I drank more whisky and leaned in closer to the mirror, my attention drawn to a very faint indentation in the swollen red skin on the side of my face. When I looked even closer, I could just make out the outline of a ring-sized skull embedded in the broken skin. For some reason, I found myself smiling for a moment … but it didn’t last long. Smiling hurt too much.
I turned to one side and cautiously examined the back of my head. It didn’t feel so good — bruised, swollen, painful to the touch — and when I took my hand away it was thick with blood. The rest of my body felt pretty bad too — my belly, sides, shoulders, legs … everything ached like hell. I opened the cupboard over the sink, found some painkillers, and swallowed them down with a mouthful of whisky. Then I turned on the shower, running it as hot as it would get, and as the steam built up, misting the mirror and opening my pores, I got undressed and looked down at my beaten-up body. It was a mess — bruised all over, swollen and discoloured, the skin cut open and red-raw in places — but, again, there didn’t seem to be any serious injuries.
I finished my cigarette, dropped it in the toilet, and got into the shower.
I stood there for a long time, ignoring the pain as the hot water rinsed all the blood and dirt from my skin, then I turned the shower to cold for as long as I could bear, which wasn’t long, then I got out and carefully dried myself, put on my ratty old dressing gown, went back into the front room and sank down into the armchair beneath the high window.
Another glass of whisky, another cigarette …
I looked at the clock.
It was just gone midnight.
Rain-mottled street light filtered in through the window, lifting the darkness just enough to show me the shapes of things. Shelves, furniture, walls. Things. I glanced up at the clock again, watching the second hand sketch its slow, blind circle …
A moment in time — gone.
And another.
And another.
And another …
The seconds passed, taking too much away.
Taking nothing.
I was tired. Drunk. My head was throbbing. I wanted to close my eyes and not open them again until everything was all right. But I knew that nothing was ever going to be all right.
I didn’t want to think about anything — Anna Gerrish, her mother, her father … Genna Raven, the silver-grey Renault, the faceless men who’d beaten me up. I didn’t want to wonder who they were or why they’d attacked me. But what else did I have to do?
Just as I was starting to think about it though, muffled sex sounds began lumping down through the ceiling. Rhythmic creaks, oomfs and moans … the sounds of coupling bodies.
Bridget and Dave.
I turned on the television, cranked up the volume, and searched through the channels until I found something I didn’t mind too much. It was an old film, a Western — either Rio Bravo or El Dorado. I can never remember which is which. This was the one with John Wayne, Dean Martin, and Ricky Nelson … not that it really mattered. I set the volume loud enough to cover the noise from upstairs, filled my glass with whisky, and drank myself to sleep.
8
At some point during the night I must have got up out of the armchair, turned off the television, and got into bed. I have no recollection of doing it, but when I woke up in the morning, the television wasn’t turned on any more, and I was definitely in my bed, and — as far as I knew — no one else had been in my flat. So it must have been me.
It was still quite early, not quite seven o’clock, and the grey light of day was only just beginning to creep through the windows. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and cold. A blustery autumn wind was rattling the glass in the kitchen window.
My body had stiffened up during the night, and it took me a while to get out of bed and start getting ready for the day, but after I’d been through the usual routine — bathroom, coffee, painkillers, cigarette, toast, eggs, coffee, cigarette, bathroom — well, I didn’t actually feel any better, but I certainly didn’t feel any worse.
For the next half-hour or so, I busied myself doing not very much, then at eight o’clock I called Ada at home.
‘What?’ she answered bluntly.
‘And a very good morning to you, too,’ I said.
‘What’s good about it? And why are you calling me so early?’
‘I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be coming in this morning, that’s all. Is it OK if I leave everything to you?’
‘You always leave everything to me.’
‘Yeah, I know. I just meant — ’
‘I know what you meant, John,’ she said gently. ‘Of course it’s all right. Where are you going to be if I need to get in touch?’
‘I’ve got a meeting with Bishop at 11.30, and I want to try and see Cal before I go.’
‘Bishop called you then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s a nasty fucker, isn’t he?’
‘Yep.’
I heard her lighting a cigarette. ‘So how did it go last night? Did you find anything at Anna’s flat?’
I gave Ada a brief rundown of what I’d found out about Anna — the heroin, the prostitution, the possibility that her father might have abused her — but I didn’t mention anything about the Renault or the beating.
‘So,’ Ada said when I’d finished. ‘What do you think it all means?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Apart from the fact that her life was a fucking mess.’
‘Yeah, I suppose …’
‘Why are you talking like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘All lispy and puffy.’
‘Puffy?’
‘You said thuppothe. It sounds like you’ve got a mouth full of cotton wool.’
I ran my tongue over my split lip. ‘Uh, yeah … it’s just a … it’s nothing. Just a cut lip. I’ll tell you about it later on.’
‘Ooh,’ she mocked. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Yeah … well, I’ll probably get back to the office some time this afternoon, OK?’
‘All right.’
At about half past eight, just as I was about to leave, I heard the sound of raised voices upstairs. Bridget and Dave, arguing. I couldn’t make out most of the words, but I could hear the tone of the emotions: anger, frustration, placation, pleas — You don’t understand … I do … No, you don’t …
After a while, the argument subsided and a low sobbing began. Bridget, crying. A few minutes later, angry footsteps came thudding down the stairs, the front door opened, then slammed shut. Dave Dave, storming out.
I waited until I’d heard his car start up and pull away, with the inevitable screech of tyres, then I opened my door and went out into the hallway. I could still hear Bridget crying quietly, and just for a moment — a very brief moment — I found myself gazing up the stairs, wondering if maybe I should go up there and …
And what? I asked myself.
Comfort her?
Hold her?
Tell her she’s better off without him?
I shook my head, locked my door, and left.
Cal Franks had at least four mobile phones, maybe more. There were his two ‘regular’ phones, which he used for straightforward, everyday calls. There was another which he’d fitted with some kind of signal booster, in case of poor reception. And then there was his ‘special’ phone, which — according to Cal — was totally anonymous, impossible to listen in to, and completely untraceable.
I didn’t know what he used this special phone for, and I didn’t want to know.
I’d already called him on one of his regular numbers before I left that morning to see if he was awake and available, and surprisingly — since he usually stayed up most of the night and only went to sleep when everyone else was getting up — he not only answered his phone and told me to come on over, he actually sounded relatively sane. Which, for Cal, was also quite surprising.