The Fly Guy (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Night has had the city for hours and all of the lights in the house are off when Scorpion gets back in the big black car and reverses out of his drive. The red rear lights are high and bright, and Henry follows them at a distance. He lets them go out of sight and turns on his tracker. Scorpion goes toward the river then swings east, through the quiet night-time streets of the suburbs, past business parks and retail outlets, empty and huge, still illuminated by giant lamps shining on the brand symbols.

It’s nearly three by the time the Scorpion’s car stops outside a row of apartments. By the time Henry pulls up to where he can see the car, Scorpion has gone into the building. About ten minutes later he’s walking out with a thin blonde, her bleached hair cut short in a bob style, who looks like she’s just woken up. She’s rubbing her eyes, and he’s talking to her, leaning his head down to her as they cross the road. Her features are straight and symmetrical, as if she has been cast from a prototype. There’s something in her, the way she holds her jacket around her shoulders, the way she neither acknowledges nor ignores Scorpion that draws Henry in. There is an energy, a strength in her that eclipses Scorpion’s intimidating bulk.

One thing he is sure of is that this is not the Scorpion’s lover. They know each other, Henry thinks, but are not friends. Still, there is nothing to suggest she doesn’t want to go with him, there’s no hesitation as she climbs into the passenger seat. Scorpion looks around before getting in the other side, scanning the road. His eyes slide over Henry’s car and he closes the door.

The engine starts and he pulls out onto the road. Henry follows him back toward the heart of the city, through the empty streets, the dark shell waiting for life to crawl back into it. They turn east and drive to the university. Near the university are roads and roads of identical student flats. He sees the black four by four turn right onto what he knows is a cul-de-sac. Henry pulls up and walks around the corner, staying in the shadows.

The night is cool and still, and the sound of the engine is the only noise on these quiet streets. Scorpion drives to the end of the road, to the last block of flats on the right. Beyond that there is a big iron fence blocking the campus. Henry watches as Scorpion gets out of his car and goes around to open the door for the blonde. They walk together to the foot of the apartment block and buzz on the door.

He looks around as they wait, straight down the road to where Henry is standing. His face is hard and serious, like a statue on a city main street, a monument to a triumphant warrior. Henry is sure that he is far away and covered in shadow enough not to be seen, but he feels a chill run through him as if Scorpion has just looked straight into his eyes. He is being much more watchful now than he was early in the day.

The blonde is looking around too, taking in the detail of the dark street. Henry sees Scorpion speak into the com button and push open the door. The two of them disappear inside.

Henry walks to the foot of the building and then across the road to the apartment block opposite. He thinks about pushing some com buttons to get the door open, and then sees that it is off the latch. He goes up the stairs and finds a spot on a dark corridor with a window out to the road. The buildings are identical so he can see into the corridor opposite. He scans the windows of the building. There are some with lights on, but most curtains are drawn. He looks for silhouettes, for movement, but can see none. He waits a long time in the darkness.

He is used to this, watching from the shadows, observing and recording the actions of strangers, people obeying motivations which he does not have to justify. When he was on the force every case drew him in, he became part of it all, tangled in the messy lives of people hurting and deceiving each other. Now his job was to be detached. To observe and report.

Through the window to his left he can see over the big iron fence to the buildings and lawns of the university. Everything is so measured and neat when there are no people to blur the lines. The apartment block is new. Henry can sense there is a tightness in the fixtures, that the walls haven’t been lived in for long. The lives within the building haven’t worked their way into the walls yet.

He has a cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it, just rolls it back and forth over his lower lip.

A door opens on the corridor opposite and the big Scorpion steps out. He is talking to someone who is much smaller than him and standing just inside the door. The light from inside the apartment shines on him and Henry can see that he is smiling. His face has turned gentle, his eyes have softened. He walks away down the corridor and the door closes.

Henry stays until he sees Scorpion leave from the front door of the block of flats. He watches him from above as he gets in his big black car and pulls away. Then he walks down the stairs to the door. He steps outside and lets the door close gently, leaving it balanced on the latch without closing. He takes a lighter from his pocket and lights the cigarette. He can hear birds singing from the university compound. The notes reverberate around the buildings. The darkness is slowly dissolving. Daylight is finding its way back into the city.

It’s ten to five.

* * *

Henry drives back to the house on the elm-lined road. The curtains are still drawn and all the lights are off. The sky is more blue than black now and in the eerie half-light he climbs over the gate at the side of the house and goes into the back garden.

The back of the house is not like the freshly-mowed clean front. The patch of grass in the back yard is long and unkempt and smells of cat faeces. Dead leaves and debris from the trees lie scattered on the concrete. The back door is a glass sliding door and has a thick curtain on the other side. There are layers of spider webs around the door. The kitchen windows have blinds all the way down on the inside. They are blocked off too. There is a build-up of grime and dust and webs around their edges. They have not been opened in a long time.

He steps back and looks at the upper windows. None of them are open. The only way in is going to be through the front door, or forcing the latch on the sliding door at the back. It’s getting too light now. He’s going to need to wait until the glasses man leaves the house before he can get in.

He looks again at the back sliding door, and sees his shadowy reflection in the dusty grimy glass, a distorted shape in the pre-morning light. In one cold moment the shadows around him solidify and tense up, as if ready to pounce, and he sees his reflection as that dark misshapen figure he followed to the docklands.

Henry’s heart stops and he freezes. The reflection does not, it slides jerkily off the glass and disappears into the shadows. The moment is gone.

Henry climbs back over the fence and out onto the road. He sees the first lights come on in a bedroom across the road. People’s days are beginning. He walks back to his car. It’s time for him to get home.

In his kitchen he leans over the map. Lomax Road. He takes a gold dot and carefully tears it in half. It tears unevenly, like a waning half-moon. He sticks it in the middle of Lomax. The red dots make a jumbled uneven pattern. The golden moon is right in the middle.

He climbs into bed, feeling the clean white sheets against his skin. He reaches up to close the gap in the curtains, to keep the band of daylight out, then flops onto his back. Within minutes he is in a deep sleep. An hour later, the mechanical digger starts its daily task of breaking up the road outside.

***

Chapter Twenty-Three

Alison was late again. When she got home, Martin told her that she should get out her best dress because he had booked them seats at the opera. She threw her arms around him and squealed.

“Tonight?”

“Yes, straight after dinner we’ll go into the city.”

They had never been to the opera before, but it was something that Alison had talked about. This production was Strauss’s
Salome
. Martin had at least heard of it before, so thought it was something they could follow, and the tickets were
buy today, half-price
.

After dinner Alison disappeared upstairs while he tidied up the kitchen and front room. He took the vacuum from under the stairs and unwound the lead, the high-pitched vibrating drone getting even higher as he pushed it into the corners and along the side of the couch. He ran over the carpet again and again and again until Alison came back downstairs. She looked elegant in a close fitted black dress with her hair falling generously over her shoulders.

“You look beautiful, really classy,” Martin said.

“It’s not too tight is it? I think I’ve put on weight,” she said as she patted her stomach, pulling it in then relaxing again, watching her stomach move in and out.

“You look fantastic.” He kissed her cheek as he passed her and went upstairs. He put on a clean white shirt and a suit jacket and came straight downstairs again.

“Off we go?” he said.

“This is exciting,” Alison said as they stepped outside the door. Martin hoped that the neighbours would glance out their windows and see this glamorous couple emerge, see that they had somewhere special to go. Alison walked around to the passenger’s side of the car and stood as Martin said, “Allow me madam,” and opened it for her.

As she sat into the passenger seat Martin saw a necklace he didn’t recognise in the space between the seat and the door. He was just about to mention it when he saw next to the amber string of beads were two laminated cards and some pieces of crumpled paper. A cold fist formed in Martin’s stomach as he caught sight of a face on one of the laminated cards. It was Zoe.

“Oh this will be nice,” Alison said as she pulled the seat belt over her shoulder. “The opera, how grand.” She smiled up at Martin as he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side with a tense panic rising through this body. His mouth went totally dry, his tongue seemed to grow. He stopped for a second before he opened his door. He slowed down his breathing and opened the door, and sat into the car.

“Yeah, it’s about time we did something like this. Do you know the story? The story of Salome?” He turned the key in the ignition.

“Are you okay babe?” Alison said. “You look all pale.” Martin started to reverse the car.

“I’m feeling a bit off, maybe something I ate earlier, but I’ll be fine, don’t worry, we’re going to have a great night.”

“Well, I’ll drive if you aren’t feeling right.”

“No, it’s nothing.” He straightened the car on the road and put it into gear. “I’ll be fine.”

As Martin watched for traffic at each junction and eased the car from the slip road to join the motorway he was thinking how he could get rid of the debris from Zoe’s bag. It had been there, unnoticed for weeks now, her unblinking eyes looking out from the laminated card at the grimy grey carpet at the bottom of the door, and now all it would take was one glance from Alison, one movement of her hand down to side of the seat, and their worlds would crash together. He would have to go back to the car once they had parked up, on the pretence of having forgotten something. What could he forget? What could he empty from his pocket now without Alison noticing?

“So what’s this whole thing about then?” Alison asked. “Salome? Is it classical Greek stuff?”

“It’s biblical I think. John the Baptist is involved, and Herod, but I don’t know the details. Best to come at it blind, I’d say,” Martin replied.

“But will we understand it? Operas aren’t in English are they?”

“There will be notes on the programme we can follow.”

“I’m very excited,” Alison said, and reached her hand across, putting it on Martin’s lap and squeezing his thigh. “It’s a lovely surprise.”

“Well, we are due a night out.” Martin smiled at her.

She did look beautiful. Her hair framed her face and her eyes shone in the dull light of the car. As Alison looked at him now, every muscle in his body ached and it felt like his lungs had contracted. He would have to get parked as close as possible to the theatre and run out during the intermission to gather Zoe’s necklace and cards from the car and dump them somewhere. For a second he saw Zoe sitting where Alison was, her bleached blonde hair wet, her white jacket still spattered with rain, her short skirt riding up to the tops of her thighs and her legs slightly apart and her eyes half closed, her mouth opening and closing as if fighting for breath, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Martin turned away, looking back at the road. A cold sweat was creeping from his lower back upwards toward his neck, like flood waters rising on a dam. The road was narrowing as the motorway ended and he slowed to let a car slip in between him and the car in front. The driver gave a flash of his indicators as thanks and eased into the lane. Martin felt light-headed, then realised he had been holding his breath. He inhaled suddenly and deeply. The cold sweat had reached his neck and was spreading down his arms. His shirt was sticking to his skin. He glanced at the passenger seat again. It was Alison, looking at him with a worried frown.

“Are you sure you’re okay, babe? We don’t have to go. You don’t look right.”

“Hey, I said I’m fine. We’ll be there in a minute, I’ll feel better once I’m out of the car.”

When they reached the theatre multi-storey car park, Martin went as close as he could to the entrance and slowed right down, scouring the lines and lines of cars for a gap. There was nothing anywhere near the entrance and they went up and up looking for a space. Around and around they drove following the spiral higher and higher until they ended up parking one level from the rooftop. Martin jumped out of his seat and rushed around to open the door for Alison, making a big show of extending his hand and keeping her eye contact as she stepped over the amber bead necklace and laminated cards.

As they took the lift down to the ground level, Martin tried to calculate how long it would take him to get back up. He could throw the necklace and cards over the edge of the car park. The necklace would fall and smash on the street and the cards would be scattered by the winds. They would flip and turn down the street, be stepped upon and swept into the gutter, wet cracked and bent.

As they entered the foyer of the theatre, Alison tightened her grip around Martin’s waist. It was teeming with people in fine clothing, fitted suits and flowing dresses, women with sparkling jewellery and men with bow ties and shined shoes. Those who were not in suits or tuxedos, flowing dresses and furs still carried an elegant cool chic as they sipped European beers or rich wines. The carpets were a royal red, the ceiling high and illuminated by a magnificent chandelier. Martin could hear beyond the hubbub of the crowd the sweet sound of a string quartet gently pushing the swell of harmonies and luxurious melody through the rich air. He wished he had a suit he could have worn, instead of his old suit jacket and jeans. He felt like a shabby cousin, invited to an occasion because of family loyalty, not because any one really wanted him there.

“I’d like to pop to the ladies before we go in,” Alison said into his ear.

“I’ll get the tickets then,” he replied, and she kissed him on the cheek. As she turned and walked away Martin felt the tension being drawn from him like a wave going out.

He queued and was just having the tickets put in his hand when Alison was by his side again, saying, “You won’t believe who I just bumped into.”

Martin turned and there behind Alison was a man in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline and a dusting of silver stubble over a strong defined chin, wearing a black tuxedo with a white rose pinned to the lapel. Next to him was a tanned and slim blonde, younger than him by at least ten years, probably more. She was wearing a deep blue dress which swept to the ground in an elegant wave from her hip to her heel. They were both smiling at him, expectantly. Martin saw the man’s eyes flick over him, taking in his suit jacket and jeans, right down to his scuffed shoes, but the action was so quick as to be almost imperceptible. The smile didn’t change. Alison stood slightly in front of Martin as she spoke.

“Martin, this is my boss, Andre Exor, and, sorry what was your name again, I’m terrible with names at first.”

“It’s Cassandra,” said Andre, extending his hand. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Martin. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Really?” Martin replied as he shook it. “There’s not much to hear I would have thought.”

Andre Exor turned his smile on Alison. “You’re right, he is the picture of modesty. No wonder you’ve got your feet on the ground. Martin, you’ve got a fantastic woman here you know. She is causing quite a stir in the company. Her ideas are turning heads.”

“Oh that’s great,” Martin said. “Well, she does love her work.”

“And you, a writer! How wonderful to be able to create intellectual property. It is, after all, the intangible immeasurable resource. Creativity! You two are rich with it! Creativity! That’s what Alison brings, that’s why we love her! Whatever you’re doing—” Andre winked conspiratorially “—keep doing it.”

Martin shook hands again, and Andre suggested that they meet up for a drink after the show. Alison said that would be a lovely idea, and Andre said that he would call her.
There is a lovely spot nearby,
he said, and with an enthusiastic “Enjoy the show!” Andre Exor and Cassandra turned away and headed toward the auditorium.

“Well I didn’t expect that,” Alison said. “Do you want to have a drink with them after?”

“I guess so, I mean, if you want to.”

“I think we should.”

“Okay.”

Martin checked his ticket and they made their way up the carpeted stairs to the stalls. Their seats were right up at the back of the auditorium. The scale of the room was intimidating. Beneath the great vaulted ceiling and the drapes which fronted the stage, the seats seemed tiny. When he sat down Martin felt as if he was perched on an unstable peak of an elaborate canyon, and should he lean forward he would precipitate an avalanche of the wealthy middle aged, a debris of corsets and bow ties. Alison started to read the programme and he tried to calculate how long it would take him to get to the car and back again.

“Do you want me to read the translation as we go? There is quite a lot, oh wait, there’s a scene synopsis, that’ll do won’t it? Martin?”

“You can just pass it to me when you’ve read it, or maybe not, we’ll see. I was kind of expecting not to understand anyway.”

The auditorium was filling up. Heads moved into place, the low hubbub of indeterminable conversation vibrating up through the air to where they sat. Martin could hear the random brief musical exclamations as the orchestra settled into place.
How long,
he thought,
how long before I can throw Zoe from the car? Throw her to the streets, where she will be dissipated and forgotten.

“Oh, it’s exciting,” Alison said. “Look, let’s go down there, it’s closer, a better view, come on.” She pointed to seats at the edge of the balcony, several rows in front, which were empty.

He protested, “We can’t switch seats, what if the people are just late? Look, it’s about to start, everyone is sitting down now.”

“If they turn up, then we’ll move back, come on, quick.” She stood and he stood with her, and they excused themselves from the row right against the back wall, and disregarding the
tuts
and disapproving noises made by those around them and those who swivelled their legs to let them past, got to the seats on the edge of the balcony just as the lights began to fade. As the lights dimmed and the murmur of conversation died, Alison leaned into his ear, put her hand on his and said, “See, this is better isn’t it?”

The orchestra started up and the curtains opened. A giant moon dominated the backdrop. The size of the actors took Martin by surprise. How small they were! They were like figurines, toys in the distance. At first he felt disappointed, and then he felt foolish for being surprised. They were actors on a stage after all, not on a screen. They did not move about the stage with grace, but rather seemed to blunder about, heavy footed and over-conscious of their positions.

When the singing began he glanced at Alison. She was transfixed. Sound filled the auditorium. The voices rose from the stage toward the golden arc of the ceiling, full of power and dramatic intent. The voices were so much more than the figures in the spotlights, they filled the theatre. It seemed absurd that such powerful streams of sound could be created and controlled by the shapes onstage. They were like fists of noise. They flew around and against each other, battling and crunching in the eaves of the great auditorium. There was not harmony, there was tension and the air was in turmoil. Martin leaned forward and looked over the balcony. He could see all of the heads beneath him, all of the rows and rows of people in the balconies opposite, all focused on one point.

As the performance unfolded Martin found himself caring less and less about what was on stage and staring instead at the heads below him. The power of the voices and the drama of the stage had hypnotised them, and the tension in the room built and built until, by the time the actress was dancing the dance of the seven veils, Martin saw the auditorium as a room full of decapitated heads on platters, severed from reality, served at the orgy of performance art.

* * *

When the performance finished Martin and Alison stood in the foyer while the theatre emptied.

“I thought there was going to be a break,” said Martin. “An intermission.”

“Do you want to meet up with Andre? I think it would be good, I’ve never seen him outside work before.”

“Where do you think we’ll go?”

“Somewhere fancy I bet,” Alison said as she absentmindedly brushed the front of Martin’s suit jacket. From her handbag, her phone started to ring.