As suddenly as he had materialized, Ed had disappeared. Eight months later, a card from London: Charlie back in the Smoke. Somehow they don’t want me at the Jazz Cafe, but I’ve got this little gig at the Brahms amp; Liszt in Covent Garden, Friday nights. Come down and give a listen. Ed. Somehow, Resnick had never been down.
By the time he walked into the kitchen for his second White Shield, Resnick’s mind had been reclaimed by other things: Harry and Clarise Phelan, awake in bed in their hotel, waiting to hear if their daughter were still alive; Lynn, driving back from Norfolk after taking her father to the hospital, alone in the night with what news?
Michelle was halfway down the stairs when she heard Gary outside. At least, she presumed it was Gary. All she could make out at first were voices raised in anger, muffled and harsh. She hugged the baby to her and Natalie whimpered; lowering her face into the fine wispy hair, Michelle shushed her and hurried towards her cot. She was sure it was Gary now. Brian, too. What on earth was going on? Gary and Brian, best mates for years.
She was tucking Natalie’s blanket around her when Gary lurched through the door.
“Gary, I wondered what was …”
At the sight of the blood, she stopped. A line of it, bright, like a Christmas streamer on the side of Gary’s face.
“Gary, what’s …?”
With the back of his arm, he pushed her away.
“Gary, you’re bleeding.”
“Think I don’t fucking know that?”
At the sound of their raised voices, Karl rolled over in his makeshift bed on the settee, Natalie began to cry. Michelle followed Gary to the bathroom and stood in the doorway, watching.
“Bastard!” Gary said, as he looked in the mirror. “Bastard!” wincing as he touched his cheek.
“Gary, let me …”
With a snarl, he slammed the door in her face.
She lay in bed, listening to the sound of the rain, clipping off the loose slates on the roof; the sound of her own breathing. Outside on the landing, where the water was coming through, it dripped in rhythm into a plastic pail. Natalie had gone off again and Karl, thank God, had never really woken. After he’d finished in the bathroom, she’d heard Gary banging around in the kitchen, presumably making a cup of tea. She thought he might switch on the tele, curl up next to Karl, and fall asleep, until she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
“Michelle?”
Soft thump of his jeans on the threadbare square of carpet, lighter fall of his sweater and shirt.
“’Chelle?”
His hand on her shoulder was cold and she jumped.
“I’m sorry. I am, you know.”
Face against her back, his fingers reached round and found her breast.
“Shouldn’t ’ve lost my temper, not with you. Weren’t nothing to do with you.”
Michelle rolled away, freeing herself from his hand. “What happened then? Tell me.”
“It wasn’t nothing. Really. Just me and Brian, messing around.”
“It didn’t sound like you was messing around. And this …” He flinched as she stretched towards him, but allowed her to touch the place just below the hairline where he had been cut.
“We was just foolin’ about, that’s all. Got a bit silly. You know what Brian’s like after a few pints.”
Again Michelle stopped herself from asking, whereabouts is he getting all this money?
“Still,” Gary said, “over now, eh? What’d my mum say? Spilt milk.” He lifted his hand back to Michelle’s breast, shocking her with his gentleness, stroking her lightly until, through the thin cotton of the T-shirt, he felt her nipple harden against his thumb.
Thirty-nine
How long someone had been tapping on the window, Lynn didn’t know. Opening her eyes, she groaned, gritted her teeth, and looked out. The car had come to rest close against a farm fence, the nearside wing buckled by a concrete post. Gloved, the hand knocked again. Oh, shit! thought Lynn. My head hurts! In the rearview mirror, she could see the sidelights of the car that had pulled in behind her, faint through the blur of rain. A man’s face now, bending close to the glass, words she could read without hearing: “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Traffic continued to swish by, unconcerned.
She turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered momentarily and died.
He looked to be in his forties, clean-shaven, hair plastered dark to his head by the rain. The shoulders and arms of his jacket were soaked through and Lynn wondered how long he had been standing there, anxious to help. She wound the window down a few inches, enough to be able to talk.
“I saw you come off the road, ahead of me. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Thanks. I think I’m fine.”
The right side of her mouth was numb and when she touched the tip of her tongue to her lip she could tell it was swollen. Wiping away steam from the mirror, she could see a swelling over her left eye, already the size of a small egg and growing.
“You were lucky.”
“Yes, thanks.”
Lynn knew she should get out and look at the car, examine the extent of the damage. Even supposing she did get the engine to start, it might not be possible for her to drive away. The man, standing there, kept her where she was.
“You haven’t got a phone in your car?”
“Afraid not.”
Neither, in this car, did she.
“Look,” Lynn said, winding down the window a little farther. “It was good of you to stop, but, really, I’ll be all right now.”
He smiled and began to back slowly away. Lynn took a deep breath and got out into the rain. The rear of the car seemed to have collided with a pile of gravel as it left the road, then spun forward into the gate. Somewhere, out in the semi-dark, were the shapes of cattle, hedges converging. Lynn pulled up her collar and squatted near the front wheel. The metal of the wing had been forced back sharp against the tire and the tire was flat. The headlight was a tangle of silvered metal and broken glass. Maybe she could pull the metal out and change the wheel, but even then she doubted if she’d get far.
“Why don’t you let me give you a lift?” He had come back and was standing back beyond her left shoulder, looking on. The wind had relented a little but not much. “Just as far as the nearest garage.”
Lynn shook her head; she wasn’t about to compound one stupidity with another.
“There’s one six or seven miles down the road. I think it’s open twenty-four hours.”
Lynn looked directly at his face, forcing herself to make judgments. In the circumstances, she thought, what else was she going to do? Walk and risk getting sideswiped by a passing car? Stick out her thumb and hope for the best?
“All right,” she said. “Just as far as the garage. Thanks.” Rain brushing his face, he smiled. “Fine.”
Lynn retrieved her handbag, locked the offside door, and, hurrying to the man’s car, got into the back seat.
“Michael,” he said over his shoulder. “Michael Best. My friends call me Pat.”
Lynn smiled, more of a grimace than a smile. “Lynn Kellogg, it was good of you to stop. Really.”
“Brownie points up there, I suspect,” smiling back at her, nodding towards the roof of the car. “Few good ones to set against the bad.”
Clicking on the indicator, he waited until there was a clear gap before swinging out into the traffic, not wishing to take unnecessary chances now.
The signs were not good. Michael turned into the forecourt and parked behind the pumps, but the main lights inside the adjoining building stubbornly refused to come on. Only the safety light burned, illuminating faintly the usual collection of motoring maps and engine oils, packaged food and confectionery, on sale audio cassettes by forgotten groups, and a special offer in troll dolls with purple hair.