Nothing Sacred (10 page)

‘I'm your lawyer,' I said. ‘No, forget that. I'm your friend.'

‘Listen, Danny. Thanks for coming down. But that's all I needed. This… Just leave it.'

‘You had a gun, right?'

‘Danny…'

‘Just tell me. What would you have done? If you'd found them?'

Gabe sighed. ‘I didn't though, did I? So please. Leave it.'

‘I know when someone's into something,' I say. ‘New car, money, a bullet through your window. This isn't you.'

‘You've no idea.'

‘You can't expect me not to care.'

‘I expect you to respect my wishes.'

There. Done. The Gabe effect. No sentiment, no emotion. As I drove I wondered if, at heart, he had always been like that, or whether the army had instilled this core of granite. I guessed it didn't matter. The result was the same; there was no point reasoning with the man. I did not doubt that he knew who had shot out his front window; had no doubt that it was linked to his money, to the man at the tennis court, to his new-found sense of purpose. Once again I wondered about what it could be, but could only fear the worst; that Gabe, once so honest and decent, was putting his military experience to bad use. I looked across at him, his lean face, his closed eyes, and could not help but notice the way he arranged his legs, the cost of his injury even when in repose. Could I blame him for whatever it was he was doing? Would I be any different, given the same circumstances?

We arrived at his house and Gabe pulled himself up and out, stood up slowly. He leaned into the car, said, ‘Thanks, Danny. I owe you one.'

I nodded, didn't say anything. Drove away, leaving him alone outside his house, sky beginning to lighten behind him. What else could I do?

9

FOR THE NEXT
few days a cold wind blew and with it, nothing new. Through my office windows I watched people walk past, harassed women resentfully shoving buggies, jostling, laughing children avoiding school and, later, tired returning office workers, eyes shuttered and jaws set against the wind, jackets held resentfully closed at the neck. I did not hear any more from Vick and, in truth, I was glad. It does me little credit, but I did not know what further part I could play in her story and I tried to persuade myself that no news was probably good news, that I had done all that I could, that there was nothing more I could offer her.

I spent the days catching up on casework and fending calls from Hicklin, who called to tell me that he was not happy with Gabe's statement, that the man in hospital had still not regained consciousness, and that if he died, Gabe could be liable for manslaughter at best. I listened to him patiently, told him that unless he had anything more, he should stop wasting my time. Told him that Gabe had a window missing, that a bullet had been dug out of his living room wall. That he had over fifty witnesses who saw a flatbed truck total the injured man's car, while Gabe was stopped twenty metres away. I rearranged pens as I listened to him, squared piles of paper. Stifled yawns.

My casework was no more rewarding. I dutifully chased Aatif's visa application, desultorily contested speeding tickets, worked on the eviction of a tenant who had been running an unlicensed tattoo parlour from a three-bed semi owned by a client. The man was not only facing eviction but several other criminal proceedings, related to three cases of septicaemia and one complaint brought by an aggrieved lady who had had a dolphin tattooed across her back. She had intended the dolphin to be spiritual but felt that it looked more like a salmon or pike and was seeking recompense for physical and emotional trauma. I had seen the photos of the tattoo in dispute and could not help but sympathise.

But the work was trivial and my heart not in it. After two days of this monotony, I began to crave something more. At times like these I would call Gabe, arrange a match, take my boredom and frustration out on court. But the wind was too strong and between us there was something else, some turbulence that I did not understand and could not seem to broach.

I went to the gym, lifted weights until my shoulders ached and the muscles along the backs of my arms and calves trembled and spasmed. However hard I pushed myself, though, at the back of my mind I could not shake the horror of Vick's situation, of how close she had come to death. I could not help but think of Ryan, wonder what his role in it all was; what, if anything, it had to do with his gambling. Whether I cared to admit it or not, Vick's story, the thought of her children in the custody of an indifferent authority, had got under my skin. It was not something I could work out, nor was it something I could sweat out.

That night I drove to my house and Maria was there waiting for me. In my life I had never before had the luxury of somebody who thought for me, considered my feelings, who negotiated my moods so that I did not have to. But Maria had noticed that I was not myself, had sensed my dissatisfaction. As I walked through the door she gently prevented me from taking off my coat, shook me roughly by my chin and asked me if I had any money on me.

‘Why?'

‘Tonight, my miserable little friend, we are out.'

Maria had a technique for picking a winning greyhound, watching them as they paraded before the race and putting everything on any dog she saw relieving itself. If no dog did, she sat the race out. If two urinated, she went both ways. So far she had won over £150 and her technique was looking sound; Gabe and I had stopped mocking her for it, were beginning to consider getting in on the action. The man on the table next to ours already had, handing ten £50 notes to the girl who took the bets, peeling them off a stack of notes six inches high. She came back with his winnings wearing a nervous look and I doubted whether she had ever held that much money in her life before.

We were in the restaurant overlooking the track, watching through huge glass windows high up. The track was lit by floodlights, and the spectators and trainers and bookies on the ground looked like actors on a stage set, the night sky black above them. Although it was a weeknight, the dogs always had an atmosphere of carnival, the drink and spectacle of the greyhounds and possibility of winning money creating a feeling of disconnection from the mundane world of rules beyond the stadium. Even Gabe seemed relaxed, enjoying himself, arms spread out on the banquette as he watched the racing below. Whatever he'd got himself into, he was doing a good job of putting it aside this evening.

The next runners were being shown off beneath us, each dog wearing a differently patterned jacket, which corresponded to the odds for each dog flashed up on TV screens in the restaurant. Maria was watching them intently and I watched her, looked at her grave eyes and slightly parted lips, and sitting next to her I felt as if no man was ever luckier.

‘There he goes,' said Gabe as one of the dogs relieved itself.

‘She,' said Maria. ‘She's a bitch.'

‘Sixty to one and she hasn't won a race all season,' said Gabe sceptically.

‘Such little faith,' said Maria. The girl who took the bets was at our table and Maria handed her £50, got a slip of paper with her bet on. Gabe shook his head at the girl and I gave her ten, told her to put it on the favourite.

‘Square,' said Maria. ‘Just going by the form.'

‘No imagination,' she said. ‘My dog will prevail.'

‘Prevail,' I said.

‘It's an interesting word.'

‘It's what will happen.'

The dogs were walked back to the starting cages, which had been wheeled across the track, and the noise in the restaurant subsided slightly as we waited for the start of the race. The mechanised rabbit was flying around the track on the opposite side to the dogs, getting closer and closer, and as it passed the starting cages they sprang open and the dogs came running out, bunching into a group on the inside of the track, a blur of colours and legs and dipping heads. The restaurant exploded into noise and an over-weight man in an untucked shirt and red tie stood up and repeatedly screamed, ‘
Go on the six doggie
.' The starting cages were wheeled away and the dogs flashed beneath us for their first lap; they were so fast I could not tell which dog was in the lead. Maria was gripping the edge of our table and leaning forward towards the windows. The dogs were now on the far side of the track and I could see that Maria's dog was at the front and that mine was nowhere. They came around the final bend and Maria's dog was well ahead. It won by three lengths and as it crossed the line, Maria screamed in happiness and clapped her hands. She turned to me, her eyes glowing with emphatic triumph, and she grabbed my cheeks with each hand in delight, gave them a shake.

‘Christ sake,' said Gabe.

‘I win,' said Maria and she stuck her tongue out at Gabe, who looked at her in feigned disgust.

The man on the table next to us got up and walked towards us, said ‘Sorry' to me and, without asking her permission, kissed Maria on the cheek.

‘Fuck me,' he said. ‘That bitch just bought me a fucking Merc.'

But my feeling of goodwill was not to last long. I had been trying to ignore them, trying to concentrate on the evening and Maria and Gabe and the good time we were supposed to be having. But two men had been watching us from the bar and by the sixth race I could no longer tolerate it; their gaze was a direct provocation and I could no more ignore it than I could fly. Gabe had noticed them too and he looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and I shook my head. I could handle this myself.

‘Getting a vodka,' I said. ‘Anybody want anything?'

‘Go on then,' said Maria. ‘Got to spend all this cash on something.' She peeled a note off her stack and tucked it under my belt. ‘Off you go.'

I got up and walked to the bar, my eyes locked on the two men. They could see that I was coming but did not look concerned; they were smiling, entirely at ease. I caught the eye of the barman, ordered two vodka and tonics. After he had taken my order, I turned to the two men.

‘You after a bunk up?'

‘Do what?' said one of the men.

‘Way you've been looking at me. You must fancy me. Right?'

The men laughed without amusement. ‘Wanted a word,' the taller man said.

The barman put my drinks on the bar and I handed him money. ‘So go on,' I said. ‘What do you want?'

I waited for my change and looked at them. The taller man was wearing a t-shirt and his arms were unnaturally long, which made them look slender, but his wrists were thick and his arms were covered with light hair and sinewy with muscle. He had a hard, long face and blue eyes. The short man was barely five foot and had a slightly deformed face; his eyes were large and wide apart and his head was almost round with sparse red hair on top. Together they made a slightly disturbing pair.

‘This your card?' said the taller man. He held my business card between his first and second finger.

I broke eye contact, took my change from the barman, looked back. ‘Where'd you get that?'

The man ignored me. The short man smiled and it made him look briefly imbecilic.

‘Ry-an Low-rie,' he said in a singsong voice, high like a girl's.

The taller man tore my card in half. ‘Stay away from him.'

I picked up one of the glasses, took a drink. ‘What makes you think you can tell me what to do?'

The small man sniggered, a child's giggle. ‘You don't want to get involved.'

‘Oh?'

‘Like Magnus says,' the taller man said, ‘walk away.'

I nodded, took a moment. ‘You're Magnus?' I said to the strange-looking man. Turned to the taller man. ‘And you are?'

He just smiled, shook his head.

‘Well, Magnus and Whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is,' I said. ‘Here's the thing. My clients are my business. Clear?'

Magnus and his partner smiled at each other. ‘That your girlfriend?' said Magnus, looking over to Maria, who was saying something to Gabe, laughing.

The other man whistled, low. ‘Looks clean. Bet she isn't.'

I squeezed my glass so hard I was surprised it didn't shatter. I tried to master my temper, closed my eyes briefly. Opened them, looked at them.

‘Mention her again and I'll make you eat this glass,' I said.

The man smiled. ‘You cannot imagine the shit you are getting into. Do you realise who you're dealing with?'

‘Have a good evening,' I said to them. ‘We're finished.'

I turned and walked away from them. As I got nearer to our table Maria looked up and smiled and my expression must have been bleak because her smile faltered, and it was everything I could do to summon up an expression that approached human, that contained any warmth at all.

Maria decided to sit out the last race. She had won enough for the evening and she was aware of the atmosphere I carried back with me from the bar, knew that something had happened to change the mood. Gabe gave me a questioning look and again I shook my head at him: now was not the time. But I am what I am and my intrinsic nature was incapable of accepting what had just transpired between those two men and me; I could not let such aggression go unanswered. When I saw Magnus through the windows below me, shaking hands with a trackside bookie and heading for the exit, the other man next to him, I stood up and excused myself, told Maria I had to go back to the office, asked Gabe to take her home. Without waiting for an answer I headed out of the restaurant. I hustled down a stairwell, hurried towards the turnstiles that led out to the car park. My heart pumped with a sudden release of adrenalin, my vision was dark and narrow. It was a feeling I knew well and that, if I was honest, part of me loved like a junkie loves the needle.