Nothing Sacred (32 page)

I look at him curiously. The way he has asked me to do this is almost polite.

‘He's waiting,' Carl says. ‘Don't be keeping him waiting.'

Perhaps it is the solicitousness of his tone but I take my keys from my pocket and hand them to him, then pass him and walk towards the Range Rover. The door the other side from me opens and Alex Blake gets out and walks through the headlight beams. He is as good-looking as I remember, and while he is older and not as perfectly handsome as Connor Blake, the resemblance is strong. He is wearing only a polo shirt despite the cold and I recognise the gold watch on his wrist.

‘What you doing parked outside my place?'

I do not reply. Alex Blake looks at me and I wonder whether this is my chance, whether I can take this man now, put an end to all this. But Blake smiles as if he knows what I am thinking and he shakes his head slightly and turns, walks away.

‘This way,' he says. ‘Walk with me.'

I follow after him and we walk down the quiet lane. I have heard that there are men who can walk into a room and cause silence merely by their presence, by the power they radiate. Alex Blake is so contained and assured that, as I walk behind him, the idea of attacking him seems suddenly inconceivable; he carries a silent authority that makes me feel young, weak and in his thrall. It is nothing I have ever experienced before. As we walk there is no sound, not even birdsong, as if his presence is so forceful that it even subdues nature.

‘You're Connor's lawyer,' he says.

‘Not out of choice,' I say.

‘Not my concern,' says Blake. ‘Between you two.'

‘What do you want?'

‘I'll ask again,' says Blake. ‘What you doing parked outside my place?'

‘You didn't think I'd come for you?' I say. But even as I say it, I realise how empty this sounds, no more than the impotent posturing of a wilful child.

‘Been finding out about you,' says Blake. ‘You're no mug. So listen.' He turns to face me. ‘Look me in the eyes, son. That way we'll understand each other.'

I look into Alex Blake's eyes. I cannot read any emotion in them except perhaps a trace of boredom, as if these earthly dealings are beneath him.

‘My son,' he says, ‘is a fucking lost cause. Worse than that. He's sick, out of control, and he's no child of mine. What you've got going on with him, I don't want a fucking bar of. You hear me? Nod.'

I nod slowly. I am still looking directly into his eyes and despite being outdoors, I have a feeling of enclosed intimacy, of capture.

‘He's got his people. Fuck knows where he finds them. Whatever they do, got nothing to do with me anymore. Clear?'

‘Clear.'

‘You and him, you work it out together. I don't want his problems at my door. Getting me attention I don't need.' He takes a deep breath, looks away, looks back. ‘Do what you have to do. Won't get no comeback from me. Understand?'

I nod again.

‘You and him, between you two. And you – you fucking stay away from my place.'

‘No comeback?' I say.

‘None. Do what you have to do. He might be my son but I'm finished with him. He's better off where he is.'

‘You're throwing him to the sharks.'

Alex Blake looks me up and down. I regret what I have just said; regret my presumption.

‘Son,' he says, ‘you ain't no fucking shark.'

Blake leaves me standing there and after a few moments Carl comes to me and gives me my keys. He looks at me but he does not say anything, then walks back to the Range Rover, climbs in next to Alex Blake and they drive away. When they have gone it is still and quiet, and things suddenly feel very different.

31

I AM ON
court coaching juniors when I notice that Maria's group are still waiting at the clubhouse and part of me is glad that she is not there, that I do not have to confront her today. The juniors are warming up, hitting rallies and volleys before they play doubles. It is cold and they are in running bottoms and hooded tops. None of them look entirely happy to be here. The numbers are down today, only the children of the pushiest parents coerced into making the effort. I tell them to warm up their serves and then push through the wire door of the court, walk around the corner into the clubhouse. George is behind the bar doing the crossword and he looks up as I walk in.

‘No Maria?' I say.

‘Wouldn't you be the one to know?' says George with a sly smile.

‘Her group's waiting,' I say.

‘She hasn't called.'

I take out my mobile and hit her number and I notice that my hands are shaking and it is not from the cold. I listen to the ring tone, hear it go to voicemail. I hang up.

‘No?' says George.

‘She'll turn up,' I say. ‘Give her five minutes.'

‘You all right?' George has known me for years, put an arm across my shoulders more times than I can remember, even now that I am taller than him. He has always looked out for me.

‘Yeah,' I say, although I do not feel it. I have a sensation of floating; my hands feel big and clumsy, and are tingling. ‘Let me know if you hear anything.' I walk out of the clubhouse and back onto the court where the juniors are still practising their serves and I have never felt more frightened in my life.

I had woken up unwillingly, knowing what day it was and what needed to be decided. Day six, the final day – the day I was expected to deliver the name and address of Witness A to Connor Blake. I had the number he had given me in prison. All I needed to do was pick up my phone, dial the number, give whoever answered a name, an address. Nothing more. The work of seconds. The betrayal of everything I stood for and held dear.

I thought about Alex Blake, of what he had said to me; how he was not a threat. Instead I was up against a man behind bars and his people who I did not know, could not find. They were like smoke, stealing into houses, whispering threats; I could not fight something that I could not see. I was left with only one solution, one way out – give them Witness A.

I listened to the news, made coffee, put off making a decision. It could wait. Wait until later. I had all day. It could wait.

*

The juniors are halfway through their first sets and George has taken Maria's group onto the courts the other side of the clubhouse. I have tried her mobile five times and she has not answered. It is okay, I tell myself. She is okay. She doesn't want to see me. Not after the other night. She is staying away. It is okay. I say things to the juniors, encourage them after a good point, suggest a change to their technique – tell them to finish the shot with their racket over their shoulder, keep their weight going forward.

She is probably at home, watching her mobile ring. She has seen that it is me and does not want to pick up. I am probably bothering her. I should stop calling, stop over-reacting. A boy called Kieran hits a cross-court backhand volley for a winner and I shout across to him, give him the thumbs up. It is okay. She is okay.

George is claiming that the young children he just coached were too much for a man of his age, that they were too good and he would never walk again, he was finished. The children are giggling and jostling each other as he tells them this; George has a natural way with kids that has always seemed magical to me. He winks as I pass him on the way to the clubhouse and I force the ghost of a smile back at him. I am holding a basket full of balls and put them in the office of the clubhouse.

Now there is nothing more to do. The juniors have gone. The courts are empty under the blank cold sky. I have a sudden feeling of fear so sudden and debilitating that I have to put a hand to the wall to steady myself. It is not okay. How can it be okay? Maria would never miss a session of tennis. It cannot be okay. She cannot be okay.

‘You sure you're all right?' says George. He is standing in the doorway to the little office and is frowning. My vision seems dark. I close my eyes, nod.

‘Fine.'

‘No word from Maria?'

‘Nothing.'

‘She wants a hiding, making me take those kids.'

‘You did okay.'

‘Two new knees; this rate I'll be wanting another pair.'

I nod but do not answer. I walk past George and head to my car. I have nothing to do and nowhere to go. I look at my phone but there is no missed call from Maria, no text asking me to leave her alone, to please give her time. There is nothing. She cannot be okay because if she was, she would be here. She might not be. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do and all I can think is that she is not okay but that does not mean that she is dead.

There is no answer when I buzz Maria's apartment. I stand outside and look up at her windows but they reflect white sky and nothing more. Maria's mother lives not far away but I do not wish to frighten her, so instead I call her to ask if she has seen Maria.

‘Not today. Is there a problem, Daniel?'

‘No. Course not.'

‘Were you meant to see her?'

‘No. Just can't get hold of her.'

‘Want me to give her a message?'

‘No. Yeah. Just to call me.'

‘But there's no problem?'

‘No problem.'

I have nowhere to go so I get in my car and drive to my house. I pass people carrying shopping and see a man having an argument on his mobile outside a bar. I wish that I was like them and that I did not have this terrible fear. That this terrible thing was not happening. She could still be okay. But I know that she is not.

My house is empty and cold and I put the TV on for company, reassurance, but then I turn it off. I pick up the paper that Blake gave me, the paper with the number on it. I am frightened of what will happen if I call it. I will have to give the name and address. I will have to ask about Maria. If I call the number it means that I think she has been taken. That Blake has got to her. If I call, I make it real.

I key the number into my phone. I look at it. I do not want to hit the green button, do not want to make this real. I hit it and listen to the call connect, hear it ring. I look at a leather armchair as it rings. It is old and scuffed. I should get it recovered. There is no answer. The call cuts off. My house is very quiet. So very quiet.

By the time it is dark I have accepted that all I can do now is wait for a phone call or a knock on the door, wait for somebody who will probably be wearing a uniform to let me know what has happened. I have watched my furniture sink into gloom, have watched people pass by the front of my house – children, parents, young lovers, old couples – talking, laughing. I have seen the lights in the street outside switch on, watched their yellow light brighten as the day around them dies. I have listened to the creaks of my house, shifting minutely, indifferently. For hours I have wondered what might have happened to Maria, wondered what I might have done differently. I was going to call, give them the name of Witness A. I had meant to call. I was going to call after I had coached tennis. I still have a day. This should not be happening. What could I have done differently?

I imagine Maria's look of amused scorn, imagine her telling me that there was nothing I could have done, to not be a dope. I think of the trust she put in me, a trust that no other person has ever managed. I think of the affection she had for me, her lack of fear and judgement. I did not deserve her, never deserved her. She's been killed and it is my fault. She should have had nothing to do with me. I think of her winning money at the dogs. Twisting on a bed. Laughing at me, head back, her perfect teeth. Laughing, always laughing.

My mobile rings, an impossible sound in the quiet darkness. The screen illuminates, throwing a supernatural blue light into the room. I look at the number but I do not recognise it. This is the call. This is what I have been waiting for. I answer.

‘Yes?'

‘Daniel Connell?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you know a Maria de Souza?'

32

MARIA HAD BEEN
dumped out of a white van which stopped only briefly outside Queen's Hospital before driving away. It was found later by police, burned out. She was naked when she was left outside the entrance, and unconscious.