Darkness Falls

by David Mark

  I take another gulp of lager, and make room at the bar for a middle-aged woman in leather trousers. She thanks me with a smile.

  “Getting pretty crowded,” she says, motioning over her shoulder at the crowd while trying to catch the attention of the barmaid by waving a £10 note. I look at her hand. Risen veins snake over pale skin like tree roots.

  “Band on, is there?”

  “Yeah, King Rollo. Blues lot. Really good.” She has to shout over the noise of the crowd, and opens her mouth wide. I can see the fillings in her teeth.

  “Aye? Has he got a ponytail?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. I’m a bit of a groupie. Me and a few mates follow him everywhere.”

  “Come far?”

  “Hornsea.” Fifteen miles up the coast. Bridlington’s middle class half-sister. “There are a dozen of us tonight. My round. Oh, hiya. Four halves of Stella, two lager and lime, three Diet Cokes, a vodka tonic, rum and coke, and an orange Reef, please. Phew, got that right. And you?” She looks at me, gesturing at the drink in my hand.

  “Oh. No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Sure?”

  “Well, if you don’t mind? Cool. Bell’s whisky, please. With ice.”

  The barmaid starts putting the order together while I run an eye over my new friend. She’s late thirties. Short dark hair fluffed up and ruffled. Round face. Brown eyes. Gap between her two front teeth, like Madonna. Hint of a double chin. Tits worn well in a black top, with a pendant hanging in her cleavage. White blouse worn over. Quite chunky round the middle. Big arse. Black boots. She’s sweet, like a sex symbol in a Disney cartoon; an alluring mouse, maybe.

  “Thanks,” I say, downing the whisky as the barmaid places it in a beery puddle in front of me, and diluting the burn with another gulp of lager. “You need a hand to carry the rest?”

  She gives me what she thinks is a twinkle of the eye and says: “No, I’ll do it in shifts. Give me an excuse to keep coming back.”

  I finish the drink while she’s still looking at me, and turn my back, ordering another lager from the blonde barmaid. I’m served before anybody else. When I glance back over my shoulder, the woman is already retreating into the crowd, with an added swagger in her hips. She’s definitely got an hourglass figure, but it’s got too much sand.

  I bite the top two inches off my next drink, hoping it will work like medicine. I’m starting to feel faint, as though my head could float from my body.

  There’s a vibration in my pocket as my phone rings. I look at the screen and see the number is being withheld. Ramming a finger in my ear I flip open the phone, and strain to hear.

  “Owen Lee,” I say, raising my voice over the rumble of the rabble.

  “Owen? It’s Simmo. You free?”

  “Pub. Working hard.”

  “Tough old life.”

  “Think I’ve earned it today. You’ve got to organise a better system. You can’t go having double murders on the first day of a trial. And not on a Monday when I’ve got a bitch of a hangover.”

  “I’ll have a word. See if we can’t spread the juicy crimes and retributions over the course of a year. In fact, fax me a copy of your holiday schedule for the next twelve months and I’ll distribute it around the criminal fraternity.”

  “You’re a good man, Simmo.”

  “I aim to please. Anyway, just checking in with a few titbits, if you’re interested.”

  “You know me, mate. Always like a bit of a tit. That’s why me and Tony are mates.”

  “Well, when you see him, give him a good-natured slap from me,” he says, a mild note of irritation creeping into his voice. “He’s always a pain in the arse but he’s gone into overdrive on this one.”

  “So which way does Roper’s nose think the breeze is blowing?”

  “It’s too early to say, Owen, and I mean that. He asked me to give you what we’ve got, but that’s fuck all. You’ll be the first to know when there is something concrete.”

  “I never need concrete. Sloppy cement is more than enough.” I’m shouting as I talk, trying to make myself heard over the noise of the bar, and I’m getting a few looks.

  Simmo senses I’m losing interest and fills up the silence with speech. “Well, at the moment you could do worse than following up the drug deal angle, with a smattering of gangland culture thrown in,” he says, and quickly begins to warm to his theme. “No doubt you’ve heard the names that are doing the rounds. Well, they’re spot on. And one of them is somebody West Yorkshire Police know very well. A real proper villain. Muscle for hire. Quite a bright spark, too. Inventive. Used to rob banks when he was younger but after he got out of Wakefield Prison he had what some would consider a bit more class and clout. He leathered the head doorman at a club in Leeds that belonged to a real nasty piece of work, and came to the attention of a lot of big names. Got offered a few jobs with the big leagues, but didn’t like to be tied down. Got himself a nice little number doing the occasional piece of work. Cash-drops, the more dangerous deal, that sort of thing. But he found his niche in punishment beatings, and worse. The lads in West Yorkshire have him down for at least three murders last year. Remember that bloke whose body they found in a suitcase in the car park at Ferrybridge services? You remember, they still haven’t found the head. Well they reckon that was his handiwork.”

  “Nice chap, then. Christ, you’re really going to waste man-hours solving his death? Somebody’s done you a favour.”

  “No doubt, but we’ve got that old public duty thing to worry about. Not a problem in your line of work, I realise.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, suddenly bored, feeling too hot and jostled in the confinement of the bar, but not wanting to leave in case the tit who’s staring at me takes it as a victory.

  “Anyhow, past few months he’s been almost exclusively on staff for Mr Petrovsky…”

  “Petrovsky? Remind me.” I know Simmo’s trying to pretend he knows all about the big boys of the criminal world, but we both know he’s only just found all this out.

  “Russian bloke in his sixties. Doing time for shooting a copper who gave him a speeding ticket, and still running things. Got a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, but it’s mostly drugs and illegals. There’s barely a ship arrives in Hull that hasn’t got some of Petrovsky’s merchandise on board. And a heck of a lot of Kosovans, Albanians. Even a few Ukrainians, for old times’ sake. Not one to cross. Our boy has basically been making sure people still realise Petrovsky is the boss. Could be out on appeal before long and wants his business to still be there. Laddo was making that happen. Been putting dents in faces. Making sure people don’t take liberties.”

  “And is that why he was in the woods with the other bloke, you reckon? Sorting out a problem for the boss?”

  “It’s definitely a possibility. The other chap was a bit of a nobody really. Been done for dealing a couple of times but there was never anything to suggest he was into anything major. Maybe he was playing out of his league and got caught out. Might have been cutting his crack with brick dust and baking powder. Maybe he just said the wrong thing. Roper will find out. You know what he’s like.”

  I feel a dig in my ribs. It’s not a gentle gesture. Somebody pissed off; somebody out to make a point.

  My right hand drops into my coat pocket, and closes on the gun. I keep Simmo pressed to the left side of my head, which is wet and sweating, like an open oyster stuck to my skull. I feel ten feet fucking tall. Ten feet of shit and misery, but ten feet nonetheless.

  “You picked the wrong fucking horse, lad…”

  I stop, mid-flow, as I stare into the face of an angry blonde. Eleanor. Lenny, to her mates. To Jess. My Jess. Best friends since school. When Jess left me, it was to go and stay at Lenny’s place, a ground floor flat on the edge of the city centre. I often imagined them living out a Manhattan lifestyle, all red wine from big glasses and Doritos in a bowl, Sex and the City DVDs and fluffy pyjamas, scented candles and delicious gossip. It was Lenny who came by for Jess’s stuff when we
split, who had brokered meetings and financial settlements. She thinks she’s tough.

  “Owen? Owen, you still there?”

  Simmo’s voice is chirruping in my ear, but I ignore him.

  Lenny is staring at me, hard, waiting for me to finish my call. She’s angry. Intense. If her eyes had teeth they’d have swallowed half of my face by now. I’m staring back. Tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. A deluge of memories swamps me, images of happier times.

  “Won’t be a tick, princess,” I say.

  “Princess?” Simmo’s voice in my ear again. “You sound busy. I won’t hold you back then. Look, I’ll see you at the press conference in the morning, and I’m not sure what you can do with this at this time, but a couple of officers have viewed the CCTV. It’s really poor quality, but it shows there was a car in the car park at the time that we reckon all this happened.”

  “Poor quality? I thought you could get cameras that can read the brand name off a packet of cigarettes from the top of a block of flats.”

  “Yeah, you can, but this is your absolute basic one. They only put it in because they were getting trouble with blokes meeting up in the toilets after dark and doing the nasty.”

  “Nice.”

  “Quite. Anyway, we can’t get a number plate but we can get a vehicle type. It’s a Vauxhall Cavalier, real old piece of crap. Mid-Eighties. Not even a classic. Can’t be many of them around so it shouldn’t be long before we find who it belongs to. Could be nothing to do with all this but it has to be a priority as a line of enquiry. We’ll be putting out a press release in the morning. We’re going through the database now. I’m sure I know somebody who drives one but my brain just isn’t in gear tonight.” Simmo stops, as Depeche Mode give way to James Brown. It’s an eclectic jukebox.

  “All right?” asks Simmo.

  I’ve been silent for a few seconds, watching Lenny go through her repertoire of facial expressions. Eventually, she’ll have to smile. She looks good tonight. She’s twenty-eight. In good shape. Likes floaty dresses and leg warmers. Pale skin and rosy cheeks. Rings in the shape of flowers and butterflies. Beautiful smile when she unshackles it.

  “Cool, mate,” I say. “Thanks for that.” I’m surprised by how little I care. “Owt else useful?”

  “Just that whoever did this has more to worry about than the coppers. Petrovsky’s not going to be happy to have lost one of his boys. The other one’s a nobody, but the big lad? Let’s hope the killer’s got some bullets left.”

  “Reckon he can handle himself. See ya later.”

  “Yeah, bye.”

  I close the phone slowly, and slip it into my pocket, where it clinks against the gun. It’s a reassuring sound and sensation, playing just for me.

  “Hi, beautiful,” I say. Once upon a time, I’d have greeted her with a kiss on the edge of the lips and a hug, taking my time to breathe in her perfume and press her tits against my chest. Don’t think she’d appreciate it now.

  “Your phone is working then,” she says.

  “What?” I ask, thrown.

  “I’ve been calling you back all day. I was telling myself that your phone must be broken. I’ve already tried her friends in Nottingham. I’m not stupid. They haven’t seen her.” She sounds scared and angry.

  “Maybe she just needs her space,” I say, hopeful, and cling to the thought like a lifeline. “I bet you she’s there and told her friend not to say. She buggered off one night when we were together and her friend swore blind she wasn’t with them. I went and knocked on the door and guess who fucking answered?”

  “But her friends are my friends. They know me. They wouldn’t lie to me.”

  I shrug, suggesting that I don’t want to hurt Lenny’s feelings.

  “Why don’t you go down there. You’re obviously out of your mind with worry. Be best to put it to rest.”

  “I don’t know.” Then, hopeful, wide eyed: “Why don’t you come with me? We can compare notes, have a think…”

  “I can’t, Len,” I say, terrified at the prospect of even thinking about Jess, and where she might be. “You go. They’ll talk to you more than they’ll talk to me.”

  Lenny puts her head to one side. “You don’t care. You never cared.”

  “What are you talking about. I’m sick with worry…”

  “Bollocks. She’s missing and you just care about yourself.”

  “What do you want, Lenny?”

  “I want to know where she is. She didn’t come home.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. After she met up with you.”

  I frown, not having the first bloody clue what she’s talking about. “I never saw her last night.”

  Lenny shakes her head angrily and opens her mouth in stages before she speaks, as though it’s climbing stairs to do justice to the size of her fury. There’s spit dangling between her top and bottom teeth. “Don’t lie to me, Owen. She said! She said she was going to see you. I couldn’t stop her this time.”

  Her voice has gone from an angry whisper to a semi-shout, and we’re getting a few looks. I’m feeling self-conscious and my sides are starting to prickle with sweat again. I fear my face may be red.

  “Lenny, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Owen, don’t do this! I got in about ten-ish yesterday and she was just pulling her coat on. She was going to see you. I didn’t even get any time to talk her out of it. When she didn’t come home I figured you’d just worked your magic but she still isn’t back. She had her… I think she was carrying her… Fuck, I don’t know. Over her arm, you know. She was manic. Oh I don’t know.” She stops, deflating, looking down at her feet as though the answers may be there. “I’m really worried.”

  Silence. My brain whirring. Trying not to let my feelings reach my face.

  Lenny looks up, directly into my eyes. My reflection is a pencil sketch, all black outline and shading. I’m colourless, empty, just waiting to be rubbed out. I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the image. When I open my eyes again, Lenny’s face is close to mine, and I see a crowd of mildly diverted spectators staring over her shoulder. I realise I’m losing this, and spread my arms expansively, banish the blood from my cheeks and feel the sickly paleness melt into my face. I settle back into my skin.

  “I was in the pub till gone eleven last night,” I say, softly, as though lulling a baby to sleep. “I haven’t seen Jess in days. It’s too fucking painful! And you keep such a close guard on her brain, she wouldn’t have come to see me even if I’d asked. She was the one who said it was best if we didn’t even try to be friends. You’ve cleaned the place out of anything she might need. Last I heard you were setting her up on fucking dates. You reckon she’d suddenly just come running if I called?”

  “Yes! Just because she can’t stand you doesn’t mean she’s not in love with you. Why do you think I keep such a close eye on her? It’s because the second I turn my back she’s sneaking out the house to see you or trying to send you messages. She’s written and deleted more bloody messages to you than I can keep count of. Christ, you know what she did on Saturday? She went and picked up her wedding dress! The one she told you she’d cancelled. The one she said she would never wear? She picked it up and brought it home. I found her, crying, sobbing that you, fucking you of all people, would never see her in it.”

  “Hang on,” I say, starting to shiver, as though blanketed in a wet towel on a cold day. “I can’t be held accountable for what she does, Lenny. I want to see her in that dress. I always did. That’s why I proposed. I didn’t want her to cancel the wedding. I didn’t want it to end. It just couldn’t continue, or so she said. I couldn’t be what she needed. I was killing her, and dying from the pain of it. And we both feel worse when we’re apart. I’m so fucking confused. Why are we apart, Len?”

  “Because it’s best for everyone,” Lenny cries, exasperated, astonished at my ignorance. She doesn’t seem to know how stupid she sounds.

  I run my hand over my brow.
It’s like stroking wet porcelain. “Look, honestly, I never saw her yesterday and never contacted her.” I suddenly look concerned. Then: “Try Nottingham. Honestly. Call me when you get there. She’ll just be getting her head straight.”

  “Or she’s copped off,” says Lenny, letting a sigh turn into a half laugh and almost halving in size as the weight of righteous indignation escapes with a rush. “I can’t… I just don’t know, Owen. You made her so happy, and so sad, and she doesn’t see what you are, not really…”

  I pull a face, suddenly bored, and not really in the mood for hearing any more about how shit I am. “You’re a good friend,” I say, quietly, then lean in, and let my lips touch her ear. “Don’t blame yourself for losing track of her…”

  Lenny’s eyes fill with tears. She gulps, once or twice, and then throws her arms up and pushes herself away, storming out of the pub through the throng.