In the Evil Day (22 page)
‘What’s the cheerless cretin want, darling?’ said McClatchie.
‘A story on community services. I’m not quite sure where to start.’
McClatchie looked at her, looked at his hands for a while, the nails, the palms. A plain cigarette burned between two long fingers the colour of old bananas. She knew that he knew that she’d lied about her experience.
‘I always start with a proposition,’ he said. ‘A headline. Gets you going. Pope Hid Nazi War Criminals. Moon Landing Fake.’
She hadn’t grasped the point. Her eyes showed it.
‘Community Leaders Slam Burnley Services,’ said McClatchie.
‘Do they?’
‘No idea. Probably. There’s no gratitude in the world. Get on the blower and ask ’em.’
‘Who?’
‘Start with that Tory prat. He’d like to cull the poor but he’ll give you the compassionate bullshit. Tell him you’re hearing a lot of complaints about services. Baby clinic, that sort of thing?’
‘Is there one?’
‘Not the foggiest. The phone book, darling. Peek at that. Under Council. Something sexy like that.’
Start with a proposition. She sat in her cubicle office far away from Birmingham, McClatchie mouldering in the wet ground now, thought about what she’d seen and what Mackie had said in their first conversation.
‘A massacre in Africa.’
‘A lot of that goes on.’
‘Soldiers killing civilians.’
‘What, the Congo? Burundi?’
‘No. White soldiers. Americans.’
‘American soldiers killing civilians in Africa? Somalia?’
‘No. This is…it’s like an execution.’
So, the proposition, the headline:
US troops in Africa massacre.
That would do to go on with. It would help explain why Mackie thought the film was worth twenty grand and why other people thought it was worth killing him. She knew that for a fact.
Just looked odd. Then I saw his hand up to the chest, blood comin out between the
fingers.
She thought about Colley, how she was tricked. She wanted to kill him.
Colley’s time would come, that wasn’t important for now.
Africa. Where in Africa?
Southern Africa? Mackie was South African.
American troops in Southern Africa?
Had there ever been? Where? When?
She logged on, put the words
US troops southern africa
into the search engine. Hundreds of references came up, fifty at a time. She rejected, read, printed, the morning went by, she ate a sandwich, the afternoon advanced, her eyes hurt.
The phone. Halligan.
‘Marcia’s upset. She’s got some right to know what you’re working on. In her new position.’
Caroline tried to compose the right response. She was tired.
‘I’m sorry she’s upset. Such a nice person. I simply explained to her the terms of my contract.’
‘Yes. Entered into under the gun. Leaving fucking Marcia aside, what the hell are you doing? You report to me, remember? So please report. ASAP.’
Caroline took her career in her hands. ‘Bigger than Brechan,’ she said. ‘Just an estimate, mark you.’
She thought she heard Halligan swallowing, his throat’s slimy clutch. Just imagination.
‘I’ll calm the woman down,’ he said. Decisive. ‘Report to me soonest.’ Pause. ‘When would that be?’
‘Soonest.’
Silence. She heard the silent sound of his chagrin and his regret.
‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘Posted. Keep me.’
‘Of course. Geoff.’
She went back to the screen. She now knew more about American involvement in Africa since the 1950s than anyone needed to know. And she knew very little of any use to her in understanding Mackie’s film.
What would McClatchie do? She saw McClatchie in the eye of her mind. She saw his burial, the half dozen of them around the pit, the soil that had come out of it under pegged plastic, half a dozen people standing in the drizzle at the edge of the flat, wet necropolis.
Get on the blower and ask ’em.
Who?
She went back to the screen.
‘WHAT’S HE say?’
‘He says congratulations on the good work, love you. What do you think? He says find him or die. We’re going to carry this like nail holes in our fucking palms, you know that? Ten to the woman, twenty to the fink, six hundred in the bag. Plus we have to pay these idiots. And for what?
Caddyshack.
We get an ex-rental video starring Chevy fucking Chase. I hate the cunt. Is he still alive?’
‘He’s alive. It’s his hair that’s dead. The biker, I don’t understand. That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Now this boy knows he’s dealing with incompetents. Be comforting, wouldn’t it? To know you’re dealing with pricks? Two of them run out after him and they don’t get the bike number. I still cannot believe that.’
‘Hire for a week, next day you park in a garage, your intention is not to come back, you’re going to be picked up by a bike. No.’
‘The hospitals?’
‘Nothing local. They’re going wider. On a bike, could have gone anywhere.’
‘He won’t stick around. If he’s alive, he’s running. Just make sure these fucking Germans don’t miss some fucking ferry, charter flight to Ibiza, balloon, something.’
‘We could ask for help. Ask Carrick. They’ll find him.’
‘Find him, they find the fucking film. The bike, that’s what we need. Find the bike, we nail the cunt. Ring of steel, now that would have helped.’
‘Just around the City, no use. Although…’
‘What? What?’
‘I read they were trying out cameras in other parts for when Bush was here…’ ‘Who would know? Who would know?’
‘I don’t know, how would I…’
‘Ask the fucking Germans, ring the fucking Krauts, they’re supposed to know everything.’
‘How much can you tell them?’
‘Just tell them everything we know. Okay? We’re hanging out here. Time, the bike, the place, two people, the fucking direction, anything you can think of. Now. Please?’
NIEMAND WOKE, an instant of bewilderment. Then he knew where he was. It was night, there was light coming from downstairs.
He needed to piss, urgently. He sat up, put his feet on the floor. His shoulder felt stiff but there was little pain.
He stood up, went to the bathroom naked. There was a mirror above the toilet and his face looked pale. He went back to the bed, wrapped the sheet around his waist and went to the top of the staircase. Looking down made him feel dizzy. Below was a big room with a long trestle table at one end under a row of windows. On the table stood several models of buildings and what looked like a model of a town, a village with a church in a square.
She was not in view. He didn’t know her name.
Niemand started down the steep stairs. The woman appeared, a knife in her hand.
‘Not you too,’ said Niemand.
She frowned, then she realised. ‘I’m cooking,’ she said. ‘I’m chopping vegetables.’
‘How long has it been?’
She looked at her wristwatch, a man’s watch. ‘Nearly twenty-four hours.’
There was no point in hurrying. They’d have found him before this if they could.
‘My clothes,’ Niemand said. ‘I have to go.’
‘You can’t wear what you came in. Except for the jacket, that’s okay.’ She pointed to her right. ‘In there, there’s a cupboard. You might find something to fit you.’
He was at the bedroom door, when she said, ‘Or you could just carry on wearing that sheet. Won’t raise an eyebrow around here.’
He liked the way she spoke. It was a musical sound, it had tones. In the bedroom, a wall of cupboards was full of men’s clothes, one man’s clothes, jackets, suits, shirts, shoes. He found underpants, a pair of jeans, they looked a bit short in the leg for him, too big in the waist. They would do. He took a grey T-shirt, too big, that didn’t matter, found socks.
He went back upstairs and showered in the big cubicle, wetting the bandage. When he went to soap his side, he felt a sharp pain at the collarbone, in his back.
The clothes didn’t look too bad. His shoes were under the bed. He put them on and went to his bag on the dressing table. The money was in bundles held with rubber bands. He opened one, saw the fakes immediately, only the top notes looked real.
‘Bastards,’ he said without venom. It didn’t surprise him. It had been nothing but betrayals since the beginning. Plus he had been stupid.
He examined all the bundles. Probably five hundred pounds in real notes. His jacket and his nylon holster were hanging over the back of a chair. Blood had dried on the jacket lining. He put the real money in the holster, took the bag and went downstairs.
The kitchen was a counter along one wall. She had her back to him, doing something with a pot.
‘Did I say thank you?’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
She turned, not surprised, she had heard him on the stairs. She was a good-looking woman, a strong face, dark eyes.
‘Quite all right,’ she said. ‘I often pick up wounded men. It’s a service I provide to the community. Are you hungry?’
Niemand thought for a moment. He should leave. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘It’s a kind of stir fry. Chicken. Sit down.’
She put out two plates, cutlery, napkins, two wine glasses, a bottle of red wine, not full. She poured wine without asking.
The food was good. She wasn’t bad to eat with either. No noises, she kept her mouth closed when she was chewing, she didn’t talk with food in her mouth.
‘Your name’s Con,’ she said. ‘I’m Jess.’
He waited until he’d swallowed. ‘Jess. Where are we?’
‘Battersea.’
He knew where it was. He pointed at the trestle table to his left . ‘Is that your hobby?’
‘I’m a model maker. I do it for a living. A very bad living.’
‘Make models?’ It had never occurred to him that there could be such an occupation.
‘For architects. Usually. The village there, that’s a development in Ireland. A typical Irish village for millionaires. Americans.’
They carried on eating. Then she said, direct gaze, ‘Who shot you?’
Niemand finished chewing, swallowed, wiped his mouth with the napkin. He drank wine. He liked red wine, it was the only alcohol he liked. ‘A man dressed as a woman,’ he said.
Jess drank. ‘I’ll put that again. Why did you get shot?’
She had probably saved his life. She had a right to ask.
‘I was stupid,’ he said. ‘I was selling something to people I didn’t know.’
‘Drugs?’
‘No.’
‘They shot a dealer around the corner the other day. In his car. Two men. One from each side.’
‘I’m not a drug dealer.’ He didn’t have strong feelings about dealers in drugs, the whole world was built on addictions, but he didn’t want her to think he was one. ‘I’m not a drug dealer,’ he said again.
‘Point made.’ She finished her wine and stood up. ‘I have to go out,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back around ten, ten-thirty.’
He stood up too. ‘I’ll be gone. Thanks. I’ll wash up.’
There was a moment of awkwardness.
‘You should stay quiet for a few days, the doctor said,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t really have a bedside manner, your doctor.’
He heard the sound upstairs. Pivoted.
Christ, no, not again.
‘It’s the cat,’ she said. ‘Climbs up the pipes, gets into the bathroom. Always knocks something over. Deliberately. It’s not even my cat, thinks it owns the place.’
‘Just the night,’ said Con. ‘Would that be okay?’
There was a pad and pen beside the phone. She wrote.
‘My cellphone number. Ring if you come over weak.’
He nodded. ‘What floor are we on?’
‘Third. There’s another one. It’s empty.’
‘How’d you get me up here?’
‘In the lift. This was a factory. The fire-escape door’s in the corner over there. They made radio parts, valves and condensers, stuff like that.’
‘How do you know about old radios?’
‘My dad,’ she said. ‘He wanted a boy, so he taught me how to fish and shoot and change a fuse and hotwire a car.’
Niemand sat down. ‘I wish I’d met you earlier in my life,’ he said.
THEY RAN on the river path, saw the backs of the houses across the water, here and there a rowboat pulled onto the bank, fowls strutting and pecking, a man hanging washing. There were few runners, many people on bicycles. The sun came and went, gave no heat.
Anselm had not run with anyone since college, since his runs with his room-mate Sinclair Hollway, who went on to become a Wall Street legend for putting twenty-six million dollars on a nickel play. The unauthorised money lost, Sinclair was found dead in his house on Cape Cod a week later.
