Dying of the Light (23 page)

‘Anything else you can tell me about the man, sir?’

‘Such as?’ the irritable rejoinder shot back.

The question had seemed quite reasonable to Alice when she posed it, but now she found herself racking her brain for a sensible follow-up. ‘Er… his gait, his clothing… Was he carrying anything, a stick, an umbrella – anything at all that comes back to you?’

‘No. All I can see… all I can remember, I hope, is that the chap was big, broader than me. Nothing else,’ the lawyer said, looking thoughtful again, as if trying to
summon
up every recalcitrant detail.

The sharp smell of burning milk hit Alice’s nostrils and she waited, looking at Bayley, for him to react to it, but he said nothing, did nothing as it got stronger every second. Eventually she said, ‘Have you got something on the stove, sir?’

He stared at her and then leapt to his feet and ran out of the room. A couple of seconds later, his canine shadow
bumbled after him, bumping into the doorframe with its fat body.

As Alice was about to leave, an elfin woman, with hair cut as short as a boy’s, put her head and shoulders around the door, her face falling on seeing the visitor. She was dressed demurely in a brown jacket and thick calf-length skirt with heavy leather shoes on her feet.

‘Oh, I was expecting Guy,’ she said, entering and
looking
at Alice anxiously. As she finished speaking Bayley walked in. Seeing her, his entire face lit up, smiling with his eyes and his mouth, his pleasure in seeing her unrestrained, impossible to hide. She, too, beamed; they met in the
middle
of the room and, for an instant only, held hands. In their absorption in each other Alice seemed to have become invisible, and they remembered her only when, as she rose from her chair, the leather squeaked below her.

‘Er… this is Sandra Pollock, sergeant, a friend of mine,’ Guy Bayley said uneasily. The woman added, her eyes never leaving the lawyer’s face, ‘Sister Sandra,
usually
. I’m a nun as well as a friend of his.’

He watched her, amused, as she stamped her feet on the promenade, then paced to and fro, evidently feeling the cold, desperate to do the business and go home. Let her wait, catch a chill, catch her bloody death for all he cared. She was already his, that much had been agreed and, for more cash, she would hang about in the freezing air until he decided that the time was right. Auspicious. And all he needed to do, to keep her quiet, was to open his wallet like a flasher’s raincoat, and her high-pitched complaints would cease. That sulky expression would fade, she might even manage a smile until the meter ran out again.

The sea, in the faint, orange lamplight, looked like liquid mud, thin filth, churning and re-churning itself before receding into blackness, and instead of the fresh smell of ozone there was the stink of sewage, an
outlet-pipe
nearby discharging its foul effluent on to the beach below. Not really a place to die, but few had the luxury of choosing the spot, and there were worse ways to go out. Decaying, slowly and inexorably, in an old folk’s home, for a start.

Sometime soon he might be caught, must be caught, so tonight’s entertainment could be his last. It should be savoured to the full, relished, enjoyed, drained of
pleasure
to the last drop. Noticing the prostitute throwing a malevolent glance in his direction, he walked across to her and handed over a fiver, watching as she folded it and put it into her skirt pocket, pulled her jacket more tightly around herself and began her restless pacing again, like a caged beast. But he was the beast here, he thought, a nice reversal, and had selected his prey with care. Huge pupils were the giveaway, too much smack or vodka and coke in the bloodstream. Those undiscriminating dark pools
welcomed
everyone, levelling mankind and tricking nature. Black holes sucking everybody in.

‘Look, pal,’ the prostitute said, through chattering teeth, ‘it’s f… f… fuckin’ freezin’ here, eh? Let’s… just get it ove… eh, oan wi’ it, eh?’

‘Get it over with,’ you mean, he thought, blinking at her but saying nothing. Unpleasant experiences had to be got over, teeth-pulling, injections, that kind of thing, but he was not that kind of thing and she would not get over him.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Eh… Muriel.’ Her hesitation betrayed her lie.

‘Well… Muriel. What I’d like is for you to stand over there…’ he pointed to the wall, ‘and close your eyes. Tight shut, mind. Then we’ll d… d… do it, eh? Get it over with, eh?’

‘Naw.’ She drew on her cigarette, firing the smoke at him, imagining that she was in control of the situation.

‘Naw? it’s not so much to ask is it?’ he said holding another fiver in front of her face and pointing again at the same area of wall. ‘There’s a good girl. Just stand there, close your eyes… and there’s extra money in it for you.’

Looking heavenwards to let him know she was humouring him, she strolled across, whirled round to face him, eyes tight shut with her cigarette still between her lips, a reminder that kissing was off-limits. In a second, he had the knife out of his jacket and stood with it poised opposite her heart.

‘You ready yet, pal?’ she said, lashes still down,
conscious
from the sound of his breathing that he had moved closer to her, smelling his breath.

‘Oh, aye… ready.’

She did not scream or thrash about as the last one had, instead she collapsed on the spot, her legs no longer supporting her, and lay, face upwards, as her heart
continued
its task, pumping blood onto the cement of the promenade, some spurting heavenwards into the
sewage
-scented air. For a second he thought he saw himself reflected in her pupils and then, slowly, she closed them, embracing the darkness. Bending over her, he put his face close to hers as if they were lovers, feeling for the warmth of her breath on his skin and inhaling her perfume as he did so. He could kiss her now if he wanted.

Suddenly, something gave a little peck or claw to his cheek, and he hit it away as you might a fly or wasp. Then,
practical as ever, he turned his waterproof jacket inside out and lifted the slumped body away from the jet-
coloured
pool surrounding it, carrying his burden to an area of scrubland bordered by the sea and the promenade. He dropped her a couple of feet onto the wiry grass below, then climbed over the railings and began to roll her onto her back, positioning her arms across her breasts as if in prayer. Just as he had seen in a forensic science text book, a long time ago. He would have to clean her up, he thought, check her over, then remove any tell-tale signs.

‘Diesel! Diesel!’ a dog-walker’s voice rang out, an irate baritone and only a few hundred yards away. He peered up, over the end of the promenade, and saw a collie prancing about, skittering in all directions, with its tail held aloft and a ball in its mouth, but always advancing forwards, in his direction. Getting closer by the second. He must go.

The bus looked empty and the prostitute climbed aboard it, relieved to be returning to the safety of her home and that the night’s labours were over. As Julie Neilson lowered herself into the seat her right hand touched something warm, soft and sticky. She recoiled instantly as if burnt, examining her palm and finding it scented with the sweet, sickly aroma of spearmint. Recently-chewed chewing gum. Taking her hankie from her pocket, she spat on to it and began to wipe her palm clean, noticing as she did so that the back of her hand had a couple of liver spots on it and that the veins were clearly visible, flowing like frozen rivers towards her knuckles.

‘Hen, hen… whit ye oan this bus fer?’ demanded an unfamiliar voice, one which swooped from treble to bass and back again. She raised her head from her cleaning task and watched as a couple of youths bundled each other into the seat directly in front of hers, one of them upending a bottle of Buckfast into his mouth and the other grinning at her, his face now unnaturally close to her own. They were both young enough to be her children, and she had no desire to talk to them, but they were an unknown quantity. They were likely to be unpredictable, and ignoring their question would be seen as rude.

‘Fer a ride…’she said, adding quickly, but not quickly enough, ‘…hame.’

Immediately, they burst into raucous laughter, one nudging the other with his elbow, repeating together, ‘Fer a ride, eh? Fer a ride! You’ll be lucky!’

She lowered her eyes, looking down at her knees,
hoping
that if she seemed withdrawn and uncommunicative they would become bored, find something else to attract their attention and allow her to continue her journey in peace. Let her think about other more pressing things.

‘Like fags, hen?’ the dark-haired one asked, taking another draught from his bottle and waving an open
cigarette
packet under her nose.

‘Naw,’ she said quietly. ‘Thanks, though.’

‘Naw – you like real men, eh, men like us!’ the youth guffawed, puffing out his thin chest and beating it before rising from his seat to sit next to her. She edged herself towards the window, sliding away from him, but he
followed
, cramming himself alongside her until their hips touched and she was crushed against the side of the bus. He turned to face her and his breath stank of alcohol and tobacco. But, close up, he was no more than a boy.

‘Ye no’ fancy me then, hen?’

Exhausted as she was, she prodded her brain into action. If she said that she did fancy him, then God alone knew what he would be up to next. On the other hand, if she said that she did not, then he might take offence, get angry, become more abusive or whatever. And she had not enough energy left to administer the tongue-lashing he deserved. So, in a voice that sounded as weary as she felt, she said softly, ‘You’re just fine, son. But ah’m auld enough tae be yer maw.’

Her companion pretended to look angry and the other youth, now hunkered down on the seat in front but facing her, grinned and started to wag a finger at his friend. The
dark-haired boy looked at the woman again,
experimenting
with another furious expression, his teeth clenched and his jaw jutting out aggressively.

‘D’ye think ah fancied ye or somethin’, ye auld dug!’ he shouted in her face.

Something else would have to be said, something to calm him down and end this exchange, otherwise she would have to leave the bus to escape their attentions, with three stops still to go and a mile or more to walk.

‘Naw, son,’ she replied soothingly, ‘naw, I ken fine ye dinnae.’ And no wonder, she thought to herself, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the dark glass. She looked haggard, more like her mother than herself.

The vehicle’s brakes screeched noisily as it drew to a halt, and the dark-haired boy stood up and swung himself back into his original seat, slumping down beside his
companion
. Julie Neilson sighed and rubbed her tired eyes, then looked hard in the driver’s direction in the hope that someone else would get on the bus, and she would not be alone with the two youths for any longer. Her prayers were answered, and a teenage girl, with dirty blonde hair scraped tight into a ponytail and thick black mascara under her eyes, stepped aboard and then sashayed up the aisle to lounge across the back seat. As soon as she was seated she lit up ostentatiously, looking around her neighbours and daring anyone to object.

‘Whit ye oan the bus fer?’ the fair-haired boy enquired of her, a salacious grin on his face and his eyes resting on her long bare legs.

‘Nae fer a ride wi’ either o’ yous, ye wee tossers,’ she spat back, flicking her cigarette-ash towards him
contemptuously
as she spoke. And watching them blush, reduced to children again, Julie Neilson felt almost sorry for them.

Once inside her flat she opened the door to her
daughters
’ room and tiptoed inside, picking up a primary school skirt and blouse from the floor and hanging them over the back of the chair, for use the next day. Two pairs of miniscule tights had been discarded, one draped over the toy-box and the other suspended from a mobile. She folded them up and put them in the dirty washing box, removing a doll from it at the same time.

In the light falling from the hallway the girls’ faces could be clearly seen; one pale with long upturned lashes, her unruly auburn hair spread behind her on the pillow like a lion’s mane, and the other a redhead too, but with short, curly locks. Julie Neilson knelt between her children’s beds, listening with pleasure for a few seconds as they breathed in and out, before, tenderly, brushing a ringlet from the younger one’s brow with her fingers. Gazing at their perfection she felt at peace, blessed even, their
presence
reminding her that, whatever had gone wrong in her life, something had gone right, something good had come out of it all.

How lucky she had been, how lucky she still was! And might be for a couple of years longer, because ignorance was bliss, and their innocence protected her from
herself
as well as from the rest of the world. One day they might be ashamed of her, even wish that she was not their mother, but not today or tomorrow. And perhaps, by then, everything would have changed and she would change too, find a job as a shelf-stacker or something. In the meantime they had enough money for school trips, dancing lessons and everything else. Man or no man.

She crept out of their room and into the kitchenette,
starting to brew a cup of hot chocolate, trying Muriel’s phone number again while waiting for the milk to boil. As before, she got a ring tone but no answer and, glancing at her watch anxiously, saw that it was past half eleven. If Muriel did not get in contact within the next hour then she would have to call the police, that was the arrangement. No doubt all would be well, her lateness being down to some minor accident or oversight, but with things as they were, or had been, she could take no chances. Not with a life at stake.

Her legs folded beneath her, she nestled into the
settee
to watch the TV, burning her lips on the boiling cocoa and nearly tipping it onto her lap. Her eyes rested on the screen, but she knew she was taking in nothing,
preoccupied
, unable to follow the simplest plot. In her head she was busy rehearsing what she should say on the phone, the exact words she would use in describing the punter, and trying her best to remember everything about the man. Screwing up her eyes with the effort, she attempted to create a picture of him, visualise the figure she had seen, but little came. He was big, bulky even, wearing some kind of flapping waterproof with a broad brimmed hat on his head. That was all there was, no name,
nothing
to identify him or distinguish him from half a million other Johns.

Eventually she stopped trying, convincing herself that she was being melodramatic, overreacting, manufacturing a crisis and enjoying the drama and her own starring part in it. But every few seconds, an insistent voice in her head repeated a single, unanswered question: why has Muriel not called? And, on the stroke of midnight, she found herself talking to a policeman, blurting out all that she knew,
sobbing
uncontrollably and being comforted by the enemy.

At eight a.m. on the dot, Elaine Bell arrived in her office and triumphantly extracted her mug from its new hiding place behind a pot of African violets. Their sad,
dust-encrusted
leaves proclaimed that the spot was unvisited by the meddler with her tickling stick. Detective work at its best. She dipped a teaspoon into her yogurt and then sucked it, distractedly, her mind on the complaint made against her and the meeting at two p.m. with the DCC to discuss the outcome of the investigation. Surely, nothing would come of it, at least not if the expression ‘free speech’ retained any meaning and progress up the greasy pole did not involve the surgical removal of any sense of humour.

And, please God, no counselling this time! The
prospect
of facing another bright-eyed innocent dispensing the blindingly obvious in the guise of a unique and rare insight was too much to bear. When would they grasp that the problem lay not in an inability to distinguish between an ‘appropriate’ comment and an ‘inappropriate’ one, but rather in the challenge of withstanding provocation?

Of course, the sensitivities of the public had to be accorded due regard, but how many of them, she wondered, could have kept silent in the face of the
self-righteous
spectacle that had confronted her? Looking out of the window, spoon-handle sticking out of her mouth, she visualised the ‘complainant’, his portly figure now standing before her, hands on his hips and on the edge of apoplexy. A man who had no difficulty finding his way in his simple, black-and-white world and who knew whose side the angels were on. Invariably, his own. And that harmless quip had escaped her lips before her brain had an opportunity to censor it.

Worse still, she thought, it had been the truth. This was rarely, in her experience, a mitigating factor, and not one that she would be sharing with the rest of the force. Chance would, indeed, be a fine thing if a used condom were to be found in her hall or anywhere else within her house. The average octogenarian, if the magazines were to be believed, had a richer, fuller sex life than she did
nowadays
. And the future seemed every bit as bleak, promising a cuddle-less existence, unpunctuated by kisses, ending in a cold and lonely grave.

She shook her head, trying to ward off the mood of self-pity that was threatening to overwhelm her, and turned her thoughts to practicalities. Obviously, an
apology
would have to be made and, thinking about it again, she did genuinely regret any offence caused to the man by her ‘inappropriate levity’, as he had described it in his letter of complaint. Having couples copulating in the common stair and posting their prophylactics through the letter-box would be unpleasant. Yes, saying sorry would be ‘appropriate’ and, she breathed out loud, she would be prepared to concede the ‘inappropriateness’ of her crack. Although, when all was said and done, that was all it had been. A crack, a joke, a wry observation, not a very funny one, but at her expense not his. What had happened to ‘Laughter, The Best Medicine’, she wondered?

As she was about to lick the layer of thick yogurt off the pot’s lid, the telephone rang and she dropped it, watching in horror as it landed sticky side down on her letter from the Conduct Department.

After getting the news of the day, in particular that another prostitute was missing, she sat motionless at her desk, her left hand covering her eyes, breathing slowly in and out. Her hour had come. She must summon up all
her strength or, all that remained of it, as the race had just changed from a sprint to a marathon. If Muriel McQueen was dead, as now seemed more than likely, then everything had altered, and the eyes of the world would be upon them. And they would all be under the spotlight, its
unforgiving
radiance revealing every flaw and shortcoming, with nothing to protect them from its heat. Now orders must be given and there was no time to waste, disciplinary
meeting
or no meeting. She threw the yoghurt pot into the bin, licked the spoon clean and strode out of her room.