A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (20 page)

She dropped like a stone and I had to catch her or she'd have hit the deck. I almost slipped a disc as her weight fell onto me. I held her close and kissed her mouth and whispered that I loved her too, and you know what? I really did. ‘You are pleased to see me,’ she said, when we came up for air. ‘I thought you couldn't get it up.’

‘I told you I was armed,’ I said into her neck.

‘Then you must have two guns.’

‘Perhaps I have.’

‘Well this one I do want to see.’

‘Be my guest.’

She went straight down on me, sliding down my body, then was battling with my belt and Mister Levi's silver buttons, when I lost it.

The TV was still yapping away to itself in the corner. I was looking straight at the screen. Some kind of late night local news was on, and there, all of a sudden, replacing the smug face of the presenter was a picture of Terry, taken years ago when he still had hair. Then a photo of the girl I'd seen in his flat appeared. I couldn't hear what was being said, and the next thing on was coverage of cricket at the Oval. The brief glimpse was enough. It all came back like a movie running ten or twenty times too fast. And the movie went back, back from Tess's flat to Terry's flat, back to the squat, then to the hospital and the hospital before that, and being shot and everything until mercifully the film broke and left me with nothing, not even a hard-on. That was when I lost it.

The worst thing was that I couldn't tell Teresa. She would really have freaked out. She thought it was her fault and I didn't say anything to the contrary. I could tell she was furious. She looked up at me. ‘Fucking typical!’ she spat. ‘Some nights you can't even give it away.’

‘No Tess,’ I said, but it wasn't any good. She pushed herself to her feet and tugged the simple black dress she was wearing over her head. Underneath she was dressed only in brief white panties. ‘You fucking wimp,’ she said in disgust, and went and threw herself onto the long white sofa in front of the TV. ‘Well if you can't do it, I'll do it myself.’ She pushed her fingers into her crotch and began to play with herself. ‘What's the matter Nick?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Can't you handle a real woman any more? Or is it that I do it for money? Is that what you really can't handle? Don't you trust me sweetheart? Is it because I'm unfaithful every night?’ She changed her tack. ‘Why don't you punish me then? Go on Nick, show you're a man for Christ's sake.’ She was sweating and breathing hard. I was really pissed off and getting horny again at the sight of her, and angry at her and the world.

‘Come on Nick,’ she went on. ‘Punish me, you fucking nonce.’ I walked over and looked down at her. ‘Come on Nick.’ She was nearly screaming by then. I could feel my finger nails cutting the palms of my hands, my fists were clenched so tightly.

‘Wanker,’ she said and came.

I could have killed her then. She sat up and grinned at me and I slapped her so hard that she bounced off the sofa and onto the floor. She caught her balance and without missing a beat came up with a right hook that loosened one of my wisdom teeth. God she was strong. The blow took me totally by surprise and knocked me onto the back of the sofa which toppled over and deposited me on the floor up against the skirting board. She was on me like a demon. She dived over the sofa, slashing at my face with the nails on her right hand, which I just managed to catch and keep the skin on my cheek in one piece. I held her tightly, but she was so strong and slippery that I almost lost her. Suddenly she relaxed. I saw the drops of saliva on her chin. We looked into each other's eyes and I put my fingers up and gently wiped the drops off. I was waiting for her to attack me again when her eyes filled with tears like winter lakes and she went totally limp in my arms. ‘Some punch you got there babe,’ I said through a fat mouth.

‘Better than yours, Nicky boy. You punch like a girl.’

And there was me thinking I was tough. What a put down.

If I felt that I could have killed her before, the feeling was stronger then, but in a different way. So I rolled her onto her back and performed a little murder on her body right there on the Axminster, whilst she committed a ritual suicide underneath me. Then she took over the dominant role and I died under her ministrations. At last we dragged ourselves into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. We were slithering all over the sheets, kissing and nipping at each other like a pair of puppies. She went down on me again, spearing me with her tongue and hardening me up again. Finally we joined together for the last time and made tired and mellow love. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest and groin to groin. She was soaking. So wet that I thought I was going to be squeezed out of her cunt like an oversized orange pip. ‘No way baby,’ she whispered. ‘You don't get away that easy.’ She crossed her legs over my back and linked them together at the ankles and pulled me tighter into her. We came together in a heated rush, then rolled apart and lay exhausted and panting in the sticky night air. We held hands and turned over and smiled at each other. ‘I do love you,’ she said.

‘Me too, you,’ I said back.

‘Don't fuck me up Nicky,’ she said through a yawn.

‘I'll try not to,’ I replied as I reached for her. That was about as much as I could promise anyone. To try not to fuck them up. Some commitment.

We lay snuggled up in each others arms for a bit, not saying much. Finally she fell asleep. I lay back and relaxed, looking at the ceiling in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp.

That was when they came through the door and the bedroom window. Three of them, no-one I recognised, dressed in khaki and navy and camouflage gear, all armed with semi-automatic weapons and handguns. I pulled myself up to a sitting position as they stood in a menacing triangle with their ugly weapons trained on the bed. Three thoughts went helter-skelter through my mind. I'd been followed, however clever I'd tried to be. They'd been watching Tess and me all evening, and my fucking pistol was in a drawer in the other room.

The smallest of the three covered me with an AK47 whilst the biggest walked over to the bed, carefully staying out of the line of fire. He looked down at me. ‘Nice show, soldier,’ he said. ‘We thought the scwarze was going to swallow your dick.’ Then he popped me on the side of the head with the gun he held in his right hand. That time I definitely lost the wisdom tooth.

I woke up at the sound of my own scream. My heart was beating like a drum machine on self destruct. I was tangled up in a single sheet that was slick with sweat. Just a dream. I went and rescued my gun anyhow. I put it down by the side of the bed where Tess wouldn't see it if she woke up, then gathered her into my arms and went back to sleep.

I woke around six. Tess was lying next to me snoring gently. Not grossly, but just a soft inhalation. I poked her in the ribs and she rolled over. ‘Don't snore,’ I said.

‘I don't,’ she replied, and went back to sleep. After a moment I heard the faint snoring again. I grinned and got out of bed.

I pulled on yesterday's clothes and rinsed my face in Teresa's bathroom. I tried to shave with a stupid little disposable razor. I guessed she used it to shave underneath her arms. It felt like she used the blade to sharpen pencils as I dragged it across my face and winced at my reflection in the mirror set at least six inches too low for me.

I used her toothbrush too, then went and made some coffee. She only had instant and it tasted like hot iron filings. I took Tess a cup. She didn't want to wake up so I left it on her bedside table. She surfaced just enough to say goodbye. I kissed her briefly and she held my arm tight and asked me to stay.

‘I can't,’ I said. ‘I'd like to, but I can't.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘Get to the bottom of this mess. I hope,’ I said.

‘I'd rather you came back to bed and get to the bottom of me.’

I could tell she was beginning to wake up properly.

‘There's nothing I'd rather do.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But you've got to get out on the streets and right all the wrongs and be a man.’

‘Something like that.’

‘You're a fool, Nick.’

‘Maybe.’

‘There's no maybe about it.’

I shrugged and pulled a face. What could I do about it?

‘You'd better take care,’ she went on.

‘I will, and I'll see you soon, at Emerald's place.’

‘I'll be waiting.’

‘Make sure you are.’

Then I left.

The morning was already warm, moving towards hot, but huge storm clouds were banked on the horizon. They sat high and still and threatening. In a way they reminded me of the way my life was going.

I walked down to Stockwell tube and caught a deserted train through to Balham. The storm clouds were closer when I came out into the street. I picked up a cab at the rank outside the station and took a short ride up to Clapham Junction. The Trans-Am was still parked at the back of Arding & Hobbs on the yellow line. It had been ticketed. I took the plastic bag from under the windscreen wiper and dropped it into a bin down by the Wimpey. Keep Britain Tidy.

No-one seemed interested in the car as I drove it back to my office. No-one seemed interested in the office either, or me for that matter. I kicked the chairs around the room in temper. Then picked them up and sat on one. I sat for a long time waiting for something to happen. Then it did. The ‘phone rang.

When I answered it I found myself speaking to a man with a cultured voice that contained just a trace of a foreign accent that I couldn't identify. The voice asked to speak to Nick Sharman.

‘This is he,’ I said. All those years of schooling hadn't been wasted. ‘I believe you are looking for a Miss Patricia Bright,’ the voice said.

‘Nearly everyone who calls me believes that,’ I replied.

‘Is it true?’

I agreed that it was.

‘May I ask, in what connection?’

‘On behalf of her father.’

‘Alas, she has no father.’ I had to admit he was very polite. I wasn't.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Don't fuck me around, I'm not in the mood today.’

‘I'm perfectly serious,’ the voice said.

I paused for a moment. He sounded as if he meant it. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘What do you want?’

‘My name is of no importance now, but I think we should meet and I can introduce you to Miss Bright,’ he replied.

‘The last time someone told me that I ended up with severe scalp abrasions, and almost got nicked for manslaughter or worse, and she wasn't even there. So why should I believe you?’

‘It is of little concern to me, what happened to you previously.’

The voice said again, ‘But I can certainly produce the girl. If you do not want to take up my offer of a meeting, so be it. If you wish to stumble around like a blind man in a maze, that is your prerogative. I am an honourable man. When I say something will happen, it will. I promise you will come to no harm with me, if you conduct yourself in a civilised way.’

I decided I had no choice. ‘Where and when?’ I asked, all businesslike. He interrupted me. ‘We will come to you. I will call you again within the hour with full instructions.’ The ‘phone went dead in my hand as he cut me off.

I sat and waited, and did all the things private detectives are supposed to do when they think a case is about to break. I thought about what the man with no name had said about Patsy not having a father. What the fuck was all that about? I quickly dialled George Bright's numbers. The answerphone was on at the warehouse again and there was no answer at his home. I didn't dare make any more calls in case my line was busy when the stranger called back with his instructions. If he called of course. I sat and worried about my ex-wife and child. I looked at the people outside in the street going about their business. I decided that maybe being normal wouldn't be so bad after all, and wished I'd gone into insurance. I felt the metal of the .38 boring into my back and fought off the temptation to check the load again. I wondered what had gone wrong with my life. Forty five minutes after his first call the man without a name called again. ‘I am using a car-phone,’ he said. ‘We are waiting for you at Norwood Cemetery. We are parked next to the rose garden, beside the crematorium. Park your car at the bottom of the hill and proceed on foot. Come alone.’

‘I hope you're not kidding me,’ I said. I could hear the exasperation in my voice.

‘Mr. Sharman,’ the disembodied voice said. ‘Please do not force me to constantly repeat myself. I am not in the habit of kidding anyone. We will wait for precisely twenty minutes. Do not waste time.’

The call was abruptly terminated. I did exactly as he had told me. I locked up the office and drove the Pontiac up to the cemetery. It was only five minutes from my office. I passed through the massive gates and drove slowly up the road that meandered between the gravestones. It is a beautiful place, although not one I'd choose to spend my leisure hours. I used to walk through it as a child holding my grandma's hand to visit the graves of my family who are buried there. The place always filled me with fear and awe. That morning was no exception. I parked the car next to a signpost that pointed to the crematorium and walked up the hill towards the single storey, red brick building. There were several cars parked outside, and I guessed that a service was taking place. The morning was cool again and a light breeze tugged at the coats of a mourning party attending a burial at the foot of the hill. Other people carrying flowers were visiting the graves of their late loved ones. I wondered briefly if anyone would ever bother to visit my last resting place, then realised self pity was a stupid emotion.

I walked up the gradient towards the old part of the cemetery. At the top of the hill, just past the crematorium building was parked a car. Not just any old car at that. It was a black Rolls-Royce stretched limousine. The bodywork shone like a mirror and the thin sunlight picked out the chrome trim and reflected back into my eyes. When I got closer, I saw that the side windows were tinted nearly as dark as the bodywork itself. The car sat square on the road, as big and silent as the tombs that surrounded it.

When I reached the vehicle, the driver's door opened and a heavyset man with a face set like concrete, wearing a grey chauffeur's uniform stepped out. From where I was standing the uniform fitted him well. In his right hand was a Colt .45 US Army issue automatic. In retrospect, I realised that the gun fitted him better. The driver pointed the gun in my general direction and opened the offside passenger door. A tall dark skinned man emerged. The chauffeur closed the door before I had had a chance to look inside. The tall man was dressed in a navy blue, double breasted suit, that I estimated wouldn't have left him a lot of change out of a thousand pounds. I would have been willing to bet he was the toast of South Molton Street. His shirt was blindingly white, with a tabbed collar, at which was knotted a slim black tie. His feet were shod in polished black boots, fastened with discreet gold buckles. He wore a snap-brim black trilby and wrap-around shades. His outfit was tailor-made for the bone orchard in which he stood. In his left hand he held a lightweight machine pistol. It was a small, snub nosed weapon, not much longer than the driver's automatic, but with massive fire power. From the grip a short magazine protruded like a thick, obscene metal tongue. I recognised the make and model. It was an Ingram MAC M10 9mm sub-machine gun. It was finished in matt-black. Instead of the usual webbing belt, which was used to hold the gun steady when firing, a custom made leather strap was attached to the gun. Any urban terrorist worth his salt would love to find one in his Christmas stocking. The magazine held 32 rounds that the gun could spew out in less than two seconds when on full automatic. It was a very, very sexy designer death all wrapped up like a pretty toy. It would never have surprised me to see a diamond cluster on the safety catch.

I could feel the tall man watching me through the black lenses of his glasses. After a moment he spoke.

‘We meet at last, Mr. Sharman. I have been observing you for the last few days with great interest. You appear to be a very inquisitive man.’ As he spoke he leant against the car, the machine pistol drooping lethargically in his grasp.

‘That's my job,’ I replied.

‘Not when it interferes with mine.’

‘Which is?’ I enquired politely.

You can take my word that when the business end of a MAC 10 is less than three feet from your belly-button, everything you do is polite.

‘Commerce, buying and selling. Finding a demand and filling it. The very stuff of life, you must agree.’

‘If you say so,’ I said.

‘I do say so. And I can meet your demand to see a certain young lady. You seem determined to locate Patricia Bright. However, you appear to have met with little success in your search. I must confess that your powers as a detective do not fill me with particular admiration. But your meagre talents seemed to have set a few cats amongst certain pigeons, as it were.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Some of the demi-monde have become quite agitated about your interest in the girl. I must admit a certain puzzlement as to why. Now you're bumbling appears to be encroaching on my interests. So I intend to put you more into the picture regarding the Bright family. This, I hope will lead you to cease meddling in my affairs.’

I was frankly puzzled and I told him so. ‘I hate to say this,’ I said, ‘but I have no idea who you are, or what you do. And I might add, I rarely, if ever meddle with people who carry sub-machine guns.’

‘I do not intend to tell you who I am,’ he said. ‘I have many names, you may call me David. It is of no importance. It can be another mystery for you to solve. After all, you are the detective. Find out for yourself if you can. Many people better than you have tried and failed. But you are looking for Patricia. I have certain interests in her. Ergo, you interfere with me.’

I loved his vocabulary. ‘Ergo', Demi-monde'. David must have had a classical education, or pretended that he had. So had I, so I wasn't impressed, but I must admit a certain fondness for his suit.

‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

‘Of course. That's why I invited you here,’ he replied.

‘When?’

‘Now, I think,’ he said, and with that he opened the rear door of the Rolls again. That time I had a clear view into the car. On the back seat sat Patsy Bright.

I could hardly believe I was seeing her at last.

‘Patricia,’ said the tall man. ‘Come out and say hello to Mr. Sharman.’

She climbed out of the car and into the daylight. Her face was even more beautiful in real life than the photo which I had looked at so often, led me to believe. But when I looked closely I noticed that her skin was slightly puffy and there were dark shadows forming under her eyes. And when I looked into her eyes, there was something that belied her beauty. A knowledge of life that no girl her age should have. The eyes that looked back at me were a million years old.

She was taller than I had expected, although by then I knew her measurements better than my own. She was wearing a blue mini-dress, white tights and flat heeled blue pumps that matched her dress exactly. On her left arm she wore a dozen or more plastic bangles in rainbow shades that rattled slightly when she moved. In her left hand she held a single long-stemmed rose. It was hardly more than a bud. I tried to recognise the type. I was sure that I'd once grown similar myself. I felt it was very important for some reason to identify it. But I couldn't.

Patsy wore pale make-up and bright pink lipstick, which contrasted with the sooty mascara that coated her eyes. Her hair was longer than it had been when the photo was taken, and hung down to her shoulders like two golden wings framing her face. She looked as though she had just stepped off the set of ‘Blow up'. In her left hand she carried a pair of red framed Ray-Ban sunglasses.

I was relieved when she put them on.

I wondered what to say to someone I had never met, yet who had dominated my life for more than a week that seemed to have lasted a lifetime. Someone I was in love with for all the wrong reasons.

‘Hello, Patsy,’ I said after a moment.

‘Hello,’ she replied dutifully.

‘I've been looking for you.’

‘I know.’

‘Your father asked me to, he's worried about you.’

‘My father died fifteen years ago,’ she said.

I looked from her to David, as I was supposed to call him, then back again.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked in a confused way.

‘What I say. My father is dead,’ she replied. Although her accent was good, South London was teetering on the edge of it.

‘Who's George Bright then?’ I asked no-one in particular.

‘Perhaps, I can explain,’ said David. ‘George Bright is Patsy's adoptive father. He is also the man who managed her career as a prostitute.’