Promises of Blood

by David Thorne

  I take them, look at the photo on top. It is of what I assume is a man, although his face is so badly beaten that it is hard to tell. I look away, resist the urge to drop it.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Keep looking.’

  I look at the next one, see what I think is the same man. This is a wider shot. His arm is cuffed to a pipe and he is lying on a concrete floor. The concrete is streaked with blood. Looking at the shots gives me the same feeling as when I watch news footage of victims of war, bundles lying in heaps, no longer people, remote and dehumanised by the camera’s lens. I wonder if he was still alive when the picture was taken. I hand the pile of photos back.

  ‘There a point to this?’

  ‘Heard you had a run-in with Kane. Thought you might want to see what he’s been up to recently.’

  ‘I already know,’ I say. ‘After what he did to Rafiq Jahani.’

  This stops Doolan. He looks across at Akram. I see his head shake slightly. Doolan looks back at me, composure restored.

  ‘No. That was your friend Gabriel McBride. Remember?’

  I do not answer, meet his gaze, do not look away. This man does not frighten me, and if he was not protected by his badge I would force those photographs down his throat. He gets it; he is the first to look away. I hear the sound of locks opening.

  ‘Go on then,’ he says. ‘Fuck off. But you might want to start playing the game. We’ve heard people are losing their patience.’

  I open the door, step out and into the sun, feel it on my face. Doolan pulls away and Akram puts an arm out of the window, shows me the back of his hand in lazy farewell. I try to blink away the images I have seen but I cannot. Last time I saw Kane I broke his tooth. It is not something he is likely to forget.

  19

  TWICE COULD BE coincidence; three would be a clincher. I still have not found the final name on William Gove’s list of beneficiaries, Sabina Antonescu. The address I have for her does not exist and there is no number. I need to find her, find out if anybody in her history has disappeared, a sister or daughter or mother. If Hicklin is not convinced by my story, he will find it hard to ignore three missing women, all left money by the same person.

  I do know that the name is Romanian. My mother, too, was from Romania; forty years ago she was lured over to England to take up a university place which did not exist; instead was sold into a life of pain and misery. One of the men who exploited her, and who was responsible for her disappearing from my life, was Vincent Halliday. Our histories go way back.

  I call an acquaintance of mine, a builder called Andy who converted the property Halliday wants from me into apartments. He also uses a lot of casual labour, some of which is Romanian.

  ‘Daniel.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. Busy.’ In the background I can hear machinery, men shouting to one another.

  ‘Bad time?’

  ‘Never for you.’

  Andy is short and wide and gives the impression that it would take a wrecking ball to knock him over, and he is one of the most open and generous men I have ever met.

  ‘Need some help. I’m looking for somebody, think she’s Romanian. Got any Romanians on your crew at the moment?’

  ‘Good question. Might have. I’ll be honest with you, eastern Europe, I ain’t exactly an expert. Hold on.’

  I hear him call to a guy called Martin, ask him about Romanians, a reply I cannot make out.

  ‘Danny? Got a couple, yeah.’

  ‘Mind if I speak to them?’

  ‘Come on by.’ He gives me an address, tells me they’re knocking off, better come back tomorrow morning, first thing. I thank him, hang up. I hope there is no tragic story in this mystery woman’s life, that she is just a random choice. Yet at the same time, to have three missing people, all disappearing at the same time, would force an investigation, drag the wheels of justice into action. But first of all, I have to find her.

  Back home, Maria is out and CJ is on her phone in the kitchen, texting. She looks up when I come in but does not say anything, even though she seems to want to.

  ‘I saw Maz,’ I say. ‘It’s finished.’

  Still CJ does not say anything, just sits.

  ‘You don’t need to worry.’

  She nods, eyes glancing around, unfocused. After some time she says, ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘It wasn’t right,’ I say.

  She watches me carefully, her eyes wide, as if looking for the catch. ‘It wasn’t you,’ she says. ‘Didn’t have to do it.’

  ‘You never did anything just because it was right?’

  CJ shrugs. ‘I don’t get what I’m doing here.’

  ‘You want to leave?’

  ‘No,’ she says, but she does not sound sure. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Do what you want, CJ.’

  I mean it kindly but immediately see the hurt in her eyes, before she turns away. CJ is used to indifference, adults who ultimately could not care less about her. I have said the wrong thing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You’re welcome to stay.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She is not convinced, will not look at me. She stands up. ‘Got shit to do,’ she says, and walks out.

  Later Maria suggests that we go out to the local park where there is a band, some community event. CJ does not want to go, but Maria tells her that there is no food in the house, so if she wants to eat, she’d better come. There are light bulbs strung in the trees and a smell of cooking food in the air, making the neighbourhood seem unfamiliar and full of warmth and promise. Maria and I walk arm in arm, CJ to the side pretending that she is above so simple a pleasure as strolling through a summer evening.

  CJ falls behind and Maria asks me what is wrong with her.

  ‘Freaked out,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t compute. What we’re doing, helping her.’

  ‘Maybe we’re not,’ she says.

  I look at her, frown. ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘We’re giving her something she’s never had before. Some stability, security. What happens when it’s gone?’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘She can’t stay with us for ever.’

  ‘You want her to go?’

  ‘No,’ says Maria. ‘But it’s your house. You never struck me as the kind of person who enjoys teenage company.’

  ‘It’s not my house,’ I say. ‘It’s ours.’

  Maria stops walking. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nods. ‘Then CJ’s going nowhere.’

  I nod back. ‘Fine by me.’

  Maria smiles slowly and then puts her arms gently around my neck and kisses me, and a group of kids walking by whistle and call out and I could not care less.

  I buy hot dogs and we sit on a bench and eat as people walk past. Maria sees somebody she knows and leaves us to speak to her. CJ and I eat without talking and I try to think of something to say to bridge the gap but cannot. Ketchup from CJ’s hot dog falls on to her top and I hand her my napkin. She wipes at it, swears, stands up to stretch her top out, clean it better. When she is done she smiles at herself, the mess she has made.

  ‘Daniel,’ she says.

  ‘Yes?’

  She pauses, as if about to deliver painful news, then looks at me without her usual guardedness. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  I nod, understand what she means, smile. ‘Any time,’ I say.

  The next morning I drive to where Andy is working, building a large mansion-style home along a wide street lined with similar houses occupied by footballers and doctors and criminals who can afford them due to having never paid a penny of tax in their lives. Andy is on the street outside, talking up to the driver of a cement-mixing truck, who is listening to him and nodding while rolling a cigarette.

  ‘Andy.’

  Andy shakes my hand, his other hand on my wrist. ‘Danny. How you keeping?’

  ‘Not bad.’ I look at the ho
use he has half completed. ‘Classy.’

  He laughs. ‘Seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms. Still can’t work that one out. Should see the suites. You ever washed in a black bath?’

  ‘Gold taps?’

  Andy frowns, takes a step back as if affronted. ‘What else?’

  I laugh. ‘Money’s all the same colour.’

  ‘What I tell myself. You know, they’ve ordered a chandelier for twenty grand? Here, follow me.’

  He walks through the shell of the ground floor where electricians are running cables through the walls. ‘Alex,’ he says.

  A man is kneeling down screwing in a socket. He turns his head, stands up. He is tall and young, still has acne. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Man I was telling you about. Wanted some help.’

  He puts out a hand and I shake it. ‘Daniel,’ I say.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking for somebody. I only have a name. Sabina Antonescu.’

  He nods. ‘Why do you want to find her?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘No. But she is Romanian, I am Romanian. Why you want to find her?’

  Andy laughs behind me, says, ‘I’ll let you two work it out,’ walks away.

  ‘She’s in no trouble. She’s inherited money.’

  Alex frowns. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Somebody has left her money. Somebody died and she gets money.’

  ‘Ah.’ He considers. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Sabina Antonescu. Here.’ I take out my card, write her name on the back, give it to him.

  He reads the name, pulls a doubtful face. ‘I ask,’ he says.

  ‘You can get me on that number,’ I say.

  ‘Okay.’ He puts my card in his back pocket, then points at the corners of the unfinished room with the tip of the screwdriver he is holding. ‘You excuse me? Got work to do.’

  On my way back to my office I pass Gabe’s house. I have left him messages on his mobile and he has not answered and I have been worried about him, wondered how he is coping with this accusation hanging over him. But there is no answer when I knock on his door, and as I stand on his doorstep I once again feel guilt: it is my fault he is in this situation, my history which has dismantled his present.

  ‘Where is he?’

  I turn. Two men are standing on the path to Gabe’s house. I recognise the man who has spoken from the car wash. Behind him is a lean, dark-skinned man with a cast on his wrist. I imagine it was Gabe who broke it, at the gym.

  ‘Who?’

  The first man smiles. ‘You know who.’

  ‘Don’t know. Think I’d be knocking on his door if I did?’

  ‘When is he back?’

  ‘Got any more stupid questions?’

  He says something to the man behind him in Kurdish and the man takes a step forward.

  ‘Tell your friend,’ I say, ‘that he takes another step and I’ll break his other arm.’ I am not in the mood for this. The first man smiles, holds an arm out to stop the other.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he says to me.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I say.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he says. He smiles. ‘Got family?’

  I nod at Gabe’s door. ‘He is family.’

  The man raises his eyebrows at this and I think of blood feuds, and although it shames me I momentarily regret saying what I did, making myself a target. Family. But ultimately, Gabe and his mother and father were a surrogate family to me while I was growing up. Fuck it. They can deal with both of us, and good luck. There had better be a lot of them.

  The man shrugs, turns, nods at the man with the broken wrist and they head off back down the path. I watch them leave and hope that Gabe comes back soon. I could use his help.

  20

  CJ AND SABINA Antonescu inhabit a world which exists side by side with ours, a hostile and cruel alternative universe which we do not like to acknowledge, prefer to pretend does not exist. But the truth is that the disenfranchised amongst us have none of the certainty we take for granted. They live their lives under the radar, at the mercy of their natural predators, who are mostly men and who consider people like CJ and Sabina fair game.

  Alex has arranged to meet me in a residential street in an area of town which is neither wealthy nor poor, 1930s three- and four-beds with pebble-dashing on the walls and taxis and work vans on the drives. I park where he is standing and he opens the passenger door, gets in. He points up the street, tells me to take a left at the end. It is dark, and as we drive under street lights, Alex’s still face is washed orange. We turn, and almost immediately there is a narrow gravelled lane on our left. We head down it so that we are travelling back the way we came, parallel to the street but with its houses and gardens between us.

  He tells me to stop, and we get out. The lane we have driven down is lined by garages and outbuildings. I guess that they must be at the bottom of the houses’ gardens. Alex knocks on the door of one of them. It is not much more than a shed, a wooden building with a flat roof. The door opens and a big man steps out. ‘Yes?’

  Alex says something to him in Romanian and he listens, looks across at me, then nods. He steps back into the wooden building and Alex follows him inside, waves a hand at me to follow.

  Inside there are metal bunk beds on each wall, a small table in the middle. It is very warm and it smells bad, like a bin you open on a hot day. The only light comes from table lamps which have been placed on the wooden floor and there is no running water. There are people in four of the beds. I think of a gulag. There is a feeling of indifference and exhaustion, and I suspect that everybody in this building is either just home from a long shift or about to go on one, and that conserving energy is more important than showing curiosity about a stranger’s arrival.

  Alex looks at me, then speaks in Romanian again to the man. He is bald and is wearing denim shorts and a white vest, and has a tattoo of two crossed hammers above his ear. He shakes his head.

  ‘It’s okay. I speak English.’ He looks at me. ‘You want to ask about Sabina?’

  ‘She was here?’

  ‘She stayed. Not long. A month, six weeks.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  The man shrugs. In one of the bottom bunks a man sits up, rubs his fingers in his hair, hard. ‘Home. She had no money. She did not speak English. So she went home.’

  The man on the bunk pushes the covers aside, stands up. He is naked and still has the remnants of an erection. The man I am speaking to says something sharply to him and he frowns, then turns around and looks for something to wear in a bag hanging from the bed. The bald man turns back to me.

  ‘He has no sophistication,’ he says, raises an eyebrow: what are you going to do?

  ‘Home?’ I say.

  ‘Back to Romania. She did not live here.’

  ‘What was she doing here?’

  ‘She looked for someone.’

  ‘Who?’ I feel a sudden hit of adrenalin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ the bald man says. ‘She did not speak much. She could not find work. She was desperate. You could tell…’ He sniffs loudly, twice. ‘Like that.’

  The other man has found underpants and he walks past me, looks at me as he passes. He says something in Romanian and the bald man laughs, shakes his head.

  ‘Did anybody know her well?’ I ask the bald man.

  He thinks. ‘Yes. She is not here any more either.’

  ‘Know where I can find her?’

  ‘She works.’ He looks past me, speaks to Alex, but amongst the Romanian I make out some words of English. Alex nods. The man in underpants walks back past me. He smells bad and I wonder how the people here wash, where they go to the toilet. The lamps on the floor throw strange shadows, the man in the underpants huge and black on the wall. I feel as if I have stumbled into some netherworld, some hellish hidden kingdom. People should not have to live like this.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say to the bald man, consider offering money. But I would not want to insult him;
living here has already cost him enough of his dignity. Alex opens the door and we walk out, back into the real world, the one I recognise. We get into my car and I have to reverse back up the lane, the bald man getting smaller and smaller in the beams of my headlights.

  The slaughterhouse is miles outside town, a large corrugated-iron-sided building on an industrial estate. Around it is a concrete apron on which trucks are parked, underneath huge bright lights on high poles. It is fenced with chain link and there is barbed wire around the top, although the gates are open and I can drive in. The first thing I hear when I get out of my car is the sound of squealing. Alex told me where to go, who to ask for. He did not want to come with me; he had to get up early, and besides, he told me with a smile, it made him sad to think of the poor pigs.

  A man in a plastic cap is hosing down the concrete outside a big sliding door. He does not stop when I approach. I stand back where I will not get wet and wait for him to finish. He turns the hose off and looks up at me and says, ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Looking for Marta.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to speak to her.’

  He takes out a pack of cigarettes, puts one between his lips, lights it. Takes his time over it. ‘Trouble?’ This man too has an eastern European accent.

  ‘No. Just want to ask her something.’

  The man nods. ‘Wait.’ He walks inside and comes back out with two blue plastic bags. He points at my feet. ‘Need to put these on.’

  I put them over my shoes and thank him, walk inside. I am in a large concrete room. On my left are steel racks of pig carcasses, cut down the middle and empty as if they are garments which have been unzipped. There is nobody here. At the end of the room is a doorway with clear plastic ribbons hanging from the top. I push through them into the main floor of the abattoir.

  It is loud here, the sound of machinery and pigs, metal on flesh. In the corner is a carousel like you would find at an airport delivering luggage, but through the curtain pigs appear. They seem asleep, arranged untidily, but I imagine that they are dead or stunned. As they come through, men attach hooks to their back legs and a machine jerks and swings them up so they are hanging by their feet, noses pointing to the floor. There are many people working, all in aprons and caps. The room is full of steel machinery, different work stations, all connected by an overheard conveyor which brings them pig carcasses. The walls are tiled and stained and the place smells of blood.