

  “You say he was standing in the rain shouting for his girlfriend,” Alec confirmed.”

  “Ex, from what we can gather. We tried to persuade him to go quietly, as I told you on the phone, but he wasn’t having any. We’d had three calls from the neighbours, so we couldn’t just leave him there.”

  “But the girlfriend, Miss Palmer, she didn’t call in?”

  “No. Not a peep out of her. We’ve sent uniform round to check things out. Make sure there’s nothing else we should know about.”

  Alec nodded. Domestic disturbances of one sort or another could get nasty. Or have started out that way though he doubted this would apply in Simon’s case. Simon was just a fool, presently, a drunken fool. “He’s not violent,” Alec said. “But I know he’s been upset by the split.”

  “Upset! Screaming like a girl by the time we got him here. Then he threw up.”

  Alec grimaced. Sick drunks were a pain in everyone backside. Regulations said you had to check up on them at least every fifteen minutes in case they passed out and choked on their own vomit. Having to resuscitate when that happened was enough to turn you off police work altogether.

  Alec had been at Naomi’s when the call had come through and he was not best pleased at being forced to get up and dressed and back out into the cold.

  “Anyone told his parents?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “He’s asked for no one but you.”

  Alec nodded. “Ok, he said. Let’s take a look at him.”

  Simon didn’t even raise his head when they opened the cell door. He was seated on the narrow bunk with his head resting in his hands. A blanket had been thrown around his shoulders but even so he was shaking as
though chilled through.

  Alec sat down beside him, wrinkling his nose. Simon stank of vomit and booze and damp clothes and police cell. Naomi commented often these days on the particular odour of people and places and it had heightened Alec’s own awareness. Police cells, however often they were hosed out and disinfected still carried the same embedded stink within the very plaster of their walls. Alcohol and piss and despair and, Alec had noted, something like the faintest odour of wet dog. It got into your nose, your clothes, your pores and Alec sometimes wondered if those who claimed they could “smell a pig a mile off” might actually subconsciously be on to something.

  “Simon?” he said.

  The young man half turned his head, shifting his hands and letting them fall heavily down between his knees.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared, Alec.”

  He seemed to have calmed down at any rate, Alec thought.

  “What were you playing at?”

  Simon smiled wryly. “Getting pissed. Making a nuisance of myself. Did she call the police?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “And wouldn’t tell me anyway?” He sighed and straightened painfully, leaned back against the wall. Alec winced. Touching the cell walls was something he would never willingly do. He’d seen what got smeared on them. The shit and vomit and blood. He could never convince himself that it really washed away.

  “I really don’t know.” He said. “Simon, what the hell did you hope to achieve? I thought you agreed. It was time to let it go.”

  “Thought I could do it too,” he shrugged. “Then I saw her again. At a party in London. She didn’t speak to me. Left as soon as she realized that I was there.” He took a deep and quavering breath. “He was with her.”

  “Who?”

  “Jack. I told you about Jack. I know it was him.”

  Alec was confused for a moment. “You know...Simon, have you ever actually met this Jack?”

  Reluctantly, Simon shook his head.

  “Then it could have been just anyone. Naomi told me you had a date lined up for the party anyway.”