DEATHLOOP (21 page)

Zack watched her for a moment or two heaving her case up the steps, then as Veronica’s door closed behind her, he drove off. Half an hour later Zack was sprawled on Sam’s Chesterfield in Baker Street tugging on a Marlboro. Luckily Clarissa was out at one of her new age get-togethers, so they had the place to themselves. Sam was pleased to see Zack and keen to hear the latest, but when he did hear the latest, the news hit him like a blow.

“So you did have sex? Is that it?”

Zack shrugged.

“Christ, surely you’d have remembered?” said Sam with a burst of impatience.

“I do remember thinking how lovely she looked.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Look Sam, hand on heart I don’t know what happened, I don’t think we had sex but I couldn’t swear to it. When I woke up she was sitting on my bed with no clothes on. I got up, sat across from her in the little boudoir chair, the one that crazy Italian girl got me to buy, she said she would change, I said I wouldn’t, the usual garbage. I fell back into bed and as far as I am aware I passed out.”

They gazed across at each other for a few moments.

“She came here by the way, did I tell you? Clarissa let her in.”

“
Here? Susan?
Why? What the hell for?”

“She wanted us to persuade you to confess.”

“Hell, I hope you kicked her out.”

“In the end,” said Sam.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sam shrugged, about to speak, then looking awkward, he clammed up suddenly.

“What?”

“She had one hell of a black eye, mate,” said Sam finally, with a tense shrug.

“
Oh Christ,
and there was me thinking you were on my side.”

“I am, of course I am,” said Sam, rather lamely.

“And Clarissa?”

“Well, she feels sorry for Susan, she always has… a girl’s thing I guess.”

“And we go back
how long
?” said Zack, looking hurt.

“It just doesn’t look too good, mate, that’s all… and now this…”

“Okay, right now listen to me… Susan was sitting on my bed naked having let herself into my flat, desperate for me to take her back. Had I wanted sex with the girl I only had to ask. So what exactly is she saying? I instigated sex and she
declined
? She would have denied me nothing at that moment, nothing on this earth. And you know what? Call me old fashioned but I don’t thump women, it’s not what I do.”

“I know you don’t mate, I know that,” said Sam, looking sheepish.

“Thanks.”

“How about some more bad news?” said Sam after a brief silence, making Zack groan. “Your little friend Jason Heart blagged his way into the office today ruffling the usual feathers.”

“Who
?
”

“Some foot soldier who seemed to think you were his brief.”

“Oh God,
him
…” said Zack, remembering, “and what did he want?”

“To meet up with you of course…”

“Brilliant, that’s all I need.”

“So who is this Mr Heart?”

“He wants me to defend him on a drugs charge.”

“Yes, so I gather, but why you?”

“God knows, he seems to think I’m the only man for the job although where he got that from I do not know.”

“But you’re otherwise engaged, did you tell him that?”

“I did, but he got me on a bad day.”

“Well it didn’t go down terribly well as you might imagine.”

“Another nail in the coffin, eh?” said Zack, glancing at Sam, uncertainly.

Sam thought about this and Zack watched him think about it. “The timing could have been better, that’s all,” he said.

Zack put out his cigarette and lit another one, ignoring Sam’s glare of disapproval.

“It seems crazy now, but a couple of weeks ago I remember hankering after the old days. There I was lamenting how dull my life had become…”

“You spoke too soon, mate,” said Sam, with feeling, “you really spoke too soon.”

The following day saw Zack and Tracy back at the police station where gloominess prevailed.

“Look,” said Zack with resignation, “I understand the evidence now is rather damning…”

“
Rather
?” said Tracy, eyes open wide at the understatement.

“Okay, right… this girl came round to my flat to convince me to take her back and I refused…”

“You told me this before.”

“Why rape her when she was happy to oblige?”

“Because you prefer it that way,” said Tracy, looking straight at him.

“No, I don’t prefer it that way, I find the whole idea repulsive. I have never felt the need to force sex on anyone, because, hey, guess what? For me anyway,
sex has never been that difficult to get.”

Tracy took the point, and realising she had possibly gone too far, reverted to professional mode.

“You said you returned to your flat between 12 and 1, and yet at 11.30…”

“I made a mistake,” said Zack, aware just how feeble this sounded now. “Susan must have sent that text from my phone in my flat, it’s the only explanation.”

“You didn’t drive back home I take it.”

“No, I’m not quite that reckless.”

“So who took you?”

“A cab driver,” said Zack, following her reasoning.

“Well I think we need to speak to this cab driver, don’t you?”

Good idea thought Zack, although he didn’t say it.

Zack knew he could sack Tracy Bright at any time. He could hire someone else entirely, and occasionally, the woman irritated him so much Zack wondered what was stopping him, but actually he knew what it was. For some bizarre reason he needed to convince Tracy along with everyone else that he was innocent, and as Zack suspected that Tracy doubted him, it made him doubly keen to convince her otherwise. He knew that Tracy Bright would bridle at any preconceived notion of being labelled a female chauvinist yet here she was subscribing to the view that all men were bastards, him very much included, which led him to question what the hell she was doing defending an alleged rapist anyway.

“I’ll try and track down the cabbie,” said Zack, a note of conciliation in his voice, “although whether he’ll be prepared to play ball is another matter”

“
If
you get bail,” said Tracy, a little too eagerly he thought. “That’s not a given, so don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves just yet.”

Zack did get bail, although the formal charge of Susan’s rape hung over him like a tarnished halo as he left the police station and made his way to his car. He was due in court for preliminary proceedings at the end of week, although in his experience that could be postponed for months because of backlogs and delays.

He desperately wanted to see Veronica, but she had gone to Venice of all places to meet with some brooding sculptor who sounded too charismatic and glamorous by half. Threatened by her meeting with this Italian god, Zack had done his best to persuade her not to go, but she was set on the idea. So here he was, for the first time in his life completely at the whim of this bloody woman who could render his life empty and meaningless just by plumping for some bastard Italian pseudo-intellectual over him.

Under normal circumstances he would have bombed over to Sid’s and got out of his skull, and although tempted, he thought maybe this time he should err on the side of caution. Mooching around his flat an hour later, Zack came across Jason’s bundle and sat down to give it the once over.

From what he could glean, even allowing for his tender age Jason was looking at two to three years minimum as he had agreed to supply undercover police officers with a large amount of crack cocaine, telling them he could get more where that came from and suggesting another deal that would net him roughly 50 grand. Something was not quite right with all this Jason business, but for the moment Zack couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Bored with the pages of small print, Zack decided to shoot over to The Mango Tree for a couple of drinks, calling in on Sid’s mini cab office maybe on the way home.

The Mango Tree was quiet. News of the police raid had gone round the neighbourhood like bush telegraph and most of the more colourful clientele were lying low. A girl came over and started talking to Zack almost as soon as he’d stepped up to the bar, but she was out of it, and although once attractive and possibly charming too, heavy duty drugs had put paid to all that. She told Zack she was an aristocrat, and Zack had no reason to disbelieve her, she had that detached superiority that only the best of stock possess. Rake thin, gaunt, tossing back mousy hair that hung dull and lank over bony shoulders, she bummed a fag and asked Zack if he wanted to ‘come back’.

“No thanks, love, thanks all the same,” he said, not remotely interested, and well aware that she expected him to pay for it anyway.

“Don’t call me love, I’m not your love, I’m no one’s love,” she spat out.

“Yeah, you know somehow I can believe that.”

The girl glared at him for a moment, but realising it was a lost cause, slid off with a nasty snarl of her crooked red mouth.

Just then Sid walked in. He saw Zack straight away and a little sheepishly came over asking Zack what he was drinking, which was a first. Zack accepted the drink, and waited until Sid had pocketed his change before indicating his favourite table barely visible in a very dark corner. As they sat down, Sid took out a scruffy piece of paper from an old wallet and handed it over.

“That drug you ask me about. No way could I pronounce it so me write it for you, handy you turn up, now I can fulfil me obligation face to face.”

Zack gazed down at Sid’s large uneven hand and tried to pronounce the word.

“Amyltrifloraltriptamine, is that it?”

“Something like that, something like that…”

“Well is it or not?”

“I and I do me best,” said Sid, his voice going up an octave, “but English not me first language, you know that.”

“So what is your first language then? Remind me.”

“Jamaican…”

“
Jamaican
… really? Well that’s a language I don’t know too much about.”

“You taking the Herbert, man,” said Sid, “when me struggle duty bound in this regard.”

“I got busted, Sid, damage limitation that’s all,” said Zack, causing Sid’s eyes to widen in alarm, making him look curiously vulnerable suddenly. “Don’t worry, I gave them the usual bullshit, the trail won’t lead to you.”

“Give it all up, man, it’s a mug’s game,” said Sid, expansively. “Me had to cast me eye over the wreckage too many a time. Why compromise survival in any bad ass circumstance? Be thankful God’s good grace give you more than one chance to fuck up and celebrate the fact,” said Sid, with his usual baffling logic.

Sid downed his drink in one go, stood up and offered his hand. Zack stood up to take it and remained holding it a few moments too long. “Be lucky as they say, Mr Fortune.”

And for some strange reason both men knew at that moment that they would never see each other again, not in this lifetime anyway.

Westline Mini Cab office stood at the end of a row of shops, its back entrance opening onto an alleyway that ran parallel to the street. Three cabs waited outside. Zack glanced at each driver in turn as they leant up against their chariots, but none of the faces that turned towards him rang a bell. He crossed the pavement to the office and stepped inside. There was the usual kitchen work surface that doubled as a counter, and behind it, controllers wearing headsets sat at wonky old desks right round the perimeter of the room. Up on the wall was a blown up photograph of Boris Johnson with his arm round a large man, and underneath someone had written the caption: ‘
Charlie and Boris talk turkey!
’

“Yes?” said the man himself, lumbering out from the wings towards him.

“I wonder if you can help me,” said Zack with an uncertain grin.

Charlie Manifold reckoned he had seen and heard just about everything in his sixty two years living in Westbourne Grove, consequently, his usual response to a request for help was to refuse as a matter of course.

They suffered the usual stream of life’s disasters in here: druggies, drunks, psychos, but Charlie found it in his heart to forgive anyone just about anything provided they didn’t throw up in his office and they had the right fare clutched in their sweaty palm. Failure to meet these conditions however meant that they were dispatched in no uncertain terms with the threat of Charlie’s chunky bull terrier, Kylie, to hasten them on their way. Money was the only language Charlie spoke.

“Depends,” said Charlie, warily.

Zack filled him in, asking if there would be any logged call or a way for him to track down the driver who took him back home last Friday, he jotted down his phone number and handed it over but Charlie was looking increasingly suspicious. There was a distinct possibility this guy could be some sort of official checking up on them and if he said the wrong thing now it could bring all sorts of lumber down on their heads so Charlie was careful in his reply.

“No telling who picked you up, pal, we don’t keep tabs on things like that.”

“He was a Muslim, I think,” said Zack, hoping this would narrow it down a bit.

“Oh yeah?” said Charlie, feigning interest.

“There was a sticker on his windshield quoting the Koran…” said Zack with a shrug, curious himself as to why he remembered that.

“Take your pick,” said Charlie, nodding outside to the group of drivers that had expanded their ranks and who were milling about outside now, flicking through tabloids and sharing jokes.

“He was very young if I remember, a student maybe?”

One of the controllers, a gaunt Somali looked up, and by his response was ahead of Charlie, although debating whether or not it was his place to jump in. Zack noticed the reaction, and changed focus.

“Thin, goatee beard, black anorak…”

A look from Charlie warned the man not to get involved, so he took the advice, and head down, got back to work.

“Look,” said Zack to Charlie again, “it’s no big deal I just need to know the time he dropped me back home, that’s all.”

“And you can’t remember that yourself?”