Subpoena Colada

by Mark Dawson

  ‘I had no idea,’ Cohen says.

  I can’t believe he’s still talking.

  Now Cohen is saying something else, completely unable to shut the fuck up, doubtless blabbing about my so-called drinking problem, but the sudden blowing of the hand-dryer obliterates the rest of the conversation. I strain my ears but I can’t catch a word. When the dryer finally stops, the silence suggests that they’ve both gone.

  Finally, at last, I’m sick.

  TIME FOR A CHANGE OF SCENE?

  Back in my room, I start to wonder: would it be such a bad thing to lose my job? Maybe this is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The motivation I’ve been lacking for too long, the impetus to do something worthwhile with my life. Something different. The clean break.

  As I sit at my desk, looking sadly around at the beige walls that have surrounded me for nine hours a day, five days a week, an intention to do something drastic coalesces in my mind.

  What have I got left here? Nothing. My ex-girlfriend hates me. My ex-client might be a murderer. My best friend has betrayed me. I’m going to lose my job and, anyway, do I really still enjoy it? I’ve got no money and it’s just a matter of time before the bank repossesses a flat I can no longer afford. I have no ties, nothing to dampen the sudden enthusiasm for change that is settling over me.

  There’s no reason for me to stay here.

  My mood brightens as ideas start to form.

  I’ll need funds. I place a call to my financial adviser and ask him to cash in my life assurance policy.

  HOLIDAY MONEY

  I find one of the letters we received from Pattersons, the firm acting for the Dahlias, and take it to the photocopier. By placing a sheet of paper over the body of the letter, then carefully positioning both sheets on the plate and copying it onto prime quality engrossment paper, I produce decent fakes of their blank letterhead. I slot them into the printer tray.

  I start typing.

  The first three letters, one addressed to each of the three banks administering accounts on Brian’s behalf, purport to be from the solicitors acting for the Dahlias. I tell them the Freezing Orders securing Brian’s accounts have been discharged. Dealings with the accounts may now take place without restriction.

  These letters are complemented by the second series of three, these also sent to Brian’s banks. These are transfer requests, instructing the contents of the accounts to be transferred immediately. I sign the letters in Brian’s name, tracing over a signature he gave us when we opened his file. After a couple of practices, it looks authentic. I stick a second-class stamp to each envelope, ensuring that the first series of fakes will have had time to arrive and be processed first.

  I reckon I’ve got until next Wednesday to make the arrangements for receiving the money.

  NOTHING TO SAY

  Cohen comes into the office. ‘Hi,’ he says.

  I don’t reply. My brows are clenched hard and I can feel the line of my jaw hardening as my teeth grind against each other.

  I pick up my briefcase and leave the room.

  BECAUSE NOW IT ALL MAKES SENSE

  Outside, stomping footprints into the snow as I wait for a taxi, I begin to put it all together. I can see what’s been going on. Suddenly it’s obvious. I’ve been a fool. Everyone’s been taking advantage of me. Cohen and Dawkins have been conspiring.

  Maybe Rachel’s involved too. Maybe she got me drunk on Monday so I messed up in court. What’s to say the Dork didn’t give her instructions before I met her? She admitted herself she’d been doing some work for him earlier in the day. She’s certainly ambitious; maybe she sees Dawkins as a better bet than me.

  It all stacks up. All the pieces fit.

  Cohen keeps an eye on me in the office and passes information to the Dork. I can imagine more secret assignations in the toilets, whispering gossip and noxious rumours. Dawkins passes everything on to Fulton and Wilson and Renwick, anyone who needs to have his or her opinion of me revised.

  Meanwhile Rachel gets me so smashed I mess up an important court hearing. And the Dork has been poisoning Davey’s mind against me - at the concert, at the funeral - criticizing me, telling him that losing the case was all my fault, that I’m negligent, that I’m a liability. He complains to Fulton and it’s the final straw.

  I can’t believe I didn’t see this earlier.

  And why is Cohen doing this - my so-called best friend? Cohen knows Dawkins is a shoo-in for the partnership. Cohen knows he doesn’t stand a chance against him. Maybe the Dork has promised to put a good word in for him to make sure that he gets made up next year.

  There’s no point in waiting around. I need to do this now before I give myself the chance to bottle it and change my mind. I have the taxi stop outside a travel agent’s. Inside, I buy a ticket to Rio de Janeiro with the proceeds of my life assurance, a seat on the red-eye leaving early on Wednesday morning.

  BRIAN’S PLAN

  An eastbound cab headed home. I’m watching the rush hour disperse into the gloaming of the early evening streets, and my mobile rings. The caller ID displays my home number.

  ‘Hello, Brian,’ I say slowly.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Why?’ I try to hide the wariness in my reply.

  ‘Because I’ve got a plan - for tonight.’

  ‘I’m on my way home. I need sleep.’

  ‘Sleep can wait.’

  I have no idea how to broach the subject of the tapes and pictures. If Brian figures out that I’m having suspicions about him being involved in French’s death, what would he do? If he’s already killed once, it would be the easiest thing for him to suffocate me in my sleep, or poison me, or shoot me… and no one knows he’s staying with me. No one would suspect him if I suddenly disappeared.

  ‘I’m not up for much tonight, Brian,’ I say. ‘All I want to do is chill out.’

  ‘Come on - I was out last night until fuck knows when, but I’m still up for going out again.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ I ask suspiciously.

  ‘Just into town. I was upset about what happened at the funeral. Got hammered, not that that’s anything out of the ordinary. But anyway, the idea for tonight-’

  ‘Listen, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Let me finish,’ he says. ‘There’s a new club opening tonight, and I’ve got us both VIP tickets. I thought maybe we could check it out?’

  ‘Don’t you ever take it easy?’ I ask. ‘Is the concept of a quiet night at home completely alien to you?’

  ‘There’s fun to be had, Dan,’ he says. ‘We’re not staying home. I forbid it.’

  ‘I’d rather not. Why don’t you-?’

  ‘Enough,’ he says theatrically. ‘You’re coming and that’s that.’

  I grunt in resignation.

  ‘Oh, and you’ve got a message on the answerphone,’ he adds. ‘I was in the bath and I heard it while it was recording. I think it’s that girl I spoke to the other day.’

  ‘Don’t touch it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Before the conversation concludes I gather that Brian is in the kitchen. I can hear a food processor whirring in the background. And I don’t even have a food processor. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ I ask the cabby.

  ANSWERPHONE

  I fly to the answerphone as soon as I’m through the door. Brian sidles up alongside as the tape spools back and replays:

  ‘Hi, Daniel. It’s Hannah. I know we haven’t spoken for a while but I need to talk to you. It’s very important. I was wondering if we could meet up? How about six-thirty tomorrow, somewhere neutral - let’s say Soho. At the Groucho. Is that OK? I’ll see you then.’

  My first thought: I’ve missed her call, again. I dial 147I but she must have withheld the number. I still don’t know where to reach her.

  My second thought: what could Hannah possibly want to see me for?

  My third thought: Hannah’s the only person who can make me change my mind.

  ‘Sou
nds positive,’ Brian says.

  ‘I doubt it. She probably just wants the rest of her stuff back.’

  ‘Well,’ Brian says, ‘Saturday night comes around and I’m out of here. I’m not going to get in your way.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ I ask. Perhaps he’s ready to disappear. Maybe I should call the police to tip them off.

  ‘Around,’ he says. ‘I’ll be around. I’ll crash with Davey for a bit or something. I know I’ve taken advantage, and I feel bad about it. Don’t want to cramp your style with your woman, do I?’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘Anyway, if this is my last night here, we’re definitely having some fun. I’ve cooked us a meal- you like steak, don’t you? - and then we’re going out.’

  NIGHTCLUB

  Later, after a steak and some wine, a dozen more drinks, numerous lines of coke and a tab of E each, we hit the town.

  Eventually it comes to this: a nightclub-somewhere, some time later, that might be Dogstar, Babushkar, Fabric or Subterania, and I’m alone in a booth with Brian, watching the dancefloor, scouting the girls and scoping for dealers, downing more whisky to steady my nerves. Brian suggested this - that we should move on after the party at the new club lost its shine. He said something about the benefits of perpetual motion, of never staying in one place for too long. I was too dazed to pay attention, much less disagree.

  My short-term memory: too full of snatches of conversation, glimpsed faces, girls, music, dancing, drink, pills.

  We’re both drunk. I’ve been standing rounds for people I’ve never met, spending money I don’t have yet, money that belongs to the Black Dahlias’ record label. I’ve been the life and soul of a dozen different parties. I remember bellowing that drinks were on the house in more than one of the stopovers on our never-ending trip. All I can think of is short-term. And it’s all just distraction.

  I’ve been trying to find the right moment to talk to Brian. I don’t know where to start. How do you accuse someone of murder?

  Because that’s what I’d be doing, accusing him of hanging someone he once considered his best friend. I can’t do it. Maybe I’m too afraid of what he might say. Or what he might do?

  Now Brian’s talking to me: ‘Those videos in the flat,’ he slurs, ‘of that show - Skin Trade? Because of your ex-girlfriend, right?’

  Blood colours my cheeks. I don’t remember telling Brian that Hannah is on television, much less in which show she appears. It’s all too embarrassing. Perhaps he’s been watching them, and connected her to the framed picture on top of the TV. I feel discovered, almost ashamed. But I nod.

  ‘I recognized her from the photos in the flat. I’ve been watching a lot of TV lately. You get to remember the faces.’ He squints into his glass, then looks up. ‘She’s really pretty,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure if that helps any.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘But doesn’t it get to you to see her on the TV? Like, you know, a reminder or something?’

  ‘Not any more,’ I say. I feel like telling him that it does bother me. I feel like telling him that watching my ex-girlfriend - the keeper of my heart - kissing Vincent Haines is like having my guts ripped out and fed back to me in raw bloody chunks.

  ‘It’s better than nothing,’ I say. ‘At least it helps me to remember what she looks like.’

  Brian nods, thinking. ‘That’s where we’re different,’ he says eventually. ‘Every time I see John on the TV, it makes me sick. I’m telling you - I hate it. It’s like a reminder of all the stuff that’s been taken away, how my life’s changed, everything I’ve lost. You don’t know what I’d give to bring it all back.’

  I don’t respond. I’m wondering how far Brian would go to bring it back, or what he might be driven to do one day when he drunkenly realized that he couldn’t, that it was out of reach for ever.

  ‘Bet we’ve got more in common than you think,’ he says.

  UNUSUAL SYMPTOMS

  I don’t know why, but I’m finding that I have an almost continual urge to piss. I’ve been to the toilet about six times already, and here I am again aiming a straw-coloured squirt into the smeared chrome-effect bowl. And I’m getting really bad abdominal cramps, sharp stabbing pains in my gut that seem to come and go without reason. Nothing as bad as the pain I had in the office, but enough to make me wince.

  First thing on Monday: a trip to see the doctor; I don’t want to be ill while I’m traveling.

  3 A.M. AND NOTHING MAKES SENSE

  Later still, four or five in the morning, the club is emptying fast, only the last few desperate ravers too wired to notice shuffling on the dancefloor like robots with exhausted batteries, metal shutters half-lowered across the bars, milky streetlight emitting through the open exits. Cleaners starting to dump the spent bottles into black bin-liners, tidying up, removing the evidence.

  I’m half-asleep, propped against Brian’s shoulder, my eyes feeling as if they’ve been scoured with bleach and my skin as dry and brittle as filou pastry. Brian clenches his shoulder, stiff with tension, and I look up. All I can think about: how far it is to get back to the flat. Miles - in the full glare of morning. The walk of shame. I’ll wither and fall to dust like a vampire the moment the dawn light falls on me.

  ‘Come on,’ Brian says. ‘There’s something I want to do.’

  BREAKING AND ENTERING

  Snow is falling again as a cab takes us through London, into the centre of the City. Brian has given the driver an address in fashionable Shoreditch. I imagine a trendy late-night bar or club, more drinking and drugs. This is not unappealing. My nerves are on edge. They need to be soothed.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask Brian.

  ‘Patience.’

  We stop at a street just off the main road heading east. A crowd of late-night revelers is in evidence, heading towards the bus stops and the night buses. A scrum of hooligans in football shirts stagger across the road, chanting.

  ‘Over here,’ Brian says, heading towards a nondescript side street. I follow. The street is dark and empty. It looks like the warehouses on either side have been converted into loft apartments. So close to the City, I shudder to think how much a place here would cost.

  The street smells of money.

  Brian checks name-plates, and stops outside the entrance to a low-slung converted warehouse. He pulls out a scrap of paper from his pocket and compares a scribbled address.

  ‘It’s in here,’ he says.

  ‘What is?’

  He doesn’t answer. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘This way.’

  ‘What are we doing?’ I ask.

  ‘I just wanna look around.’

  ‘In where?’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘We are not breaking in,’ I say. ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘We’re not going to take anything. Stop worrying.’

  He leads me into an alleyway at the side of the building and around to the rear. There is no one around and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. I could be stabbed, or strangled, or shot, and my body dumped into the industrial rubbish bin pushed up against the wall. No one would know.

  ‘Up here,’ Brian says.

  By climbing onto the bin, the thick plastic lid yielding beneath our weight, it’s possible to shin up to a ledge underneath a window. Pulling me up onto the ledge beside him, Brian checks the street below for witnesses and then, satisfied, puts a foot through the glass, reaches through and unlatches the window from the inside. He pulls it open and slides through. Teetering on the brink of the ledge, watching the snowflakes slipping through the golden light cast by a lonely streetlight, I have a moment of anxiety that has nothing to do with my vertigo. It passes. I follow him inside.

  I find myself on a small landing. Stairs lead down into the gloom below, and three doors face us up ahead. Brian has padded over to one of the doors and has his hand on the handle, slowly opening it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss.

  He puts a finger to his lips and gently open
s the door.

  Peering through the dark crack of the doorway, holding up a hand for silence, he scopes the room beyond. I stop breathing and listen, straining my ears for signs of detection. The hubbub from the street outside sounds menacingly loud. Somewhere, the cables and gears of a lift rattle in its hollow shaft. A car horn sounds, muffled by the snow. He goes over to each of the other doors and looks inside.

  I stare at him, raising my eyebrows in query.

  ‘No one’s in,’ he says.

  He throws a switch and the hall is suddenly lit; I squeeze my eyes shut against the brightness.

  ‘Come on.’

  SMASH AND GRAB

  The apartment comprises one massive vault-like room with other smaller rooms - bathroom, spare bedroom - leading off the landing. It has a wide-planked oak floor, two-metre-high walls of exposed bricks, iron girders supporting the roof, full-length windows.

  ‘Not a bad place,’ he approves, taking off his coat and hooking it onto the edge of the door. He picks up a vase from a coffee table and hefts it approvingly in his hand. ‘Lots of nice stuff in here.’ .

  ‘Whose flat is this?’ I ask fretfully.

  ‘Sean Darbo.’

  He flings the vase against a wall. It smashes loudly. I yelp, ‘What are you doing?’ but Brian has already found where the crockery lives.

  He flings a stack of plates, Frisbee-style, at another wall. They shatter: explosions of white shards. I watch them clatter to the floor in slow-motion, where they smash again. He reaches up to the top of a free-standing bookshelf and tugs it back towards him. As he dances back out of the way, the shelf comes crashing down onto the floor, spilling books and breaking ornaments around his feet and then itself breaking apart when it hits, the wood tearing and splintering.