Why We Die (21 page)

. . . I
’
ve just thought of one of the things I had to do that
morning. I had to renew the TV licence.

Maybe I mentioned that to him. I don
’
t remember.

. . . You
’
re job
’
s quite tough, isn
’
t it?

Helen found herself nodding in agreement; kept nodding until, like an alarm clock interrupting a dream, a male voice broke in. What it said, she didn’t register.
Yes
or
no
, or something less committal: just a punctuation mark in Katrina’s monologue . . . This was between Katrina and the policeman. Helen hadn’t been there, and she barely felt here now. When the policeman had said whatever he said, Katrina continued:

I expect there
’
ve been times you
’
ve known violence couldn
’
t be
avoided, that it was your duty to confront it. And that the best
you could hope was, it would be over quickly, with no permanent
damage done . . . But you
’
re a man. Probably you have different
ideas about your role in a violent situation. All I
’
m saying is,
I knew what was coming. Not its speci
fi
cs, but the general
outline . . . Things were familiar. Already familiar, and they
hadn
’
t started yet.

It would be good to be able to say that a difference came over
him. That there were two of him, that he was taken over by some
–
inner demon, some Hyde. But he wasn
’
t. He was just himself.
The same man I
’
d married, without wanting him to change.

And he didn
’
t say another word. You
’
d think he
’
d need to rev
himself up, wouldn
’
t you? To change gear, to give some acknowledgement
this wasn
’
t ordinary, wasn
’
t what everybody did, you
didn
’
t just wake up, get dressed and smack your partner round.
But that
’
s what he did. No pretence about regrettable necessity
or painful duty or . . . It was just what he did next. In between
combing his hair and putting the kettle on
.

Helen stood abruptly, and pressed pause. For a moment there was silence, and then the usual noises intervened: the slap of rain against her window; the buzz of electricity making her flat work. Somebody walked past her door in what sounded like workboots, but were probably de rigueur clubwear. She had intended to listen to the tape right through, and then bed: ten hours’ sleep. Now she wasn’t sure. Not sure she could stand the rest of it; not sure she’d sleep afterwards, either. Luckily, there was always the third option: the drink you poured while you made your mind up. Helen was out of ice now, and almost out of tonic, but she didn’t let these things stop her. Before she knew it, she was back in her chair with a fresh glass; before she’d noticed what she was doing, she was reaching for the pause button . . .

Somebody knocked on her door.

‘I didn’t order pizza.’

‘You sure?’

‘Do I look like I can’t remember whether I ordered pizza?’

Hell, she looked like she couldn’t remember last time she changed her shoes: with her mad hair, and a cardigan probably saw service in the Crimea. She was blinking fiercely, and Arkle remembered she’d been wearing glasses when she’d drawn her curtains earlier. She wasn’t wearing them now.

He said, ‘Helen Coe. Flat seven, right?’

‘Flat five.’

Fuck. ‘Five. What I meant.’

‘No thanks. Goodnight.’ She made to shut the door.

He said, ‘You’re the journalist, right?’ and his words must have scraped through the gap just before the lock snapped into place.

A second passed. Two. The pizza box had grown clammy, the way a shirt does on a muggy day.

The door opened again. Same mad hair; same cardigan. Standing in her line of sight, though, Arkle felt like a target – like there might be twin red dots appearing on his forehead. ‘You’re not pizza delivery.’

He said, ‘They have those yellow jackets? So they don’t get knocked off their bikes? I’m not wearing one. I bought this round the corner.’

‘Do I know you?’

He grinned. He was pretty sure he could take his cap off, plus his shades, dance naked in her hallway, and she wouldn’t recognize him. Though she might suspect something was up. ‘We’ve not met, no.’

‘Which paper do you work for?’

He said the first one came into his head.

‘Tam Dalgliesh still running your news desk?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well tell him to keep his fucking hands off my story.’ And the door was closing again, only this time he got his foot inside it first.

‘I’ll tell him. Only it’s a little late for that.’

‘Get your foot out of my door.’

‘Okay. But you want to hear this.’

‘Hear what?’

His brain was working overtime now; it was like hitting the apple with the bolt – the trick was to keep moving. Not to stop and wonder whether you’d miss, because if you did, you’d miss.

. . . Had he faded, just then? No – he was still in the flow.

‘They know where she is.’

‘Where who is?’ But she was backing down, he could see; mentally adjusting to the idea that wherever she had Kay, it wasn’t the safe place she’d thought it was.

In his mind, Arkle could see tonight unfolding. He’d go back and sit in the van with Trent; wait for Little Miss Mad here to go beetling off to Kay’s hideyhole . . . He wished Baxter was here. He’d be shaking his head in amazement, saying
And everyone thinks I
’
m the smart one?
And Arkle would say,
Who
’
s the oldest?
. . . Yes, Baxter ought to be around when they found Kay. That would have a sweet justice to it, though Arkle was prepared to admit it wasn’t entirely logical.

‘. . . Are you listening?’

Shit.

‘Get your foot out of my door. Then we’ll talk. But as long as you’re trespassing, I’ve nothing to say, though I might be doing some shouting soon.’ She nodded towards the neighbouring flat. ‘The couple over there? They work doors down the West End. How many knots do you think they could tie you into?’

Arkle made to run a hand over his shiny head; realized he was still wearing the cap. ‘It would be interesting to find out,’ he said. ‘But it wouldn’t really solve anything.’ He moved his foot. The door stayed open. He said, ‘If you want to make sure she stays hidden, you’re going to have to cut a deal.’

‘The only deal I need’s already made. She talks to me. Nobody else.’

‘Maybe a couple photographs?’

‘No way. We’ve got an exclusive. Words and artwork, they’re ours alone.’

That was okay. Arkle had set his bait; now it was a waiting game. They could talk newspapers some more, but they’d done words and mentioned pictures, so unless they moved on to the TV guide, he was out of ideas. He’d worried her, though. She was imagining stuff going on, wherever Kay was; imagining a gang of journos laying siege – an exclusive leaking away in a battery of flash-photography and noisy questions. Give her five minutes, she’d be on her way. All he had to do was follow.

He said, ‘Well, you can’t blame me for trying,’ and turned to go.

‘That’s it?’

‘Can’t con a pro, can I?’ There you go: flatter the cow. ‘You want the pizza, anyway? It’s got those little fish on.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Go on, spoil yourself. Or take it for Kay, I don’t care.

’ ‘Katrina,’ she said. And something in her out-of-focus eyes shifted, and Arkle knew he’d fucked up . . .

‘Oh, Christ,’ she said, but he was too fast; had a foot and a shoulder in the gap before she could slam the door. And she was about to shout, but he was too quick for her there, too.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he pushed her into her flat.

iii

The bell rang again. For a safe house – a phrase from a seventies spy novel: all Moscow Rules and frightening shadows – it was pretty busy. On the edge of her bed, she listened to Jonno troop downstairs, and barely took a breath while he answered the door. He said something she couldn’t make out. So the bell goes at, what? – she checked her watch: after ten. So the bell goes after ten, and he’s supposed to be safeguarding her, and what’s the boy do? He opens the door, instead of calling reinforcements . . . She’d been led to believe the
Chronicle
was a busy newspaper. There must be another grown-up on the staff. Katrina wasn’t sure she liked Helen – she was too much the cynic for comfort – but she trusted her. Helen wouldn’t open the door without being damn sure who was on the other side. Katrina looked to the window once more. Which was open, too: just a crack. If worst came to worst, which recent experience suggested was not unlikely, that was her escape route. Three floors down, but plenty of brickwork, plenty of windowsills. Somehow, this did not reassure her. Getting up, she walked out to the banister; tried to hear what was happening several flights below . . .

The smell of pizza came wafting up.

So Jonno had sent out for pizza again. This was what happened when you left the kids in charge: they took the easy option. She went back into her room. Downstairs, voices stopped abruptly, and the front door closed. Outside, no doubt, a guy in a luminous jacket would be mounting his scooter. Katrina felt a hunger pang, and wished Jonno had asked if she wanted anything, then remembered she’d been short with him about the drink. There you go. She could starve to death: he’d care. Door shut, she sat on the bed once more. Her face was throbbing again. No: her face was throbbing
still
. It was important to keep your story straight. Small mistakes occurred, and people picked everything to pieces. Her face hurting wasn’t a story: her face hurting was a pain. Katrina lay back and closed her eyes. More fireworks went off; another souvenir of her fractured cheekbone . . . In the darkness she’d created, Baxter’s face lit up like a Hallowe’en pumpkin. And the creaking she heard was somebody coming up the stairs.

Do you want to know something funny? Don
’
t worry, it
’
s not
very funny . . . But do you want to hear it anyway? How my
face got hurt? He did it with the door. There. I told you it wasn
’
t
very funny. But after all those excuses, all those made-up stories
about doors, there
’
s a kind of . . . I
’
m trying to avoid the word
‘
irony
’
. There
’
s a kind of circularity. As if I deserved it, after
badmouthing doors for so long. What did doors ever do to me?
Up till then, nothing. Not really.

I
’
d turned my back on him, you see. I knew what was coming,
what he
’
d do next. In between combing his hair and putting the
kettle on. And I wanted out. I wanted to walk away before it
happened, instead of having to make up stories afterwards.
I thought if I could just leave
–
get outside, into what passed for
a normal world
–
he
’
d have time to calm down, and get behind
the foul mood he
’
d woken up in. Because when he wasn
’
t in that
mood, he could be the sunniest person I
’
ve known. And that part
of him was always there, somehow. The way the sun
’
s always
shining, it
’
s just that clouds get in the way.

He reached out to stop me. But instead of grabbing my arm or
my sleeve he caught the door, and jerked it back into my face as
hard as he could . . .

On the landing, a floorboard creaked. The whole house was a deathtrap; you could sit quiet as a mouse, and work out where everyone was by ear alone – next to the kitchen sink; in the centre of the bathroom. You’d know not only when they moved, but when they were thinking about it; when they remained in the same place too long. With patience, you’d know how heavy they were; how slow, how fast . . . And recognize, too, which boards were deceivers, and groaned in response to invisible pressures rather than intruders – weather, damp, boredom. There were a few of these, here and there. When they made a noise, you ignored it. It was just one of those things happened in old houses, to old wood.

But the board outside her bedroom door wasn’t one of them.

Katrina froze. All other noise faded into the background, like a trick scene in a horror film. One moment she’d been distracted by squabbling in the lane below; the next, the only thing audible for miles around was the body hovering on her bedroom landing. She opened her mouth, intending to say ‘Jonno?’, but no sound came out. This was self-preservation, not fear. That’s what she told herself. No sense in letting whoever was out there know her voice was wobbling. It was ridiculous, anyway, to suppose there was anyone there who shouldn’t be. It was Jonno, gearing up the nerve to knock. It was Helen Coe, back for more, and pausing to catch her breath.

But on the other hand, the possibility existed that something had gone horribly wrong, for reasons she couldn’t know.

She looked to the window. It was true that, in a sober moment, she’d reckoned it possible to climb down to the yard. On the other hand, that had been based on the assumption it was never going to happen. Reality had a way of chipping at the edges, so what you’d imagined to be smooth could draw blood. Besides, what would it be like, being found by Arkle clinging halfway down a building? With him above you, crossbow in hand? The image that swam into mind was thin-lipped, sharp-toothed. Some things were better faced in the light.

Unfreezing, she got to her feet. Crossed the room without making a sound, and flung open the door.