Bright Spark (29 page)

       “You
make me a bit sad, Rob. But that’s honest. That’s progress.” She sniffed,
bright eyes dewing. “It’s dead simple. Come back to me. Make room in your life.
Want to know something? Sounds stupid, it is stupid. But my regional manager,
Jess. She and her husband are forever screaming at each other over anything.
Football results. Not flushing the loo. Driving too quickly. Driving too
slowly. You get the gist. Thing is: I’m jealous, ‘cause in their own dumb,
screechy way, they’ve got passion. And they’re randy as stoats.”

       “I’m
so sorry, Hayley. I’ve been sleepwalking lately. I know I have to do better.”
He remained numb, an impartial observer, in control. He knew it would all make
sense later, when he returned from his trip around the solar system.

       “You
do. But I don’t want words. You’re low. You’re in pain. Your head’s fizzing
with beastly, horrible stuff from work. Involve me. That’s all. I’m afraid.
Desperately afraid you’re wasting my time.

       “So.
Here it is. I’ve thought about leaving you. I’ve thought about staggering into
bed with other people at conferences. Maybe you have strayed. I don’t know.
Don’t want to know. Couldn’t take it. I’ve thought about screaming at you and
punching you.

“You’ve
got a month. Get your thinking done. Decide what you want. If you love me and
want me, tell me on your own terms. That’s it.”

       Harkness
had remained studiously blank, nodding gently and draining his whisky. He felt
like a recalcitrant interviewee, stunned or calculating or both, allowing the
whirring of the tape and the flickering of pens and the silent expectation to
build, knowing someone might crack but it wouldn’t be him. ‘  “Ok. I will. I
promise.” He meant it, every word. Or at least he would make sure he meant it,
soon. “I’ll use this time to shake work out of my head and think about you.
Us.”

       “That’s
all I want, Rob. And you can start by taking my question seriously. How do you
know any of this astrology mumbo-jumbo is true?”

       “Astrology?
Go and wash your mouth out.”

       “Go
on, explain to me how the universe is expanding. If it goes on forever and it
actually
is
everything, what the hell could it be expanding into? A
bad-hair day for Geminis with foggy horizons for Leos makes more sense to me.”

       “Well,
it’s like this…”

       “And
just in case you haven’t worked it out, I’m not after a physics lecture, I just
don’t want you to treat me like a powder-puff girly.”

       “It’s
called the Hubble Constant. At a galactic level, everything is moving away from
everything else at dazzling speeds. In fact, the further apart things are from
each other, the faster they accelerate. It’s as if the fabric of space itself
is expanding. It doesn’t need anything to expand into because it
is
everything.
Reality itself is expanding.”

       “Cobblers.
Really, Rob. You do know you sound like the skinny man in the kaftan you always
find in the ‘chill out’ tent at festivals?”

       “Open
your mind, man.”

       “Come
on. How could you possibly know any of this?”

       “Red
shift. Distant objects are motoring away so quickly they elongate the
wavelength of light we receive from them. The galaxies are being hurled apart
in every direction with enough force to bend light itself and the void is
swelling. Chilling stuff, eh?”

       “Do
you know how much you sound like the man on the High Street? You know, the one
with the megaphone and the bible and all that ‘cast into the void’ nonsense?”

       “Well,
we both toil against the unbelievers, but at least he stands a chance of
redemption.”

He’d
fumbled at his books and half-remembered skills like a senile locksmith fussing
at the locks and hinges of a safe. Then the safe had sprung open and the
universe had unfurled in every imaginable direction, leaving him enthralled by
its complexity and wonder and in no doubt as to the transience of his problems
and his blistered flesh.

For
five days of blissful absence, he’s allowed it to consume him, rarely going
outside save to study the occasional glimpse of clear night sky. He’d taken his
drugs, sunk his whisky and ignored telephone calls and letters. He’d diligently
conversed with Hayley about office politics, exploitative talent shows, the
pitfalls of an interventionist foreign policy, and how good it was that they
were talking, really talking again. At her urging, he’d ordered himself a
superior astronomical telescope online; a good use for all that overtime money
and a distraction from work.

Then
the universe had collapsed back into its appointed space in a ‘big crunch’ with
its own precise formula:  the degree of distraction is directly proportionate
to the gravity of the issue being ignored. While he itched and healed and cogitated,
the answers hurtled away from him in every direction. If he wasted too much
more time, they’d be megaparsecs away and accelerating hard.

Compared
to knotting his tie, buttoning his shirt and tying his shoelaces, driving to
Glamorgan Mews was easy. A week had passed since his discharge from hospital
and his hands were healing more quickly and completely than he deserved, the
old skin sloughing off in flakes to reveal pink new skin beneath. The pain had
faded but still found new and nauseating form in the lugs and dimples of the
steering wheel and gearstick that he forced himself to grip tightly and
correctly while he drove to Sharon Jennings’ address. Bandages or gloves might
have afforded him some relief, but forcing his hands to grip and flex and
exposing them to fresh air would surely hasten his return to duty.

He
parked his car out of sight of 3 Glamorgan Mews. The pretence of being on duty
would be strained by the brash, bulbous and plainly unofficial shape of his
Focus RS. He bid the few neighbours who glanced at him a hearty “good morning”
and made himself amble rather than stride, desperate not to appear as much of
an imposter as he felt.

Sharon
’s Mini was slewed across the driveway
and a discrete waft of the hand across the radiator grille suggested it hadn’t
moved that day. The house’s side gate stood closed and padlocked and the front
window was blank, opaque curtains blocking the strong sunlight. Harkness
breathed deeply, drew back his shoulders, gritted his teeth and knocked on the
door with his least tender knuckles.

The
spy-hole flickered, locks and chains rattled and Sharon drew the door open
carefully. She wore an overlarge heavy metal t-shirt over ripped jeans and
worried at tangled hair with ink-stained fingers. An aroma of sweet coffee
escaped from the house; tempered bitterness.

“Sergeant,
erm….?”

“Harkness.”
Was she affecting vagueness to give herself time to think? “Hello again, Miss
Jennings.”

“Hello
yourself.” Perplexity wriggled across her forehead. “I’ll be honest with you,
officer. I haven’t got the time or inclination to talk to you. Not after what
happened to Nigel.”

“About
that…”

“It
doesn’t matter. It’s not my place. Part of me wants to scream questions at you.
Or just scream abuse. But there are….processes underway. We shouldn’t even be
talking at all.”

“I
am sorry….”

“Just
save it. Keep it on the record. I don’t want to hear it. The fact is you’re
wasting your time here. And mine. I’m on my own again. Mum took dad and Jeremy
home again last weekend. Against the insurance assessor’s advice because the
place hasn’t been patched up or cleaned or refurbished. Still smells like a
coal bunker. So, there’s nobody here for you to take your statements from. And
I’m not sure why you’d need them now anyway.”

“Actually,
I’m here to speak to you. Sharon.”

She
paused, perhaps toying with upbraiding him for over-familiarity but not wishing
to sound like her mother.

“You
want me? But it’s a weekday; why aren’t you at my office?”

“I
rang. They said you were on leave. I pegged you as a workaholic and took a punt
that you wouldn’t have gone far.”

“Like
to peg people, don’t you?”

“Like?
No. But I have to.” He sighed, appraising her posture; she leaned on the door
jamb, curious but unyielding, some way from inviting him in. He brandished his
hands. “As you can see, I didn’t exactly walk away from this unscathed.”

“Job
requirement?” she mimicked.

“Touché.
You think we – I - got a few things wrong. Here I am with some of the
consequences burnt into me. If you know better, why don’t you help me get it
right?”

She
stared at him, eyes alternating between his eyes and his hands, mind weighing
the work stacked up on her kitchen table and her wariness of him against her
curiosity.

“You’d
better come in. Before the neighbours talk.”  She ushered him in and pointed
him towards the open patio doors and the garden chairs outside. “Coffee?”

“As
much as you can spare.”

Harkness
peered into the lounge on his way into the kitchen; it belonged in a show-home,
so empty of clutter, polished and orderly that it could only be used by one
person, rarely. By contrast, the kitchen table and half of its work surfaces
held a plethora of notebooks, pink-ribboned files and hefty reference books
with arcane titles picked out in gold and burgundy. He stepped over the
power-lead for a laptop, its screen a scene of typographical carnage, half of a
document’s neat black text underscored or overwritten in red. He tried to pick
out a title or a phrase but Sharon ushered him onwards, folding shut the
laptop’s lid as she passed.

“Any
more of that and I’ll have to insist you get a warrant.”

“Sorry.
Again. Force of habit.”

“Isn’t
that dangerous? Letting habit govern your thought processes?”

“Dangerous
for whom?”

“For
you. For any suspect you handle. For the cause of justice if you want to think
that far ahead.”

“I
try not to. Ruins my sleep. But you’re right. Up to a point. I thought you were
supposed to be on holiday?”

“I
am. No appointments. No court time. No phone calls. Nobody asking me silly
questions. It’s the only way to catch up with my workload.”

“But
don’t you need to escape?”

“That
sounds like an order.”

       “Maybe
you need to be ordered to work less hard.”

       “And
who’d be giving the order?” she said, spooning an extra, bitter spoonful of
coffee into the cafetiere.

       “Somebody
with more balls than me. Milky. One sugar. Thanks.” He smiled again, trying it
for size. “Seriously. Why haven’t you escaped this tiny house and this tiny
town while you can?”

       “Because
I have work to do. And haven’t got the time or the inclination to sit on a
beach or mooch around a castle or queue with the other sheep getting hot and
bothered and thinking about work that I could have been getting on with.
Seriously.”

       She
proffered a steaming mug and he pinched its handle between thumb and
forefinger, grimacing and gasping.

       “Shit.
Sorry. That must really hurt.”

       “A
little. S’alright. Got it now.” He gently placed the mug on the nearest
surface, flexing his fingers and blowing on them. “My fault. Keep forgetting.”

       “I
didn’t do that on purpose. In case you’re wondering.”

       “Maybe
I deserved it anyway. Disturbing your working day. Prying into how you spend
your holidays.”

       “So,
about harassing and killing my client.” She frowned and looked away as soon as
she’d said it.

       He
laughed again, a mirthless braying.

“Is
that funny?” she asked, wrong-footed.

“Not
especially. It’s just good to hear someone finally come out with it. Someone
honest enough to say it and decent enough to be a little squeamish about it.”

“Happy
to help. Want some whisky in that coffee?”

“I’m
glad you’re joking.”

“Am
I?”

“You
must be, unless you want an eighteen-stone copper cluttering up your ever so
tidy house all day.”

“That
would be a treat after my family. Besides, you look a bit traumatised. Those
burns might go a bit deeper than the dermis. Maybe I should get you sloshed and
exploit grill you.”

“To
what end?”

“If
I knew that, where would the fun be?”

“Wait.
You spend your holiday time alone, catching up on paperwork, and you think I’m
in trouble?”

“Ok.
Quid pro quo then. You tell me how you got damaged and I’ll tell you why this
is a good holiday for me.”

Harkness
stilled his tongue. He almost forgotten why he was here, then realised he’d
never been entirely sure of his reasons. His notebook bulged with unanswered
questions; but wasn’t it one simple, skulking question lurking at the back of
his mind that had brought him here, a closed question that could never be
committed to paper?