‘But how? Where did he get it from? He only went out to play with a couple of other kids from the estate! Who’d feed drugs like that to kids?’
‘I said “absorbed” advisedly,’ Beth said. She ran a hand through her spiky blonde hair and frowned. ‘You know those temporary tattoos that kids use? They wet the transfers and the pictures slide off on to their skin?’
I nodded impatiently. ‘Yeah, yeah, Davy loves them. Some nights he gets in the bath looking like the Illustrated Man.’
‘Did he have any transfers on his body this morning when he went out?’
‘Not that I noticed,’ I said. ‘Did either of you notice last night?’
Chris and Alexis both shook their heads.
‘He must have thirty or forty on his arms or chest now,’ Beth said. ‘And that’s the source of the problem, I reckon. I’ve heard of a couple of cases like this, though I’ve not actually seen one before.’
‘But I don’t understand. It can’t be something in the transfers, surely. He often has them covering the whole of his arms and his chest. He’s crazy about them, like I said. He’ll put on as many as Richard will buy for him.’
Beth sighed. ‘You’re right, it’s not the transfers as such. It’s what’s been done to them. They’ve been doctored. They’ve been impregnated with a drug not unlike acid or Ecstasy, probably one that’s been designed to provide a feeling of mild euphoria, general friendliness and energy. But taken in the dose Davy seems to have absorbed, it also produces hallucinations. We dumped him in the bath and washed them all off so he won’t absorb any more, and luckily he seems to have had a pleasant trip rather than a terrifying one.’
Beth’s words seemed to reverberate long after she’d finished speaking. None of us seemed able to come up with an adequate response. Finally, it was Alexis’s journalistic instincts that hit the ground running ahead of my private investigator’s. ‘What do they look like, these transfers?’ she asked.
‘Some are geometric. Blue and gold stars, about the size of a 10p. Red and pink triangles, too. Others have pictures of clowns, cars, Batman and Superman logos and dinosaurs. The only difference between them and the straight ones is the packaging, so I’ve been told. Apparently the dodgy ones come in little foil packets, like those individual biscuits you get on aeroplanes. Sorry, I don’t know any more than that.’
‘I can’t believe I’ve not heard about this on the grapevine,’ Alexis said, outraged.
‘She’s a journo,’ I explained to Beth.
‘Why haven’t there been any warnings about this?’ Alexis continued. ‘It’s scandalous.’
‘Presumably, the powers that be didn’t want to start a panic,’ Beth said. ‘I can understand why, since it seems to be such a rarity.’
‘Never mind the story, Alexis. What about Davy? Will he definitely be OK?’ Chris demanded.
‘He’ll be absolutely fine, I promise you. In future, make sure he finds another bunch of friends to play with. Look, I’ve got to run. My hockey match starts in ten minutes. I’ll swing by tomorrow morning, just to be on the safe side, but the best thing you can do is let him sleep it off in peace.’
Beth’s departure left us in an awkward silence. Alexis broke it. ‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ she said. ‘We’re all going to beat ourselves up, we’ll all be fighting each other to take the blame, but it’s nobody’s fault.’
‘I know,’ I said. I got to my feet. ‘I just want to take a look at him.’ I walked down the hall to the spare room and pushed the door open. Davy was lying on his back, arms above his head, legs in a tangle of kicked-off duvet. There was a smile on his sleeping face. I leaned over and pulled the cover up over him. He stirred slightly, grunting. I didn’t know what else to do so, feeling awkward, I backed out of the room and closed the door behind me.
I went back through to the kitchen. Alexis was sitting on her own, rolling a modest joint from Richard’s stash. ‘Don’t you think there’s been enough drug-taking for one day around here?’ I asked. I was teasing, but only just.
Alexis shrugged. ‘The doctor says too much stress is bad for me. Chris is making a pot of coffee. You got time for a cup before you go back to wherever you were before you were so rudely interrupted?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘I wasn’t planning on going back.’
‘Why? Had you finished what you were doing?’
‘Well, no,’ I admitted.
‘So get back on the road. There’s nothing you can do here. Davy’s zonko. Beth said he’d sleep till morning. Anybody can baby-sit a sleeping kid. But you’re the only one that can get Dick out of jail.’
‘Don’t call him Dick,’ I said automatically. ‘You know how it depresses me.’ I looked at my watch and sighed. I had plenty of time to drive back to Sheffield and still be in time for the six o’clock sale. With luck, it would be over early enough for me to get back to Manchester in time to visit Richard. I got to my feet just as Chris came in with a tray of coffee.
‘Aren’t you stopping for a brew?’ she asked.
I put on my FBI face. ‘You expect me to drink coffee at a time like this?’ I asked sternly. ‘People, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.’
Chris giggled. Alexis guffawed. I don’t know why it is that people just don’t take me seriously.
Chapter 12
Literary critics punt the theory that private eyes are society’s outsiders. That might have been true in 1940s Los Angeles, but it’s a joke in 1990s Britain. These days, if you want to last more than five minutes as a private investigator, you’ve got to have the instincts of a chameleon. Gumshoes that stand out in a crowd are as much use to the client as a chocolate chip pan. I’ve had to pass as everything from lawyer to temp, including high-class hooker and journalist, sometimes both on the same day. At least tonight I’d already cased the venue, which gave me a pretty substantial clue as to dress code.
I pulled the crumpled flyer out of my pocket and gave it the once-over. Whoever had put it together wasn’t going to win any awards for grammar or graphic design. The one-day sale promised bargains of a lifetime — video recorders for £69.99, camcorders for £99.99, microwaves for £49.99, plus hundreds of other exclusive, unique, etc. Already, and for free, we’d been presented with more exclamation marks than any reasonable person could use in a decade. With all this in mind, I dressed for the occasion. Tight faded Levis, a black Tina Turner Simply the Best sweat shirt (because black always makes me look like I have a major vitamin deficiency), and Richard’s three-sizes-too-big Washington Red Sox jacket. I finished the ensemble with a pair of white stilettos with a two-inch heel, bought, I hasten to add, solely for professional purposes. I gathered my auburn hair into a top knot and held it in place with a gold lurex elasticated band. Never mind a million dollars, I looked about threepence halfpenny. I’d fit in like a flea in a cattery.
I was back in Shelfield for half past five. I dumped the car in a city-centre car park and found a cab to take me out to the council estate. I tipped the cabbie a fiver, which persuaded him to come back for me later. At quarter to six, I joined the queue snaking along the pavement outside the community centre. There were getting on for a hundred punters, and none of them looked like they’d be allowed to carry a donor card, never mind a gold card. I reckoned the youngest were under two, slumped slack-mouthed and sleeping in their pushchairs. The oldest were never going to see seventy again. The rest included harassed-looking women, middle-aged at twenty-five, to lads who looked fifteen till you clocked the eyes. I’d calculated well. Nobody gave me a second glance.