Mr. In-Between (15 page)

Detective Constable Marlowe took a corner with studious calm. Jon saw his face reflected in the rear-view. His mouth was set firm, but the muscles of his jaw were working, grinding away.

‘I expect,' said Jon, ‘that you're worried I'm going to tell you about the others I did the same to. I expect you're going through the missing persons list in your heads right now. I expect you're picturing the mess all those missing prostitutes and schoolboys might be in. I expect you're wondering exactly how they suffered, and for how long. I expect you're wondering why I did it.'

The Welshman swivelled in his seat and regarded him. ‘Shut up.'

Jon grinned at him and rattled his cuffs. He had seen it in a film.

Although he made a full confession, the interviews were interminable and infuriatingly repetitive. He never once wavered from the detail of his tale, because it was true and he had a memory for such things. He recounted exactly what he had done, and in what order, then recounted it again. He spoke to psychiatrists and criminologists, but mostly there was just Marlowe, the Welshman (whose name resolutely refused to stick in his mind), and one of any number of uniformed officers standing stony faced but clearly disturbed at the door.

He was unsurprised to find that, on the third day of his interrogation (of his
helping the police with their enquiries
)
,
the Welshman with the elusive name indeed took a suspiciously perfect opportunity to knock him from one side of his cell from the other until he fell, threatening to gag on his own vomit, to the floor. He was equally unsurprised to see a forged doctor's report imaginatively recounting how his (rather minor, considering the beating that had been so skilfully administered) injuries had innocently been come across.

The next day, before the tape machine could be turned on, he levelled his gaze at the Welshman and whispered, ‘I'll have
you
next.'

By then, Marlowe was red-eyed and sour smelling. The weight of Jon's confession hung heavy about him. He seemed exhausted and penitent.

Jon told him, ‘Don't worry. None of this is your fault.'

Marlowe stared at him for a long time before throwing a sheaf of photographs on the desk before him. He asked Jon if he recognised any of the faces. In truth Jon did not, with the possible exception of one or two he remembered from the television news, the school-photo grins of the recently disappeared, the recently deceased. Still, he denied knowledge of them with a smile which he hoped would be carried with them for many a fitful night. He fended off their questions until all were exhausted. As the tape was to be shut off, he said, ‘But I'll tell you about the others if you want.'

‘What others?'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘How many others?'

‘Tomorrow.'

They pressed him for as long as they were able before concluding the interview. As Marlowe and the Welshman left the interview room, Jon said, ‘See you in the morning.'

But he didn't see them, or at least not together. He sat out a morning and afternoon alone in the cell. Finally it was another policeman who opened the cell door and told him he was free to go.

He stood at the desk as they returned to him the belongings taken from him at the time of his arrest, with the exception of a small bag containing three grammes of cocaine, upon the existence of which no comment was passed. He nodded goodbye to the Desk Sergeant.

As he turned for the door, his way was blocked by two men. One was Marlowe. The other took a second or two to register as the Yorkshireman with the oiled black hair who had shaken his hand at the cottage and greeted him and Phil with the word, ‘Lads.' They exchanged a look.

‘Mr Bennet,' acknowledged the Yorkshireman, who was considerably better turned out than the last time Jon had met him. Despite this, he looked strained and worn out. He looked at Jon with polite contempt.

‘Inspector,' said Jon.

Marlowe stuttered as he passed, ‘Mr Bennet?'

Jon faced him and the detective recoiled slightly but noticeably. ‘Yes, Detective Constable Marlowe?'

‘I'd like,' said the detective, ‘to apologise for any inconvenience we might have caused you.'

Jon allowed himself to look once more into the eyes of the Yorkshireman. ‘Think nothing of it,' he said. ‘I quite enjoyed myself. Give my regards to your colleague. Inspector—'

‘Llewellyn.'

‘Llewellyn, yes. Tell him I'll remember him.'

He walked out on to the street and hailed a taxi. Only when he was safely inside, and half-way home, did his composure collapse. He began to shake and laugh uncontrollably into his clenched fist for what he was capable of when betrayed, of what surprising mischief.

7

Idiot's Limbo

Stepping from the taxi Jon continued to stifle giggles of such a nature that the driver squinted at him through rheumy blue eyes as he handed over a twenty-pound note. He examined it minutely, holding it millimetres from his face as if to demonstrate his myopia. Jon could hear his laboured breathing, all the pies and chips and curry sauce hanging heavy on his slow-beating­ heart.

‘Keep the change,' Jon suggested.

He smelled of police stations, a vague, institutional odour of polyester armpits, filing cabinets and tepid coffee. He itched. The taxi pulled away, the driver throwing him one last glance as he performed an illegal U-turn.

As he approached his front door, spinning a single key on a ring around his index finger, he heard the sharp beeping of a familiar horn. He turned, pocketing the key. Across the road he saw Phil, impassive at the wheel of the racing green Aston. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed aviator shades and a subdued chauffeur's outfit: dark suit, leather gloves. He slid across the front seat, and pointedly opened the passenger-side door.

Jon dodged traffic. He patted the boot of the car as he walked around it, then slid into the passenger side. He left the door open.

‘You look the part,' he said.

Phil brushed a lapel and smiled delicately.

Jon lit a cigarette. ‘Watch what you do with the ash,' said Phil.

Jon inhaled. ‘I see,' he breathed. ‘It's like that, then, is it?'

‘And then some,' Phil confirmed. He hesitated, then accepted a cigarette. The flame of the match as he bent to light it reflected on the lenses of his sunglasses. Jon flicked the spent match into the gutter. Phil sat back and looked ahead. ‘You should've been around him the last few days. It's like being a gofer for Jack the fucking Ripper. Do this. Do that.' He blew smoke through the open window. ‘I need a holiday,' he said.

‘I can well imagine,' said Jon.

‘I'm not sure you can.'

He thought Phil might be right. ‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I suppose that's my fault.'

Phil accepted the apology with equanimity. Then he said, ‘He wants to see you.'

Jon felt sick. He put a hand on the dash to steady himself, although the car was stationary. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They were furred with plaque. ‘Give me five minutes,' he said. ‘I need a wash.'

‘I'm not sure that's a good idea.' Phil's eyebrows rose above the thin gold rims of the sunglasses. ‘I think you'd better just come as you are.'

Jon shrugged and pulled the door closed. He buckled the seat belt across his chest and waist, passed the cigarette to his left hand and rested his elbow in the open window frame. It made him feel oddly like a teenager.

Phil avoided the necessity of further conversation by cranking up the stereo to a level which made it impossible. He had a weakness for American industrial music, relentless and electronically apocalyptic, which Jon shared only when under the influence of a chemically aided rush and at all other times considered somewhat juvenile.

Without relinquishing control of the car, Phil beat the steering wheel in time to the sampled percussion and mesmerisingly repetitive riffing guitars: ‘Resurrection,' he bellowed tunelessly and unselfconsciously, ‘Coming in stereo … If you think so!' He had to swerve a little to correct the car's course, brake a little to legalise its speed.

Phil had once talked Jon into going with him to a nightclub which specialised in such music. Phil had supplied the drugs and had been eager for the night to be a success. Each of them had been dismayed by the age of the clientele, which, with exceptions, did not appear to rise much above twenty. Further, the unwillingness of either to participate in proceedings by dancing—even though, given the crowded conditions afforded by the squalid hovel they had paid seven pounds to enter, dancing consisted of little more than vigorously and enthusiastically attempting to maintain one's balance on the circular dance-floor—compounded with the volume of both music and cocaine ensured that both were beaten into dumbfounded submission for the hour or two they were able to stand it.

Jon sat back and closed his eyes. He had never been so tired.

‘Assassin,' hollered Phil in zealous abandon. He took his hands from the wheel to beat a drum-roll on the dashboard. ‘Kill for a thrill!' he bellowed.

Jon knuckled his eyelids. Bursts of grubby colour.

‘Supply and sanctify!' shrieked Phil. ‘I only kill because I'm alive!'

Jon leaned forward and turned off the CD. ‘Are you taking the piss,' he said, ‘or what?' His had intended a quiet, threatening tone but ringing tinnitus necessitated an oafishly offended roar.

Phil's hand went to his mouth. The car swerved a little. Behind reflecting lenses, he closed his eyes, taking the car fortuitously through a set of lights which were half-way through a change. He looked imploringly at Jon. ‘Oh, shit,' he said. ‘I'm sorry. Shit. I wasn't thinking.'

Jon rubbed his brow. ‘That's all right,' he said. ‘No harm done.'

They drove in silence.

Eventually, Phil looked at him askance. ‘Do you mind if I put the music back on?'

Jon waved his hand non-committally.

‘So what?' ended the song in a looped sample. ‘So what? So what?'

They pulled up outside the Tattooed Man's. Phil killed the engine and Jon's hand went immediately to the door release. Then he paused, hand on handle and stared for a while at the house, the sightless windows, the autistic flowers, the topiary cockerel which rippled slightly in the breeze. He glanced at Phil. ‘Aren't you coming in?'

‘You're joking.' Phil grimaced and shook his head. ‘Not on your nelly, mate. No way. Not on your effing nelly. I'm going home.'

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose then opened the door and stepped on to the pavement. He stared at the house. The cockerel looked especially ragged and in need of a trim. It stood in a small heap of shed leaves, and its twiggy innards were visible here and there, like a nervous system in formaldehyde.

Phil poked his head through the passenger-side window. ‘Good luck, mate,' he said.

Jon patted the roof of the car with something like fondness. ‘Thanks,' he said.

Then the car pulled away. Phil acknowledged him with a single, backward wave of a gloved hand.

The gravel path had never seemed longer, nor the house more of a physical threat. It seemed to lean toward him with bullish aggression.

He licked his lips and. rapped on the door, rubbing sweat from his hands. From inside, he heard the Tattooed Man: ‘Come in. The door's on the latch.' For a moment he was staggered, unable to move. It was as if all that had transpired had been an illusion, a super-accelerated dream that had taken place between knuckle meeting door and the knock being answered, such was the naturalness of the Tattooed Man's response. He pictured his expression, imagined the clothes he might be wearing and smiled to himself, as if with nostalgia. Then he remembered.

He stepped inside as if expecting a blow, pushing the door silently closed behind him. The Tattooed Man's house had its own special, subtle smell, something like a cross between soap powder and a bookshop. Standing as it did on the brow of a hill, it caught beautifully what little light there was left outside and filtered it down the hallway. Through the kitchen window, but for the enormous apple tree, it would have been possible to scrutinise much of the city spread below. Once, from the top floor, Jon had leaned against the wide sill and scanned the city until he was able to identify his own house. Since then he had always found it comforting that, whenever he was home, the Tattooed Man could almost see him.

‘In the kitchen,' called the Tattooed Man.

Jon stepped from the carpeted, half-lit gloom of the hallway into the light of the kitchen. He shielded his eyes. The sun was low in the sky—the shortest day of the year had passed less than a fortnight ago—and the kitchen glowed with surgical brilliance. Through the huge windows, and through the naked branches of the apple tree, he could see that much of the city already squatted glumly in the blue-grey gloom of a winter evening. It was dark everywhere but here.

It was an extravagantly large kitchen, with all the white-enamelled, wood-panelled perfection of a brochure. In it stood the Tattooed Man, shirt-sleeves rolled to reveal the snakeskin of countenances etched on to his dermis. He was leaning over the sink, fastidiously skinning a breast of chicken. He might have been wearing surgical gloves, so naked did his hands look beneath the tattoos, which terminated in a neat border at his wrists. A half-empty bottle of white wine stood at his side. As Jon entered he turned, sipping from a glass. He followed Jon's eyes, which had fallen on four copper pans that bubbled on the hob. The odour of boiling vegetables was snatched by a humming extractor fan.

‘I keep meaning to get a steamer,' explained the Tattooed Man, drying his hands on a dishcloth. ‘I prefer my vegetables with a bit of, you know—' he folded the dishcloth and put it behind him on the work surface, ‘—
crunch.
You lose so much of the goodness this way.' He reached into an overhead cupboard, removed a wineglass, filled it, and set it on the table. He had not yet properly looked at Jon.

His Alsatian ambled over to Jon, who bent to its level and scratched behind its ears. The dog nuzzled its head in Jon's stomach and Jon scratched it where skull joined backbone. ‘Hello, boy,' said Jon. ‘Hello.' The dog responded with a lazy, weighty swipe of its tail.

‘Clint!' the Tattooed Man instructed it. ‘Come on. That's enough. Leave him alone.'

The dog lolloped obligingly off. It curled in its basket, regarding Jon through heavy lids. Jon stood, brushing stray hairs from his trousers.

‘He wasn't doing any harm,' Jon said.

‘He's shedding all over the place,' said the Tattooed Man. ‘Did you see the state of the carpet?'

Jon hadn't.

The Tattooed Man looked at Clint and said, ‘You old bastard, why don't you keep your hair to yourself?'

The dog thumped its tail once.

‘You old bastard,' repeated the Tattooed Man. He refilled his glass and faced Jon. The sun was behind him, and Jon had to squint to see even the suggestion of his form.

‘Well, well, well,' said the Tattooed Man. ‘What is there to do with you? What is there to do?'

Jon licked his dry lips. He had not yet been invited to sit, and his legs were like rubber prostheses. He looked into his wine, took a shallow sip. ‘I don't know,' he admitted.

The Tattooed Man unrolled his shirt-sleeves and buttoned the cuffs.

‘How's Olly?' said Jon.

‘Forty stitches in his cheek,' answered the Tattooed Man. ‘Another twenty in his gums. A good chance he's going to lose some sensation on the right side of his face.' He tapped his cheek. ‘Here,' he said, ‘beneath the eye.'

‘Sorry,' said Jon.

The Tattooed Man shrugged. ‘Nobody asked him to do what he did. I don't know what else he expected.'

Jon couldn't look up.

The Tattooed Man stepped forward from the sunlight. He was pointing to his temple. When Jon's eyes had adjusted, he saw that he indicated a bruise, most of which was hidden by hair. ‘Look at that,' the Tattooed Man said. He turned his back again and stood again at the cooker. He took a wooden spoon from a drawer and began to stir the pots in turn. He paused to reduce heat on two of the burners. Then he asked, ‘Do you know how long ago it was that anybody lifted their hand to me?'

‘No,' Jon admitted.

The Tattooed Man sipped from the wooden spoon, withdrawing­ sharply, sucking in a quick, cooling breath. ‘Do you know how long ago it was that anybody last raised their
voice
to me?'

Jon's hand was locked around the stem of the glass. He murmured a vaguely negative monosyllable.

Once more the Tattooed Man turned to face him. He leaned over the kitchen table, his hands spread upon it. ‘Look at me,' he insisted.

Jon looked at him.

With a rigid index finger, the Tattooed Man beat emphatically upon the stripped pine table-top the rhythm of his address. ‘Do you think,' he said, index finger emphasising each carefully enunciated syllable, ‘that I'm such an idiot and so very fond of you that I will allow you to treat me in such a fashion?' He paused, the finger raised an inch above the table-top.

‘Well,' he said. ‘
Do
you?'

He brought the flat of his hand suddenly down on the table-top. Jon winced at the concussion.

The Tattooed Man began to pace the length of the kitchen, up and down, down and up, rubbing his stinging palm. He stopped to Jon's right, haloed by the setting sun. One hand cupped an elbow, an index finger pressed his lips.

Very quietly, so that Jon had to lean towards him, he said again, ‘What am I to do with you? What am I to do?'

He regarded Jon from beneath his brows. From the shadow of his face his eyes shone like icy beacons. He put his hands in his pockets and scuffed his feet once, contemplatively.

‘What you did to Rickets,' he said, ‘that's one thing. I could almost understand it. I know Rickets never treated you with any respect, and I know that what he did was unacceptable. But you should have come to me.' He withdrew a hand from his pocket and pointed to his solar plexus. ‘You should have spoken to me. I might have needed Rickets. Or at the very least—,' he scratched the base of his skull, ‘at the very least, you could have waited. You know how things are at the moment. You know the last thing I need is my name popping up on some police computer, even if only as a distant connection between you and Rickets. You know what things are like at the moment, Jon. You're out there doing things. Do you think I ask you to do these things for fun? You know what's going on.'

‘I know nothing,' said Jon, not without bitterness.