GBH (12 page)

The fire. Hadn’t I thrown a match in it, last night? Had I? Or hadn’t I?

I began to wonder whether she came at all. I couldn’t remember her going, I was that pissed. Why should I remember her coming? Except maybe in a dream. The kind of dreams I’ve been having these days. And the nagging of her familiarity. That could have caused a dream. Christ knew. After what I’ve seen, I’m capable of seeing anything. After Jean. Working my imagination in reverse. But later I’d know. There was the Dunes tonight. It was tonight, wasn’t it?

Stop thinking. Stop thinking until I’m together. Later, when I’m human again, when I’m back to appearing as I appear to the world outside.

And in the world outside, the jets keep zapping the charred hardware out on the beach, and making direct hits on the inside of my head.

Tonight, I’ll find out what happened. Until then, Christ alone knows, and I doubt very much whether he cares, one way or the other.

THE SMOKE

I
T TOOK US AN
hour to go through Ray’s flat, but there was nothing. Oh, there were plenty of clothes in the cupboards and in the drawers she hadn’t bothered to close. She hadn’t had time to pack much. She hadn’t taken any of her cosmetics; even the toothbrush was still in the bathroom. But. There were none of Ray’s clothes, and there were no suitcases. Not even a small cheque stub.

I sat down on the double bed.

“His mother in Bolton,” I said. “No wonder he said it was terminal.”

Mickey opened an empty box file, closed it. It made a noise like a door being shut.

“Cunt,” Mickey said. “That’s the word to describe him.”

Ray had certainly gone prepared. There’d been nothing for Glenda to do except close the door behind her.

“Stupid,” I said. “Why the Christ did I phone?”

“Like you said,” said Mickey. “He’d no reason to suspect we were on to him. Must have been coincidence. Like you said. They were all set to go.”

“Like I said.”

“I notice she left the safe open. Two fingers and all that.”

“We could have beat her to the door if we hadn’t phoned.”

“One of those things,” Mickey said. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“Stick the philosophy,” I told him. “I helped it. I got you to call her.”

Mickey went out of the room and came back with a couple of glassfuls of scotch. I stared at him.

“We may as well,” Mickey said. “Seeing as how, and all that.”

I took one of the drinks from him. We drank.

“Absent friends,” Mickey said.

“They won’t be absent for long.”

“It’s a big world,” Mickey said.

“Not the one we live in,” I said. “He’s not going to Angola or Cambodia or Iceland, is he? A friend of ours’ll see him, somewhere, some time.”

“Well,” Mickey said, “let’s drink to that.”

THE SEA

O
N
S
ATURDAYS, PEOPLE DRIVE
into Mablethorpe to do their weekend shopping. It makes it look as though people actually live there.

I have a couple in the South but there’s no sign of her, and for the brief time in there, Eddie doesn’t make his usual Command Performance, so I drink up and make my way to the Dunes via the arcade on the corner. This is full of kids spending their hard-earned pocket money, but she isn’t there either. However, I wait a while, passing the time with a pound’s worth on my favourite machine.

The ritual of the machine and the fresh morning air and the sauna I’d managed back at the bungalow have all combined to straighten out my mind. I must have been pissed last night. Christ, I’d almost been out of my mind when I’d got back to the bungalow. If I’d had much more I’d have imagined Farlow coming down the chimney dressed like Father Christmas. They say things like that happen to you alone at sea, or in the desert, and this was certainly the desert, with the sea thrown in as well. In any case, real, imagined, or dreamt, I want to know which. If she’d been real, it still gave me things to think about; if she hadn’t been, if I’m going crazy, I want to go crazy in full possession of my faculties. That or change the brand of booze I drink.

Besides, there’s still the nagging, the near recognition. That, if nothing else, I am going to lay to rest.

So, she doesn’t appear in the arcade. So I walk out and up the ramp and walk along the mini-promenade towards the Dunes. Kids scamper up and down the mean grass of the mound, creating even bigger bald spots with their heels. On the broad flatness of the beach, people singly or in pairs stride up and down under the clear sky like figures from a Lowry painting.

Inside, the Dunes looks less gloomy than usual, the plate glass glowing in the morning light. Howard must have cleaned the windows. He’s even got his toupee on straight. I buy us both one and we get on to the subject of the evening’s impending entertainment, and thus, Lesley.

“My God, though,” he said. “She was good though, my God she was good.”

“Praise indeed, Howard,” I say to him.

“Oh, I’ve had me moments,” he says. “
And
I’ve seen the best. But last night. I couldn’t believe her.”

“Any idea where she lives?”

“Hello,” Howard says.

“No, I don’t mean that,” I lied. “Is she a local girl?”

“No idea. Eddie’s talked about her, but I never seen her before last night.”

I take a sip of my drink.

“I can give you the addresses of a couple of fellows if you’re interested,” Howard says.

“Howard, would I try and cut in on you?” I said. “I mean, out here. I’d hate to queer your pitch.”

“Funny. You should be on tonight.”

“You never know. I might win.”

“You could easily,” he says. “Dead and alive lot, I can tell you that now.”

THE SMOKE

“A
LL RIGHT
,” J
EAN SAID
, “assuming Ray’s collectors, or some of them, were involved—”

“No assumption. A couple at least had to be. Ray would have told us. If I hadn’t have fucked things up.”

“Assuming that, the natural course of events is to talk to them. Is that it?”

“Of course that’s it.”

“The whole business all over again.”

I looked at her.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of it.”

“Look. At the moment, I’m talking business.”

“All right; talk business.”

“Right. There’s five collectors, right. All in the Birmingham area. Right?”

“Right.”

“And we’ve got arrangements among the Birmingham Law. But it’s not like it is down here, is it? Anything goes wrong up there, our Law can only sweep up so much. Beyond that, the Regional will be down on them like a ton of bricks. They like things like that.”

“Nothing will go wrong.”

“Nothing’ll go wrong? Look, we go through the lot of them, trying to find out what we’re trying to find out. They’re not all
like the fellows down here, stoical and all that, they could start rabbiting before they’ve got their plasters on.”

“They know what would happen if they did. They’ve got relatives.”

Jean sat down.

“In any case …” she said.

“In any case, what?”

“At the moment we only have to hire one replacement. The way this thing is going we’ll have to start advertising in
Exchange and Mart
.”

“So you’d rather let it rest and have some second division Foxy Fred sitting in his office knowing he’s screwing us and getting away with it?”

“Do you think whoever it is is going to carry on with Ray gone? He was their protection; they’ll be scared shitless now.”

“It’s not only that. We may get some information on Ray.”

“You think he’s going to scatter travel brochures all over the place?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t we let it rest? Wait until we get home thoughts from abroad.”

“If we do,” I said.

“Well, if we don’t, what else can we do?” Jean said. “Look. It’s over. It’s stopped. Let’s let it lay.”

I lit a cigarette.

“It’s over,” she said. “Finished.”

THE SEA

T
HE
D
UNES IS FULLER
than I’ve ever seen it. Which isn’t surprising, as I’ve only ever seen it empty.

The show hasn’t started yet but most of the seats are informally filled, people having turned some of them round, facing away from the stage, so that they can support their beer on them.

Everything’s set up on the stage, ready to go; Howard’s engaged some half-wit to get in his way behind the bar.

Eventually Eddie makes his entrance, looking even less like a great entertainer in his stage gear. He joins me at the bar so that he can mingle with his public, allow them a brush with the famous.

“What does he look like?” Howard says to me, while Eddie’s momentarily distracted by an OAP. “Montague Burton’s answer to Des O’Connor.”

Eddie disengages himself from the OAP and returns to my side.

“Well,” he says, “quarter of an hour to curtain up.”

“If we had a curtain,” Howard says.

“How do I look then?” Eddie says. “What do you think of the gear?”

“You look a treat, Eddie,” Howard says.

“I got it for the Season, really,” he says, “only I thought I’d give it an airing.”

“Your top of the bill,” I says to him. “You fixed her up for the season yet?”

“I wish I had. She hasn’t made her mind up. If she doesn’t soon, she won’t get booked anywhere else.”

“You’re joking,” Howard says. “With that voice?”

“Well, maybe,” Eddie says. “I just hope I can persuade her to stay, that’s all.”

“And talking of staying,” Howard says. “Mr. Carson was asking me where she lived.”

Eddie looks at me.

“Just out of interest.”

“Just out of interest,” Howard says.

“Er—well,” Eddie says. “I’m not sure. I think she’s got a van on the park. She’s done a couple of gigs with us and that’s where she’s asked us to drop her off. But I’ll ask her definite if you like, when she turns up.”

“No, don’t bother, Eddie. I was just making conversation.”

“It’s no bother, honest.”

He looks at his watch.

“Eddie—” I say, but he cuts me off.

“Better go backstage and check they’re not all arse about front.”

Eddie ostentatiously makes his way through the audience towards the stage.

“A Star is Born,” Howard says, watching him go. “Every minute.”

Howard picks up my glass.

“Let’s have another,” he says. “We’ll be needing it.”

The show is unbelievable, which is of course entirely to be expected. The acts range from the deathly to the embarrassing. Once, Howard puts his hands to his face and asks me when it is safe to look again.

It isn’t until towards the end that she comes on.

Before she does, Eddie gives her an introduction which leaves the audience in no doubt of what he thinks about her.

“That’s sunk her for a start,” Howard says.

“… and so without any more ado from me, Miss … Lesley … Murray.”

And then, after the introduction, she appears, and she looks completely different to any of the previous times I’ve seen her; she isn’t wearing the Afghan or the dark glasses or the T-shirt or the jeans.

And she isn’t wearing her hair the same way either; it isn’t even the same hair. It’s tucked up beneath a blonde wig that curls gently inwards at the nape of her neck.

It is this, more than anything else, that makes me realise who I’m looking at.

The clothes help to define her, of course; the style of the dress, the leather boots; they help to draw together the strands of her persona. The clothes make her movements different. And the makeup, altering her mouth, and around her previously unseen eyes.

But it’s the wig, the way it falls at her neck, the way its forward waves redefine the shape of her face. I’m farther away from her than when I’d seen her the first time, but I’m certain.

I am looking at the girl from the Monastic Habit, the girl who’d been talking to the man with the crossword puzzle.

THE SMOKE

C
OLLINS SAID
, “T
HE LOCAL
lads are very interested in Ray Warren’s disappearance.”

“Are they?” I said.

“And his missus. Well, you know what I mean.”

“And?”

“Going at it like a bull at a gate, they are.”

“Bulls,” I said.

“You what?”

“They,” I said, “it’s bulls, at gates. Forget it.”

Collins attempted to forget it.

“They’re leaving no stone unturned, so to speak,” he said.

“Which means they know he worked for me and all the rest of it, yes, all right, get on with it, Dennis, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well,” Collins said. “I haven’t got a great deal of influence at that branch.”

I was beginning to get sick and tired of Dennis, the money I was paying him.

“What do you mean, Dennis?” I asked him.

“Like I say,” he said. “Parsons is the top man down there. You know what he’s like.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I know what he’s like. Is that what I pay you for? To tell me I know what Parsons is like?”

Collins didn’t say anything.

“What I pay you for, Dennis,” I said, “What I pay you for is
not
to come here and tell me how little influence you have in the world today. I pay you to come and tell me what you’ve sorted, after you’ve sorted it.”

There was a short silence. Then Collins said, “It might help if I knew what was going off.”

“They’ve fucked off,” I said. “That’s what. They’ve fucked off.”

Collins looked at me.

“I’m telling you,” I said. “They’ve fucked off. That’s all there is to it.”

Collins began picking at his thumbnail, concentrating on it as though it was the most important thing in the world.

“If I may say so …” he said, but I cut him off.

“I know, Dennis. People have gone missing before. This is not like that; on those different occasions you’ve always been put in the picture.”

“Not entirely always,” Collins said.

I didn’t say anything for a moment or two. Then I said, “Look, Dennis, just get your fire extinguisher out and get over there and turn it on them. Christ, they’re nobodies. Traffic artists.”