Something You Are (9 page)

‘Really? Felix Hudson?'

‘I swear, I fucking swear, I fucking swear…'

‘If I find out you lied to me, you know I'll kill you.'

Matt somehow managed to laugh through the pain. Laugh or cry. ‘When he finds out I spoke to you I'm dead anyway.'

I didn't know what to say, so I left it at that.

On the way back to my car I gave Gary a tap on the shoulder. The three of them took their hands away from their ears, watching me through guarded eyes as I gave them a wave.

Gary paused, before running after me. ‘Oi!'

I stopped.

He held out a hand and smiled. One of his front teeth had a diagonal chip.

‘I tripped him for ye!' he said.

‘Oh really?' My eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want now?'

He beckoned with his fingers and I made a show of sighing as I got out my wallet.

‘“Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence…

‘“Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disappointment it is as perennial as the grass.”'

It was cold but the sun was out, mockingly.

We stood as far back as we could. My hands were in my pockets and I had spent most of the service scanning the congregation. Mark was by my side, looking like a government official with his hands folded in front of him in respect.

I recognized a lot of the big names: Ronnie O'Connell and his wife, Rachel; Will Mageary and his fiancée, Melanie; and Noel Braben. Even Mickey Everest and a few other bikers had made an appearance.

It was more reminiscent of Pat's funeral than his daughter's.

‘Is that the Ambassador for Argentina?' Mark whispered, indicating his head at the man standing not far from Pat.

An older woman was crying. Clare's mother, I assumed. She had the same cheekbones.

Clare seemed dry of tears now, as though she had given up on the token formality. Crying was the easiest part; it was everything else that was harder.

I adjusted my suit jacket for the umpteenth time, thinking,
Bring thee to meet his shadow
.

‘You look fine.' Mark smiled behind his sunglasses, still looking ahead as if he was listening to the reading.

‘I hate suits.'

‘I think you look rather dashing.'

‘Well, I think you look inappropriate. Stop fucking smiling, it's a funeral.'

The two women in front of us exchanged glances and I rearranged my face into a more solemn expression. Jenny Hillier caught my eyes for a moment and looked away quickly. Danny Maclaine was standing two people away and I noticed him glancing at me, looking for answers like the rest of us.

I made a mental note to talk to him later.

My breath froze in the air as I watched the coffin, trying not to watch the parents and trying not to hear the crying, trying not to think of the broken body going into the ground.

‘“Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be… keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams…”'

‘God, this is pseudo-religious crap.'

‘Give me Rossetti any day.' I was watching Pat now, tall and stoical as a monument. I wondered if the only memories he could find of his daughter now were the ones drenched in blood and two semen samples.

‘“Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.”'

‘You're on fire today.' I jogged Mark's shoulder and scanned the congregation for any other familiar faces.

‘Do you know a guy called Felix Hudson?'

‘Not personally, but I see him in the Underground sometimes.' He indicated his head at Ronnie O'Connell and Noel Braben; Edie's subordinates who were largely left to run the club in her frequent absence. ‘Why?'

‘I'll tell you later.'

‘Might he be the reason we're here?'

I nodded.

‘Well.' He raised his eyebrows. ‘There was me thinking she wouldn't have known most of these people.'

‘Believe me, Felix Hudson was the last name I expected to hear.'

The official had stopped reading.

Mark lit a cigarette as people began to shift and disperse. ‘Are you invited to the wake?'

‘I think it would be bad form if I didn't go.' I lit one for myself. ‘It's all right, there'll be whiskey.'

‘Amen to that.'

It was strange seeing the house in Marylebone so full of people. The air was even thicker than last time, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed. As soon as I was over the threshold I accepted two glasses of spirit and downed them both.

I kept myself out of the way for fear of having to make small talk, but most of the people there were too wary of me and of Mark to attempt conversation. Pat wasn't here; his car had pulled away from the others on the way back from the service.

I was starting to feel claustrophobic. ‘I need to use the bathroom,' I muttered.

Mark was eyeing the man he had suspected of being the Argentine Ambassador and didn't appear to hear me.

The bathroom in the hall was engaged, so I went upstairs. I locked myself in and dashed cold water on my face, taking deep breaths against the mirror. After I had stayed there for as long as I could get away with I left the bathroom and loitered on the landing listening to the chatter downstairs.

I noticed a picture on the wall: Emma, below the age of ten, laughing in a paddling pool. It was a novelty to think of her as a person before the files and the photos. I took a step closer to look at the one next to it, a black and white portrait. To me she looked around the same age she had been when she died, though I reminded myself she had probably been much younger.

‘Hiding?'

I started. ‘Sorry, I didn't think anyone was here.'

Clare was standing in the bedroom doorway with her arms folded, wearing a black dress with a high collar and
three-quarter
-length sleeves. Not long enough to cover her wrists.

Compared to the usual wives and girlfriends I met she was hard to read; in other jobs for other men like Pat I could tell straight away what their women were after. Some of them wanted money, some wanted the status and some were sticking around just long enough to secure alimony. Clare was after something, but it was strange that I couldn't work out what.

‘You think you find this uncomfortable?' she said. ‘Try being related to some of them.'

I grimaced. ‘My family doesn't work well in a confined space either, these days.'

‘You have a family?' She seemed surprised.

‘I have… relatives.'

‘Oh, it's like that.'

‘Yeah, it's like that.' I looked for my packet of cigarettes, anxious for something to do with my hands, and stopped. ‘Sorry, I'll go outside. You don't smoke, do you?'

‘I do anything if it gets me out of talking to anybody for a bit.'

I followed her down the stairs and out of the front door, where she sat on the stone steps leading up to the house. After a second of deliberation I sat down too and handed her my
lighter. We watched the traffic for a while in silence until I noticed her shivering.

‘It's OK, you don't have to,' she said as I started to take off my jacket.

‘It's been pissing me off all day anyway. Take it.'

She put it around her shoulders and returned to watching the road.

I couldn't help looking down at her wrists and the faded white lines. They were self-inflicted, I could tell. It occurred to me that I had never seen her in short sleeves and I wondered if they went any further, up her arms or the tops of her thighs. I tried to work out whether I would feel an indentation if I touched them, or whether the years had smoothed them over by now.

‘You don't have kids, do you?' she asked. ‘No offence, but you can kinda tell.'

I shook my head, more relaxed with the cigarette and with the alcohol in my system. ‘No, no way.'

‘If I had any sense I suppose I'd tell you: Don't bother.' She laughed. ‘Does that make me a terrible person? I think it does.'

‘Not really.'

‘Oh, what do you know? People only have children to pass the baton. You hope that you can watch someone else cope with your problems better than you did, but they never do.'

‘What do you mean?'

The cigarette went out and she tried to light it again, looking flustered. ‘Nothing, I mean nothing. God, I bet people just line up to tell you the worst things about themselves.'

I shifted. ‘It's my job to ask questions.'

‘Don't flatter yourself. People only talk to you because there's nothing there.'

‘Jesus, if you think you're so much better than me then why are you out here?' I snapped.

She rubbed her eyes. ‘I'm sorry.'

I felt that I was staring too much, from her thin wrists to her thighs to her hands, looking for marks, and I focused on the road instead.

‘No… I'm not, actually,' she said.

I shrugged.

‘Can I ask you a question? Do you ever ask why they want you to do the things you do?'

I turned and her eyes were dark behind the Marlboro smoke. ‘No, but if they want to tell me, which they usually do, then I don't mind. It's not my place to ask people their motives, that's what courts are for.'

‘Exactly, that's what
courts
are for.'

I didn't reply but when I looked at her again she was smiling a little. She seemed serious about the things she said, but at the same time I sensed that she enjoyed being antagonistic and did it for sport, because she could.

‘Thank you,' she said as she inhaled again.

‘It's fine, it hardly costs me.'

‘No, not that, for when you came to the house. It was… good of you, I suppose.'

I watched the trees moving in the wind across the road, to distract myself from the vivid memory: kneeling on the floor of the mortuary viewing room, able to feel her tears through my shirt.

‘It was no problem, I couldn't just leave,' I said.

Silence.

I suspected we were both remembering the same things.

‘Where's Pat?' I asked.

‘I don't know. You know, I don't even care any more, really.
But you always seem to be here when he's not.' She gestured for the lighter again and I relit the end of her cigarette.

‘Are you Scottish?'

‘God, you noticed.' This time she smiled properly. ‘I tried to get rid of it when I moved… I thought my accent was pretty much gone.'

‘My mum's from Aberdeen,' I said, unsure why I was telling her. ‘My dad is from Florence, proper Italian.'

‘Tanned at Christmas, there had to be some explanation.'

‘Well, that's about as Italian as I get. A big nose, tan… and I'm a pretty good cook.' I touched my fingertips to the offending facial feature and took it away when I brushed against the bruise on my cheek, still fresh from the impact of Matt's fist.

‘It's dangerous, isn't it? Every time you come here you have something else…' She indicated her head.

My hand went to the bruise again. ‘This wasn't about Emma, it was…'

‘Another job.'

I swallowed and tried not to redden. ‘I—'

‘It's all right.'

‘No, I… I'm not thinking of it like that.' The words collided in my throat and I stuttered. ‘I'm not… I don't think of her as a job. You know, she's a person, I know that. This isn't me… clocking-in or whatever.'

I took a long drag, desperate to stop myself from talking. It was perplexing how much she unsettled me, how a few seconds of scrutiny from those eyes made my mind grind to a halt.

She didn't say anything else, just finished her cigarette and took off my jacket.

‘I should go back inside, make polite. Are you coming? If
you're lucky my mum will almost definitely tell you her entire life story.'

I got out another Marlboro and tapped it against the step. ‘I think I'll just stay here for a while.'

‘I wish I could.' She stood up. ‘Thanks for the jacket.'

I lit up again as she went back inside.

I tried to call Brinks but there was no answer.

My jacket smelt of smoke and perfume.

I opened my eyes and the ceiling was too close to my face. I reached out and felt rough wood and splinters, too close, so close I could smell the damp soil and rot, clinging to my nostrils, dense air clogging my lungs.

The only light came in tiny wire-like lines.

I pushed upwards but it wouldn't move. The air was too hot, suffocating…

‘Hey! Hello?'

I tried to kick out but I couldn't bend my knees. I was stuck, horizontal and shaking, clawing against the wood until I heard muffled voices from above.

‘“Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disappointment it is as perennial as the grass.”'

‘Hello? Hey, somebody, I'm down here!'

‘“Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.”'

‘No, no wait! Wait, I'm not dead!' I started screaming, thrashing in my prison.

‘“… keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams…”'

Too close, too hot, suffocating, rotting…

Someone was puffing on an inhaler next to my ear, a cold hissing sound.

Bring thee to meet his shadow
.

A clod of earth hit the lid with a thud, blocking the last traces of light. I looked sideways and Emma Dyer was lying beside me, a neat bullet-hole in her forehead, her wrists slashed and pulsing blood.

‘Let me out! Please!'

‘“… it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

‘“Strive to be happy.”'

She looked at me, smiling, her eyes running with blood.

‘Nic?'

‘I'm not dead, I'm not dead, I'm not fucking dead!'

Hissing, next to my ear, an exhale…

‘Nic!'

It took a while for me to realize that it was Mark I was grappling with. Our eyes met and the rest of the bedroom came into focus. My skin was clammy and my muscles were stricken with terror, but it wasn't real.

‘Oh fuck…' I fell back against the pillow with my hands to my head.

‘You all right?' Mark was sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. ‘You kept shouting.'

‘I'm fine.' I took deep breaths, trying to stop myself from shaking. ‘Just a bad dream.'

‘You want some tea or something?'

‘Please.' I sat up and shivered as the air hit the cold sweat on my skin.

‘Is this about Pat Dyer's daughter again?' Mark asked as he put the kettle on, hair dishevelled and green eyes still squinting from sleep.

I sat down at the kitchen table, glad of the light. The Italian cuckoo clock on the wall told me that it was half past four.